Monday, 31 December 2007

Right then

It is time to both clean and ponder.

Tits ahoy

Its after midnight in The Peach. Its quiet out, light breeze, night air, slow waft of lavender from the windows. I think things are settling down. After an excellent conversation, during which I yelled fuck repeatedly, about the dastardly men ill treating my Peachettes. Grizelda produced two new tops she purchased today, one green, one blue. I held one up and yelled fuck. They are summery cotton swingy singlet style tops with a designated band for breasts. I was wondering how on earth Grizelda's tits were going to fit in the designated area so naturally I tried one on. The result was particularly hilarious. The Spatula tried the other one on and I used my handy dandy Dancing with the Tarsds style score cards to rate how well her tits fitted into the designated area. I initially gave her a 5 but then she moved the elastic down to where it is meant to be, under the breasts, and I had to revise the score to a 3. I gave myself a 1 but I only have score card from 3 to 9 so I ended up with a 3 as well. I don't know what I did before those score cards came into my life.

I was trying to work out what my least retarded outfit is so that I can wear it to a party. I suggested the "These are my bitches" shirt but The Spatula kindly commented that this is my most retarded outfit because only a retarded person would wear that top in public. She suggested my green party dress as being least retarded, Grizelda added that any tall men would be able to be distracted by looking down my top thus looking slightly retarded themselves and allowing me time to think of something unretarded to say. The Spatula then banned the word retard but added that the looking down the top strategy might be a good one. I think that all I would be able to think of to say is "Stop looking at my tits you retard". Its been a bit tits ahoy in The Peach this evening.

Sunday, 30 December 2007

On pondering the past year

I decided instead to give things a good clean. Better, much better than falling into the memory pit and counting and recounting bruises.


My brother required an emergency colour consultation after setting off to buy jade green paint for his laundry and downstairs toilet only to return with a very large tin of lavender low sheen. In the end we decided that it was a clean sort of colour and started painting the laundry anyway. He had the idea of painting the lounge room light olive green on one wall and wood panelling the other wall, thankfully I think he has gone off that idea.

After staring at walls and small cardboard squares of colour we collected Creamboy from his house and went to Penrith RSL. Yes, Penrith RSL. What an odd place that is. We went to see Ed Wilson's trombone quartet. I will just type that again in case anyone's mind is boggling. I went to Penrith RSL to see a trombone quartet. They had a sax, rhythm and keys as well as a wall of trombones. They were rather good really. It might be helpful to point out that my brother is a trombone player.

All day I have been thinking that tomorrow is NYE but fortunately I miscalculated. The Peach is looking disheveled in a holiday sort of way and most of my clothes are dirty. Gemma is coming to spend new year's eve with me and I glad to have an extra day to undertake some tidying.

There was some difficulty in obtaining access to Penrith RSL. I was wearing my "These are me bitches" shirt with arrows that point to my breasts and a zebra print bandanna. The bandanna turned out to be the issue, disrespectful apparently. The man then took my licence and scanned it, I objected to this and yelled fuck but soon settled down when both Creamboy and my brother gave me stern looks.

After an excellent cup of tea at Creamboy's house I went further West and slightly elevated until I wound up at Ron & Rita's mountain abode. We played an excellent new board game and ate christmas cake. I did not yell very much which is nice. I think I need to have my very own board game, the same one as Ron & Rita. I am addicted and was sitting staring at them saying please just one more game when they had clearly had enough and just wanted to go to bed.

All in all I had a fairly good day, I was only moderately distracted by the Benito Effect problem, I did forget to have dinner but handily the christmas cake I ate was eaten out of a bowl with a fork so can happily count as dinner.

I am rambling but I don't really mind. The Spatula has new hair so we are sitting in The Peach smoking a celebratory funny cigarette and listening to Nina Simone. We are planning a bbq for The Spatula's 31st birthday party. She is very old, almost three weeks older than me. I will have three whole weeks in which to tease her before I turn 31. This is possibly behaviour unbecoming someone about to turn 31. Never mind, I'll just pop my disrespectful zebra print headwear back on and dance a little dance while Nina Simone tunnels underneath me until I lift, ever so slightly, then throw my head back and smile.

Saturday, 29 December 2007

Wang shaped pudding is odd

I've had a long overdue date with vegetables in the form of vegetable and bean curd noodle soup. Those faithless masses have returned to Newtown in force, they elbowed me between the shoulder blades and informed me they liked balls.

I am developing a rock solid anti Benito Effect plan. The Spatula and Grizelda doubt the excellence of my plan but I feel sure that it is a good one. I am in drastic need of a plan. Last week I ran into Benito in the street. I walked straight past him then thought that might be rude so I turned around and said hello. He said "How are you?" to which I replied "shopping" then stood like a fucktard. This has got to stop. I will fix this once and for all.

I am going to write a note, in large print so I don't need to find my glasses, I will place this note in my wallet and if I run into Benito again I will simply read from the note. The note will be an explanatory note apologising for being a fucktard and explaining the mystery of the Benito Effect. After I have read the note Benito will burst into flames, return to the dimension from which he came and I will never turn into a silent fucktard ever again. It is a very good plan.

The flames are not indicative of hell, they are merely flames indicating an instant change of dimension.

Wednesday, 26 December 2007


The internet is marvelous, I believe this to be true. After only ten minutes of searching I found a job I wouldn't mind applying for.

I am newly determined to search for excellent jobs and then apply for them. Thanks to the internet I can do this sitting in my bed with a lovely cup of tea. It is a great shame that I am terrible at writing job applications. They make me feel odd, I do not like and am often tempted to write things such as, "I mostly try and do all of my work but to be honest some days are just crap and I'm likely to be easily distracted and write notes for my novel on all available pieces of paper. My brain is occasionally completely occupied with a mad idea, I will share this mad idea with whomever is nearest regardless of whether or not it is appropriate. This is why everyone in my office, including the executive director, knows about my invention of a stapler that has an alarm telling you when it is running out of staples and also potentially doubles as a vibrator, handy for handbags."

Today I have not eaten one vegetable, I had a glass of juice when I realised, this was not a Christmas miracle.

Toe some line or other

Now what? I've managed most of the year, had Christmas, turned thirty, recovered sufficiently to start giving a shit about things and my job. Well done there but now what?

If I was one of those excellent driven people I could simply consult my three year plan and embark on the next step but I am not one of those excellent people. I have a job that has no possibility for advancement within the same organisation, it is mildly interesting, pays appallingly and sits oddly even within the Arts industry. The Arts industry in Australia is terribly small, terribly horribly small and the pay is almost always appalling. Here is where Jane Austen is handy.

I am very thankful that I am able to earn my own money and keep myself without having to contemplate horrible things like marrying so that I don't end up a slave/governess. What I am not thankful for is the complete blank I am drawing whilst attempting to contemplate my next move. If the universe would kindly offer some suggestions I would be very grateful.


Such a day. An onslaught of people in decorative hats. An American Professor, one of three at my Mother's house, asked me some questions and I think I've figured it out. I have been a coward.

Monday, 24 December 2007


They wear this town like a party dress, walk the streets radar echoing where reverence should be. You can feel the cracks in her if you step slow with thin soles. You can feel the undulations and the centuries pushing up through her concrete. I walked with her tonight, my Newtown, when she was empty of her people, pausing a while on corners in the absence of crowds I could still feel it, Newtown.

Tomorrow I head West and succumb to the annual turning of the tide. I'll hit that horizon and ascend to the peaks where my Mother in her crazy aprons and open-mouthed ovens waits, paper hats all in a row.

I'll set with the sun and tumble down the mountains back into The Peach where I will sit in silent isolation for a day and a night with ribbons at my feet longing my annual longing for the others to return with the turning of the tide.

What a day for a daydream

I have always wanted to have a go at making a ransom style note using glue, scissors and the newspaper but I had to wrap my presents. A compromise was reached and I labeled the presents with letters cut out of the newspaper.

I sat at the kitchen table with Grizelda, agreeable lass, we spent an afternoon wrapping and decorating presents. Grizelda went with a more traditional printed style of paper and tied her parcels round with ribbons then attached tags. I selected puce as the must have wrapping colour of the season and was content hunting through headlines for the perfect letters then becoming sticky and black with glue and newsprint.

There is something immense in sitting feet flat around a table with busy hands and peaceable chatter. It crosses ages and generations, this kind of work, it is a way of threading time through needles and setting and resetting myself with place, age and identity. The product is almost insignificant. Once again I find myself in process.

Sunday, 23 December 2007

Have yourself a merry little

Christmas in the city is excellent indeed. There are stars and tinsel everywhere. There were millions of people and many excellent bargains. I bought an astonishingly ugly candle to plonk on my Mother's table, three Australia shaped fly swats for visiting American Professors and several books for myself. Too weary and overwhelmed with the mad reindeer shaped sparkling rush of it all to continue.

David Jones Chanel lady I am very sorry that I made you squirt me with so much Chanel, I fear my behaviour was unbecoming. Likewise small children wishing to see the display windows. Also the cafe people in The Strand and possibly the newsagent man in the QVB that I smacked in the head with hot pink wrapping paper. Very sorry about all that. The woman on the train, I apologise for yelling fuck but it really was an astonishing thing I was looking at in my magazine, people at the sorbet shop in Newtown I assure you I meant no harm and of course Grizelda, I did warn you that I go slightly peculiar in certain situations. Once again very sorry.

Saturday, 22 December 2007

All in a dream

Waking from a dream sobbing I trapped my left leg inside the doona cover and was unable to move, this was not an ideal way to start the day. It was Artboy flashing forward into false memory and I woke saying out loud " I want to go home". I stared around the room, temporarily trapped and saw all my horrible possessions arranged as if on purpose. This is when I realised that I was home, my new home. Already the perfect sensation of slate underfoot and the changing air in the long hallway of the old house is fading. The longing is not.

