Tuesday, 31 July 2007

Need assistance of evil super genius

I'm keeping score. Starting yesterday I am going to keep a tally of days I am glad to be alive vs days I would rather not experience (a big thumbs up on the dodo's mode). What I need is an evil super genius to make me a button that I can just click, thus avoiding all troublesome bother with score keeping.

Monday, 30 July 2007

The dog ate my serial

Episode 2 published today.

Death crash explosion time

Spencer laid out his spectacular death crash explosion time plans this evening. Today is his birthday, he has exactly one year to die at the age of 27 like all good rock stars should. His imagined death scene starts with him in driving around in a cadillac in a spacesuit wearing enormous sunglasses and smoking a cigarette and culminates in a car chase with his cadillac going over a cliff stuffed with explosives and fireworks witnessed by cheering crowds and watched on television by millions. The cadillac has pirate broadcasting technology that takes over all television and radio stations so the world can witness his spectacular end. Nice one Spencer.

Madam Squeeze on the other hand will end up an old Welsh man in a wheelchair who eats his final pastizzi in quiet content staring out over his valley before gently falling asleep never to wake again. I'm guessing she's going to need to save up for a sex change between now and old age.

With cat-like tread

Burgled! Again! This is the second Monday in a row that I have come to the office to discover some idiots have broken in over the weekend only this Monday morning I am the only one here and now I am unaccountably just a tiny bit scared. Its broad daylight and one or another of my colleagues is sure to arrive soon, hopefully. Meanwhile I am not touching anything the thieves might have touched and not going out for cigarettes in case the police arrive and bust me smoking.

Sunday, 29 July 2007

Who's a fucktard?

Me. Der. That really goes without saying. Elliot managed to spend a night away from rehab, with me and now I'm a fucktard or possibly an emotard but most certainly some kind of tard. This morning he woke up before me and popped out to the kitchen and came back with cups of tea which was of course lovely. The whole thing was lovely from start to finish and this is why I'm now having problems.

He's too lovely. So lovely that when he goes away instead of spending the rest of the day thinking that was great I have a tendency to sit on the floor and notice how the air in my room seems thinner now. I have an overwhelming need to peer into the future and find out what happens. I'm done with patience and understanding. Is this man going to stay on his feet in this world? Is he going to walk out of rehab and down the street and bump into someone amazing and marry her? Am I going to end up crying, the wedding invitation in my hands?

What possible courses of action are there, cause I'm nothing if not a woman of action. I don't think there are any unless I can somehow hire a team of invisible people to.... To do what? Fast forward time to where he is living in a normal house and... and what? Oh for fuck's sake this is all getting highly irritating maybe I should just murder him and solve the whole situation once and for all. I could ask Creamboy for some tips on undetectable murdering techniques (this is because he is a Dr Creamboy and not because he is a murdering Creamboy). Or I could race down the street and grab any man and marry him and then Elliot would get my wedding invitation and then he would die of some sort of something and everything would be great. I could try and turn into a lesbian and then I could marry Gemma (if she was also a lesbian) and then Elliot would die and everything would be great. Or I could marry Jesus and get bad shoes and be a nun or I could go and live in Siberia and die slowly from parts of me freezing and then going black and squishy and squishing off. Or how about plan F? Yes. Hang on let me do that one.

Ok its done. I'm meeting Mr X in the pub tomorrow night, that ought to do it at least for a day or two.

Saturday, 28 July 2007

Newtown, oh how I love you

Walking to Newtown station to meet Creamboy I ran into Mr X. He asked me where I was going. I told him to get some sorbet, he said just come to the pub and kerplunk. That was the final straw being pulled out and my marbles rolling around on Enmore Rd right outside the Starr-Bowkett Co-op. This weekend I have been inundated with invitations and offers of kindness and company, secret imaginings have been popping up real as the caterpillars on my lemon tree. Real as Mr X standing in front of me and smoking one of my cigarettes. I reluctantly left Mr X and headed for the station, I cranked the volume on my mp3 player and found a moment of rhythm inside The Who as I crossed the road. Creamboy was there and waiting. He wasn't wearing any music, he was wearing a tie.

We walked and it was not awkward, in his presence I felt firmly my own sense of self and didn't waver or wait for direction. He pauses at the edge of crowds, he waits while people go through doors, he keeps his hands still and his knees together but his mind is looping mine every second heartbeat. This is a man with a head full of everything.

There was no fig sorbet so I settled for blueberry, Creamboy offered a taste of his lychee and for the first time I liked it. He asks questions this Creamboy, people don't usually ask me questions. People usually lie back in wait for the all dancing Dale entertainment conversation that costs them nothing. They walk away laughing and satisfied while I slip down in my chair and wonder at their lack of sense and purpose. Creamboy was all curiousity and direct questions. He is a sit forward and pay attention conversationalist, he is the opposite of vacuous, he navigates thought like a reef pilot.

All evening there was a pervasive lightness. There being no need to simplify, justify or seduce freedom opened in unexpected places and I sat on a low round stool squashed into the corner of Madam Fling Flong's drinking a martini and merrily playing Connect 4. There were crowds and I fell into them childlike and happy in the bustle. We ate burritos in Guzman Y Gomez at the long communal table sharing a can of vile pineapple drink, we wandered down King St and perused the wares in a sex shop. We continued down King St talking of movies and nothing and everything. I stopped on the corner of King St and Brown to show him a poem inspired by that corner. He read it aloud without a hint of self consciousness. He showed me the book he is reading and I showed him mine. He described himself as charmless but I found him utterly charming. He has a clumsy grace and freewheeling confidence. He twirled twice in the Hopetoun saying 'I like The Jackson Five' while Spencer's band were bumping in.

Thank you Creamboy for travelling all the way in from The Riff to The Town. Thank you for your conversation and willingness to walk the streets of Newtown as I do. Thank you for your questions and answers, thank you for being both silly and earnest and letting me have a go at your stethoscope.

I think I might like to have another go at talking to Creamboy, I think its my turn to ask questions but of course Creamboy might have an entirely different opinion.

While you were sleeping

I painted my toenails electric blue and tap danced on top of my mattress. I roamed the hallway seven times then pressed my face against the front door to check the world was still there. I rolled a cigarette, smoked it through a mouthful of pirate chocolate and wondered what I would say if you were here right now. I might say Don't turn off the light, don't cover yourself in blankets, don't push away that hollow place. I like to sit here in silent wonder at the crossed wires of my imagination. It is a necessary torture I might say with a sweeping hand and a downward glance. But all of you are sleeping while I sit and dance and paint so I have pulled out the stops of imagining and all of it is just for me.

Woo hoo! Good lord that's a terrible photo

Bring it on. Tonight! and you have to imagine I am saying tonight just like those metal dudes who kind of scream it. Let's try that again. Tonight! I had a fabulous time with Creamboy. We tripped the Newtown fantastic, we had sorbet (alas! no fig) ate burritos, sipped martinis and played connect four in Madam Fling Flong's then sauntered very casually up to the sex shop for some jovial perusing of things on offer. I pointed out the kind of vibrator I have, which was nice of me and Creamboy took a photo of me trying on a spiffy hat that came with some sort of taxi driving rubber outfit.

