Thursday, 30 August 2007

Orinoco? Are you out there?

He was light and air, synchronised dust motes in real time on his skateboard. Fred Astaire in spray-on black jeans and a Rolling Stone t-shirt but my reverie was interrupted by the shocking fact that Grizelda has no idea what a womble is. Who doesn't know about The Wombles?

I think I'm in rondo form. I need a constant rotation of activity and feeling and I don't mean A B A B. I'm all over the alphabet with the need sometimes to be tacet in the aftermath of hemidemisemi. All I require is a conductor.

Wednesday, 29 August 2007

How did it get in there?

I have listerine whitening in my left eye. Nobody talk to me about anything right now or I might just have a Field Attack.

The listerine somehow got in my eye while I was swooshing it around in my mouth and washing the conditioner out of my hair. I thought I was being very clever and multi-tasking but no, it turned out the badness of constant partial attention follows you into the shower.

Tuesday, 28 August 2007

The dog ate my serial

Episode 6

Trying to think with avocado will only lead to heatache unless you're just waiting for the train

The older man was holding his hands around an invisible accordion, his fingers straight, held together, slicing the air with downward thrusts. I moved closer, as close as I could without looking like I a crazy lady. He was singing, singing and talking to the young man next to him wearing a heavy backpack. I could barely hear the words but I could hear the singing. Mozart, it was most definitely Mozart. I was transported. His voice was ordinary, plain like noname weet-bix but across the platform I could see the rhythms he was weaving, pitch perfect in la, da, di's. I have never heard anything like it.

His legs were slightly apart, chest open, arms swooping and stabbing, his eyes were bright and stern, staring straight into the eyes of the young man. They took turns repeating phrases, changing intonation and varying dynamics.

I stepped closer and closer, leaning in towards them. It was centrifugal. I could have fallen into the net of their music but instead I boarded the train.

I am getting very excited


The alpaca in Melbourne - Gemma has handy updates on the alpaca's movements
Wroving Writers
Being alive

Monday, 27 August 2007

It has been several years now

Since I originally thought that pine green was due for a decent run. I understand that there was a brief moment of wall colours, wallpapers and cushions being pine green but that is not nearly enough. Bring back the pine green I say. Bring it back.

In a strange twist of events I was really looking forward to coming to the office today and being busy and in company but I am the only one here. I am spending my lunch break staring at photos of Tim Rogers, writing this blog post and answering the telephone. Could be worse.

I am very excited about the new enterprise I am undertaking in partnership with the excellent Gemma. We are going to start an organised hobby under the name of Wroving Writers. We are going to attend things and write about them. This is not journalism you understand but something quite different. You can think of us as portrait painters of an occasion or moment using words instead of the more traditional oil paints. We will flex our writerly muscles and produce pieces that are as excellent as they are unique. We both have some formal education in the whole writing/editing area so theoretically that combined with our avid interest in writing about everything from avocado on toast to the stretchiness of our socks will stand us in good stead.

I intend to continue my experimenting on Ron & Rita as they are handily doing things that lend themselves to the Wroving Writer concept. They might object but until that happens I declare them my official guinea pigs. Ha ha ha ha ha! Oh dear best go and make a cup of tea its time to get back to work.

Update on life and death

It looks like Team Life is doing rather well. I am a little surprised, but there is still five months left to tally results. Team Death might make a valiant comeback.

Sunday, 26 August 2007

I also felt like crying

Lessons learned this weekend?

Securely knot your tie before repeated rolling in lavender bushes, you can't pick a lock with tweezers if there is no lock because the door handle fell off, plastic cheese is still cheese with dairy in it, berets the exact same colour as your hair are rather fetching when worn jauntily.

Oh. I am a dickhead. Who is the most inappropriate person to phone and confess all things imbibed whilst at party? Elliot. He said, You are a dickhead but I have always known that you were a dickhead and it hasn't stopped me liking you yet. He has been rather forthcoming with the I like yous (how do I make that plural, blah head stupid) lately which I am finding odd but not unpleasant. Oh good lord now I am getting all Elizabeth Bennett, that is never a good sign. But this is about me and not Elliot.

I had a marvellous time at the party. It was in fact a marvellous party. I've been to a marvellous party, we played a wonderful game: Maureen disappeared and came back in a beard and we all had to guess her name. Cecil arrived wearing armour, some shells and a black feather boa. Poor Millicent wore a surrealist comb made of bits of mosaic from St Peter's in Rome. Oh go on. Surely everybody loves The Divine Comedy? I can't wait until Neil Hannon is an aging rocker.