I will make the best of this day. Yesterday's paper has the weekend supplements, this is good, I have coffee, this is good, I have cake for breakfast, also good. I am accompanying Grizelda on a shopping trip in the city this afternoon. I have never been to the city the weekend before Christmas. I am looking forward to laying down thinking and concentrating on navigating through crowds. I would like to see the David Jones Christmas decorations. I will make a list of good things about my new life in The Peach:
1. Convenient for looking at the David Jones Christmas decorations.

Friday, 21 December 2007

Brilliant idea: Large print fantales

No need for wearing glasses, excellent large print fantales solve all your lolly wrapper reading needs. I haven't had fantales since I spent three days in a film festival eating nothing but fantales because that is all the food I had in my bag, except for once when there was a peanut butter sandwich.

I drank some terrible wine, I left the bottle in the sun for a while, about a week or so and then I put it in the fridge. This is the way to make wine terrible. I've been sitting on The Peach Deck in the moonlight drinking terrible wine and talking with The Peachettes. Grizelda has a boy that did not show up, The Spatula's one was sick. They got them from the internet. I personally prefer the library.

I don't like the idea of ordering an internet man. I'd much prefer to run around and look at things and stop and think about the things than to worry about stinky boys. If my mother was not already a lesbian I might consider a less stinky girl but it would just be a bit like copying really.

I am thinking about buying myself presents tomorrow. All this buying of presents for other people is no good. I want presents. I am also considering purchasing a terrible Christmas candle for placing on the table at my Mother's house. I like the idea of insisting on burning some foul smelling tacky neon bright reindeer contraption in amongst the silver and crystal.

Just a small word of advice about dishwashers. You cannot place bone handled silver knives in the dishwasher and then make the dishwasher go without your mother yelling. It is better to vaguely stack plates and then race out to bags the hammock in the chestnut tree. The other thing is about toilets. It is not an excellent idea to have a large picture window in your toilet, without curtains, that directly faces the bocce court. These are things you need to know if you are going either visiting my Mother or have gone back in time as my Mother and are talking to the architect about placing large curtainless windows into the house.

The other thing you might like to do is wear socks with little grippy rubber bits on the bottom. When you are walking between rugs on the floor of my Mother's house you would do well to take care as the floorboards are rather slippery. Horatio the Great Dane takes full advantage of this and runs very fast and then slides. He is a large dog and can quite easily knock over both Dale and her brother without noticing, if he is sliding. He never seems to break anything which is nice.

It is better not to eat seven fantales very quickly and then go to bed. You should eat them one at a time, chewing and swallowing each one before unwrapping the next then have a glass of water and go and brush your teeth, even if drunk.

I have moved my birthday by one month and one day, instead of January it will be in February and my party is going to be excellent. It is guaranteed. Even if I am the only person who goes it will be excellent because it is at Spencer's gig with Damo Suzuki and Tex Perkins. Spencer will be there, and the others in the band and Tex Perkins will be there too. Spencer said that Tex Perkins is a bit mean so I will stare at him from a distance instead of racing up to him and telling him that he is on my list of aging rockers.

I do not want to have a glass of water. I would rather hydrate alternatively but I don't think that's been invented yet, except for in hospitals where they can drill a hole in you and pipe the stuff straight in. If you are ever in hospital it is better to ask for extra blankets straight away or else you might get cold and nurses are mean and won't bring you more blankets. This happened to me once. I vomited for three whole days. I would go to sleep and wake up in a different outfit. I like to be The Captain of which outift I wake up in. To be fair this was in 1981 and things may have improved in hospitals since then.

I am suspicious of nurses. Why would you be a nurse when you could just be a doctor? Same thing with legal secretaries. Why would you be a legal secretary and not a lawyer? Its just not sensible. Anyone can be a lawyer, you simply need to enrol in the university of your choice, complete the course and huzzah six years later instant lawyer. Perhaps I will buy a cardigan in the morning.

Thursday, 20 December 2007

Bah Newton, who needs you

Some days in Newtown everyone stares, some days I glide invisible and free, today people turned their heads away. Arriving home at the empty Peach I was tempted to crumble with back against the front door and just stay there for the night but my stubborn streak came in handy. I ditched things out of my bag and walked out into the street.

Madam Squeeze was squeezin' at the station cause some kid with a flute was playing carols in her usual spot. I finished my Christmas shopping in a book shop and settled down in some dim cafe with cracked purple bench seats for dinner. It was foul and unfamiliar, there are certain tastes I've come to expect from a hamburger and what I ate tonight was something else. Something sour and tasting of dirt.

Fatigue is interesting. If I had stopped to catch a bus towards home I would have stood and watched bus after bus roll past, completely unable to lift a foot and climb on board. I tried phoning some friends but the only one who answered has her own problems right now.

There is a stench in here this hour and I am beginning to suspect that its my rotting sense of self. I've no one to sit with on Christmas night and this one small empty evening is poking holes in everything else.

Well now

Its getting towards 6 pm, I have decided to take another little break from work and ponder the new and alarming prospect of having to drive home from Katoomba on Christmas day then spending the evening alone in The Peach.

Everyone is scattering and leaving the city. The Peachettes, being sisters, are spending a few days together over the break at their parents' house. I don't fancy the idea of spending the evening alone. In fact its rapidly creating a void of dread. Ordinarily I don't mind having The Peach to myself but it just feels different at Christmas.

7:47 am

And I am taking a break at work. I feel like one of those super people who rise at dawn and punch the shit out of things, run a marathon and then arrive in the office first. The main difference being that I didn't have enough money for the train so I drove my car, no marathons here. If I get a parking ticket I am going to cry.

Wednesday, 19 December 2007

Oh what would I do without the broken and the damned

Some fucking philosopher bored me into a migraine and called forth the acid from my stomach. Dorothy Porter finished and I fled Sappho's and hit Glebe Point Rd in full flight. I cranked the volume on some shit french dub and stood like a silo waiting to cross City Rd counting the money in my wallet, not even enough for dinner at the Lansdowne in that crap echo chamber of a mess hall. The pain in my head pushed through the gilt edged bubbles of the passengers on the 428 so I ditched that fucking bus just down from the Vanguard on King St.

Some nights Newtown glows refulgent, all you need is a soft rain and the time shifting imitation of a migraine. My neck was having trouble holding onto my head and the need for food went feral so I took my last $3 and bought the biggest thing I could, some kind of pizza bread, rectangular and big as my head. I was walking and chewing, the paper bag turning to grease in my right hand, my left hand leaving trails of cigarette smoke. I stoked the engines and took King St in fury of walking and chomping down that shit sour last dollar dinner.

Crossing the empty square the sourness worked its way down and I bent my head against the rain, bite for bite I took that fucker on until the crowds thinned and I swallowed the last of it outside the first funeral parlour. I was shaking off words like dandruff, a nicotine powered human machine each stride longer than the last. I was pushing air and thought and words through this veseled thing.

Across the road from the Enmore Theatre the pain in my head went supersonic so I cranked the volume on Lou Reed and lit another cigarette, double time. I swung right at the Sultan's Table downhill upright opening my chest pushing my palms down and out, thinking only by slaps on the soles of my feet.

By the time I crossed Liberty St time lifted upwards and I was breathing strong machine breaths straight through my diaphragm into my hips, breathing smoke out through an open mouth. Charging up the hill smoking and running through the rain I cranked the klezmer and pushed against all this gravity. Smashing into The Peach with the acid and the pain and the sour taste of the footsteps of Newtown I thought, I am well enough to walk again.

Now I'm sitting in the yellow chair in front the cupboard full of fuck knows what from the old house. I'm thinking about something a friend once said and wishing it was a lie.

I don't recommend writing a blog post whilst feeling like a steam train engine is inside your head, results may disappoint no matter how many excellent words you carelessly shed into the street.

Tuesday, 18 December 2007

Well that didn't last very long

My shiny new I've just had a little holiday feeling has fucked off. Its the end of year plus end of financial year (yes it is odd that my work has end of financial year in December) scramble time. While it was excellent that I had a week off it was not excellent to come back to an office full of people freaking out in many varied and subtle ways. A lawyer has managed to save a word file as a movie making it impossible to open, others have gone into an odd festive mode and others are constantly interrupting everything and imagining complications and despite my best efforts and long days I seem to be scrabbling under an unliftable fog of confusion.

My annual performance review is tomorrow, or as I like to think of it, meeting with boss and Chair of Board to discuss all the ways in which I fuck up meeting. This is useless and boring information brought to you in an easy to access format. This is a way to type, with feet and hands and a raft of stringing unsaid things. This is the most interesting thing somebody wrote on my staff performance/fuck up sheet "Pleasant in so many respects but disorganised in delivery".

I'm not disorganised, I'm alive. This year, this endless shred of a year has been one of the most difficult to survive. I had to laugh when I read the comment about being pleasant and disorganised. I'm not fucking pleasant but I'll cop the disorganised. In the scheme of things, to me, it doesn't seem like it matters a hell of a lot. Sure I'll listen to what they say and try to do things differently but its not rocking my boat.

Some months this year I was sitting in front of my computer chanting breathe in, breathe out because if I didn't I would have stopped. In my own personal performance review I am listing excellent things; did not kill self, has stopped vomiting every morning, has no plans to die, able to have some moments of happy. I'm walking around by myself, a single and independent woman and that's just the way I want to keep it. I know that the only way I'm going to make it from here to happy town is if I just keep walking and occasionally, just for the hell of it, add a hop and a skip into my step. You never know, maybe some croutons of happiness will tumble into the shit soup of my life.

Monday, 17 December 2007

Cherry poppin' Superman

Superman is popping my scrabulous cherry. My one secret shame is my very small vocabulary so my chances of smashing him in a stunning victory are, well, small.

I met Superman at Creamboy's "I'm a doctor" bbq on Saturday. If I recall correctly I nearly spiked Superman in the head with my large black umbrella, I was attempting to use it as a parasol, while he was cooking large prawns on the bbq and trying not to cringe as their eyes caved in. Fortunately I did not spike Superman in the head although maybe I should have.