I like Creamboy's style, he has a way of asking direct and difficult questions. He has a way of walking around Newtown wearing a tie that doesn't make me cringe, this might be a rare skill. I want to talk to the Creamboy some more. He valiantly jumped in a cab with me as I headed over to the Hopetoun to catch a band but this I'm afraid is all I have the enthusiasm for writing this evening I am tipsy and tired and in need of a good wash.

Thursday, 26 July 2007

Both popular and boring

I am both popular and boring today. This is an excellent combination and I hope to repeat it as often as possible. I have to admit I am a tiny bit excited about meeting up with Creamboy tomorrow evening. I'm just hoping I don't do anything too monumentally stupid or ridiculous. I am planning on having my sensible hat pulled firmly down around my ears. Now must dash am on a strict sleeping schedule.

Fire in the hole

The cat is slipping, she should be maintaining constant vigilance for we are at war but she is curled asleep on the mohair blanket. She may be paw shocked.

The mean cat once again breached our defences yesterday. There were no casualties but the cat herself fought valiantly paw to paw in the hallway while I covered her with steady water pistol fire from Grizelda's bedroom.

Morale is at an all time low and we are keeping the back door firmly shut against attack from the rear. 10:27 and as yet no sign of the mean cat this morning. I am beginning to fear the worst. I believe an alliance has been formed between the mean cat and the bad cat and its only a matter of time before we suffer the blow of a double attack.

We are running low on ammunition, the dams are at less than 50% and the trigger on the water spray bottle in the bathroom is starting to stick. I am arguing to send to the mountains for urgent reinforcements but The Spatula maintains that we can hold our ground without the devastating and reprehensible use of Horatio the Great Dane. It is my firm belief that he could lay a secure a perimeter by marking the fence line but the others are reluctant to agree to such a course of action. They do not believe that residual dog wee will prevent another attack. I am worried that Horatio might try and eat the cat but what choice do we have? Our situation is becoming desperate. I must maintain an appearance of strength, I must be resolute. The cat needs a show of leadership now more than ever.

Faster forwards future soldiers, the end is not yet in sight.

Wednesday, 25 July 2007

A big warm welcome for my friend the migraine

Actually I don't think I get migraines but this whatever it is doing a wonderful impression. The inside of my skull is electric blue with a crush force that is attempting to push my top teeth down and out of my head. I'm getting under the doona and I'm not coming out until it stops, I sure wish I'd changed the sheets earlier in the day like I thought I might.

There's a fraction too much pressure

Oh wait I'm mixing my songs up. Take the friction down. The best cure for the inability to write a book is to fly your kite. Everyone already knows this but first I need to shake off sleep like a dog.

Tuesday, 24 July 2007

запрещено or for those who prefer German: verboten

Elliot, who has clearly gone mental, has forbidden me from going to meet up with someone on Friday night. He's even declared a wish to lurk around Newtown to ensure my safety. He really has gone mental. This person poses no threat to my safety or wellbeing, I have met him several times before, he is well liked by trusted friends and my only intention is to have some fig sorbet with conversation.

I have no idea what has gotten into Elliot but I'm finding it all highly amusing. I think I might take photos and send them to him.

Nemo dat non quod habet

Oh sing me a renaissance you empire lined existence. I want to walk where the people walk, I want to see them dancing but knife edges prefer me to swim. I heard the swell of an orchestra in my mind this afternoon right after I cleaned finger print dust from the bottoms of my shoes and poured boiling water over the beautiful stinking teacup I found perched on a pike.

The Spatula has declared I have a problem with my ventromedial prefrontal cortex, I'm no gambler, I have respect for consequences but I would have agreed to anything to get my hands on another piece of baked carrot which may just prove her point. Speaking of points I have one, somewhere.

Ah nemo dat non qoud habet, that's my point and its the point of my existence. I made a chart with reasons to live and working logically there's not a hell of a lot of point in going on with things, here's where the nemo dat rule comes into play. You cannot give away that which you do not possess and I am not yet in full possession of the invisible stretching of time so it looks like I'm here to stay, just a little bit longer.

Monday, 23 July 2007


I am cultivating a new mini obsession based on nothing more than a whim. Gemma spotted the emergence of it before I did which is slightly disturbing but I think she's got it right. Ah, life is fun.


Helicopters are brilliant. I wish I had one, I would zoom everywhere. I like the long kind with two sets of rotors. I would have a pink flight suit with matching helmet that has built in headphones and microphone. The helicopter would be pink with shiny stars on it and say Dale Rockin' Slamma down the side. I wouldn't need a pilot because I would fly it myself and if I wanted to go on a picnic with all my friends I could pick them up in a jiffy and fly to anywhere at all.

In the picnic basket would be yummy things wrapped in nice clean teatowels. There is a cupboard in the helicopter for storing big cushions, blankets and my kite. There is a separate cupboard that has a cage built in for the cat to sit in if she would like to have a go in the helicopter. There is a special cupboard on the outside of the helicopter that folds out into a lovely mini kitchen with teapots and a whistling kettle.

On the other side of the helicopter, on the outside, there are cupboards for tents and sleeping bags and plenty of storage in case you need to transport a big band or orchestra and all of their instruments. This would come in handy if you would like to have a picnic and a concert at the same time.

The dog ate my serial

Episode 1 published today.

Saturday, 21 July 2007

Put on your red shoes and dance the blues or je suis un flaneur

Sitting out the front of Buzzzbar on King St I noticed the tattoo shop next door doing a roaring trade. I've been keeping an eye on the shop for weeks, there's something in there I've been secretly coveting. I've been walking backwards and forwards past the shop window too frightened to stop and go in and get what I want. I've been put off by the people in the shop, they look mean.

I was forced out of the house last night by the worst case of restlessness I've had for a while. This can happen if you sit very still reading for an entire day but walking the streets of Newtown didn't do it for me last night. I wore my very favourite red shoes but still nothing, not a drop of whimsical humanity to feed off. Out of sheer desperation I trekked up to Gould's bookshop of horror hoping to at least become frightened and trapped under an immense pile of used books which is a distinct possibility in that place. The only thing that happened was that I started to regret my black bean burrito and had to squirm past the stacks of books at the end of each aisle to avoid rancid suffocation. I spent a few minutes perusing a pile of dusty old Blue magazines, staring in fascination at photo after photo of gay men with cock rings but still nothing happened. Not even one disapproving look from a random stranger. Back out in the real world it was pissing down and miserable. I walked slowly, hands in pockets, head bent against the rain towards my final destination. Sipping soy lattes and pushing fig and almond flan around my plate I caught sight of a newly tattooed woman come laughing out into the street and I thought bugger it, I'm going in.