I did have something to say but it has escaped my head and gone whizzing off somewhere stupid like Paddington. I hate Paddington. There was a man on Australian Idol that looked like he was from Paddo and I thought Yucky. It is sometimes hard to hear when people are singing on Australian Idol because The Spatula sings along with the telly. I don't really mind this because she is an excellent singer, usually much better than the telly itself. If I was a man I would marry Myf Warhurst but then we would get a divorce quite soon afterwards which would be sad and of course disruptive for the family. Oh my cigarettes are in the kitchen and I am sitting in bed under the doona. Time for a mission.

Right, am back. Cat was yelling like banshee asking for second dinner but I am very mean and never give in to what is clearly an ambit sort of claim. Do you know I have never had a pedicure. I have suddenly begun to think of Elliot as my own personal minotaur, perhaps I should lock him in the Marrickville Metro.

I have not cleaned my teeth. Maybe I did earlier in the evening? Before dinner? I am not going to get up again. All teeth will fall out and I will have to start business operating from other side of glory hole. Disgusting! Will clean teeth twice in the morning. It is midnight and clearly I must try and go to sleep or will be zombie all day tomorrow. I wish I could press pause and have a lovely little type and then read some of my book and then get fifty million hours sleep before morning when I would have time to wander about and have two cups of tea and some toast before showering and dressing for the office. Instead I will do my usual one hour delay day in bed before racing around spending seven minutes getting ready for work and bolting out the door with only an avocado and no bread to put it on.

Hangover cure?

Obsession with aging rockers increasing as hangover worsens. Am living dead, pig definitely shat in head only light in blurry darkness is thought of ripping tie off aging rocker before diving in for rather vigorous, um, actually haven't got to part after riping tie off. Maybe entire fantasy is to just rip tie off aging rocker? That's odd.

I saw one of the boys from the party in the supermarket on Enmore Rd, he squished past me as I was walking out the door with my shopping. I thought oh no, that's the one that I described as practicing aloof. I scared him by staring straight into his face and saying Hello Tom while he was still trying to work out if he recognised me or not. I didn't wait for his response, I had already turned my back and was walking down Enmore Rd by the time he said Hello. Ha! Take that Mr Aloof the knobtard.

Black blogdom update

I did not anticipate that that would happen. I think Frenchy the Fucktard took her blog down. I did not mean for that to happen. I did not want that to happen. Please do not stop doing what you do because I objected to what you said about me. You can say whatever you like about me and maybe I'll object maybe I won't but don't stop just cause of me.


Warcrime hangover. Meeting Spencer for coffee in less than half an hour but am wearing something can't leave house in. Must somehow dress and walk up street, will wear button up shirt as head too big to pass through neck hole of non button up shirt. Warcrime.

Oh dear

I think I sent an email to Rupert but I can't remember now. Sorry bout that.


Baaah! Ha ha ha. Lovely boys. Just lovely. There is one called Lexi that is interesting. There is one called Tom that is practicing aloofness and of course Mr SeeSee himself, their brave leader. There are others, a swarthy one, a short one and more. They are young and beautiful and not afraid to think. The Spatula and I went to the party with the intention of observing the younger generation and chuckling quietly at their youthful enthusiasm, which we did, but we also ended up squarely in the middle of it all. Look how good I spelling whilst drunk. Admirable!

We could walk there, so we did. We drank beer on the way, once there I opened and admittedly drank a bottle of red wine, something or other from SA left over from my fucking awful 30th birthday party which I viewed as though looking through a telescope the wrong way round, such is the power of a broken heart. I happily puffed away on joints offered by random strangers, stole yellow clothes pegs from their tweedy jackets, experimented freely with cherry advocaat in the kitchen and made off with seven water crackers from a packet I found on top of the microwave. At one point I was dancing by myself in the loungeroom by the light of a disco ball but I was soon joined by several Degrassi High type young things that bounced far too enthusiastically for me and if you are going to do the Molly Ringwald Breakfast Club dance you should at least do it accurately.

One of the lovely boys said that I summed his friend precisely in two words, better than he thought anyone ever could, which was nice. Looks like I should definitely go ahead with the Black Flamingo Productions idea. Gemma, we're on, let's be weird business partners in the world's craziest business, at least as an experiment. But oh dear look at the time. I've just had some chocolate and also ryvitas with vegemite on.

I stole a slice of The Spatula's plastic cheese. It comes in individually wrapped slices and is made of some sort of cheese-based plastic. Not undelicious when taken drunk on a ryvita with vegemite. Let's hope there was no actual milk in it or its instant death in my pants in the morning for me. My left foot is itchy now. I might try and have a glass of water.