It was wall to wall doctors in there and I have to admit that all day I was half hoping for a spectacular medical emergency to take place so that I could see them in action. Preferably an emergency that involved spurting blood, stethoscopes and a lot of words, long medical words, being shouted followed by a period of slow motion and spooky music. Alas the thing went off without a hitch and the only emergency to be had was that someone splashed pool water into my shoes and I had to borrow a pair socks from Creamboy.

I'm having a kind of emergency now, smeg does not appear to be a real word, no matter how many times I have wished that it was.

1:38 am

Its 1:38 am and that beast addiction is crawling under my skin. My mind is turning from sleep as calm and sure as the outgoing tide. I'm thinking Dorothy Porter lines and ranging across the memories of everywhere. I'm smoking and craving nicotine even as it hits my lungs and the smoke furls back into the dark corners of here. I'm stinging from sunburn and the absence of heartache. What a piece of your life it fills, heartache.

When its gone, heartache, when its gone, there's only open doors and red lipstick and possibilities and the mad dashing of dreams. When its gone you'll miss it for the anchor and the reason. I'm pushing across possibilities. I'm racing into supersonic. This is a new level of shedding and being. Madam Squeeze sat down on the low windowsill of the Hopetoun and spoke to me a line or two and she didn't hear it over that old band and the thick Sydney night bouncing heat off the harbour and that fuck ugly bridge but all those fractals snapped. Fuck me if I'm not sitting here all shiny and new.

Sunday, 16 December 2007

Small corners

The last 48 hours have been a mad whirlwind, a laying out of the different ways of being. I want to isolate the small corners and use a slow way of showing how all of this is building and rebuilding me into something carrying a light but there are too many. It is people with meaning and heads full of heart that slap my bricks down one on top of another. I keep coming back to Madam Squeeze, she is all delight. She sits like a pixie and opens her heart to take in my happy tales of hair on fire, waltzing, lipstick and the rolling backdrop of this life I call Slamma Town.

Amy Witting had it right, faces and voices will haul you into a capsule of yourself that you can swallow, to feel better.

I went to a marvelous party, I should have bought red lipstick years ago, are there two 'l's in marvellous or one?

I ran into The Cowboy at The Hopetoun standing against the bar listening to Spencer's band. Andy Depressant was gumshoe dancing out all of my emotions with his rubber limbs and solo abandon while Spencer prowled on stage in his knitted tie and big black hat. The Hopetoun was a cauldron tonight and if it wasn't for the ringing of the excellent 'You're Never Too Tired To Rock Dale" show tune that three doctors improvised on Creamboy's front lawn earlier this afternoon I would have laid my head down on the cold tiles of the toilet floor and dreamed of a life aquatic.

This morning my mother phoned as I was zipping up my 50's style jungle print party dress to say that she would pick me up in an hour. "For what?" I said. It seems I had double booked myself, I had a moment of doubt where I thought I would ditch Creamboy's bbq for a family Christmas gathering but then I thought better of it and I donned my big hat and red shoes and packed my bag for West.

I had a filthy hangover so I downed two glasses of water and applied red lipstick and ran out the door. Driving on the highway I could feel the lack of fuel in body, I inadvertently skipped the last three meals, so I concentrated on staying in my lane and urged my body to use the stored fat, like a bear.

Creamboy's bbq was marvelous. I swanned around in my hat drinking pink lemonade and eating vegan cheesecake. I spent a while or two chatting with Creamboy's excellent brother Superman who is very interesting and rather tall. I wandered into conversation with a flock of doctors and silently vowed to stop all my doctor hating immediately. I found myself sitting happily in a circle of clear-eyed intellect. They had straight backs and open minds.

In the diminishing hour Creamboy played the piano while a doctor sang, yet another doctor taught me to waltz and I found myself mirrored into the opposite of last night where I sat in a backyard drinking and singing with my feet in the dirt while the guitars called out for bohemia. This changing of hats and dresses and voices, this peopled crowding of being, this is a reason why.

I didn't make to the end of Crow's set at the Hopetoun tonight. I tried fanning myself with Spencer's big black hat but the heat, oh Sydney your heat, pushed me out into the night where I sat and leaned my back against the pulsing windows. I jumped into a taxi with The Cowboy and we wound up at the Iron Duke where The Cowboy's friend drooped into a lament and The Cowboy spoke of his life. The Cowboy is a sketch from a different book.

Walking home I told The Cowboy that he seemed to have a tendency to fall in love. The Cowboy said " Oh I'll tell you what I'm like, you got to listen to what Steve Earle said:
Now when I was young I took me a wife
But she never took to the high country life
So now I'm alone and I don't really mind
But her name echoes down from the canyon sometimes"

Saturday, 15 December 2007

Yaarrgh for the drinken blooger

I set my hair on fire in Tug Dumbly's house and now my head hurts. I blame Benito Di Fonzo, that's rtight. You heard me. I blame Benito. I went a thing and Benito was there and somehow somewhere I ended up at a party in Chippendale singing Tangled Up In Blue and then setting my hair on fire in Tug Dumbly's bathroom. A Romanian poet gave me licorice papers to roll my cigarettes with.

My head really does hurt. I think I have burnt my head. There were at least seven conversations about my hair this evening and that was before the fire and Gary the Groper who valiantly tried to pick up The Spatula whilst simultaneously sticking his hands all over my person. As long as he kept above the clothes I refrained from punching him in the head quite hard.

Benito offerd me a xanax and I was slightly surprised. I don't think anyone has ever offered me a xanax before, perhaps I should have taken it. When I first saw Benito the usual Benito effect took place and words flew everywhere except out of mouth then Benito said "Are you wearing a wig?". That was the first conversation about my hair. Most of the other conversations I overheard rather than participated in, it was very odd and then there was the whole fire thing but nobody saw it.

Oh god I had two glasses of water and I feel terrible, my head is pounding from terrible wine and I don't even know what's happening I think my bedroom is traveling through time. Its time I went to sleep.

Friday, 14 December 2007

Winding things

Today is the last weekday of my holidays. Its lunch time and I am sitting in The Peach in my pyjamas. I slept til midday and since then have wandered about feeling sick and making toast from my diminishing loaf of spelt. I am feeding my addictions and curling my toes against the pain in my abdomen. It is a small pain, centrally located and tolerable. I suspect that Indian two nights in a row followed by Mexican might be the culprit. My stomach prefers simple.

Today is delightfully blank and I feel whole as a pie. Knowing that on Monday I will be busy and paid for my purpose I can allow, for now, some floating. I had intended to do my tax return, visit the optometrist and catch the ferry around this blue harbour city this week but the thunder storms and the lure of The Peach held me captive.

Yesterday I caught the bus into the city. I navigated my way through the ironed and powdered people into Kinokuniya for the first time and I believe that I experienced a religious moment. My usual bookshop experience is small and measured. I will walk into Better Read Then Dead or another small independent shop like Gleebooks and search for what I want, be unable to find it and then wait for weeks while the book is ordered in. Kinokuniya nearly brought me to my knees. I fairly hovered around the shop from literary, to poetry, to Australian literary, picture books, graphic novels, English magazines, literary criticism, indie comics, stationery, literary travel and more. I walked with clasped hands and a tight face pulsing with alternate shock and awe.

This afternoon I will move to the Peach Deck, not to be confused with the poop deck. I will wear red lipstick, a fifties style party dress, my most expensive perfume, pearl earrings and my Annie Hall hat. I will make up a tray with cigarettes in a silver case, a teapot and cucumber sandwiches. I will read Hunter S Thompson as though it was my own diary.

Thursday, 13 December 2007

Three dresses

A whole pot of peppermint tea was an insufficient amount of tea. I am skittish. I am likely to bolt. I'll pull this ring out of the wall and drag my anchor across your reef.

When I think about you

If you came to The Peach for a cup of tea and some vegan cupcakes you might not expect to end up stoned and surprised inside the Enmore watching the Divinyls but this is exactly what happened to Creamboy. A man in a suit smoking a cigarette saw us peering through the door of The Enmore waiting for them to come back out for an encore. He said do you want to go in?

Tuesday, 11 December 2007


Transporting the cat to the vet was easier than I expected, she happily walked straight into her travel cage, turned around and then waited for me to lock her in. There was a moment when I put the cat's cage down on the floor and I saw in one picture the cat cage, my wallet, the good break on my black trousers and the square toes of my red shoes. I felt sure and capable and like a memory of my mother.

The vet was short, intense, all elbows, angles and deft hands. The cat has a heart murmur in addition to fleas. I wanted to grab the stethoscope and listen for myself but it would be wrong to doubt so publicly.

The vet is not very concerned about the cat, she says it could be the stress of being at the vet's in the first place that caused the cat's little heart to race and rattle out the wrong noises. I could not remember how old the cat is, I did not change her microchip information when I moved to the city, I can not convince the cat to eat chicken necks no matter how hard I try. The vet pulled her chin up to look at me and asked which brand of cat biscuits do I buy? The silver one I said, not remembering the name. She asked why I did not change the cat's microchip information, I forgot, I said because I could tell her the real reason. The real reason was my own heart and its murmurs, the vomiting, the ice hard metallic cage that shot out of the ground and pushed me into a new space.

I felt ashamed of my lack of responsible cat ownership. I do try and do the right things but she will not eat the chicken necks no matter what. Once I had a four day stand off with the cat. Twice a day I presented her with chicken necks, twice a day she rejected them, this went on for four days and I had taken to following the cat around to see if she was going to die of starvation.

The vet said that the amazing all in one back of the neck worm, flea everything treatment does not do tapeworms, she looked very stern then shoved a tapeworm tablet down the cat's throat. The cat raised a paw in protest but said nothing, I looked down at my red shoes.

I have asked Creamboy to bring his stethoscope with him tomorrow so that I can have a go at listening to the cat's heart. I need to listen, she is just a cat but she is my cat and I am fond of her.

I keep remembering the horse. The horse died of a broken heart or he would have if I had not signed the paper to let the vet do his terrible kindly deed. I stood holding the end of the rope while the vet injected him.