I got my money ready, reapplied lip balm and pushed open the door. This was no time for cowardice so I strode confidently right up to it put my money in turned the handle and got the bright glowing red gumball of my dreams. So great was my triumph that I flagged down a taxi and arrived home in style blowing the best bubbles you've ever seen. So it seems it is worth overcoming your fears to get what you dream of.

This is a public announcement

Today has been cancelled.

The following things were variously arranged and called off:
Going to Melbourne
Dinner party at Robert's house
Helping Boli move house
Birthday drinks for a friend at the Cricketer's Arms in Surry Hills
Dinner with Ron & Rita
Dinner with Ron, Rita & Creamboy

I think I better just go out and wander around aimlessly in case staying in and staring at the walls causes my house to cancel itself.

Incoming Creamboy

I am having dinner with Creamboy, Ron and Rita. This should be very interesting. I was expecting to be in Melbourne this weekend, in the company of Spencer, his band and Gemma. I was expecting to meet up with Rupert for a shandy but I was most definitely not expecting to be here in Sydney and having dinner with Creamboy. I'm going to try and convince him to have fig sorbet for dinner.

Friday, 20 July 2007

Phone a friend

I just phoned my friend Rita and who was sitting in her loungeroom eating Turkish food I hear you wonder? It was none other than Creamboy, the blogosphere is imploding.

Creamboy said "Your voice sounds more cultured Australian and subdued than I expected"
I didn't say your voice has safety in it.
Creamboy said " Is Slamma your real last name? That is a loaded question"
I didn't say don't hold up hoops for me Creamboy, I am the parkour master of my mind.

Will Creamboy be able to unravel the anagram challenge? If you do Creamboy add ''.' between the two words and @gmail.com to the end. Now I wait to see how efficiently his thought leaps gaps.

Thursday, 19 July 2007

It is time

To break a law. This is a new experiment. I'm going to need to be sneaky or otherwise I won't be able to practice law but I'm going to do it.

I am an anarchist, don't know what I want but I know how to get it. Oh yeah I'm going to destroy the sanctity of the law just as soon as I decide which law to break. I'm going to need to consult my personal copy of the Crimes Act 1900 and maybe also the Crimes At Sea Act just in case I decide to do my law breaking on a boat.

Any suggestions?

O woe and misery and woe - joke joyce

Instant upwards thrusting. Oh yes. I've been thinking what finally slapped me out of my silly misery hole was the particularly cheery person who served me sorbet in Dolce & Gelato. Not only was she happy to point out the dairy free selection, which was large, she let me have half a scoop of one flavour and half a scoop of another. Two scoops is too many and I can never finish but I long for the tasty delight of more than one flavour. She even pointed out that it was more interesting and fun that way. Yes, I thought it is more fun this way. Chocolate and fig beats woeful misery-hat wearing any day.

I think I am in love with sorbet girl.

A change in the light

This afternoon:

A fin of exhaustion runs vertically through me and I lay me head down to hear the internal buzzing that spells sleep. This is not ideal business meeting behaviour. What is it that has me wishing for a shock to the heart? Surely everyone can manage the every day of every day. There is something so uphill about having to mange everything on your own. The number of times I've wished to only have my cothes, my mess. Oh god I can feel the carpet in my old life underfoot. I know the consistency of the air as I wak through each room in my mind. I know the quality of the light in all corners, all corners.

There are squatting ghost forms.

The day I moved out all of my brother's friends, one with new baby in tow came notionally to help me shift house but in fact one by one they stole away to tie ribbons around their memories leaving their bright trails around the property. This recurring synaesthesia, hope emboldened because I do not have the time for constant vigilance. But these days ss I turn the key in the front door I notice an absence of displacement. Before, before I realised I was still alive the sense of displacement peaked at the click of the tumbler in the lock, it said to me - you are not here. Now I am an expert at the slight downwards pressure of the top key that enables the handle to be turned with one hand. The cat has a new place to stand and wait impatiently as the door opens. I have a place here but it is not without the long tail of where I've been.

This evening:

A long walk and an unexpected phone call from my housemates shook the cloak from my shoulders and patched over the vertical split of memories. The walk home broken up on King St with coffee and a newspaper sitting happily in wait for my housemates to join me for dinner. I laughed away an hour in Happy Chef with The Spatula and Grizelda and wandered, new book in hand, to discover a new kind of chocolate sorbet. I think there has been a change in the light.

Wednesday, 18 July 2007

Re-rewind when the crowd says

Artboy phoned:
He said he was pleased that I sounded well.
I didn't say the sound of your voice changes my architecture.
He said what have you been up to?
I didn't say navigating around the event horizon trying not to let time travel downwards.
He said it was good to talk to me.
I didn't say this wireless garroting is powered by steam.
He said he wants to talk again.
I didn't say I've got a picture of you holding a picture of me in the pocket of my blue jeans.


Longform is so niche market, according to a presenter at the conference on the role of the publisher in the digital age. Longform, or books as I like to call them, are apparently passe. Its all about transmedia immersion and world creation. She screened a video of an author being interviewed on a tv show that exists inside a game, its worth watching to see the author get blown up during his reading. The book was written online and comments were taken into consideration in the final edit. This is all terribly interesting. There were more examples of books made more interactive and immersive transmedia interactivity as embedded marketing device This is all terribly interesting. There was talk of the 'new reader' lacking motivation to consume longform unless it is first a vodiobook with a created transmedia world. This is all terribly interesting.

I might just like to point out that whether in analogue longform or on flexible reading screen the necessary ingredient is words written by writers and now if you don't mind I'm just popping off to sit down with a nice cup of tea and read a book.

I'm not sure

About the white.

Tuesday, 17 July 2007


Some days there are too many things to think about. They all rattle around in there making shapes and forming questions. Some days you need to keep the lid on just in case something miraculous is being built.

Monday, 16 July 2007

Oh dear

My mad Melbourne escapade has had to be canceled and now I am making a sad face with my face. I was very much looking forward to being a sort of groupie with the band. I was more so looking forward to spending time with the fabulous Gemma and having a flamingo beer with Rupert, though that would of course shatter the strange Rupert creature of my imagination.

I wanted to walk the streets of an unfamiliar city and be free to stare and stop in wonder and breathe. They don't like that when you do that here, not when they see you walk down the same street every day. Wonder is not welcome in the every day.

Sunday, 15 July 2007

Down among the fishes and an absence of sound

That was unexpected. I ate a tiny scrap of raw onion as I was cooking this evening. There was an immediate and highly unpleasant chemical reaction in my mouth and the strong bitter taste of bad memories. Its still there now after dinner, after pirate chocolate, after cigarettes, after brushing my teeth, after almost a litre of water and I don 't know what to do. I think I have inexplicably poisoned myself with the sensation of bad possibilities.