Saturday, 25 August 2007

The importance of loveliness

It can be important to be appropriately dressed for different activities around the home. Today I am wearing my CIA housework outfit which is more fun then you'd expect.

Simply wear black beret, black stretchy trousers, black singlet and thongs with cherries printed on them then go about your business washing things, having cups of tea and having little sit downs between tidying things. This is an easy way to add value to your day and more fetching than wearing jeans and a big white cotton shirt with the bandanna of activity (royal blue paisley) which is a more usual housework outfit.

The Spatula has just given me a lovely little round flat blue container. It opens out and there is a mirror on one side and some powder stuff on the other side. Apparently the powder is the wrong colour for The Spatula but the right colour for me. I've never had one of these before and I am quite taken with opening it then snapping it shut to hear the lovely little clicky sound that it makes. There is a round spongey sort of thing that lives in the container and is used to apply the powder to your face. I might have a go at putting some on in a minute. The Spatula says that you can use it over the top of foundation (I don't have any!) or just on your face by itself. I am not sure of the purpose of it yet but am willing to have a go none the less.

So far since moving into this house, which I have taken to calling The Peach, I have been coerced into buying red lip stain (which is red for your lips but doesn't wear off like lipstick, good for a spaz like me), straightening my hair, buying eyeshadow and now I have a clicky little container thing which is a lovely object.

The good effect of loveliness is not to be underestimated. I am sitting on my bed on top of my lovely doona cover with cushions and pillows to lean on. My ashtray is a nifty green glass vintage one, the cat is purring at the end of the bed and all around me are my lovely objects and things. Grizelda calls my bedroom an explosion of Daleness. There are piles and piles of books, but they are in neat piles, glass objects, paintings, prints, flowers and the odd crystal vase. I am drinking elderflower water out of a well balanced glass and my laptop is quite the thing. There is sunshine in the window and teacups ready and waiting in the kitchen.

Today The Peach feels like an oasis. The Spatula is singing and ferreting around in her pottering way that she loves. Grizelda has just gone off on a jaunt to see some friends. I have washed the dishes, taken out the rubbish and hung out my clean clothes. No effort is required. I am an island in my CIA outfit alternately reading a book, pondering, drinking tea and staring about at my lovely things. I have even eaten two meals today. A muffin with vegemite for breakfast and for lunch I had another muffin, half with pesto on, the other half with an egg and pesto served with baby spinach leaves, grape tomatoes, olives and a big pot of Lady Grey tea on the deck.

This evening I will eat yet another meal (that's three, woo hoo! ) then I will watch Dr Who before dressing for a party. I might even dab on some powder before I go. Lovely.

The decision is final

I have been trying to decide for quite a few years now whether I am completely repulsed by Tim Rogers [he's in a band called You Am I for those of you not in the Oz rock loop] or if in fact I am dying and I mean dying to climb him like a tree.

Jury's in. I want to climb that man like a tree. I think.

Fuck! Am idiot! Spencer's band has played support for You Am I several times, his band is signed to the same label. Why oh why have I not done something about this conundrum sooner? I'm on a mission. Is it too late to phone Spencer?

I knew I'd come in handy one day

I have had an idea. Cath left this comment on my post On her first birthday I slipped back in time:
That really was beautiful stuff Dale. If only every family had you to chronicle the arrival of their little ones!

Ding! I have an idea. Did I really just say ding? Yes, appears that I did.

Writer for hire:

Buy yourself and your loved ones a unique gift. Have a writer record in elegant (cough) prose your poignant moments. First kiss, first fuck, break ups, divorce, births, deaths and marriages. No event too weird or small. Simply pop me in a corner with a nice cup of tea and a pink cupcake and off I go with my pen and notepad turning your transitory moment into something lasting and special.

Don't have any loved ones? Well how about I turn your pain into gain? Crucial moments with an ex, encounters with personal enemies, getting fired, waking up in the gutter, finding out the person you love hates your guts? No moment too sordid, desperate or weird.

Call D is for Dale to have your personal writer shadow you today.

Friday, 24 August 2007

Did you ever want to be a collective?

There is someone that reads my blog but not very often. The spy detection thing says that they are in Mooney Mooney but that doesn't mean a thing, it also says that Rupert is in Sydney. The Mooney Mooney person only ever clicks on the Elliot label and never reads comments. I am imagining that it is Elliot himself. I am wondering if it is Elliot then what is he thinking? I am wondering what I would think if I read these snippets about myself. I am wondering if he would somehow know that what I am really thinking is that I am trying very hard not to love him because it is the right thing to do.

I don't suppose it is Elliot, surely he would tell me if he was reading my blog?