The horse would have let anything happen to him if I'd been there at the end of a rope. I'd had him more years than seemed possible, I used to lie on his back with a lazy hand over my eyes while he grazed in the valley or sit underneath him if caught in a sudden shower of rain. The horse kindly obliged me with all my mad Dale from Snowy River fantasies and bravely galloped down any hillside I pointed him at. He drank orange juice out of poppers by piercing the package with his teeth then holding his head up vertically while the juice ran down his throat and I jumped about trying to get my juice back. He did not object when I tied ribbons in his tail and galloped around yelling about green knights in my bad Middle English. He was huge and strong, he'd jump anything at top speed and the only thing he was ever frightened of was a camel unlike the pony who was petrified of wheely bins and nearly chucked me under a truck on the way to pony club.

But on the last day the horse staggered and lurched, his legs curled under him and he fell, first onto his chest then settling onto his haunches while his eyes rolled white in his huge head. If anything is the opposite of hallelujah its the sight of a dying horse collapsing inwards with spidered legs. The vet took the rope out of my hands then he knelt and unbuckled the headstall and eased it out from under the horse's head, he coiled the rope slowly hand over practiced hand and laid it at at my feet, I don't remember him driving away.

Monday, 10 December 2007

Tell my why

What I want to say is nothing at all but inevitably there are words. I have been busy writing and reading. I wanted to write more today but its all pieces and no puzzle. What I need is a detective to come here and read things and tell me what should go where and why. What is the point of writing a novel? I can't seem to find one.

The whole thing is too dense and circular, there is no story. I started with one intention and found it too hard to continue with, I lost the purpose in it. Its too thick, too muddy. Peter Bishop said I must allow the reader to breathe, I need more air in my mixture more paragraphs of nothing so that a reader can continue reading while the dense stuff makes sense in their heads. I used to think but what is a novel if it is not the pointed tip of your arrow? That was before I started reading "To the Lighthouse" by Virginia Woolf. The blurb on the back says that "her genius is at once more difficult and more original than that of any other novelist of today" and now I tend to agree. I used to fall into a Virginia Woolf lightly and easily but today I found it too much and I longed for one or two of Peter Bishop's air paragraphs. Of course my work is no way comparable to Virginia Woolf's (der), it is sometimes thick like hers but without the flash of genius.

What I need is a printer. I feel convinced that if I could print things and lay out the pages one after another across the bed and the floor that I could make sense of it all but that won't do. I must press on without making imaginary difficulties.

This afternoon when I tired of writing I read Stefan Laszczuk's "the Goddamn Bus of Happiness". I was able to dispatch it without difficulty, it has pace, plot and air. It seems so simple to do something like that when you are reading it but I do not work like him, not at all, I must be content to be a person without plot, I will type without reason and to hell with the consequences.

Sunday, 9 December 2007

It wasn't Casablanca but I drank a tall drink

That sudden blue burst of horizon eluded me today, instead the mountains crawled into soft focus with a slow force. There is a sudden release I long for whenever I head for the hills but it only comes with the flow of tall grasses and that endless sky. I drove faster to induce wasteland Western Sydney and the rush of home and horror but it didn't come and I arrived in Katoomba sweating and fending off the same old flies.

My Mother wandered about in her house forgetting things and picking things up in armloads and putting them down again, my brother chopped through conversations with a raised wrist and a casual stare, tea cup hanging from a finger. We went out to the garage to Mum's enormous car to see the new Gleebooks at Blackheath but Mother asked me, three steps from her car, keys in hand, which side does the driver sit on? My brother drove.

Aiming straight down the hill I stopped half way for Rita, Ron and the respite found only in the home of good friends. We ate food and sat about in pools of individual exhaustion, companionably, companionably.

The car turned sweeping from the rock face steadily west at the bottom of the big hill and finally that horizon was there all run through with stars and helicopters and dreams but it was the wrong horizon so I veered left into Emu Plains for water.

Walking into Creamboy's video shop I wondered, momentarily, what the hell I was doing there but I was greeted with a smile and a line or two from Casablanca. I asked for a cup of water thinking thirstily of holding an old white mug full of tap water in both hands but he bought me a bottle of water from the fridge and I forgot in my thanks that I had decided not to use anymore bottles of bought water, the damage they do.

When I got home I felt I'd been abroad. I am my own luggage with tassles and invisible tags and straps and always the long trail of where I've been.

Saturday, 8 December 2007

Tea of the week

I have introduced a new programme inside The Peach. I call it Tea of The Week. Its very simple, once a week I will select a kind of tea from the cupboard and put it in a bowl on the bench, if at the end of the week there is still tea in the bowl it gets binned. Very simple.

I have declared myself Captain of the Tea Shelf. There is too much fucking tea in this house, there is too much of everything in this house but I fear The Spatula and Grizelda would not be very pleased if I tried to be The Captain of Everyone's Stuff. I will have to be content with being The Captain of The Tea Shelf.

Good lord that was odd

Instead of dressing then walking I fell asleep and slept for almost three hours. It seems I would rather dream in the afternoon than sleep all night at the moment. I had a dream that Creamboy was a cowboy, he had a cowboy hat and many horses, he smoked cigarettes and yelled at other cowboys to go and do their cowboy work, it was very odd.

Out stupid spot

It seems that today I must imagine a purpose. Earlier the Cowboy walked past The Peach with his shirt ironed and buttoned, umbrella clasped firmly under his left arm. I stared out the window suddenly conscious of my faded pyjamas and the general disarrangement of my hair. I have been wandering in the hallway clutching a book.

I will dress in my cleanest clothes, I will brush my hair. I will walk with a long stride and a large umbrella to fetch the papers and have a coffee, I am imagining that this is my purpose.

Friday, 7 December 2007

From the phone of Madam Squeeze springs more than I ever imagined

I bring you The Two Spencers. Spencer and Spencer P Jones (guest appearance by Madam Squeeze's thumb).

Spencer requested that this photo be made public in order to commemorate a Spencetastic moment in the life of Spencer. Spencer and Madam Squeeze walked into a bar in Melbourne, Spencer P Jones was halfway through a song when he spied Spencer in his Television t-shirt walk in holding a guitar. He stopped playing and said "That's the best t-shirt I've seen in ages, you've got a guitar do you want to come and play?". Spencer could not have been more pleased. Afterwards they went to a tequila bar but they could not afford any of the tequila.

Last night I spent an evening in The Townie with Spencer and Madam Squeeze. They are the opposite of hollow people, they are the antidote. Sometimes an evening can fall into philosophy and the necessary torture of artistic pursuits in such a way that you wake up and feel your locked and narrow path is exactly the right one. You can wake up with the intention of spending a whole day typing and typing your manuscript and feel, for once, surrounded in your isolation. Its ok to be a person that pays attention.

The ocean made me feel stupid, its the oppostie of hallelujah

I dranks dirnks and listened to Rolf Harris on Spencer's mp3 thingy in the pub but a man with enormously oversized jewellery wanted to listen also. Spencer made a face at him.

Thursday, 6 December 2007

I should mention

I have been made deliriously happy by the announcement of two new major prizes for Australian authors. $100 000 each, tax free, one for fiction, one for non-fiction. Thank you Misters Rudd & Garrett.

Wednesday, 5 December 2007


I am on holidays. I don't have to try and stay awake all day for the next eleven days. I'm going to start by going to sleep very soon. I nearly fell asleep at the work Christmas party, to be fair it was while one author was reading out the contents page of his new book and describing each chapter as he went along. I was talking to Ron on the phone but then I don't know what happened, maybe his phone dropped out, I hope I didn't fall asleep while he was talking.

Oh hang one, I have an email from Ron, phone battery died. He is trying to simultaneously talk me into filming my reaction to '2 girls 1 cup' and telling me not to watch it. Intriguing. Should I watch it?

TimT has brought to my attention an excellent handy dandy explanation song to assist with the polling process.

Tuesday, 4 December 2007


Sometimes the best cure for exhaustion is to throw yourself into the heartbeat of Newtown. I snuck into a back alley to spy on The Spatula in Kulettos, she was there on a date. I sat on a high stool at Guzman Y Gomez and stared relentlessly at passers by whilst eating a burrito and shouting things such as "Good lord look at that man's trousers" to Grizelda who is suddenly and inexplicably deaf.

Spencer and Madam Squeeze were digging around in a bookshop looking disgustingly happy holding bags of muesli and air tight containers. Spencer showed me photos of himself playing with Spencer P Jones in Melbourne. Two Spencers at once, imagine that. Figs are still not being made into sorbet in Newtown, something must be done about this. I really can't be expected to like raspberry for much longer.

I stopped outside the Enmore to listen to Dweezle Zappa in the rain. Marvellous and made even better by Dr Karl arriving wearing lime green trousers and a fluro vomit patterned shirt, I hope he isn't alarming Dweezle with his outfit.

I am going to dream of being Moon Unit Zappa playing funk on Steve Vai's guitar in Africa. This is my short term plan.

Voodoo funk me

Voodo Funk.

Monday, 3 December 2007

Aqua hammer

The absence of things to say is remarkable. I'm wondering if I'm turning into a hollow person of little opinion or if its just the fucking manuscript.

My mind has turned its back on all but this one thing. Every step is pounding out syllables. I am casting paragraphs wide and high, netting light posts and telegraph poles pulling them firmly behind me into a single scripted idea. I've caught this narrow world and I'm pushing it stick by stick through my toothed lacerating funnel. I am giant and separate and other while things turn white behind me and my mad plastic machines. This writing. This writing thing is an ascending descent.

Sunday, 2 December 2007

Fresh from the psychiatry dairy

Cupcakes! Grizelda made cupcakes and I have had much fun ducking into the kitchen and nicking them. I was caught red handed but still managed to scoff about three of them. At one point I smeared a cooked with raw batter and ate it but it made me feel like a cannibal.

Everything else is uneventful. I spent the day swatting things away and wandering about doing as I pleased. I spied a man from the poetry thing I attend in the cafe. Its the third time I've seen him there. Maybe next time I'll say hello instead of ignoring him and going back to my research materials.