I made Rupert soup for dinner, having pilfered the recipe from Rupert via the internet. Its delicious and not dissimilar to an Estonian recipe. Estonians being fond of both potato and cabbage. My housemates were initially puzzled at my calling the soup Rupert soup and were suspicious of the ingredients but once I explained that I have a tendency to name a dish after the person that gave me the recipe they agreed to eat it.

I've been doing some pondering about naming the soup Rupert soup, I was thinking that it was odd until I went to write it in my recipe book and looked at some other recipes. There are Aunty Val's patty cakes, Aunty Rona's butter cake, Mum's vegetable bake and Dale salad (the most unexpected salad you will ever serve) just to name a few. I have no idea who Aunty Rona is. I think she was my Great Grandmother's Great Aunt, this being a very old recipe for delicious tiny cakes passed down through the generations. I sat for quite some time with this thought and found it both comforting and isolating.

I long for a sense of family but have little hope of achieving it. I had thought I had my own little family with me and Artboy and the cat. We were going to have children, this year, it didn't work out that way and now the sound of a baby sends my soul into a bottomless free fall and I have to go and check my reflection in the mirror to see if I'm still real. My question is, if Chopper Read can get married and have children why can't I? I've got all my ears, I'm not rude on national television, I've never been to gaol. What's going on people?

Saturday, 14 July 2007

Monkeys! and of course I was very very....

It can sometimes happen that you might try to wash your hair with conditioner instead of shampoo if you are tired. When you get the shampoo foaming some of it might go into your right ear and make you feel funny. It can sometimes also happen that you need to wee after you get in the shower. This is unfortunate, it is better to wee before getting in the shower thus avoiding any should I wee in the shower or not questions. If you live in a sharehouse it is not polite to wee anywhere except the toilet. It is odd that Americans don't say toilet, it is not a rude word.

If you have more than one pair of black socks it can be useful to sew a little stitch in each pair using different coloured thread, this means that you don't have to walk around with one sock more snug than the other. It is distracting to wear different socks even if they are both black, inattention with walking can lead to stepping on things or running into things. Sometimes you might start to walk differently with each foot and this can lead to unexpected injury.

If your cat suddenly starts zooming around the house with a mushroom in its mouth the best thing is to take careful shelter and wait until the zooming stops. The cat will most likely tire of the mushroom as a toy when it works out that mushrooms are vegetables, this is when you can safely retrieve the mushroom and pat the cat nicely. Some cats like to chase ping pong balls, this is better than mushrooms.

If you are going to drink vast quantities of anything you must first check to see if there is toilet paper, if there is no toilet paper you can use tissues from your handbag. If you are a man you do not need tissues to wee but it is nice to wash your hands with soap when you are finished. If you are expecting guests it is traditional to have a little basket with tiny soaps that are shaped like things, roses are popular shapes for tiny soaps. I do not where you can buy these. If you have parents you can steal one guest soap per visit until you have enough to require a little basket. Little baskets are readily available in op shops and at markets that sell ugly things. I do not require tiny soaps as I am not expecting guests.

My mother always says that you can never have too many paper products, this is why she has a special cupboard just for rolls of toilet paper. If an architect is designing your house this is something you might like to mention to her so that the cupboard is close to the toilet and not down the hall. My mother also has a special cupboard for Christmas things. It is cheaper to buy wrapping paper in January then you can pop it in the Christmas cupboard until you need it.

Once when I was in St Kilda I bought a super rubber bouncy ball from a vending machine outside the supermarket. This is a very cost effective way to entertain yourself whilst in a strange city. It is better if you don't bounce the ball on the pier as it might go in the water. My ball was safely contained in my pocket the whole time I was on the pier and it was not lost until the cat zoomed into the garden with it and left it under a rhododendron in the rain. After that it was too muddy for bouncing in the house. If you are tired and it is night time you don't have to have a little nap you can simply go to sleep in your bed and then wake up in the morning and have a nice cup of tea in your dressing gown. It is easier to do this if somebody loves you.

Let's call the whole thing off

I'm going to Melbourne next weekend with Spencer's band, I'm going to buy a plane ticket and hopefully something nice from Brunswick St. I love Brunswick St and I don't care if I'm not supposed to. I'm going to look at nice buildings and walk around those nifty little laneways. There is a cafe I quite liked that I might return to oh and the awesome vegetarian restaurant on Brunswick St. My favourite handbag comes from Melbourne, maybe it would like to have a visit home.

People of Melbourne get excited! I'm coming to town.

Oh yeah and fuck the fucking July experiment I'm calling the whole thing off as off next weekend. I'm going to talk to five thousand men in Melbourne, five thousand.

Friday, 13 July 2007

Feeling experimental?

I was halfway off the stool out the front of Gelatomassi ready to chase a man down the street and throw myself on his mercy when Grizelda said very curtly "Its July". "Fuck!" I responded, "Fuck!".

I first saw him on the corner of Brown and King St, I had just persuaded Grizelda to come to the library with me so I could read the opening hours when he stopped on the corner outside the 711. I said "Oh!" and clutched at Grizelda's arm so firmly that I nearly toppled her over. He was tallish and wearing a corduroy jacket with elbow patches, a flamboyant orange scarf and I thought I saw the outline of a book in his jacket pocket. His hair was eminently messable and most important of all was the vibe of goodwill. He seemed a little sad but maybe he was just thinking. He crossed Brown St and went into Clem's chicken shop. I stood outside the window and pretended to read the menu.

A few minutes later we were sitting on the stools outside Gelatomassi, I am very pleased that they have sorbet as I can't have dairy, when he walked past with a box of dinner in his hand. He was walking very slowly and I thought maybe we could follow him a little bit but Grizelda said no. I was very disappointed and about to begin sulking into my fig sorbet when the nice man stopped. He gave his box of dinner to a homeless man! He did with such a quiet grace and a gentle hand. I was so excited that I was sort of half standing half crouching over my stool preparing to race down King St and somehow introduce myself and my sorbet when Grizelda unkindly said "Its July". "Fuck!" I said "Fuck!".

I don't think I have ever been so compelled by a stranger before. Maybe that would have been the story he told at our wedding, I was just walking down the street when some mad woman came pounding up the footpath and bowled me over staining my favourite scarf with fig sorbet. Now it is just the story of how I failed to meet my future ex-husband.

It didn't make the national news

Well done Tasmania. Good to see you are maintaining your excellent reputation which includes genocide, environmental disasters, general human torture and of course the brutal treatment of the excellent friends of Dale Slamma. No wonder they dug that big channel to keep Tasmania separate from the mainland.

Scam and the ultimate scam of being a writer

Hopefully it is a scam so I can somehow bust them. I can't think of any other reason for it.

I am sitting at desk 2 in my bedroom. I have been here for quite some time trying to chip away at my manuscript but today its not really working. That doesn't mean I get to swan about the house going la la la ha ha a day off from work. Oh no, it means I have to sit here all day. All frickin day and type bullshit that is awful that will later have to be edited out. This is horrible and I love to hate it. There is absolutely nothing of interest in my brain today, nothing whatsoever. I keep thinking useless thoughts about the width of the Sydney Basin. Wondering why it makes such a difference to I how feel to be on this edge instead of the other. No one is reading my blog today and I don't blame them. There is nothing of interest here.

