Saturday, 30 June 2007

I like this blog

But I strongly suspect that Amy Saker is not who she says she is. The Rutherford Chronicles.

Its getting late

I am anxious, there is bile in this idea. There is a fluttering of bad things to come, I don't think I'm doing the right thing this thing this month of July, it feels like a walk down the wrong aisle. It feels like I'm in the wrong exam. I think I am pushing against the wrong walls. This is why I am definitely going to do it. I am the experiment. I am not searching for meaning. I am sitting in isolation twirling the ribbons of existence for no purpose. I am past existentialism, I am bored with nihilism, I'm walking the same old path with morris bells and a syncopated step.

Tonight I walked the streets of Newtown with an open heart but the crowds pushed it back in and held their hands against the pulsing. There are signs all over the streets, cover your heart, cover your mind, we don't want you here with your bells and ribbons and your sickening stench of hope. Dress your humanity in rubber boots and this grey jacket, dye your heart with thinners and comb back your hair. We don't like the way you look, at strangers.

Friday, 29 June 2007

Three things plus one more thing

1. I phoned Rupert, he wasn't home. Does this count as discharging my duty?
2. If I hear the word performitive/performative one more time I am going to vomit then twirl then die.
3. God bless the makers of silicon.

One more thing.
I am meeting up with Gemma of Gempires fame tomorrow afternoon. I am very excited, I feel like Anne of Green Gables. I hope she likes my hair.

Results are in

Oh no. Looks I've got a phone call to make
Record myself then listen back, improve, repeat etc.
Phone a phone sex service and ask the helpful phone sex worker.
Phone random numbers and ask the person who answers.
Phone Rupert and practice practice practice.
No Response

The suggestions were.
1. Write a script.
2. Just have a wank.
3. All of the above.

and also
mckinley said...

my advice re: phone sex - too long to put in the suffestions box of the poll
Don't call up a phone sex line! Because that is not real sex. It is bored woman paid to simulate sex. And the sex she is simulating is completely one-way, all about the man, and her pretending she wants whatever he wants. That's no fun. Good sex involves both people getting what they want. DOn't call up strangers because a) somebody's wife might think their husband is having an affair and b) you might accidentally call someone scary, and dangerous, someone with call ID (I have it on my landline) who might turn stalk-y. My advice (especially as you are presumably not going to be doing this during your man-free month, is to masturbate and imagine you are having perfect phone sex, so you get used to the idea, and you can figure out what you want. Also, you are a writer, yes? Can you write sex scenes? Cause talking is just writing said out loud. Maybe if you think of it like that it will be easier?


Anonymous said...

there are a couple of phone chat lines - telecafe is one, lavalife is another - which offer their service to female callers at the price of a local call (men pay through the nose, natch). try one of these. you can talk to as many men as you like - with complete anonymity - and most of them are either actively looking for, or would be delighted by the suggestion of, phone sex.

admittedly there are lots of thickheads on there, but it's still a fun, risk-free way to get your rocks off and practice talking to strange men about rumpo.

- venn d

Thanks for all the advice. I'm a bit surprised there was so much of it. I would like point out that I am not a maniac and firmly believe that all sex, including phone sex should involve people who have given express consent so I will not be phoning random strangers. I included that option as a joke, not expecting that people would choose that option. Sorry to disappoint but I will not be turning into a weird stalker of random people. I will attempt to phone Rupert this evening and discuss the poll results however he is a very busy and important man and I may not be able to catch him at home. Final results of this experiment may have to wait until August due to the July Man Embargo.

Thursday, 28 June 2007

Every man I know

I am trying to phone every man I know before midnight on Saturday. I am trying to talk to every man I know because at midnight on Saturday it will begin. The new phase, the new experiment. From midnight on Saturday I won't be able to talk to any man, for a month.

I am desperate to talk to all the men I know but none of them are answering, not one, so if you are a man that I know pick up the damn phone and call me. Now. Please.

Are there men in my bed?

Three times now I've woken under warmth and weight. Three times I've rolled into an intoxicating cloud of something or other pour homme. A different beautiful complex scent each time.

This has got to stop because its doing my head in. There are no men in my bed, only ghosts and memories. The smell, the warmth, the weight, its the cat sleeping on top of me. A cat that has, in a strange twist of events developed the skill of carrying the scent of a man long after he puts her back on the floor. Men that are friends and guests of my housemates.

She is the evil cat of torment. She is the evil cat that whispers loneliness into my heart while I sleep. She is the only creature on this planet willing to crawl under the covers with me so I might not kick her out, just yet.

Wednesday, 27 June 2007

The (dale) reinstated

Artboy was at the gallery. He snuck up on me between the flatscreen of two naked people under a bush with a manikin's disembodied leg and someone pretending to be an artist inside a poorly constructed wooden box. He was wearing a jacket that looked new but greatly resembled his old high school jacket. He looked young and I felt my thirty heavy years of hardened muscle and sinew suspend me upright in his presence, in anyone's presence.

There is a curious open space of waiting. I am waiting to see if I am going to feel. Listening for the creak of twisting beams. I am sitting on the floor with cat and heater and cigarettes. I had coffee and cake for dinner, not feeling it necessary to race straight home for shelter. I am sitting in this wide open space of curious testing, licking my finger and holding it out for a breeze. Two more hours and I'm going to declare this building safe for habitation.

Tuesday, 26 June 2007

Somebody order me some poise

?: So you basically live your life passionately for literature?
D: I deserve neither such praise nor such censure.

?: How have you been?
D: Fabulous, now fuck me.

?: Do you want a coffee?
D: Yes please.

?: Do you want a coffee?
D: Yes please.

Meanwhile back in the real world.

?: So you basically live your life passionately for literature?
D: Um, yep, I guess so.

?: How have you been?
D: There's a cake shaped like a typewriter. Do you like lawn bowls?

?: Do you want a coffee?
D: Do you think that I'm more likely to get married if I get a Dolly Parton wig? I could wear it on the train in the mornings.