I fished the manuscript out from under my bed and added words to it, I think the key to being a writer is to wear only underpants and glasses. I used up all my excellent words in my manuscript so now I am boring. So be it. Boring is a small price to pay. When I finish the fucking thing I am going to set it on fire then pour brandy down my throat whilst running about in the house in my underpants smoking two cigarettes at once. This is my long term plan.


Sometimes I carry a fear so long that it becomes a hard knotted thing weaving shapes into my reflection. Imagine my surprise when this morning I looked down and saw that the fear had worked its way out til it was hovering with its imaginary wings to the left of my head. I fear this fear has manoeuvered itself into a vulnerable position.

Dale and the giant peach

I have roamed this hallway twenty seven times whilst longing for instant death in my pants. Two hired DVDs have refused to play further than three quarters of they way through. I am exceedingly frustrated and in dire need of distraction. The Peachettes have gone out, one went west and the other is dancing to some Mr van Helmet man or some such in the Hordern Pavilion and as such for once in my life are not providing any distractions.

I want to gather all the local chemists and doctors in one room and hit them with giant hammers until they are as sore, sick and sorry as I am. Antibiotics are clearly a man's solution for men. I don't care how sick I get in the future I will die a horrible death on the footpath outside my house while the cat yowls for dinner rather than suffer weeks of horrible side effects from stupid man medicines.

The very next doctor I see, medical doctor not literary doctor, I am going to violently yell at until I either drop dead from exertion or they crumble into a bloody heap before going kapow poof blam and simultaneously melting and going up in smoke. You are supposed to fucking heal me not make me feel horrible in twelve separate ways you fucktards. I hereby withdraw all personal faith in the medical sciences, all of them, that includes you stinky pseudo scientific naturopaths with stinking ineffective herbs of doom.

Saturday, 1 December 2007


Now the cat is ailing. She has fleas despite her anti flea poison drops. The Spatula noticed, after the cat had had a refreshing nap in the bathroom sink, flea droppings and specks of blood in the sink.

I captured the cat and dosed her again with the revolutionary poisonous drops for cats. I hope this works or the cat and I will need to book into the vet for group euthanasia. Its as though I have been cursed with plagues of discomfort. Peripheral failings and their horrid cures are filling my minutes and hours. I need creams and drops and potions, poisons, smoke balls and pessaries. If there was a scale of disparate ailments working together towards doom then the needle has moved rapidly from shit to fuck.

It is important to note that my fabulous new hair failed to cure anything at all.

Deep in the jungle

I know what will cure me. It is a reliable cure for what ails you. Spectacular results can be seen almost instantly. I made the appointment two days ago, last night I was thinking that I would wake up this morning, cancel the appointment and go to the doctor instead but I have had a brainwave. New hair fixes everything. I will go and get my hair cut into something spectacular, if I am still ill then I will consider the doctor but I really don't think that will be necessary. Bring on the new hair.

Friday, 30 November 2007

Welcome to pessary town

Wracked. I was a walking crash until I sat down. It hurts to breathe. All day at work I kept taking ibuprofen and it sort of helped until I got home and realised I couldn't take a full breath without incredible pain.

I woke up this morning and thought my ribs were broken but I ate breakfast took some panadol and went to work. Grizelda went up the street and came back with dinner for me. I ate it and took more ibuprofen, I thought it might be muscle pain so The Spatula got out her massage table and went to work, I was expecting it to be exceedingly painful but it didn't really hurt at all, this worries me a little. I think I might have some fluid on my lungs.

I am walking chemicals, you could tap me for medicines. There are pessaries and pain killers, two kinds, one for the lungs the other for my uterus, there is echinacea and vitamins, I've lost track of which pills I swallowed when and why. There is anti itching cream and face cream, lavendar head roll on stick and fuck knows what else. I am chewing nicotine gum.

In the morning I will go to the doctor and throw myself on her mercy. I need a remedy or I will travel to Zurich for a little euthanasia.

Thursday, 29 November 2007

People of Melbourne!

Get yourselves to The Old Bar in Fitzroy tomorrow night to see The Holy Soul. Spencer, the very famous and excellent friend of Dale Slamma, will be performing from 8pm.

Spencer has a way about him once he hits that stage, he's loose and magnetic, a tall streak of rock, this why year after year I stand in front of the stage mesmerised taking small sips out of my lemonade.

Wednesday, 28 November 2007

Pink mist

I zoomed in too close and this was my problem. Is my problem. Has always been my problem. I focus in until everything fogs then snap its the hard edges of someone else's pixels. I lost my glasses and exchanged them for his eyes or his eyes or his eyes but I pushed them all out of my head and rolled them until they gathered dust and my own dead fleas. Now I have sticky-taped Dale eyes into place and blue tacked back until I saw a clear path. Its my time to open the street directory and point with chipped pink polish to the centre of potatoes for dinner with my legs swinging over the arm of the chair and the cat the choosing the channels. I'm scratching but I'm here.

Tuesday, 27 November 2007


A constricting hallway madness with the same pattern rolling under my wheels. All work and no play makes Dale a dull girl. I am rearranging my tetris thinking.

International emergency!

I have fleas.

I'm walking around with itchy flea bites on me. Horrible. I've sprayed the fuckers but they're not dead yet.

There must be a way to kill fleas with some kind of trap. A tiny trap with flea bait in it. I will put it on the floor and all the fleas will jump into it. You won't be able to see into it because a jar of fleas is yucky. Please invent this trap now.

The cat is the only one not scratching, she is fleaproof thanks to the monthly tiny vial of poison that goes on the back of her neck. I considered trying some of that on me to see if it worked on humans but I read the label and it also does things like worms for cats and other cat related things. Its probably not a good idea if you are not a cat. I am not a cat. I wish I was a cat but it didn't say anything about that on the label.

Monday, 26 November 2007

Lovin' spoonful

Sometimes, no matter how hard you try, there are people that you just can't warm to. I have tried and tried to like this person but I can't and I don't like it. They really haven't done anything wrong I just find them brittle.

Robert said there is no play in their brain and I think he's right. They think one thing and then the next thing never stopping to see what might lie sideways or up a little and just to the left. There is too much order and procession about thoughts for my comfort, a little dance of ceremony with every utterance. I'm beginning to secretly call them Mr Collins.

Oh good lord. I am trying to hide the gender of the person I am not getting along with, I might have achieved that but my sentence are bizarre. Bizarre.

Excitingly I watched an old episode of Friends and saw one of the people wearing hair jewels. I thought oooh, hair jewels tops idea that. I rummaged around in the bathroom and found three tubes of shiny jewels stuck in the ends of tiny spring things. It is very simple you just push the tiny spring onto some bits of hair and you instantly have hair jewels. Brilliant! I have not worn these since the 90's, the early to mid 90's. I'm bringing them back. Jewels Betty, jewels.

Sunday, 25 November 2007

Come on then

It has been some time since I have mentioned the sentence for a $1 using a word of the customer's choice market stall experiment. This is because the idea has expanded. I am working on getting together a production line. The customer will say a word, I will write a sentence using the word, someone (hopefully Spencer) will sing and play the sentence as a song, Madam Squeeze will reinterpret the song on her accordion whilst an interpretive dancer performs the sentence song as a dance. The customer can keep the paper on which I wrote the sentence.

Madam Squeeze has agreed to the plan, I am yet to ask Spencer, I might ask Boli to add a jazz clarinet segment before Madam Squeeze's part but after (hopefully) Spencer's. All I really need now is an interpretive dancer. Does anyone dance? If no dancer can be found then I will have to do the interpretive dancing and really, no one wants to see that.

Ah ha! A clue

My mother, her partner and my brother came over for a cup of tea this afternoon. Sitting out on the deck of The Peach my mother started talking about a Christmas dinner with her siblings and offspring. I assumed that I would not be invited to any dinner hosted by family. My mother said "What are you talking about? You are always invited, its just that I ease the pressure of having to attend family things by not telling you when they are on".

Saturday, 24 November 2007

Its time

I could not be more excited. I love voting. The new Prime Minister has just issued his first instruction to the people of Australia, he suggested that we all go and have a nice cup of tea and an Iced Vovo. I really could not be more excited.

Professor Points

So far Gemma is winning with 8 Professor Points. PeteyO, Spencer, The Brave Leader of the Beautiful Boys and The Library One are equal last on one point each.

I have not yet determined what any of this means.

You remind me of the babe

The fucking doctor is a shithead. I have been issued the following orders:
no exercise (not even walking)
no going out at night
no being in a crowd of people

Those are stupid orders. What kind of a person does not walk around at night in crowds, certainly not people who live in Newtown. So as a kind of vengeance I obeyed all orders by sitting in the house and watching a video whilst eating turkish bread with hommous and chilli followed by pizza, then chocolates with popcorn and some cola. Now I feel very sick indeed. Take that doctor. Following doctor's orders can sometimes make you feel very ill and sorry that you followed them.

The doctor informs me that my immune system is up the shit, he said he could give me more antibiotics (evil pills of doom) but they probably won't work as I just keep getting different viruses. He said I must rest, I must not exert myself, I must eat lots of garlic and ginger and take echinacea tablets. I just have to wait this one out. I am not known for my patience.

I am supposed to go to a film festival tomorrow, this would involve walking, being out at night and being in a crowd. I desperately want to go but I mustn't. All evening, in between rewinding the video to watch David Bowie sing the Dance Magic song one more time, I have been meaning to telephone Snuffbox Films and say that thank you very much for sorting out an invitation for me to go and being ever so nice to let me write something about it and put it on your excellent film blog but I can't go as my immune system is up the shit. I thought about it but I didn't do it. I'm trying to work out a devious plan for going.

I could wrap myself in foil and wear a helmet, I could wear a jumpsuit over a unitard, I could grind echinacea tablets into powder and perform circular breathing whilst wearing a shower cap. All of these are excellent ideas but their usefulness may be limited to novelty. I shall write an email and send it, it is too late for telephoning now. I feel quite awful and like a big pain for pulling out so close to the event. Minus ten professor points for me but just before I send the email I might watch this one more time.