Thursday, 12 July 2007

Newsflash! Hoorah!

Tim Sinclair, an all round fabulous fella has just announced his new project The Dog Ate My Serial. In his words "a bold new experiment in rehashed po-mo interactive wankery". In my words a piece written in weekly one hundred word instalments, each instalment guided by the results of a public vote.

Tim Sinclair is a frequent eater of toast, sometimes he makes me coffee, he always remembers to put the sugar in. Once he bought me an apple slice to celebrate something silly, yesterday he said I pulled a classic Grandma move when I wrapped half a cupcake in a napkin and put it in my pocket. Tim is a non-smoker.

The other things about last night or Regina synaesthesia

I stopped in at the Lansdowne to use the loo before catching a bus down City Rd to Newtown. When I got to Newtown there was a message on my phone saying 'You've been spotted at the Lansdowne come and say hello'. Why Spencer just didn't come up to me I'll never know but I was disappointed I missed out on seeing a friend or two. It was the wrong bus so I had to get off and hoof it back up King St then down Enmore Rd to get home. It was freezing and my weariness had turned the exercise into a sort of survival trek until I got to the Enmore Theatre. Pushing the through the crowd I was knocked briefly off course and caught a glimpse of the sign above the door, it said Regina Spektor. This woke me up and I developed a new plan. Not being able to spend money on an actual ticket I wandered up the road and ordered some pide.

Box of hot pide in hand I made my way back to the Enmore. Ordinarily you can stand across the road and hear everything in stereophonic sound but not last night. I took up a position a few metres from the security guards and leant against the wall my dinner steaming in its carboard box. Happily munching away I enjoyed the muffled honey of Regina Spektor's voice coming through the walls. It wasn't until someone opened the door that I realised just exactly what I was missing. The sound cushioned my existence and brought on a sort of synaesthesia with the expectation of a square of turkish delight in my pocket. Chased away by the cold I spent no more than ten minutes in rose flavoured heaven that's why my big coat is lined up on the floor with scarf, hat and gloves. I'm going back tonight with The Spatula, this time I'm taking a hot chocolate. I'm going to make my best life, for free.

Wednesday, 11 July 2007

Launch it - Ilumina

A poet called me gracious and held out an arm as though to place a hand on my shoulder as I slipped out the cafe and into the back of the bookshop. I spent the evening perched alone at the back of the back courtyard peering through palm leaves to catch glimpses of the poets as they read. I was there with my work hat on, I walked across the bottom of Redfern and Chippendale both trailing and pushing weariness, not worried to arrive on time. A colleague came and went before things got started leaving me stranded next to a man with Berlin hair fascinated by a Danish woman on the other side of him. Too tired to feel any discomfort at being so glaringly alone amongst the tight knit groups of old faithfuls I stretched out my legs and let people clamber over them as the need arose. I was prepared for boredom and the increasing awareness of the hard seat of my chair, I was not prepared for the opening address to be the answer to all my problems.

On Sunday, after my adventure to the Olympia milkbar on Parramatta Rd I walked through the front door and decided, in an instant, to give up writing, forever. This is a decision I have been very happy with every second, every half second, every waking blink, since I threw down my pen and declared the war over. But that was before I heard what Judith Beveridge had to say about the courage of the writer and I thought yes. What courage we need and I knew as soon as I thought 'we' that it was nothing but a dream to give up writing. It is a necessary torture.

There were dire moments at the open mic and two moments of bliss. The first was a man, tallish and ordinary with matching beanie and jumper making a hesitant start. He softly asked me to follow his words into violent understanding. The second a beautifully graceful elderly woman in a turquoise overcoat and round brimmed hat. Her deliberate words had grace and depth and when she finished I realised I wasn't breathing and I was almost overcome by the sublime ache of grief and love. Fucking poets.


It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Tuesday, 10 July 2007

Position Vacant

For a Melbourne spy! If you live in Melbourne and would be happy to attend an event and give me a full report then leave your application as a comment. If you wish to remain anonymous mail to dale.slamma@gmail.com

No previous experience is required. Owning sneakers for sneaking and a sense of humour considered an advantage. Your report, with my annotations, will be published here on Dale Slamma.

Monday, 9 July 2007

July with adjustments

I busted. I phoned Elliot, I bought a $5 zine (I am a Camera #11 by Vanessa Berry), I replied to an email from Rupert, I bought a packet of four AA batteries, I responded to comments left by men and may have left one or two comments on men's blogs. It stops here. I'm not giving in that easily. There's a lot of July left yet but I will adjust the rules slightly.

The initial rules had me reeling and I sank into a stupor of isolation and poverty, it was too close to times when I have really been isolated and destitute. I wasn't prepared for feeling as strongly as I did. It wasn't going to work, I wasn't able to properly report on the experiment because it felt like I was dying. So here are the new July rules:

-The blind film review schedule continues unchanged
- I can not initiate contact with men
- If contacted I can respond politely but not in depth
- I can not buy anything except food and necessary items such as things for my cat to eat, train tickets and cigarettes (I was going to stick in a photo of "Lovely fags" from Father Ted but I can't find one)
- I will make a consistent effort to strengthen my friendships with the many excellent women I know
- I am allowed to read but not leave comments on men's blogs
-I am allowed to respond to comments left by men on my blog
- Things are situation normal at the office, provided I get over this lurgy and work again
-If I die in my sleep please paint my nails before my funeral, pink would be nice

Something happened

A review of sorts, NWJR said: Dale ("Dale Slamma"): I've never seen angst so honestly and consistently put forth on a blog before. Not that we could tell from your haircut. Your honesty is refreshingly unique.

I'm fairly certain that it was meant kindly and of course weirdly happy that somebody bothered to think about my blog at all but I'm flustered at the use of the word angst. Angst is something I associate with my thankfully distant teen years. I am of course happy to be called refreshingly unique but I must issue a small protest about the angst. It is more pondering than angst, I have a tendency to let fleeting abstract thoughts form into sentences, this happens quite automatically and very often I am zooming around laughing like a drain whilst forming sentences of doom. Often, but not always. Maybe it is angst. Maybe I failed to grow up. Maybe I just failed. There see, that sounds like angst but I can assure you it wasn't, I just thought it scanned nicely. Oh what's the use, I sound like a professor of protestology. The truth of the matter might just be that I am pathologically honest. Just walking around all see through with every thought popping out of my head like a mad popcorn machine, this might be why I failed to thrive in a corporate environment. Now I really am just rambling. Well, ha! I am The Captain of This Blog and I say rambling is allowed.

I'm waiting

For something to happen.

