Saturday, 31 March 2007

To a friend and her thesis

It is little known that a thesis is a wild beast that almost cannot be tamed. It is little known that a thesis can contain your soul. It is little known that if there is one person on this planet that can tame a thesis into being it is my friend. It is little known that my friend stands so solid on this planet that it is tempting to orbit around her. It is tempting to throw myself on the ground and grasp at her feet because I know that with each one of her steps will come a sense of purpose. She is not lost, she is not wounded. She pilots her own freedom with skill and I know that when she finishes her thesis it will shine with her clear intellect and bear the indelible stamp of her humanity.

So I offer this to my friend and her thesis, there is not even one doubt in any corner of my mind that you are brilliant. The words will come, the time will pass and it will be done before you realise it. Enjoy your break on the farm.

Saturday 7:37am

Too early, too Saturday but it just might be on the news tonight. Its already controversial but my what a bequest. I ironed a shirt, I just might brush my hair but whatever happens I am going to drink coffee.

Thursday, 29 March 2007

Speed dial

Artboy left a message on my phone so I called him back. Big mistake. I dialled right in to last year or the year before that or any fucking year other than now. He was at the pub sitting right smack in the middle of my old life, with my friends, in my old routine. Living the life him and his fucking cowardice have excluded me from.

I want to phone him and scream you don't get to be there. You don't get to do this to me. You don't get to push my life so out of shape that I have to share a fridge with two other people and then sit back down like nothing ever happened. But I'm not going to do that because he doesn't get to make me the shrew this time.

Wednesday, 28 March 2007

Shaun Tan lied, its all just a bad movie

I think Shaun Tan has lied to me, I've been waiting and waiting for my Red Tree to appear but it just hasn't.

In the cafe at Kurrajong Heights where Artboy agreed to meet me the week after he ran screaming into the night he picked up a pencil and sketched my portrait on the paper tablecloth, he'd never sketched me before, not once. It felt like a scene from a bad movie. It felt like the opening of a bad novel, it felt like my life had been taken over by Ed Wood. But the worst part is this narrative has no structure, there is no neat arc in the story of my life. I have no idea what is going to happen next. I think I'm going to need a montage, a life changing montage.

Told you I was the Captain

I deleted last night's stupid post because I am the Captain of What I Do.

Monday, 26 March 2007

Tis the season for apologies

Elliot's latest long expected letter from rehab arrived today. He apologised for not apologising when I asked why he was being hostile over the phone. His letter included a hug. He drew a big set of arms with an arrow pointing to the middle labelled Insert Dale Here.

All very endearing but does not overcome the fact that he is eight hours drive away in rehab. He can draw as many sets of arms as he likes but I'm sitting here hug-free and dry. Oh cut the self pity Slamma. Enough.

I have had enough. If I must be alone then I at least want to be fabulous. Here begins a new phase in the life of Dale Slamma. I am single. I am thirty. I have a good job, a new computer. I have two, not one, but two degrees. I live in an amazing confusing no holds barred town and I intend to be fabulous. I'm sure its possible to be heartbroken and fabulous at the same time. I'm sure it is.

Sunday, 25 March 2007

I am a dickhead

End of story. If only it really was that might be ok but seeing as I have been unable to will myself out of being I guess it isn't the end of the story and I've got quite a few years left in which to be a dickhead.

Artboy just phoned. Seems he's been reading my blog, oh good, that's just ace. He wanted to know if I was ok. He wanted to apologise for being, at times, a shit partner. He said he guessed he didn't put in as much as I did and then when things got tough he ran away. Well der. As if I didn't know that already. As if I never noticed the way he brushed his hair from his forehead.

Hopefully he has cured himself of reading my blog by reading the list of reasons why he can be all shit all the time. But for fuck's sake I can't work it out. I would give everything I have to not miss him like I do. I would rip off my toes if it meant I never had to shed another tear over him but that is unlikely to happen. My toes are quite firmly attached.