?: Do you want a coffee?
D: I like triangular numbers despite it being an archaic concept. I think 27 is a triangular number, oh wait, its 28, no, um maybe 29, let me get a pen.

That was fast, I really am good at filling in forms

Just for a change let's talk about me.

Here are some examples of nice things people wrote in order to obtain, or in praise of after obtaining, a pdf of Ocarina, my little zine:
I really enjoy your blog; so fresh and crisp and unique
i adore the way you write and i adore your fuck-you vulnerability

in one of your posts you said you were tall. I didn’t realise that. Tall is good :-)
have ALOT of courage to write about your phone sex

Interesting. So according to a bunch of people I don't know I'm tall, fresh, crisp, brave, unique and fuck-you vulnerable. I can deal with that. In fact I really like some of it, especially the fuck-you vulnerability.

On Saturday at Vanessa Berry's book launch I ran into the man my friends have dubbed Mr X. The man I think of as being a room of lamps and shadows. I literally ran straight into him, I hadn't realised how tall he was before until I found myself chest height and looking up to see his face saying "Why Mr _____, what on earth are you doing here?" like I was in a bad old movie. I should have climbed that man like a tree and toppled him over right there and then but I am a sexual spaz, he doesn't like me and he's well and truly out of bounds. Damn it. i wish he thought I was fuck-you vulnerable, I think.

Click here to vote on my latest poll, I'm closing it very soon.

I am enforcing a temporary man embargo starting now. I am not allowed to interact with men apart from can I have a giant soy latte, the men at work, single to the city please or yes I am fabulous but no I would not like to give you my bank account details. I wonder how long I can make it last?

Monday, 25 June 2007

The (body) reinstated

"The (body) Reinstated"

Curated by Louise Dibben
as part of the Firstdraft Emerging Curators Program

Works by T.R. Carter, Anna Chase, Jon Wah, and Anastasia Freeman

opens Wednesday 27 June, 6-8pm
exhibition continues to 14 July 2007,
116-118 Chalmers St.
Surry Hills NSW

Two of these artists I love, one is on my list of sixteen personal enemies, none of them are Artboy. I have no idea what it will be like but come along and have a mini adventure, buy me a pink lemonade and I'll be your new best friend.


My sold out zine Ocarina is now available as a pdf. Sure you don't get the same effect as having a hand bound copy that I stitched myself with bookbinding thread that I dyed in my kitchen sink but hey, who cares? Email me and I'll send you one, on the condition that you write one nice thing about me in the email.

This is more serious than I thought

I was going to write a post titled "The trifecta of stupid, the amazing power of boring and my legs are steel springs" which was going to be both fascinating and astonishing, I composed it almost completely in my head during the hour long walk home from work. Instead, after a little visit over to Gempires I have decided to scrap the whole plan and go with something different. I want to talk about depression.

I want to talk about the eternal incredible fuckedness of depression. I want to fucking rant about fucking depression because I hate it. I hate it. I hate it. There is no room for eloquence here. There is no room in my life anymore for beautiful descriptions of the feeling of copper wires running through my veins that signals the beginning of depression. There is no room for romanticising about the heavy lead of my arms, the stark scars on my wrists and the inability to do, not anymore. If I even begin to suspect that maybe, just maybe I'm beginning to feel like I might maybe sort of feel like I'm headed for depressed I declare an all out Field Attack on the fucker that is depression. And these days I'm battle hardened and it doesn't stand a chance.

Here's what I do, step by motherfucking lock and load step. Step one, shop for battle foods, oily fish, vitamins with c, b zinc & magnesium, dark green leafy veg, dried apricots, almonds, starchy carbs and dark chocolate. These are battle foods as recommended by my doctor. I double my exercise, this encourages feel good chemicals, I set a definite sleep routine and stick to it, I lower caffeine, ban alcohol and other mind altering substances, I do yoga, I practice positive self talk and other cognitive behaviour stuff, no matter how stupid I feel doing it. I clean my house and keep my room immaculate, this is a battle ground and depression loves mess and disorder. I talk with two friends a day no matter how much the evil fucker of depression wants me to isolate myself. I dance, I sing and keep on doing it, every day, every fucking day until the copper starts to dissolve and joy creeps silently back to surprise me.

I am lucky. I can do this without medication. I can manage this very effectively, I do it so automatically now that sometimes the copper comes and goes almost immediately. I am lucky because these are battles I can win.

If you feel depressed seek help. Go to Beyond Blue, see your doctor, there are free psychologists at community health centres, you can go without a referral. There are government funded programs that pay for you to see psychologists in private practice with a referral from your doctor. If your doctor is a fuckhead go to a different surgery, go to a different surgery until you get a human doctor with compassion that will take time to help. There are many of these doctors out there. If you are a woman and want to feel safe there are community organisations for women only that have counsellors that offer free or subsidised services. This is information every person on planet earth should know.

If you are suicidal, or want to be, call this number 13 11 14 or click here.

If you feel so bad that you can't do any of the above then call the person that you love best and tell them you need help, not tomorrow, not on the weekend, not in the morning, now.

If this post was too boring and off topic for you then you, my friend, are the luckiest person alive. Regular services resume tomorrow. Right now I need to go and point some good vibes in the general direction of Gempires who is brave and strong and astonishing.

Final word. I am really happy, yes, really, no fooling, I am. This is thanks to winning the battles so consistently that I can store my battle helmet in the same cupboard as my lungeing whip.

Sunday, 24 June 2007

He ain't heavy

My excellent brother came for a visit this afternoon. He opened the front gate and paused to admire the plastic pink flamingos he planted in my front garden before walking up the path announcing I am here and I am beautiful!

We wandered up into Newtown with him rejecting all of my favourite places to eat, he declared himself the I Ching of lunch and stopped regularly to proclaim that we should turn west, even if that meant straight into a brick wall. The I Ching of lunch eventually lead us into a dank thai restaurant for $7.50 lunch specials where we sat companionably, I was talking earnestly on small matters, he was randomly interrupting with an unrelated witty aside.