Thursday, 22 November 2007

The Newtown Spaz

I navigated my heavy freedom up Enmore Rd then King St. It seems an age since I roamed the streets plugged into my mp3 player and people on streets. There are hydrangeas everywhere. On my street one house has two enormous bushes of pure white hydrangeas, I've never seen white ones before. There was red carpet outside the Enmore Theatre and men of rock standing in pointy toed groups smoking cigarettes and messing their hair delightfully.

As I arrived in Newtown I thought I heard drums but I was mistaken. In a beautiful synchronised moment planes, trains, traffic and people fell into a regular six eight beat. I bought Shaun Tan's The Arrival for my Dad for Chistmas but in a moment of panic I thought I might have given it to him last year so I phoned and asked if he'd already read it. He said "No but I'll look out for it".

Madam Squeeze was busking so I talked with her for while, I snuck up while she was playing and had the privilege of spying her alone with her music. I met Grizelda for dinner, as we made our way to Burgerlicious I kept setting off shop alarms by walking in through doorways. Surely alarms are only meant to go off if you are stealing something. I saw a window display of the worst shoes ever in the world. I yelled "UGLY SHOE ALERT" and dragged Grizelda over to look, unfortunately the shop man heard me and every time I walked past that shop (6 times) I had sneak and then dash.

I ran into Mr X, he seemed calm, happy and ugly, nothing at all like the handsome soul stealing vampire that I make him out to be. Grizelda was glad to meet him, I suspect she thought I was making him up. He was friendly and kind, I remarked on his new haircut and he stooped to point out the grey hair.

My burger wrap kept falling apart and I ended up with hamburger ingredients down my bra, my sleeves and in my handbag, that was not ideal. I stopped at the chemist to get some valerian. I am determined to sleep but the lady in the chemist talked me out of it. She kept telling me that I should get this aromatherapy roll on stick thing you apply to your head. She was oddly persuasive and had the same name as my cat. I was too tired to fight her so I bought the stupid $25 head roll on crap, luckily Grizelda dosed me with some night time cough syrup of some sort that is supposed to knock me out so that should work even the stupid head stick doesn't.

I feel odd after running into Mr X, I don't know if he knows about the Elliot thing, I suspect he might. I don't like people like him knowing things, coming as he does from a different camp but I suppose it doesn't really matter.

I am so pleased to have discovered that the rest of the world is still there and that I might have my very own small place in it, a place where transport, footsteps and heartbeats happily collide.

The awful perfume of decay

This the fifth night of insomnia. Its going round at the moment I hear. My throat hurts so much that its keeping me awake. I think the illness is coming back in a new form. I'm waiting for the painkillers to work their work. I wish I had a giant bottle of morphine. I wish I was on a rocking ship with creaking sails. I wish I had not painted my nails pink.

I can feel myself aging as I sit here. Sleeplessness is becoming my lover. I wish I had hot chips. I wish I had codeine. I wish for four extra hours so that I don't spend the whole day tomorrow in torturous exhaustion. I wish I had a thousand pillows. I wish I was a cat. I wish I knew everything so that all learning was done and I could spread my fingers wide and dispense wisdom like toothpaste.

Wednesday, 21 November 2007


I've been having the same dream every night for weeks. I'm walking down the street wearing white sunglasses and I love them. I own white sunglasses. This is my dream.

The other dream that visits on still nights is more vivid. I am small, the second shortest in the group. Its dark in the closed verandah of the queenslander and the air feels hot like living velvet. I am tired but unable to sleep zipped sweating into a sleeping bag on the wooden floor. All day I'd traipsed around holding the hand of my aunt or uncle or older cousin. We'd walked and walked along strange wide streets. I was dragging my heels and peering over gates into fantastical tropical gardens. Nobody wore hats though the sun bit with white intensity and sunscreen slid down and pooled with the sweat behind everybody's knees.

They walked me to church and sat me on the hard seat where I sweated and fidgeted and confusion swirled. I kept asking "Are we in Queensland?". I was pulled to my feet by eager cousins who walked me down the aisle then I sat like a dog while the priest fed me a biscuit and placed his hot hand on the top of my head. All day I pulled at my hair because I could feel his hand there large and wet as an egg. They laughed as I walked back down the aisle alone with my hands on top of my head feeling to see if something was there, my printed dress pulled higher by my lifted arms. "Are we in Queensland" I aksed?. "Just" they said, "just".

Eternity stinks my darling

So I have done the Dead vs Alive experiment and now I am facing the very real possibility that I could be here for quite a while. Its a novel experience this contemplating having a go at making the best of things. I always thought that I had a built in escape hatch, that if things were too much for too long I could just bail but now on the wise side of thirty I'm beginning to suspect that its just not my style.

I'm currently sitting in a cliche. Out on the patio I sit, breathing the humidity watching the lightning. Its rather nice, this Australia. I'm pondering the notion of learned expectations, learned expectations of experience about death and spaghetti. I'm think I'm onto something but like a lot of things its going to need some work.

Tuesday, 20 November 2007


I have just noticed that the Dead vs Alive experiment is finished. The final scores are:
Dead 10
Unsure 13
Alive 67

I guess that means the deal is done. Results are conclusive and therefore I must stay alive. Well, that was unexpected.

A slow day but the sun was beating like a god

Lack of exercise is opening doors for demons but I'm not sure what to do. I am still sick. My glands are hard and obvious, ragged exhaustion tops and tails my days. I am supposed to be taking it easy and so I am but its harder than I thought it would be.

I want to push myself until breathing and heartbeats become more obvious than weary thought and the endless stream of silent words. I want to travel happily on strong legs straight into the wind but I'm worried that I won't make it home again. I'm worried the low level dizziness and buzzing of virus in my veins will flare up and take me back to the ill creature that I was.

I'm not sure what to do. I've been driving to work every day. The walk to the station and then from the station to the office seems like a marathon effort I'm not capable of making. What if I make it there and all through the day but then sink to the floor unable to make the return journey. Its important to remember that there is no rescue here, just me.

When I think of how happily I laced my shoes and walked the four kilometres home from the office just a month or so ago it seems like a lie or a dream. It seemed such a short walk, just long enough to clear my mind and get me ready for evening activities. I fear I need to return to the doctor and take more expensive ill-making nasty pills. I am resentful and restless. I want to say fuck you virus of mystery and doom. Fuck you.

Monday, 19 November 2007

Jurisprudence on a Monday afternoon

It is a truth universally acknowledged that I lead a boring life. In keeping with this truth I have been reading about historical and conceptual issues of copyright beginning in 1709 with the Statute of Anne and the remarkable case of Donaldson v Beckett (1774) 4 Burr 2408, 98 Eng Rep 257 and finding it very interesting.

I did of course study intellectual property as part of my law degree but study however was often a matter of cramming my head with as much information and understanding as possible in order to pass exams. I was denied a leisurely and personal reflection on many aspects of the law. I did from time to time stop and reflect, much more often than the other students, but much less than I should have.

I won't do the law the injustice of attempting to summarise my pondering at this point.

Pressing my intellect against the stone face of the law out of mere curiousity poses a new problem. I have been here before and knelt and wept at the tiny printed summed up and stitched through idol of human reasoning. I have stood at the bottom of it all and thrown year after year until half a decade later I came to, still at the bottom, wearing a mortar board and gown. I don't what the law is and this worries me. It is system of rules certainly but it is great and terrible and capable of filling the whole sky. It is interwoven through all meaning and thought. I will chase it.

Sunday, 18 November 2007

That Ron and other possibilities

That Ron has suggested that I leave a drawing of a condom on The Cowboy's front door and see if he sticks it back on my gate with a big tick. I don't think I'll be doing that Ron but thanks for the suggestion.

Its looking like I might need to put on my wroving shoes and go off on assignment very soon. I am excited about the possibility.


The cowboy was late but apologetic. He ate the last cucumber sandwich. We'd given up on him arriving and had tucked into the cucumber sandwiches in a less than delicate manner. He seemed quite thrilled to be eating his first ever cucumber sandwich, I guess they're not big on cowboy menus. He seemed slightly surprised to find himself sitting on the deck of The Peach sipping tea from a tiny yellow teacup with a tiny sandwich in his other hand.

He has a bold way of being. His calm and friendly manner only partially cloaks the mechanics of his media machine intellect. I see in him the confident striding shadow person that I drag along behind myself wishing to push into action but never do. I lack almost all of his qualities.

When he stands his feet are slightly too wide apart, he carries his centre of gravity low, I don't think he wishes for greater height. If there was a way to take my chisel and break off pieces of him I would do it. I would reassemble myself using his parts for my strong foundations. It is not often that I meet someone so sure that they want to be.

Conversation was stilted between the four of us at times, none of us sure what picture we were supposed to be making. I would like to have a go at talking to the cowboy by myself but that will have to wait until I find a way to be more sure of everything from the air I'm breathing to the path I'm walking. My hesitant and inarticulate way is no conversational match for a man like that. He seems whole and well and full of light.

Saturday, 17 November 2007


I ran into The Cowboy on Enmore Rd, we had a little chat, he was wearing a baseball hat very high on his head.

When I got home I decided to take decisive action so I commissioned The Spatula to sketch me a teacup with a question mark on it. I stuck this to the Cowboy's front door.

Some four hours later The Spatula noticed a note stuck to the front gate of The Peach. It was my note with a big red tick on it and "That's a tick by the way" written down the side. Surely the best thing would have been if he had just knocked on the door instead of leaving another note. I am pondering my next move.

Exciting Friday evening pondering

How many dances are named after things you can eat?

I have three so far.
The watusi (I'm no farmer but its a type of cow)
The macaroni
Hot potato
Chicken dance
Dutty wine
The alligator

The macaroni is a dance named in a song, the same song that says "do the watusi" I believe. I don't know what the song is.