He said he misses me too. Good. He pissed off in the middle of the night screaming and then said he had to draw a line under everything, including me. So I'm glad he misses me. I hope he feels like shit. I hope he curls into a ball of Heathcliff and beats himself over the head with a walking stick. I hope he crashes his jet into the Grose valley and drowns under boulders with broken legs. I hope he calls me next week like he said he was going to because when I hear his voice it feels like home.

Hope is a dickhead

I woke up this morning with dream fragments in my head. I dreamt I was talking to Art Boy and said I miss you and suddenly everything was fine and my hollow bones filled and my brittle sense of self became supple. When I got up I made coffee and toast and then I did it. I phoned Art Boy. Fortunately some sense entered my head and I was able to hang up before he answered. Close call. Never trust a head full of dream.

Saturday, 24 March 2007

Thanks Virginia, thanks Newtown

In people's eyes, in the swing, tramp and trudge; in the crush and the crowds, the bikes, cars, buses, scooters, bums shuffling and whistling; pub bands; buskers; in the triumph and the jingle and the strange low roar of some aeroplane overhead was what she loved; life; Newtown; this moment of March.

Prick tease

I am beginning to think that an invisible monkey has drilled a tiny hole in my skull. This hole is just big enough to fit the nozzle of a can of Elliot mousse. The invisible monkey visits me regularly to fill my mind with Elliot mousse. There is no other logical explanation for the way he looms large as a cloud shadow.

I phoned Elliot in rehab a few days ago, despite swearing that I would never ever do such a thing again. The two times before that he was hostile, aggressive and not a little like a bastard. But this time. This time he was just like the picture on the can. This time he said I hate these short phone conversations, they're a real prick tease. I said So do I.

Friday, 23 March 2007

Reason 11

His use of Latin for his blog title is inaccurate in both intent and translation. Vae puto deus fio, my arse.

Smash that cube

Ten reasons why it is excellent to be rid of the creator of the cube, I'll call him Art Boy.

1. His head is so far up his arse that he didn't even think to tell me about Luke's funeral this week. I had to hear about Luke dying from Art Boy's mother (who is lovely). If I saw him right now I would smack his head into the footpath. There's no way to go back in time and go to Luke's funeral. Beautiful Luke, I'm so sorry.

2. He is all inertia.

3. Improvised computer music is boring. BORING! I am so glad that I never ever have to sit on some concrete gallery floor for hours at a time and listen to boring boring shitheads make their laptops go beep fucking whirr pause bleep.

Oh ok I have been present in some amazing moments. Petey-O, Ivan and some other Dysfunctional Feed kids, I'm thinking of you here.

4. Artists are shit at doing housework.

5. If I had a problem he never had a solution. If I had a dilemma he added to it. If I had a worry he increased, you get what I 'm saying here?

6. He did not pay any of the bills. Ever.

7. When I met him for coffee he was wearing the shoes that I bought him. Those are my shoes. I paid for those shoes. Don't wear those shoe to meet me. Come on!

8. On my twenty-fifth birthday he didn't say happy birthday. On my thirtieth birthday he phoned out of the blue and said Happy birthday, that's all I've got to say. Then silence.

9. He did not manage his mental illness. He made it impossible. He made everything impossible. He built a wall around me.

10. I printed out my manuscript to let him read it. This was a big deal for me. He didn't read it. It sat on his desk for a week. I snuck into his study and took it back, he didn't notice.

Thursday, 22 March 2007

Sisyphus might be on to something

I am carrying this great cube of sorrow with a detailed list of just how exactly everything went from shit to fuck in under three hours.

When I meet someone I need to show them the cube, show them the texture of it, let them feel the weight and strip off my clothes so they can see where its pointed edges have shredded my flesh. The cube defines me. Without the cube I am nothing but blasted fractals and the memory of what once was, still I think Sisyphus might be on to something cause its keeping me really busy.

I've got all my skin and still I'm not happy or I've got all my skin, way to go or Where the hell has my compassion gone?