After lunch walking down King St puffing on cigarettes and examining human shaped knife blocks for sale in a shop window I suddenly made sense to myself. This happens almost every time I stand next to my brother. His height, his broad shoulders and barrel chest somehow put me into perspective. I cease to feel too tall, too unusual looking with hair too big. His hair is wild, huge, you can tell this even from his neat short haircut. His eyes are dark, much darker than mine, bearing traces of unknown ancestry but with the same almost imperceptible hint of an Asian curve as mine. My eyes are green, my skin is pale, his eyes were so black when he was born the doctors thought he might be blind. He is swarthy and handsome, almost identical to my father, very Continental as ladies used to whisper as my father walked by.

I am thinking again of place and displacement, of all the molecules breathed by my Grandparents on their different continents, the Home Counties, the ice, amber and humidity of Estonia, the jungles of India merging into Shanghai and the always distant echo of Portugal. All of this is who I am and who I never will be. The woman adoring her new life in the Inner West and desperately missing the unexpected spaces of Western Sydney.

I am the Captain of What I Do

Just a reminder to the peoples of the world. I am the Captain of What I Do and today I elect to stay warmly inside the house and engage in some serious pottering about, some picking things up and putting them down again and the drinking of cups of tea in various locations around the house to see if it tastes better in any particular room or chair.

I am going to brush up on some Latin as it is important to remember more than simply nemo dat non quod habet, very important. I will read some book, I may write some book but either way its a fuzzy slipper kind of a day. A day to spend in joyful isolation from the world unless of course I wander up to the cafe and sit my joyful isolation down with coffee, cake and the comforting murmur of strangers.

Practice makes perfect

If a person, I'm not saying who, needs to practice having phone sex how should they go about it?
Click on this link to cast your vote.

Saturday, 23 June 2007

Launch it - There was a cake shaped like a typewriter!

Indeed there was, at the fabulous book launch I attended this afternoon for Vanessa Berry's book Strawberry Hills Forever. I was having a generally fabulous time until I suddenly realised the place was full of men, stylish men, stylish academic men, stylish single academic men and that's when I freaked out because I am a sexual spaz. I am a sexual spaz that was unable to say the word Cock at the crucial moment, a sexual spaz that floats around pinballing silver and self-contained, alone.

All day I have been wondering about sex. Wondering how on earth people manage to have sex. Wondering what Rupert was really doing on the other end of the phone. Was he sitting at the kitchen table, periodically refreshing his cup of tea and idly flipping through the latest Vogue Living or was he spreadeagled on the lounge room floor for all to see? I guess I'll never know.

Rupert asked me what I liked, I had to stop and think. What do I like? Suddenly I was unsure and this got me thinking. If I could choose a man from a man catalogue how would I pick one out if I don't know what I like? Its important to know what you want so you don't end up with fish eyeball soup when you're hungering for pancakes. So I went to the cafe with Grizelda and The Spatula, we wrote lists of what we like in men whilst recording how many of the men walking by we would sleep with. Here's my list:

Eminently messable hair
Vibe of goodwill
Well read
Intellectually passionate
Has good people that love him
Attractive testicles (by this I mean not a weird set of low hangers, I came across some once by accident and it wasn't good, but I mean they were really low)
Does good scarf
Likes icing

This is what I think I like but what I really need is to figure out how to translate this raw data into having sex, that' s one tricky equation when you're a sexual spaz, like me. I might just have to wait for that teleporter to Melbourne to be invented.

Here's the scores:
Dale- 11
Grizelda - 3
The Spatula - 5

Oh Rupert! You've gone and popped my phone sex cherry

Now this may come as a bit of a shock but the Slamma got slammed, metaphorically speaking.
What happened? One moment harmless chitter chatter and talk of household pets the very next I was in a definite state of disarray and having phone sex with Rupert.

It was Rupert's idea and I thought why the hell not? Until he asked me what I was wearing and I said Eeyore pyjamas and started laughing. Rupert, being slightly more experienced with this type of thing, was able to admirably rescue the situation and what ensued was far from unpleasant. I will confess that I was less than bold and when Rupert quite firmly took charge I didn't mind at all. In fact it was probably best all round really, considering. Considering I was slightly bewildered and not a little befuddled.

Rupert is of the opinion that this an experiment worth repeating so I give you the Great Phlog Experiment of 2007 Part I, in fast forward minimal detail form. I'm afraid a blow by blow description is beyond my powers, this time. After we had established that we would indeed engage in phone sex and gotten over the hurdle of my Eeyore pyjamas. Oh, now I suddenly find myself unable to continue. The best idea might be to go off and close and your eyes and imagine... but it might be good to note that my fingers look inexplicably sausagey in this photo, they don't normally look like that, not sausagey at all.

Friday, 22 June 2007

Randwick belles have noodles

I made noodles! Noodles! Well, I helped make them. Not in the way that the cat helps me type by watching but in an actual stretch dough out into noodle shapes way of helping. But now it is extremely late at night and thinking faculties are waning.

I caught a bus to Randwick, I made noodles, I ate warm fruit salad but the best part was conversation. I am finding more and more moments of joy. Building this life of mine from the rubble, turning each dusty brick over to discover some kind stranger has painted the other side a most incredible aching sky blue.

Thursday, 21 June 2007

Management apologises

For the complete lack of interesting posts and assures you that our large team of writers have all been horsewhipped. As soon as the doctor has seen to their wounds they will recommence thinking of something interesting to write about. In the meantime why not write an opera?

Several excellent decisions

Apart from periodically wanting to crack my coconut heart on his pointed defences I have made several excellent decisions. I will include them in boring list form.

1. Work four days a week for month of July in order to attack manuscript with force.
2. Schedule all social appointments around fictional engagements in diary for Queensland art gallery I found today. Will do this for month of July.
3. Go to sleep before midnight on school nights, starting tomorrow.
4. Eat more vegetables.
5. Can't remember.
6. Something else I can't remember.
7. Oh who cares anyway.
8. Get stupid Talking Heads song out of head, as the days go by, something about being underground, same as it ever was, same as it ever was.
Best method for getting any song ever out of head is to think of Jump by Van Halen, guaranteed success every time. Can't you see me standing here I've got my back against the record machine, I ain't the worst that you've seen, don't you know what I mean, ah go ahead and jump.