Thursday, 15 November 2007

Right into the fucking GPO

It doesn't matter where I live its always western fucking sydney. Right now its the inner west but that's west alright. Not even last night's salt breeze is enough to shift cardinal points. I was talking Robert through my strange list of connectedness and he shook his head and said "Oh that's just the inner west". He said that aren't that many of us who live here and love it but how can that be true?

Almost every hearbeat I am grateful to be living here. From the graceful arc of the Anzac Bridge out my kitchen window to the crazy shoving of King St, I love it. How could anyone not love this? How could there only be this small village of people who know people? There are so many people here. A year after moving to the city I am still astonished by the sheer mass of us all.

Every corner holds an opportunity and there's one corner in particular that I've got my eye on the corner of City Rd and Cleveland St. I'm harbouring a strong desire to take ballet classes. Now if you actually know me this is a good time to get your laughing over and done with. Graceful I am not. I can't dance, I can't even walk in an elegant manner but I am quite determined. Just don't expect to rock up in a tutu.

Its not fibonacci but it might be triangular or Dr Theeth and the Electric Mayhem

Something's connecting the dots. The cowboy, Mr X, Loene Carmen, Mark Mordue, The beautiful boys, work, Meanjin, Artboy, experiments, Spencer's band. Tonight they all converge and its getting curious.

There's no clear beginning but I'll start here. I began talking to a woman on the phone, at work, who was after some advice. She was starting a poetry journal. My work helped her out and I was invited to the launch party. I collected my free copy of the journal and stayed to hear the poets do their thing. I liked it so much that I go every month now.

Earlier during one of my experiments I met a girl in a pub, she was doing her own experiment asking people to pose wearing the same pair of sunglasses.

The next night I was invited to a party thrown by a member of the artist's collective Artboy and I belonged to. At the party I met a bunch of beautiful boys who were thinking about starting their own literary journal. We got to talking, their brave leader invited me for coffee to further discuss his ideas. The next time I saw him was at the poetry thing, he goes every month.

Some months ago the postman delivered my copy of Meanjin, the rock'n'roll issue.

I developed a keen interest in befriending the cowboy next door.

At one of Spencer's gigs the bass player invited me to the album launch of another band he is in, he plays bass for Loene Carmen. I spied the cowboy at the back of the crowd.

On the weekend I caught up with Spencer and he mentioned that he knows Loene Carmen's husband.

Earlier I was invited to a party at the beautiful boys' house where their brave leader introduced me to his excellent girlfriend, it was the girl I met at the pub, the one with her experiment.

Much earlier I was in a pub talking to the dreaded Mr X about rock'n'roll and writing about it. We talked about Mark Mordue.

Tonight the brave leader of the beautiful boys sent me a message to see if I was going to the poetry thing. I wasn't going to as I am still somewhat tired and ill but I changed my mind and ordered two coffees as soon as I set foot in the door. The beautiful boys were there, so was the excellent girlfriend. We sat and listened to the guest poet, Mark Mordue. The poetry journal woman introduced him and talked about his work in her journal and his guest editing spot in an issue of Meanjin, the rock'n'roll issue.

Mark Mordue was fucking spectacular. On the way home I ran into the cowboy, turns out he is Loene Carmen's brother in law. As soon as I got home I dug out my as yet unread Meanjin and poetry journal. I flipped open Meanjin and the first article I read was written by Loene Carmen.

I don't know if all these tenuous connections amount to anything tangible but it sure feels like I'm being woven into a bright tapestry I can call my own.

Wednesday, 14 November 2007

Plugs help us hold water

SeeSee Miscellany. I am submitting work, I'm submitting many things, I don't really care if they are all rejected. I just want to support the beautiful boys in their excellent endeavour.

This cheesecake city*

Poets, contrary to popular belief are not known for their style and tonight was no exception. Sometimes a night at the open mic is like a night at an open sore but not tonight, not all of it. I do object to the ones who perform in wavering structures of artificial rhythm, I do object to the political without a trace of the personal but never could I object to the words that float like a miracle salt breeze blown all the way through my front door. My island home.

* A line from a poem by Matt More.

Tuesday, 13 November 2007

Clutter clatter

Desire for surfaces and a smooth rearranging has taken over. This small illness of mine still has me exhausted by day's end. I lie here in my aching suit planning and replanning the dismemberment of things. I feel I have stepped into perspective and a small important freeing of dust but my cupboards and shelves tell stories of struggle and unwilling nomadic shifts. I am dreaming of a shedding dervish where I stumble at last into ordered clean spaces. This is my new revolution.


I have discovered Book Mooch. It took me a while to come across this but I think it is my new best friend.

Monday, 12 November 2007

Depth charge

I intend to find out what it is that makes some days pulse with calm aquatic echoes. The kind of day where I am only tired, that is all. The kind of day where I cease kicking and listen for the happy slap of my own footsteps.

If I could live here, in this day, where I worked and cooked and washed things. If I could live here stepping easily around love shaped holes and uncertain futures then I am sure it would be alright but chasing me is the imaginary one with a banner spelling respite.

I've got my new shoes on and I filed all my papers, I've got a feeling that it'll take more than the imaginary, with his old sheets tied to broom handles, it'll take more than that. Oh yes.

A small afternoon suggestion

Pop over to digging for fire and see Neil playing a song or two, he seems like a nice man with clean hair.

Sunday, 11 November 2007

There was a festival

Madam Squeeze declared Gary Numan to be the Iced Vovo of popular music, I bought a hat and ran over a man with a pram, there's more to this story than meets the eye.

Saturday, 10 November 2007

Out of The Peach and into the blue

The Amazing Mystery Illness of Not Yet Death loves me. It doesn't want to leave me but it can get stuffed. I'm out of here. I'm leaving The Peach and heading into the blue, just for tonight.

It wasn't the Illness, it was mould. I ate mould! That was unexpected.

I had toast for dinner last night and when I could finally crawl out of bed into the kitchen this afternoon I discovered that the bread was mouldy.

Friday, 9 November 2007


Reverse the polarities, pull this inside out and sprinkle it with glitter. I've got my very own recipe for napalm. 26 ingredients, a b c d, continue in a shuffle of outbursts then sit small in a cave while they run around waving their burning flesh screaming how dare you, a b c d, think about me without talking and talking right into my face. Don't you know you the shut down codes for when we walk away all turned backs and hard heels, you're not supposed to think about us if we're not here with heart monitors and bulldozers and the ships of science. Well fuck you. I'm making a comeback. I've got my alphabet and I'm not afraid to use it.

Cowboy ahoy

For some time now I have been on a mission to make friends with a cowboy, not just any cowboy, the cowboy next door. He seems like a nice man and I'm quite taken with how he sits in his backyard in old jeans and a straw cowboy hat playing country music on his guitar. He has a way of putting his bottle on the ground then swinging back in his chair as though he can see the horizon. Once I spent an entire afternoon lying down on the deck smoking cigarettes and eating mulberries as they fell off the tree just so that I could hear him play. He has many intriguing backyard habits. He likes to listen to the Dixie Chicks while he hangs out his washing. He walks clockwise around the clothesline when he talks on his mobile phone, never anti-clockwise, sometimes up and down the right hand wall but never the left. He only sings after dark.

The other weekend I saw him outside my house late at night. I was in my pyjamas and staring wild eyed at a tupperware container with a spider in it. He didn't seem to mind, I said you must come over for a cup of tea and explained that I have several teapots. The next weekend I saw him on King St, marched right up and said when are you coming over for that cup of tea. His excellent reply was that I had to send down a special invitation from my birds eye back deck to his back door.

Last night coming home he was again outside the house, this time he was standing between two parked cars in the dark night, his guitar and amp on the footpath. This time I discovered where he worked, what he did and just what he was doing standing on the road like that. My interest in this cowboy tripled in an instant, not because of his job but because of the way he described it. He suggested I use a paper aeroplane to send down that invitation to tea.

Thursday, 8 November 2007

Impending tantrum

I feel like my blog has been infiltrated which is of course ridiculous because it is a public space that anyone can access. However I still feel that I have been forced into unwanted censorship. I did not anticipate that people in my life would read my blog. Gemma said that the danger of blogging is that it's so silent and she's right. There is only me and the good flow of words through my fingers. The gap between blogger and blog reader could not be broader. It is the inside reversed and made manifest. The words at the top of my bog are not meaningless. This is not a revenge narrative. There are no secret codes or misdirected letters. I do not write what I would rather speak.

For now I will submit to the unwanted censorship but I am not comfortable. I feel squashed and watched instead of bold and free but like all things this feeling is temporally bound and will pass so for right now let us all think about the excellent properties of lovely flowers. Nice and neutral like a lighter shade of beige.

Gaaah bad photo today

I was trying to take a photo of my new fringe which was excitingly free. I went to my hairdresser and said I can't see, my fringe is too long, please can you just cut the fringe. They said yes and it was free! I had no idea that this was something you could do. Brilliant.

I am spending the evening reading up on a course in financial reporting for tomorrow. Right so accrual accounting is similar to cash accounting in that in both cases you must write numbers in columns, no worries.

Wednesday, 7 November 2007


I am anti antibiotics right now. After three courses of the hateful cure I have been cursed. I am suffering the full range of unwanted side effects, apart obviously from weird instant death which I understand is a problem for some poor souls.

I have had marvellous dioarrhea, the kind that is surprisingly like having a handy internal fire hose that pumps fluid out your anus at high speed, no lumps. Fortunately the probiotic tablets seem to have helped not only with the fire hose but with the excellent urge to vomit. However the plague then continued with lady issues of the itchy variety and at first I wasn't too fussed because I have always wanted to try taking one tablet once just to see if it worked but have not had the opportunity to until now.

My excitement at taking one tablet once enabled me to march straight up to the pharmacist and tell him my problem directly. I am sure he has people coming up to him and declaring all sorts of horrid and personal malfunctions on a daily basis but for me it was a novel experience. What I was not expecting was the very high price of the one tablet, seeing as I had just filled a prescription for stupidly expensive antibiotics, the third one, and paid fifty eight million dollars for the only available probiotic I was a little dismayed. My last trip to the chemist was $80, that was on Saturday and I have been operating on $1 a day since then. Tomorrow is pay day and if I felt well enough I would do a little dance.