Sunday, 8 July 2007

Moment of terror at the Olympia Milk Bar

I've had one of those illuminating movie moments where everything becomes clear, all my structured bounded thinking is swept aside like a house of cards and I know the truth of the matter, and it is horrible. I know exactly what I want, down to the finest smallest detail of putting away the clean tea spoons after the washing up is done.

I am suddenly love sick and forlorn. I am astonished at how secret and dark I have kept this from myself and now I don't know what to do. It all started when I set off on my adventure to see the Olympia Milkbar. Grizelda came with me in sidekick fashion and we were happily striding along the streets on Stanmore towards Parramatta Rd when I thought oh, there is a widening of thought amongst these well-kept family homes. I had temporarily forgotten how much I hunger for a warm home full of love to come home to, every day. As we walked past hundreds of semis and federations and bungalows all with flowers in the garden and a short neat front path a chasm opened in my chest. I will never have this because I am unlovable.

The Olympia was dark, only one light works in the whole shop. There is indeed a wall of empty chocolate boxes and the faint smell of death. I bought a can of coke just because there was nothing else to buy. The diminished man in his neat jumper made me pay my two dollars before he reached under the counter for my can. The man wasn't ashen and creepy in a comic book way as I was expecting. He was a lighthouse of sorrow. He illuminated my fissures and exposed my ridiculous capacity for love wider than the horizon and now I am raging inside with all this love turning in loops with nowhere to go.

I phoned Elliot. I phoned Elliot and we talked about cheese making and vibrators and going to the movies and marshmallows and his decision to be s&c (sober and celibate). I am sober and celibate but unlike Elliot I secretly wish for the opposite. I wish for a house with built in bookshelves and a fireplace in the bathroom, I wish for wine and dinner and crawling into bed with someone who wears flannelette pyjamas. Someone who might pop out of bed in the morning, don dressing gown and slippers then come back with two mugs of tea. I feel like Jane Austen's Emma when she realises no one must marry Mr Knightly but her.

Now I have a choice. I can sink or swim for the desolate shore. Which will it be? I'm voting for sink but I've run out of poison.

Saturday, 7 July 2007

50 and a half hours later - I give up

At 30 hours the phone rang. It wasn't for me, it was some guy Grizelda had been chatting to on the internet. How does that work? I don't think I like the idea of that instant typey message thing. So I've given up waiting for someone to rescue me because its just not going to happen. I'm not even going to rescue myself, I'm just going to sit and hope to get struck by lightning, develop consumption or have a brain fever and die tragically on the Mores (Enmore, Stanmore I don't care which one) or the Downs (Camperdown, Marrickville they're both downhill). Unless of course someone does eventually phone me. I'll keep counting the hours until someone does, just to see.

At 49 and quarter hours my mobile rang. It was my brother telling me about a website that sells military hoodies. I rather want one but fear the general disdain of the Newtown locals would wear me down, they are very judgmental those Newtonites for all their dreadlocks, eye makeup and fancy pants. My brother and I have had some memorable occasions dressed in military gear. Once we donned gore-tex camouflage overalls and ran breathless and silent through the bush to the clearing and let off fireworks.

Another vivid memory is of us sitting in army hats at the bottom of the driveway carefully preparing and eating a ration pack as though we were in the trenches. Ration packs used to come with a tiny stand and fire starter style brick that you set on fire and warmed your canned food with.


My hair has gone straight! Four days now it has been quite straight, as you can see in my photo. Maybe my hair's lost the will to curl, maybe its sad. I don't know what's going on. Its a genuine mystery.

The next person that phones me is going to rescue me. I don't care who it is or what they want. I am going to ask them to save me because I think I need saving. I am tired of being bold and determined and an international woman of action, this time I need someone to rescue me. I'm going to sit here until the phone rings, this could take a while.


Caved, folded, snapped. That's what I did. Today I spent $5 on a zine. I was going to spend Sunday putting together a nice package of things and sketches and pictures to post to the author of the zine in the hope that it would be enough of a trade for them to send me a zine but when I walked past the shop that sells them I just wandered in and bought it. Seven days in to July and I broke the rules.

I've been trying to phone Elliot. I can't take any more of the silence. Three times I've phoned the rehab to be told he's at work or in an AA meeting. I'm beginning to think that he's avoiding me, I'm beginning to think that this July project is the worst thing I've ever decided to do.

What started very innocently has taken on a sinister quality. I am finding myself alone and without purpose, friends have withdrawn and I feel deserted. I know that at least one of my friends is trying to be helpful by not contacting me during July but I am bereft. I have somehow dismantled my happy busy self and all that is left is this new take on poverty and isolation. Things have been bleached and I am one step from rattle walking the hallway at home not knowing which rooms to attempt refuge in.

Friday, 6 July 2007

I'm walking down King St in the electric daylight

The sailors on shore leave stand out in their perfect white. I personally love an incomprehensibly sized boat and in particular an aircraft carrier, shame its an evil nuclear ship of destruction because I really do love aircraft carriers. A guy I know used to fly off an aircraft carrier, I have a photo of him looking completely calm and focussed, one second before they hit the go button and sling shot him out across the ocean. I used to practice being one of those signal people that do those crazy actions to launch a plane or helicopter, I've got the helicopter one down. I'm doing a demonstration right now. The important part is at the end you need to drop on to one knee with your head bent down and your arms folded across your chest or all else they will get chopped off.

So today. What happened? Ha! A writer writes, that's all you need to know because now it is time to walk up the street for some fig sorbet, surely the best food of them all.

Noli me tangere

Because today I am busy. Whole as a pie I tell you, whole as a pie. Now let me bend my head and write.

Who am I - or I - to demand oblivion?

I must go out to-morrow as the others do
And build the falling castle;
Which has never fallen, thanks
Not to any formula, red tape or institution,
Not to any creeds or banks,
But to the human animal's endless courage.
Spider, spider, spin
Your register and let me sleep a little,
Not now in order to end but to begin
The task begun so often.

from Autumn Journal by Louis Macneice

Thursday, 5 July 2007

Unbelievable tragedy of epic proportions

I have developed an odd inability to have anything closer than one metre to my throat. If anything comes closer than that I start gagging. Walking home from work I had to carry my overly large satchel style bag, stuffed with one pair of shoes, most of a loaf of bread, a large dutch cream potato, half a manuscript and a magazine, clamped under my arm like some kind of crazy lady. I couldn't even have the strap on my shoulder or I would start gagging and have to stop and breathe and concentrate on not vomiting in front of all the suit wearing people. This is not good. Its a long way home from work, about four kilometres. I'm going to spend the evening constructing some kind of hover bag with homing technology and an on board champagne cooling compartment. Take that NASA.

People of Melbourne, get yourselves Sticky

I have never wanted to be in Melbourne more. My current obsession, Vanessa Berry, is having the Melbourne launch of her book Strawberry Hills Forever in Melbourne tomorrow afternoon. She is hosting a tea party and has been hunting out lovely teacups, taking them home and washing them nicely especially for the occasion.