Tuesday, 19 June 2007

Come on! Rain, blow, hail!

All evening I have been waiting under battened down hatches for the storm to end all storms reciting earth, wind, fire, dale. Elemental my dear Watson.

I have candles, I have firewood, I have marshmallows. I am completely prepared to spend the entire day tomorrow sitting by the fire while the world worries about how to fix itself. I'm going to give myself over entirely to luxury. Book, fire, marshmallows. Everyone else in Sydney can unflood roads and jump start trains and walk about in weird yellow rubber outfits shouting into the wind. I may wear fuzzy socks.

So cross your fingers and pray for the worst. I really really need a day off and I don't care how many treetops I have to sacrifice.

Monday, 18 June 2007

Kork Chork

If you want to hear people make bleeping noises on computers, see pixels and things on big screens and watch people doing some really odd things, on purpose, and help raise money for a school in Cambodia then go see Kork Chork.

I am an island

I wish I was an island, with guards and gates and rope bridges and a team of psychologists who examined whether or not letting someone on to the island is a good idea or not, without me ever having to know. But I'm not. I'm an empty block on a busy street, no fences.

I had a marvelous day with Elliot yesterday despite being chaperoned by the rehab escort but something is creeping in. All day I checked my email, just in case. All day I felt a rumbling in my foundations. All day I felt, strange and then this evening its manifested into something odd.
He doesn't like my curtains.
He hates my curtains and its doing my head in.

I love my curtains. They're only Ikea curtains, yes yes Ikea is the devil etc, but I love them. They were the first thing I bought for my life post Artboy. I remember coming swinging across the carpark with a stupid grin on my face, convinced for the first time, that I could make a new life for myself, one piece of fabric at a time.

Yesterday, sitting on my bed with cup of tea in hand, Elliot strumming away on the guitar and Raul sitting silent like a sentinel, Elliot suddenly looked up and declared "I hate your curtains. A dead moose could have picked better curtains." I can't remember if I asked him if he liked them or if he just made the evil proclamation unprompted and now I am obsessed.

I tried to phone rehab and ask if he meant it or if he was joking but he's in an AA meeting. I left a message asking him to call me but I doubt he'll be able to manage it this evening, things are pretty strict in rehab but I am a woman possessed by the need to talk about my curtains. I wasn't going to phone him for a while, thought it best or didn't want to start timetabling my life around talking to him but this is overriding every sane thought I've ever had. I need to talk to him about my curtains, now and I don't care how I manage it.

A zine collective?

I might have a look.
Although its a definite possibility that I think people should only buy my zine.
But I sold out.
So you can't.

Sunday, 17 June 2007

The Dalai Lama vs A really big piece of chocolate cake

I spent the day. The whole day with Elliot and Raul, his escort from rehab. We met by the fountain in Hyde Park. I almost vomited three times on the way to the station but I made it, vomit free and relatively dry, on time, to be wrapped in a long overdue hug. He smelled amazing.

I want to tell you that we sat on plastic garbage bags in the Domain and were enlightened but it didn't happen. The whole thing was yesterday and we walked in on a major bump out but we didn't care. I didn't care. I spent the whole day with Elliot and the details are so new, so precious, that they're all mine.

I'm not freaking out

I'm not freaking out but what if he doesn't call. What if I wander listless in the pouring rain while the Dalai Lama talks with the masses and he doesn't call. What if I wait and wait and wait at the top of the wrong stairs at the wrong station and he doesn't call. What if he stays dry and safe in the confines of the rehab while I scour the crowds for any glimpse of a man like him. What if everything I ever imagined crawls out from under the bed and takes me hostage. What if I sleep in, what if I lose my phone, what if he can't find a pay phone, what if he takes one look at me and says, no, not you. What if this dropping in my stomach pulls me to the bottom of the ocean. What if all the rescue divers blow bubbles of wonder at the invisible anchors while I writhe and the pressure implodes my lungs. What if he forgets to phone. What if he phones and I don't where he is, what if I can't find where he means because all the landmarks are swirling and this geography is killing me. What if he doesn't exist and all of this imagining is all that I deserve, this sordid cracked imagining of a broken man fighting for sobriety and the courage to go on.

Saturday, 16 June 2007

Mr Gideon, you need to rest

Instore gig. Fantastic! What a crazy damn pleasure to ride all the way West in Spencer's car until the horizon frees itself from this city grip and you run smack into the bottom of the mountains. All the way west until mullets lose their irony and Starbucks gains sophistication. All the way west until you're crammed into a tiled record shop with twenty five people and a band.

A man stumbled into the shop midset, in a fluoro yellow council workers jacket and started dancing with his umbrella. Between songs he started yelling "This is fucking amazing. I'm forty two years old and I've never seen anything like this before. I went to a Kiss concert once and I can tell you, you kick Kiss's arse." Ah, Penno, spiritual home of the bogan.

So many joys in one small day, much good company and occasional dancing, a trip to the Lapo for rum & coke on tap. Let me say it again, in the mountains they have rum & coke, premixed, on tap. Its hideous! I had two. Back in the city the tempest continues. The breaking of the drought is breaking me. I don't know how much longer I can get rained on without pulling out a hail cannon and sending shock waves right back at those murderous clouds of doom.

Elliot is allowed out of rehab, with an escort, to see the Dalai Lama. We're going to try and meet in the crowd, in the rain. In less than twelve hours I'm going to get my first hug in six months. I better start warming up now.


I'm off to Repressed Records in Penrith, of all places, to see an instore gig. I'm about a decade and a half too old for this kind of shenanigans but when the band is Spencer's I just have to have a look see. What the hell is he doing playing in a shop in Penrith?

The next obvious question is why does Penrith still exist?

Friday, 15 June 2007

Well now. What do we have here?

Matt said... Too bad you weren't able to collect any data other than that dating sucks. Glad you're able to affirm yourself so easily.