I was meant to go back to the doctor if lump 1 hadn't entirely disappeared by yesterday but I didn't go. I think the lump has gone, its a bit hard to tell, it seems if you poke your fingers into your neck that there are lots of things in there. So I'm not entirely sure if the lump is gone but I am very sure that I'm not taking anymore stinky sick-making tablets.


Oh I wish I had a cupcake because now is that beautiful terrible moment before they fall. Its time to move on, cupcakes are over but I'll let them have a last hoorah.

Tuesday, 6 November 2007


Now is the time to shut up and think things through properly. This is what I will do. I will shut up and think things through.

There it is

Its not the cold weight of sorrow but something quite like it. I woke up with a headache and sore teeth from clenching my jaw all night in my sleep. I went to sleep sobbing but determined. There's bound to be a few problems with my decision to walk away from Elliot, him being one of them. Turns out he's being reading this blog all along but not telling me so imagine my surprise when I sat down with a nice cup of tea and feeling generally cheery about things to discover an email from Elliot equating my decision to walk away from him with one of the numerous times he got fired from a great job for being drunk. I really don't see the connection.

I have sent an email off to a chosen few for sensible feedback. Boli's response has just arrived, it is very short, he said that I have been a fucktard where Elliot is concerned, for a year or so, I really should listen to Boli more often. He told me more than a year ago that nothing good will come of this. I don't how he's always right but he is, the bastard.

I will now wait on more responses. It is time to be a collective. Oh, I better go to work actually. Its getting close to 9 and I'm not yet dressed, thankfully the sobbing has stopped.

Monday, 5 November 2007

Is anybody out there?

65% of people say yes. That is very encouraging.

What kind of magic spell to use?

Surprise! Well well, I have been dreading, ever since my tired eyes opened themselves this morning, the cold weight of sorrow but it hasn't arrived. Maybe it won't. It has suddenly occurred to me that I am not locked into a trajectory of torment. I don't have to wait and wait for Elliot to break my heart good and proper. I'm The Captain of What I Do and I can just fuck him off. Its a choice, I can pine and pine and wish until I fall in a heap (again) that things were different or I can go fuck that and set a course for happy town.

I don't know why but in my head it was inevitable that I would wait for Elliot then die of heartache when it came time for him to love and he didn't choose me. I really am a fucktard. This might be easier than I thought. It might be possible that one day I will find myself loved, by someone unexpected. Put on your happy hats kids and wish me well. Not once in my adult life have I not had someone to pine over, its the final frontier.


I'm beginning to feel a bit unshackled.

Sunday, 4 November 2007

I'm a fucktard or I'm so lonely I could die or how do you accidentally fall in love it doesn't seem very sensible to do that sort of thing

And so is Elliot. I have no idea what I'm doing most of the time, the other bits of time I am determinedly doing the wrong thing, on purpose, whilst telling myself it will all be fine in the end so this time I have deleted all of Elliot's phone numbers and no, I don't remember them, not even a little bit.

I'm still sick. I'm not getting much better, hardly better at all and I've made the decision that if it turns out that I am after all suffering from something terrible then I will just let it kill me. Elliot says that the Dale he knows will simply rise to any challenge and find yet more reserves of strength but like I said, Elliot is a fucktard.

Elliot feels bad about the shagging, says it won't happen again. Says that its just not working for him because it doesn't fit with his choice to be sober and celibate.

My problem is a very simple one. I accidentally love him. I like the way he stands when he chops vegetables and I want to have him chopping vegetables in my kitchen every day I until I die. He lives in rehab, he is literally living the one day at a time dream, he is determined right down to his last molecule to do whatever it takes to live sober. Whatever it takes is living one day at a time and keeping things simple. Having a relationship is complicated so its just not on his list of options. This is the simple problem.

The cure is more complicated. Whenever I imagine growing older and living in a different house it is with Elliot. My imagined future is Elliot-based or its white void and I couldn't be angrier about it if I tried.

I am the person who has imagined, for my whole life, living and writing and working and doing things all by myself or with a cat. Not once did I dream of a big white wedding. I only dreamed of my book launch parties and how fabulous I would be at my book launch parties but now I have this clouded vision of an emptiness and a meaninglessness.

I have developed a tangible need to be loved. I am now a person who needs to be loved but I am not loved. My family is not a close family, my friends are not the kind that will just come and be with me. I have become lonely and isolated. I did try and fill my life with interesting things and people but the very moment I became ill it all fell away and I lay for days and days without signs of love or care from the people in my life. It is all a construct. When Artboy went mental Boli told me to keep busy, so I did. I enrolled in my community college, went to yoga classes, took guitar lessons, went to poetry things and gigs and arranged to meet friends as often as possible but it was all so constructed. Infrastructure will collapse.

I'm not imagining the possibility of a lonely future because it has already begun. It does not matter if I wear my nicest outfit and feel very happy and throw myself into life. Its like my universe has run out of people to offer me and finally finally I get it. Elliot will not be chopping vegetables in my kitchen and it doesn't matter how I feel about it, its not going to happen.

I can't get no

A day of activities pushed out the corners of my sick and shrunken world, just a little. I wandered up to the framing shop and chose mat and frame for my Shaun Tan print. The wander home nearly did me in but I made it. Four blocks all by myself, my how I've grown. This is the new size of my universe. Four blocks. It took three hours to recover from that walk.

All day I felt an oven cranking heat through my veins. I am hot to the touch, a kettle with no water in. The Spatula left for Melbourne while I sat on the front step and watched her pull her suitcase on wheels down the street. Flying to another city seems an impossible dream in my ever shrinking world. This illness pulls down blinds and blocks out vistas.

Ron & Rita came and took me to dinner and the movies. We saw Control and from the first spare beautiful scene I flinched in my chair. It was all Artboy all the time but it shifted gears and I fell inside that isolation. When he finally does it I nearly went with him. I thought yes, you lucky bastard, I should have done that years ago. Lord knows I've tried but Sylvia was right, dying is an art and like everything else I don't do it well. These days I stand and fight.

Control is stunning. Miracle of moving stills and the focus of gaps and spaces. An astonishing tidal movement into the separate cell of self. How entranced I am by the mirrors we make of humanity.

Friday, 2 November 2007

See saw

It all just feels like a pointless exercise in waiting to die. What is the point of this battle. Every day coaching myself to be happy, doing all of these things to push away that curtain and break through into existence. I need more than shelter. Mazlow was a fucktard.

Thursday, 1 November 2007

I would like to go to Sweden

Where the snow is crisp and even and one soul replaces another in a steady cycle of life. At first this alarmed me and the lightning cycles of life flashed hope and sorrow in a paralysing nightmare discotheque and I thought what it is for, what is for, what is it all for if we can account for it in neutrals with flashes and pings. But now I sit calmly navigating populations and listening to the simulated sound of the orb exhaling. I am not locked and tortured, there is no need to conjur the strength of Ivan Denisovich for my daily rounds. I have bread, I am warm, let us breathe.

Professors professors everywhere

I was in the office this morning for a bit talking to Robert about something I call Professor Points and academic publishers. If you are an academic you need to have a certain amount of stuff published, particularly stuff that has been peer reviewed, this earns you points or something that you need if you want to be a professor and who doesn't want to be a professor. The exact system is a little obscure so I generally just call the whole thing Professor Points.

Its not a bad idea this Professor Points system, I like systems. I also like filling in forms but don't tell anyone. For some years now I have joked about having an annual friend cull, in fact I do generally have a little period of reflection about who is in my life and how my relationships are going. Unfortunately the end result is that I often feel neglected and somewhat angry about things. This year I'm flipping the process. I am going to rate my friends, not with a view to culling friends or feeling disappointed but more as a rewards system. Being endlessly unimaginative I call the scheme Professor Points. The scheme starts now and will last until I become bored with it, it chases all my friends away or I am well enough to recommence more active experimentation.

I only wish I knew some kind of genius to set up an interesting interface, I guess I'll just have to manage. You can find the Professor Points running tally just above Dead vs Alive in the side column.

Wednesday, 31 October 2007

Minute by minute I will do this

I just wrote an email to Gemma and told her that I want to walk around without my context on.

This is how I present (not on purpose), stupid, vapid, forgetful, sloppy, slightly unkempt with excellent hair but generally unattractive to men with good mental health. I think I need my context because what's left isn't pretty.

Oh good lord I think I just said its makeover time. This is very bad. I'm just going to go to sleep.

Fuck you Jetstar

Jetstar can get fucked. I had booked flights to go to Melbourne for the Melbourne Cup seeing as I scored a free ticket and a spot in a corporate tent, food and drink included. I don't normally like to go to the races, in fact it was only when The Spatula accidentally shoplifted* me a fascinator that I started to take the plan seriously.

Of course going to Melbourne on Saturday is completely out of the question now but because I booked a cheap flight with fucking Jetstar they are saying the ticket is non-refundable. I can change the date of my flight but there is a 'change fee' whatever the fuck that means. I can't find where it says how much that will be. I am very cross, I don't want to change the date of my flight. I don't want to fly anywhere. Walking to the station under my own power is an impossible dream let alone flying to some other city and walking around over there.

My return flight is with Virgin. I'm not even going to look them up until I have sat here yelling fuck weakly for a while longer. Maybe someone needs to fly to Melbourne this Saturday afternoon and wants to pretend to be me. I've done that before, taken someone else's flight, I spent ages memorising her personal details in case questioned. They didn't give a fuck they just looked the print out thing then let me on the plane and charged me five times the normal rate for a packet of twisties. I hate you Jetstar, I'm going to write a letter to Magda Szubanski.

* It was an accident, she had clipped it to her handbag with best intentions of paying for it but forgot that it was there, she paid for other shopping then had a mini heart attack after she had left the shop and realised she was a thief.