So people of Melbourne go and get yourselves to Sticky on Friday afternoon at 5pm for sticky buns, laughter and the sound of teacups.

Wednesday, 4 July 2007

D is for Dale who took lye by mistake or D es por Dale que bebi� lej� a por error.

Open the double locker in this clanking chest. They are hauling in the masses and puzzling them into shapes, working the pointed ends into the rubber heart is what I was thinking as I walked home. But then I thought, that's shit, don't write that, so I didn't. This Friday I have the privilege of spending a day, whole as a pie, tapping away at my manuscript. One problem. There are no words.

I started this silly blog to try and unblock the block. A way of letting words out without caring too much about them. An edit-free spontaneous place to put words. Perfect. Until now I am once again faced with my old nemesis, The Book. I had this crazy idea that if I put all these restrictions on myself that my focus would spiral back into the thinking writing part of my brain. A time-honoured tradition amongst writers. There was a French school of writers who would eliminate one or more letters from the alphabet to make themselves think harder about word choice. Another school of thought is that writing is work, same as all other work, chopping wood or making cakes. Work that can be worked at. Yet another school of thought is that writing is automatic, a sort of divine gift that the author has little control over. I say bollocks to all of them. Its much more complicated than that.

A lovely friend of mine, Rita, emailed me today to say that she likes my blog and can one day imagine someone sitting in a cafe being arty and reading a book written by me. That's the nicest thing anyone has ever said, better even than the man who told me I had spectacular breasts, better than when someone told me I was smart, better than when Elliot said I could make any hat look good, better than the one time my Dad said he was proud of me (graduation day from law school). But I'm not sure I can do it.

Studying law is a piece of piss compared with the cold dead weight of unwritten words trailing crazy opals in the dust behind me. Doing anything is a piece of piss compared to the terror of the next sentence. What will it be? Where will it come from? How the fuck am I going to have an idea?

All week I have been scattered and ridiculous, distracted even from my distractions. I can't concentrate on trying to concentrate. Even my computer at work is developing an anti-Dale forcefield of mythic proportions. I am almost certain that Robert, the new man at work, wants to murder me by jumping on my head and shouting For fuck's sake just shut the fuck up, but he is very polite and hasn't even frowned.

I have one more day to prepare myself. Wish me luck, I'm going to need it.

No shit Sherlock

The post "Dale for a day" was not written by Dale Slamma. Real Dale returning v. soon.

Dale for a day

Dale for a day by ......?

Sit up in bed with laptop on lap editing thing and trying to get to grips with wordpress, which is beyond you, and chatting to various people - so much more fun to do this sitting up in bed with no makeup on and hair in eccentric braid thing sticking up from top of head than actually having to be somewhere properly dressed and looking animated. Also, chatting in the privacy of your aloneness means that nobody can disapprovingly tell you you are smoking too much. Only one of these people is beloved lover going on about his other lover. Clearly you are not jealous in the slightest, as can be seen by your furrowed brow and uncomprehending: "But why?" when opposite scenario occurs.

Tell chattees you must go to sleep. Set alarm clock and note vaguely that you must be awake in less than three hours. Somewhere in the intervening time you have managed to bend wordpress to your will, and have cybersex, slightly freaking the other person out towards the end.

Door is flung open by daughter, who wishes to tell you about new car. Door is able to be flung open due to failure of feminism, which means that some months ago you managed to half get the lock out of the door in an attempt to change it in order to lock daughter out and safeguard clothes, money, makeup etc, and have ever since been plaintively begging daughter to order her musclebound boyfriend to yank the rest of it out. Even though you are slightly apprehensive, as last time you asked him to loosen a screw in the doorhandle, he yanked the whole doorhandle off. Anyway, you now have uncloseable bedroom door which means daughter is free to steal cigarettes and chat whenever she feels like it. You weren't asleep but pretend you were in a vain attempt to induce filial guilt.

Daughter having returned your phone which she has had for two days, you are able to read messages saying that you don't have to go into work at all. Triumphantly stay awake until 4.45.

Painfully reminded that you forgot to turn alarm off.

Wake up. Drink vast amounts of coffee before remembering that it is decaff, and therefore useless.

Have bath, with very little memory of what has happened in the intervening hours. In bath, accidentally shave off mosquito bite.

Have such incredibly strong orgasm you almost pass out. Actually, you do pass out.

Roused by daughter to go out and do something about something with her phone, which involves getting dressed etc. At some point are told that you are mean and horrible, reply by pointing out how incredibly badly brought up she is, are reminded you were sole bringer-upper. Buy coffee for tomorrow morning.

Happily collapse back into smoke-fugged, laptopped bedroom, exhausted by brief exposure to humanity.

Fucking child rings fucking doorbell because it is obviously easier for you to get up and open door than it is for her to get keys out of pocket. Tear her fucking head off and stuff it down her fucking throat. She doesn't notice, and goes out again.

8.10 - 11.59
Look forward to peaceful evening wondering whether to have toasted cheese or toasted cheese, intermittently clearing up dismembered baby bats and lizards that cat likes to bring in through your bedroom window.

Tuesday, 3 July 2007

Dale for a day or D is for Dale who died of ennui

Its time to let someone else take over for a day. If you want to be Dale for a day go ahead and write the post, send it to me and I'll publish it cause whatever it is your Dale did for a day its got to be better than what I did.

Science was right! You really need to eat breakfast or you won't be able to concentrate. I found this out the hard way by spending an entire afternoon with my brain on holiday yet still having to do all my work. Unfortunate for the poor man who phoned to ask my advice about something and I asked him if he spelt his name the same way as the evil dictator.

I am perplexed about some things and desperately wanting to contact a few people to clarify some comments left on this blog but as they were all left by men I can't so I will have to remain perplexed. I am also very cross at having to pass on the opportunity to have some free apple tea delivered right to my door as the marketing opportunity was sent by a man. I love tea. I love apple tea (and tobacco). I love delivered right to my door. I am beginning to wonder how much is enough?

Email your Dale for a day post to dale.slamma@gmail.com and I'll publish it. If I really like it I might even do what your Dale did and see how my version works out.

Monday, 2 July 2007

Damn myself to hell

I hate myself. I am a fucktard. It is only the 2nd of July and already I am frustrated and rattling the bars of this cage. I thought of no less than five million things I suddenly urgently had to buy now that I am not allowed to buy anything for the whole month of July. I want hair dye (don't care what colour just want some) I want a Moroccan glass in which to store my toothpaste, I want new hot pink fish net socks after tearing a whole in my current pair, I want a pair of nifty purple rubber wellies and a new and exciting beret, I want THINGS.

I have already broken the Man Embargo by agreeing to meet the editor of SeeSee Magazine to discuss his excellent magazine over coffee. I made the appointment in good faith thinking Sunday was the 30th of June but I was in fact incorrect. I desperately want to break the Man Embargo again and reply to two very curious comments left on this blog by men but I can't, that would be a blatant breach of the rules and I would have to punish myself and then I might cry. I don't even know what the punishment would be. Maybe not spending any money, interacting with any men and keeping to a strict schedule of writing blind film reviews for the whole month of July? Ha! I really am a fucktard.