My initial reaction involves words that computer won't even let me type. Firstly dating is not what I was doing. I used the word dating but dating it wasn't. It was other. I mostly see dating as a very American construct anyway. Things seem to happen much more organically in my part of the universe.

The data I collected is that I like myself. I like myself and I think that one day I'm going to meet someone who likes me too. I'm going to meet someone that I find interesting, someone with spark and humanity, someone that isn't afraid to imagine.

And as for the easy self affirmation. That's easy. Get fucked. Its been seven months, fifteen days and one hour since Artboy lost his beautiful beautiful mind, and my entire sense of self with it. My existence cracked and shattered, in a heartbeat. So don't fucking tell me that I'm walking around singing about how easy it is to feel good about myself. Don't fucking tell me that when the man before Artboy suicided. Don't you dare fucking tell me anything at all.

Warning: post may appear angrier than it actually is.

Thursday, 14 June 2007

The one that I want is Me or A beginner's guide to a miniature celibate sexual revolution

I'm drying my hair by the fire after an appalling walk home through the back streets of Newtown in the pouring rain with a bursting bladder. I met, had coffee and conversed with the experimental coffee date man, let's call him Bert. Let's call him not quite boring but getting there. I was hoping for something different, something wild or rude or horrid or obsessive about coffee cup placement or some damn thing but what I got was, I suspect, average citizen.

I came prepared to hold close the secret nature of the experiment but Annushka had filled him in even given my blog url, so cover blown I lost all my tactics and not a little of my sense of fun, just like the time I phoned Rupert. I thought I am not this serious. Why am I being so serious, this is twice in about a week that I found myself being inane and serious. So I looked for common elements. What do Rupert and Bert have in common? Fucking nothing, except that they were talking to me. Its all about context.

Once at the pub with a host of friends I fondly noted their strange and wonderful outfits, Spencer was wearing one of his inappropriate cowboy shirts and the others all looked like objects or ornaments, beautiful like blown glass. I was wearing a plain button up shirt and jeans, orange sneakers my only nod to anything. I mentioned my plain outfit to a friend and she looked me up and down and said Yeah, but your personality's edgy. But I've lost my point. The one that I want is Me.

I stretched out the one soy latte and politely only had two cigarettes, instead of smoking my damn head of, which is why cafes were invented. Bert was polite from start to finish, he phoned to say he was running late, he offered me his scarf when I said I was cold, he even paid for my damn coffee. He attempted his share at keeping the conversation going, but never quite made it. We had nothing in common. He's some sort of office having computer talking person. He's reading Moby Dick but not loving the strange shift in narrators and the over the top introductions of characters that just disappear. He's wearing a white jacket that zips up, he's got hair that he probably combs, he's not into creative self-expression. And I don't care because the one that I want is Me.

Bert seems like a nice man but I don't care because I've suddenly discovered that my best light is an in context light. I fit my backstory like a glove, I carry this bag of survival, sorrow and joy like a flag. I am one funny scary fabulous intelligent woman and I'm the hell done with giving a shit whether strangers like me or not. So thanks Bert for coming out in the cold wet to meet a stranger and share an hour or so. You're a nice ordinary man and I'm really pleased to discover that I don't give a shit whether you like me, or not.

Brace yourselves

I'm going in.

Wednesday, 13 June 2007

Cheese Porn Phone Sex or Death of Taxes

Elliot attempted to invent a new kind of porn, cheese porn, that is a video of one kind of cheese being stuffed with another kind of cheese, such as cheddar and edam. Then he attempted to invent a new kind of phone sex, the fondue kind. Oh this fondue pot is getting so hot, all the cheese is starting to melt. Give a man points for trying, even if it is odd. But now I am ruffled and having a good old fashioned panic, about two things.

I have to do my tax for 2006. If nothing is certain but death and taxes does not doing tax make me immortal? This is worry number one.

Worry number two is Elliot said he might like to look at my blog now that he has internet access. I don't believe I've ever had a proper blog related panic before. What if he reads it? What if he reads it and hates me? What if he reads it and thinks I hate him?

I think I need to go and have a cup of tea and a little sit down before I spend yet another evening wondering what Elliot is thinking.

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Because I am the Captain of What I Do.

If you want to know what it said then ask me and I'll consider telling you, maybe.

This is rad, you should enter

Energized is the creative writing of six writers published in three different, contemporary mediums: SMS (the text will be circulated through the community by mobile phone, like a creative virus); LED (the moving message will be a scrolling short story); and traffic control variable message boards (mobile boards with story text will be moved around Albury to catch the eye of passers-by)

A fee of $500 will be gifted to the author of each work that is selected for publishing. A total of six works will be published as part of the Write around the Murray story festival.

Please see the attached entry form for further details or visit the Write around the Murray story festival website at

I've always wanted to see my words scrolling on a road sign.

Tuesday, 12 June 2007

Incoming coffee date

This Thursday evening I will be drinking coffee with a man I've never met before, as part of The Experiment. My friend Annushka has lined up a man for me. He knows its not a romantic thing so its just coffee and talk, this is too easy so I've decided to make it harder. Help me think of an odd topic to introduce into the conversation.

So far my only idea is to go on about how the government should fund a toast marketing board to promote the daily eating of toast by the general population. This idea is neither odd nor original, I already own a toast marketing board t-shirt. I clearly need help on this one. Go on, leave a suggestion.

I'll be back for the honey, and you

Spencer did a little gig tonight at an open mic night. I don't know what he was doing there, seeing as he's working on his third album but I'm sure as hell glad he decided to play. Stripped of his band and electric guitar his raw screaming talent was even more obvious, to me and the small band of friends.

I told him 'I'm only your friend cause you're such a talented bastard'. He looked me in the eye and said 'I had my doubts about you for a while'. I thought, shit. I thought I was joking, he thought he was joking but we touched on something there. The people I know and love the best are all talented bastards, the ones that aren't I drift away from, eventually. When their posturing turns out to be empty posing I lose interest in them as humans, is this because they are not exceptional or because they were pretending? This is one more thing I need to think about.