I know a doctor, he was telling me yesterday about a girl who has a genetic condition. Her body is rejecting itself. Her skin came off in sheets, she's down to the fat layer. I suspect she's going to need more than a long sea voyage to get over this one.

Wednesday, 21 March 2007

Imagined encounter

This morning walking to work I thought I saw Elliot's brother across the street. I wanted it to be him. I wanted to walk right up to him and stand too close and breathe my coffee and cigarettes in his face and say Aren't you Elliot's brother? Aren't you the very rich one that hassled Max for the meager amount that you loaned to Elliot? Aren't you the one that spent five minutes telling me how shit Elliot was when I phoned you because I thought Elliot was going to die? Aren't you the one that listed every bad thing Elliot has ever done while I was trying to explain that Elliot was missing with a litre of vodka and a packet of valium? Aren't you the one that walks around with a shark's egg where your heart should be? Sux to be you Christopher.

Tuesday, 20 March 2007

A deeper level of confusion

The new man at work is new to Sydney. He said he doesn't understand the weather or the city. I said neither do I. He said that because I have lived here most of my life I should at least have a deeper level of confusion. I sure do. This is something I need to think about.

Monday, 19 March 2007

Doona day or existential crisis?

I can't get out of bed this morning. I woke up with plenty of time to get to work on time but I have somehow failed to actually get ready and leave the house. I'm not sure if I'm having an existential crisis or if it needs to be something more than finding nothing where meaning should be. I should be hurry and motion but instead I turn the radio up every time a plane flies low and loud overhead.

When I worked with Elliot I would have left the house this morning just to see if he was in the office, just to walk in the door and see his face across the room. But he is in rehab now. There is a new man in the office, he's no Elliot. Thank fuck for that but still here I sit on the bed spilling cigarette ash on the pillows and waiting for desire to plunge into the world to take hold of me. Maybe it never will, maybe I'll sit here until I die. Sure beats my old dying in the bottom of a wheely bin scenario.

Sunday, 18 March 2007

This is thirty

I have frightened apart my fractals and the light you see is the sun shining through my hollow vacant places. At first it warmed me but then the secret dark inside life of me died burnt and exposed. I have come assunder. Think of the hardest dirtiest cracked heel and the crunch of old skin ripping. Think of blood thick, dark and dirty. Think of lumped sour milk. Think of green edged bacon and floating eggs. Think of every old shed in every paddock. Think of the Cumberland plains ripped and folded underneath concrete squares. Think of the full commuter train splitting the heat shimmer from concrete hell to outer isolation. Think of your teeth smashing into the metal rail on top of a bus seat. Think of everything that ever penetrated your skin. Think of me here alone in this room. My feet are dirty are hard, my navel stinks, my armpits stink, my vagina stinks. My head itches and my hair is dank. I have tried on the pink lipgloss and the blue eyeshadow and they are yet to save me from myself.

Thursday, 15 March 2007

Paul Simon was right!

It screams out through my pores. There is no way to politely contain this. Paul Simon was right. Losing love is like a window in your heart, everybody sees you're blown apart, everyone sees the wind blow.

This is a long distance call

My friend Spencer, the one with the wasabi, confessed that he once turned a man into an utter cock by giving him a Kinks tape. He said the man was young and unformed with long hair and Mudhoney t-shirts so he gave him the tape. It was a mystical moment. His hair seemed to shrink and shorten and become rounder, his shoes grew into boots that were pointed and the Mudhoney shirt sagged with the dull look of defeat. The man became a mod. The man became a total cock that no one could stand to be around. It was all Spencer's fault.

Friday, 9 March 2007

Dale takes the cube out for coffee

It is possible that agreeing to meet him tomorrow afternoon for coffee is good for the cube. I might call it a personal experiment in hypo-emotional affect.

Wednesday, 7 March 2007

Wasabi in my straw

I once knew a man who filled a straw with wasabi, put it in a drink and handed to a comedian on stage. I said that was pretty high on the scale of wrong. He said Fuck off it was funny.