I have information

About the Olympia milkbar in Stanmore. In her recent book Strawberry Hills Forever Vanessa Berry talks about her obsession with the milkbar and its mysterious owner. Why is it so decrepit and what's with all the empty chocolate boxes? I have information.

Apparently the shop used to be owned by the ashen creepy man and his brother. His brother died fifteen years ago but not before extracting a promise from ashen creepy man that he would continue to run the shop, forever. Since the brother's death the cinema next door shut down, Parramatta Rd doubled its traffic and no one goes there anymore, except Vanessa Berry and the terminally curious.

I think I'm going to make a special trip.

What are words worth?

I wandered lonely as a squirrel.

Sunday, 1 July 2007


Today someone called me the blogger's blogger. I find this both hilarious and inaccurate as though I was some kind of outstanding toothpaste and better at this than I am. But thanks anyway.

Does noone know what a cordax is?

Good lord that was horrible! I am sitting in bed happily reading a children's novel and munching on pirate chocolate but unfortunately I spied some crumbs on my chest. I eagerly licked my finger and went about rounding them up and stuffing them in my mouth thinking they were chocolate crumbs but they turned out to be flakes of tobacco. Once again I am sitting in bed thinking Yucky.

I think I am ill. I have been wandering around the house this evening feeling distressed and in dire need of a hug but not knowing why. After lemon tea and reflection I think I feel ill. There is a sneaking ache in my bones and my head periodically throbs and I have been entirely incapable of doing anything constructive all day. Thankfully my new silicon purchase has kept me otherwise occupied though in need of regular showers and a big glass of cranberry juice.

Yesterday I spent several hours in the fine company of Gemma from the famed Gempires. I was prepared to meet her lively mind and charming sense of humour but I was not at all prepared for the sheer force of her presence. She is powerful and charming and elegant. If I didn't love her so much I'd hate her.

I was in the toilets at The Townie furtively undertaking some major bra readjustments and trying to lower the skyline of my hair when a woman came through the door, pointed at me and leapt on me. Fortunately it was Gemma, her hair smells nice. Gemma is the second person to hug me since I've been single, people don't usually hug me because I am a bit prickly and awkward so I was entirely in love with her from the first moment.

The whole time I tried as hard as I could to keep my sensible hat on. I desperately wanted to go and ask a man in a kilt and horrible vest why on earth he thought that vest went with his kilt but I erred on the side of sensible and instead opted for drawing a helpful diagram of my vibrator with labels and arrows pointing out the various features. I engaged in some fretful leg swinging from my high stool to help counteract the no smoking location, this did not help but trips out to the balcony did.

I wanted to keep talking to Gemma. I wanted to steal her and install her somewhere where we could converse until I ran out of words and ears. I still feel like Anne of Green Gables, I only wish Gemma lived close enough to develop a secret system of candle flashes at the window.

Want to SeeSee yourself in printprint?

SeeSee Magazine is now accepting submissions from emerging writers.

Highway to the twilight zone

Take a ride into the twilight zone. You might like it there. You might like it better than the Yacht Rock karaoke party I once went to wearing a borrowed scarf tied around my head like a cartoon pirate. You might like it better than I like my cold room right now. I went to the pub and was then whisked off the streets of Newtown by Boli and over to The Hollywood in Surry Hills for a birthday party which I arrived at late, drunk and without a card or present. I stupidly ate only an english muffin all day before going to the pub and then drank three or four drinks more than drink limit before heading to a party in a pub with FREE DRINKS. Oh no! Oh yes!

I once again found myself in a roomful of academics only this time there was also a drag queen, not a very good one. She used the same sparkle liner for eyes and lips and had hideous open toe white contraption kind of shoes. I'm very fussy about my queens. She also had some sort of smock frock thing going on in a sort of splatter vomit pattern and was wearing a red boa that was clearly cheap and did not at all coordinate with the sparkle liner, the hideous white shoes or the smock frock. The sparkle liner was the multi-colour kind with a dark background. Very 1996.

There was one man that kept following me around the party and trying to talk to me. He was scary and tall in a bilious way. He was wearing a cream cable knit jumper under some foul "I found it under five dead rats and half a cheese cake" jacket. He had a massive digital camera strapped round his neck and Boli tells me he kept sneaking up behind people so he could hide from me and would then stick his head out and take photos of me. He lives in Canberra and has recently taken up theatre sports. Yucky. He said he was less than forty but I don't believe him. I forget what he reckons his name was. But why was he taking all those photos? This is getting weird. At the zine fair some odd man came up and asked if he could take my photo. I said ok so he lay down on the ground in front of me and pointed his massive camera up at a weird angle. I think he must have taken a photo of my knees.

I am not photogenic and wonder why this man kept taking my photo tonight. Why? and Yuck.
It was one of the Randwick belles birthday. She is forty! Forty! That's a very long time to be alive. I hope I die before I get old, I'm not trying to cause a big sensation. She looked happy and lovely. A whole pub full of people went just for her. I hope I am that lucky when I am forty.

I wanted to talk to Gemma for a bit longer. It takes me a while to say anything that matters, anything with depth or probative value. I'm sure she must think I am a hollow vessel, one content to sit or follow. A friend of hers showed up towards the end of our visit to The Townie and she scared me. She was young and violently beautiful like a horse or blown glass. She had a force and confident energy. She was the kind of woman that reduces me to a puffy tall being with empty speech bubbles over my head. It doesn't happen very often but I was already sitting on the edge of Gemma's powerful presence and feeling a little bit at sea. When the beautiful one started talking about where she came from, which is where I came from, the room darkened slightly and the ghost of Artboy made an appearance. If I could explode eight years of my life. If I could wake up tomorrow with no memories I would because all I have learned from giving your heart away is that you will end up alone in a room full of academics being photographed by a yucky man, staring at a bad drag queen and feeling quite drunk and sheepish for not bringing a lovely present with a card stuck on the front.


Its July. Its a fucked month, here's why.

1. Man Embargo
No interacting with men outside work

I can answer the phone if someone calls and be polite but not volunteer any information about myself, answer questions only.

2. No buying anything except food and cat essentials, nothing, not a damn thing. Cigarettes are food.

3. This one is tricky to explain whilst drunk. I found a diary for films showing at a gallery in Queensland. I am going to schedule myself around this diary as though I was attending the events. When a film is showing I will be sitting at my desk writing a review of the film, even if I've never seen it.

This is the month of July, I'm one hour in and already I don't like it. Not one bit.

I met with Gemma of Gempires fame this afternoon. Drinks were drunk. I want to describe her but might leave it until after sleeping. Will say she has a kind of elegant tallness that I could never achieve despite being taller than her. Is very unfair that actual tallness does not equate to the feeling of tallness. Very.