Monday, 11 June 2007

Call me, if you need a friend

Telemarketing survey dudes? I love those guys. I tell them everything. I tell them nothing. I tell them I am my own butler. I tell them I want an ice core done on my heart.
Ms Slamma?
Can spare ten minutes for a survey?
Ms Slamma can I ask you about your savings account?

I’ll give you my account.
I don’t need your account details. Can I ask whether you are happy with our services?
I don’t think I will ever be loved the way I need to be loved.
Are you unhappy with our customer service?
I need love that can be drilled like an ice core. I need love that plunges through the planet. I need the long shaft of rock and ice to re-tell the story of how this love cannot be towed out of orbit.
Ms Slamma?
I need a love that can survive moon walking communist arctic outposts with their spear guns and oil drills.
Ms Slamma?
I need the hard chains of an anchor.
Perhaps this is a bad time? I’ll call back tomorrow evening.
I’d like that.

Converting the non-believer is a tricky operation

The first thing you need to do is start slowly, appear as though you are not interested in whether or not they are paying proper attention when you say things like "The Doctor is one of the most complex characters ever written for television" or "This struggle between saving his one human companion or the entire human race is interesting don't you think?" or "That's a dalek, don't believe for a second that its not dangerous and worthy of a little scared reaction out of television watchers across the nation" or "Would you like to see a photo of me being chased by daleks down a corridor in bad shorts?" "No, daleks don't wear shorts, it was me, yes unflattering photograph is it not?".

The next step is to walk away from the television saying I'll be back in a moment, just off to the shower and let them sit and watch, by themselves. I continued on in this tricky fashion until finally success! My young housemate Grizelda, who is too young to have any personal historical connection with the Doctor or even any knowledge whatsoever of The Doctor has been successfully converted into a fan, to the point of abandoning Grey's Anatomy in order to find out how The Doctor escapes from The Monster in a big pit on an unnatural planet impossibly orbiting a black hole. Just in case you were interested it was once again through thinking that The Doctor made his escape but even I have to occasionally sigh and say us deus ex as the Tardis was handily waiting in the black hole, for no reason.

Sunday, 10 June 2007

Seesee-a-gogo or The literary adventures of a trashbag or Hey you! Lick my cigarette

What's a trashbag? Me. For now anyway. Two nights in a row drunk to the point of zero gravity in the pouring rain. Drunk to the point of trying to get strangers to lick my cigarette and being puzzled by their refusals. I have strawberry flavoured rolling papers, an experience I was attempting to share. But not one man would lick my cigarette, very disappointing. Last night it seemed all the disappointments of Friday night were reversed. Despite the weather and the advanced state of inebriation I talked with countless strangers, mostly men, mostly writers, it seems they've all been hiding from me in sharehouses in Lewisham.

I had the unexpected pleasure of conversing for hours with a group of fabulously interesting and enterprising men. They are starting a magazine, an interesting magazine. Their idea is not unique and many have dared and failed before them but I feel it is so necessary for independent press to exist. They seem intelligent and committed and in a drunken moment of whimsy I decided to offer my assistance and my email address. This afternoon to my surprise their fearless leader emailed me information about the drunken happiness of happy meals eaten on the way home and further details of the project. It seems serendipity has been called into action.

IMPORTANT NOTE: The purpose of coffee with the Seesee man is not romance but literature and the possibility of me lending a little hand to the whole mad operation. This is indeed important to note.

Saturday, 9 June 2007

Both doomed and fucked

It was indeed a dark and stormy night. From the moment I awoke yesterday morning to the sound of pouring rain the whole thing was doomed. All day the weather raged and my anxiety grew. What kind of a woman turns her life into an experiment? This kind. The kind sitting hungover on her bed smoking cigarettes and figuring out how to report on a whole lot of nothing.

I feel empty this morning, a creeping kind of desolate as though all hope for romance has been lost. Only the foolhardy went out last night to battle the gale force winds and driving rain. At first I reveled in water water everywhere. At first I felt the retreat of burning drought but as I slogged, hood up, walking backwards into the wind between bars and pubs I lost my topsoil and any seeds of confidence sprouting there. At the first stop, my local, alcohol blazed a little trail in me and I sat on a high stool looking outwards at others for a change. My housemate The Spatula sitting perched across from me nearly bouncing in delight as six or seven men blew in through the door. The only man I vaguely liked the look of was the barman but he young, too young to even contemplate. We drank more, we moved to the other side of the bar, we drank more, we walked and walked through the storm and repeated the same process. Order drinks, scope bar, fail to do anything but the odd purposeful bump into or ask for a light.

I managed to interact with about four different men, one was just a 'Hi', one was "Have you got a light', one started giving me a massage but was dragged off by seven drunk others to find a kebab and one was an appalling man in a cycling shirt and terrible jeans who kept creeping closer and closer, feeling my breast with his elbow and upper arm whilst pointing at a woman saying "I'd fuck her, she looks like Sinead O'Connor with her hair done, I'd really fuck her". I told him she was gay to save a girl some unwelcome trouble.

The tempest continued and people wound tighter and tighter around each other embracing the familiar and ancient need to draw tight the ones they love against natural disaster. I became a pinball wizard bouncing off clusters of people. I became a flaneur. After 2am upstairs on the covered balcony at the front of the Townie I rolled a joint and blew empty smoke over the empty streets and declared the entire experiment a complete failure.

I rediscovered something I already knew. My friend Dave has this theory about drinking wine. He calls the first sip the horror. He maintains that he finds the first sip of any wine to be vile, he lets it wash around in his mouth while he pulls faces and stands on his left foot. But then he takes a second sip and it is better, by the fourth all horror dissipates for him and the true full flavour of the wine makes itself known. I'm like Dave's wine. I see it in other people as they first take a step back and look with worried eyes at the tall woman with crazy hair talking academic nonsense and unfiltered inappropriate natter at their stunned selves. But if they talk with me again, and again, they unfold and connect with me. This is what's important, to me, arcs of ideas and connecting of emotional existence, its a shame that its almost completely incompatible with getting random sex from strangers. I better think about this a little.


It was a dark and stormy night. Seriously tempestuous would be a better way to put it. Too drunk to typee. Details tomorrow. Only reason photos cause of experiment that's all. I bought Elliot a kite for my birthday, that was nice. Its orange.

Ok tiny more tyope. Problem must be problem of Dale not good also can't find thinger for taking makeup off face too cold for water splashing so too bad anyway. Cat yelling why? Maybe all men allergic? Want seriously to be typing things good but not. Am now wearing world's worst jumper, very ugly, very warm. Just let things out of head. So unsleepy I think because of cola in several of drinks. Am too old for caffeine in evenings which is a great shame. Best idea is to have coffee at excellent cafe late late at night with world all in a bubble of self, with cigarettes which are good despite bad. Developing real fear of being crazy lady with big hair as suffer from bighairitis. Not only do I suffer from this but I like people also big hair. It is good. Hair must be eminently messable to achieve maximum pillow stylin. Putting this on list of things that are good in people. Eminently messable hair. Sometimes have been asked if that is a wig, no is just hair trying to stand on end because it is funner that way. Oh what is that? Must be tail of cat. I had banana bread with honey and walnuts walking down the street in a tempest. So sick of rolling cigarettes need urgent help with rolling cigarettes. Am angry that cigarettes in packets cost money, should be free. There are supposed to be details of what I did but surely less interesting than other things until morning when head thinking. Shcoking lack of diectics, is that the wrong word? YOu know how 'the' functions in a sentenc as a sort of pointer word to help determine subjcet? Linguistics sux anyway. All linguistics now completely banned. Am taking over world and banning linguistics and yelling of cat for no reason when late. I am the Captain of what I do and I say sit here nicely in jumper with one more cigarette and type type cause typing fun alternative to no sex. Cat nice now, very fuzzy. Its quite late and wonder when will wake up in morning. There are sentences that are good that are not here right now so its very important to not touch manuscript, please remember not to type words in manuscript, would ruin many many words that are already good and not needing bad typing. I had a joint on the balcony at the Townie, everybody asking who's smoking weed but not suspecting me! Sneakers are for sneaking but sometimes if they are canvas water can go in and make your socks wet, even the stripy kind this is important. Even if stripy socks are your favouritte kind of socks they can get soggy.

List of places I went, some very bad.
Courthouse, Zanzibar, Kelly's, Marly Bar, bakery, Townie, more? Um... thinking....Madam Fling Flong not open, the Newtown all gay all the time, The Bank too sucky to contemplate, high wankery factor. Best if sleeping, better if hugging but oh well have jumper.

Friday, 8 June 2007

It has begun

Before special Experiment makeover by housemates (give me strength)! My favourite part is the rain wet hair and the 40 hours in an office creases under my eyes.

Thursday, 7 June 2007

What signifies a phone call?

What the hell people! I know its mostly my fault for chatting about it but really, I had no idea that people would bother with 'reactions' to my little conversation with Rupert. So just for the record:
No. I have not gone mental.
No. Rupert is not mental.
Yes. Rupert takes pictures of himself and writes posts about sex.
No. I am not going to take pictures of myself and I have already written posts about sex, just check the archives.
Yes. I will write posts about sex again, if I ever have any, this issue is pending until I meet a man that I can have sex with.
Yes. I might phone him again. Because. He is an interesting man and I like talking to interesting people.

Echo me a family tree you radar bat

Daddy was a mod, oh yes he was, he was. Helps to be thinking the Owl and the Pussycat when you read the previous sentence. Try it now.

So Daddy Slamma was a mod and Dale Slamma looked very much like one this morning. I caught sight of myself in the mirror this morning as I was leaving for work, in my rush I had tied my scarf in a very large elaborate knot somewhat resembling a cravat, the jacket I was wearing, the boot-like toes of my shoes and the silhouette of my hair looked exactly like a band photo of my father from the 60's. A sort of vicarious deja vous.

Does it still count? I dreamt about Rupert, last night. He appeared in an odd combination of stage show and bedroom drama wearing a top hat, riding boots and carrying a large ostrich feather fan. Elliot was there as well. It wasn't strictly one of those dreams but it might have been if I hadn't woken up when I did.

What's a drafting process? Ideally its where you turn something into something good, shame it didn't happen here today. Only one more sleep until The Experiment. I am trying to tell you how I feel. I am trying to feel something but any nerves or apprehension are just for show because lately I'm starting to develop a quiet confidence. Rupert asked me what's with the experiment? I tried to tell him but failed dismally. What I think its essentially about is consciously enacting the mindset of a writer, always watching, always deciding what the next plot point will be, with a dash of silly just for the hell of it.

Wednesday, 6 June 2007


Or am I already too old to begin that journey? It is certain that a person can never fully become, there would be no point in going on if you got to that stage but I digress. What is to become of me?

My feeling, which may be slightly inebriated, is that its time to play. Fuck monogamy, fuck sacrifice, fuck love, fuck all my boundaries because I smashed the chrysalis and now its time to play.

Happily I had the pleasure of talking with a fellow blogger on the telephone. Despite it obviously being a strange conversation to have it was an interesting experience, one I just may repeat, other party permitting. It is easy to forget that a blog cannot contain a whole person, easy to begin to believe the mirage. I may even begin to believe that I am Dale Slamma, the one on the screen but I don't want to do that because I can tell you its like a crayon drawn self-portrait drawing you.

Tuesday, 5 June 2007

Deus ex machina

My computer at work went psycho, the screen saver was suddenly constantly changing pictures of me. Photos that I took of myself everyday during the worst parts of post-Artboy despair, to confirm my existence. Blown up images of unfiltered despair and unstoppable sobs. When I managed to make it stop a photo of Artboy was open on the desktop, a photo he took of himself in full Artboy life as performance handsome wanker mode about two weeks before he lost his mind. Thanks computer.

I have given up on dreaming about Rupert. Despite his excellent looking penis I found that I was rather put off because I do not like his bras either that or it is the inherent nature of the dream itself that stopped me. My large and and excellent dictionary informs me that a dream is an image or series of images present in the mind during sleep, I tend to disagree. Or rather I feel that that definition is inadequate. Surely a dream is more and less than that. An unwitting conversation with yourself, an expression of things you dare not speak of even silently in corners. Perhaps my choosing to dream of Rupert, someone so other from myself, was more than a passing fancy. Perhaps I chose to dream of Rupert as a way of reconnecting with my sexual self. Sex for so long had little to do with me as an individual and everything to do with my relationship with somebody else, someone who was dying inside, someone toxic and in the end insane. I am abandoning my experiment in dreaming of Rupert in the hope that by examination of my motives alone I have achieved a psychological marker.

I must confess that despite my long held feminist objections to pornography and therefore pornographers I find Rupert to be utterly charming, I have enjoyed this strange online dialogue with him and I fully intend to continue reading his intriguing blog. Now from the extraordinary back to the ordinary, I really must clean my room.

Oh dear

What happens if you fail to adequately hide a copy of your zine?

1. Your boss finds it.
2. Your boss reads it.
3. Your boss says it is 'neat'.
4. Your boss starts reading your blog.
5. You start to have issues of self-censorship.


No dream despite best efforts.

Monday, 4 June 2007

Singing Bridges

Ah Jodi Rose, thank fuck for minds like yours.

Stage two results are in

60% of people said that in order to invoke a dream about Rupert I need to close my eyes and imagine. Well that's not very creative of you. I was kind of hoping to be able to do one of the more interesting options but I am committed to The Experiment. Tonight I will close my eyes and imagine to try and invoke one of those dreams about Rupert, for the last time. This is more stressful than you might imagine.

I've been thinking about Sufjan Stevens and his mad mission to record an album about every state in America. This thinking is turning into an idea, this idea is going to have to wait.

Dreams are free

But sometimes hard to come by. Last night try as I might I could not dream about Rupert. I was very excited by the prospect of having a dream about Rupert but managed only a big old case of insomnia and a fleeting dream about finding post of money. I think what I really need is some of that Dreamy Sleepy Nightie Snoozy Snooze that Father Ted seems very fond of. I don't think that anything better could have been invented than an alcoholic chocolate sleeping aid.

More pondering before posting required.

Sunday, 3 June 2007

I seem to be developing a tiny obsession/Stage one is under way

How do you invoke a dream?

Help me try and find out. Stage two of The Experiment is a little off course but not too far, its all a rich tapestry. Click on this link to decide how I should try and invoke one of those dreams about Rupert. Thankfully Rupert doesn't seem at all alarmed that I am trying, really hard, to have one of those dreams about him.

Here's where I try and justify invoking a dream as part of The Experiment. The Experiment is about meeting men, being one of those law talking people I can say that nowhere does it specifically state that it had to be in the flesh, so to speak.

Stage one of The Experiment is in full swing, I have contacted several friends and they are all busily hunting for a man for me to have coffee with. This Friday night I am doing the dreaded 'get really drunk in a pub and ask random men' to have coffee with me. Thanks to all the very mean people that voted for this option. Only five sleeps until complete humiliation in a crowded public space, I'm going to make damn sure that I have fabulous hair, it might help get over the humiliation to get home and look admiringly at my fabulous hair in the swaying mirror.

I tried to have a dream last night

I thought it might be fun to attempt to have a dream about a man. I thought I may as well try and dream about Rupert for two reasons, firstly I have never met him so its not as weird and secondly because he seems to be the kind of man that wouldn't mind if I did have a dream about him and then wrote about it.

Unfortunately it didn't work. I did not dream about Rupert, not even a little bit, not even a guest appearance. What did happen was a dream about Mr X. It wasn't one of those dreams which is a shame. It was a strange dream of survivalist jungle living and running from hidden enemies riding on homemade bicycles for two. There was a moment when I was crouching in the jungle, petrified and hiding from the enemies when Mr X came up behind me and folded his tall self around me for protection. This made the rest of the horrifying dream existence worthwhile.

Maybe I'll have better luck on the Rupert dream front tonight.

Saturday, 2 June 2007

A small to medium amount of success

Rich and famous you will not be if you rely only on zine sales. Still, I had a marvelous day out, I shared a table with someone very interesting, many lovely friends turned up and I got lightheaded and slightly delirious from sunstroke. I used this to great effect and smiled at many men, some even smiled back, in a bemused sort of way. One of my friends is almost positive she has a man for me to have coffee with, he sounds appalling but seeing as its just coffee I don't mind.

One of the best parts of the day was getting there. I raced to the station and just made the train then ten minutes later I'm waiting in the heart of the city for a bus, coffee and cigarette in hand mp3 player on go, just like one of those people I see in the city, one of those people I would like to be. A short bus ride later I was in some back street in The Rocks and hunting for the giant staircase down to Walsh Bay. Descending into the shadow of the Harbour Bridge and the good salt air writers' festival punters swarmed and rearranged along the piers into shapes of hope and good fortune.

Some days are not lumbering moments of cells and bones, some days unlock the heavy burdens and just let you be. Today was one of those days.

After the small to medium success of my zine 'Ocarina' Newtown beckoned me home for food, coffee and the rolling tread of familiar footpaths. I ran into yet another friend at my favourite cafe on King St. It was a delight and now I sit fed and watered cat curled next to a giant heater, all that remains of the day is pleasant dreams and soft warm blankets.

Random hellos to

Regents Park

Friday, 1 June 2007

Results are in so come on down to the pier

The official results are in for step one of The Experiment. There was a tie so I need to do both. I am going to phone a few friends and ask them to think of someone for me to have a coffee with and I am going to the pub to get really drunk and ask random men to have coffee with me. Oh dear. My housemates are coming with me to make sure that I do not get abducted or hit my head on anything sharp.

In other less alarming news I will be selling my zine at the Sydney Writers' Festival tomorrow afternoon. I am particularly excited about this. I have no idea what the zine looks like as I am collaborating with my housemate and she is in charge of the layout and design, I merely make the words. So come on down and spend three dollars, I could use the cash to put towards my drunk night at the pub. The problem with being at work is that you have to do work.