Helter skelter.

Black blogdom

I was happily a checking out the blogs when....

"Some of the writers seem like nice people - but there a 2 who I really dislike. They constantly bitch and moan about their lives and analyse the fuck outta everything. I like to refer to their blogs as "Black Blogs".

These writers of Black Blogs, the ones who spew all this self-analytical, self indulgent dribble somehow manage to remind me how lucky I am - and how good things are for me."

and then

"I am constantly amazed at how the
Black Blog writers manage to suck the positive out of everything and regurgitate it, in the form of negative, toxic rants." (clickity click to zoom there to the one I have started thinking of as Iago to read the whole post, if I haven't ruined your eternal soul already and left without the energy to click the mouse).

Bloody hell! I thought, bloody hell. Who's poor blogs is she talking about and then I saw her links, its not very long and I'm on it. Oh dear. I don't know why I am giving a shit, should only be worthy of my casual disinterest. Maybe because I am stupidly childless and single (ooops forgot to get married and have a family how did I let that happen?) and I have all sorts of luxury time during which I can drain the souls of hapless others with my toxic ranting. Bubble bubble toil and trouble, fire burn in the blogdom bubble.

In honour of being dubbed a black blog I will be temporarily happy pink! HAPPY PINK.

I wish I was a pastry chef with chocolate in my hair

Let's hope that something interesting starts to happen soon. There is a danger that this blog is moving from normal blog boring into 'my left sock seems slightly looser than my right sock' territory. The most interesting thing that has happened today is that I discovered that if you put chocolate eclair style lollies on top of the heater for two minutes they lose that unnatural winter brittleness and regain the almost soft chewy texture they are meant to have. Oh and in case my boss is reading this I am waiting for a big thing to print, you know the thing that is printing the one that I need to courier to the other thing. Waiting. Waiting.

oh no

blah blah blah blah I mean come on now Slamma. Blah boring boring. Am I well enough to go to work? I don't know. I feel fairly terrible and I'm sitting in bed still, its raining and cold but if I stay home I could somehow be encouraging the sickness to hang around but on the other hand if I go to work and still feel sick and terrible than I have to trudge home again. Blog! Why won't you answer me? Useless blog.

Thursday, 23 August 2007

Water once again missing

This time from my battery. My personal onboard human battery. I am some kind of ill, I don't know what. Something to do with digesting or not digesting things and then there is the cold that climbs from bone to bone. I left the office early because I could not be there and feel so ill. Incompatible. I came home and sat nicely in my lovely bed in my white undies and white singlet thinking that the niceness of the sheets and the sunlight in the window would somehow help. It didn't and I ended up sleeping fitfully until almost 8pm.

The rest of the evening I have been sitting in various places around the house looking for somewhere to feel better. When I feel sick the only thing I can think of is that there is no one to look after me. No one to put me to bed and rest a hand on my forehead. I almost hate myself for this lonely pining feeling I get when I am sick. I phoned Elliot despite saying to myself all day that I wouldn't. When he answered I lay down and couldn't think of anything to say. I just wanted to hear his voice. I told him about the wedding I have been invited to but I did not tell him he was invited too. I don't know if I want him to come. I don't know if I could stop myself looking at him and leaning on him and imagining forever as they say their vows. I don't think I should do that to myself. I can deal with the pain in my head and my stomach, I can deal with the unnatural feeling of ice in my bones, I can deal with the low energy but I want more than anything to say Scalpel and have someone pass me the instrument to amputate my heart.

I am hacking into this post to say- what the fuck! I am an unbelievable sap. Buck up there Slamma, you girl's blouse. I can not believe that people who read this did not leave a comment saying- this made me vomit it was so stupid, I am never coming here again. Oh blah I am possibly maybe might going to feel sad if I take a lovely friend to a lovely wedding. Good grief. Oh no I feel sick. Boo fucking hoo. They really shouldn't let me have a blog, it's like giving me a microphone only much worse. For lunch I might like a watercress sandwich, some crisps and a nice cup of tea. Jolly good, carry on.

Wednesday, 22 August 2007

On her first birthday I slipped back in time

For the smallest person I know, on your first birthday I slipped back in time, back to a year ago when I walked differently, back to when I was the most important person in someone's life, back to a place where love was tangible and I wandered through the aquarium arm in arm.

In thinking of all the things I could possibly write to you they all meant essentially the same thing. Welcome to this world, we are all so very pleased that you arrived safely, nothing new, nothing new. Fond as I have always been of your parents something unexpected happened to push this into perspective. I'll explain in a slow way the small thing that happened.

Yesterday was a long warm day and by the time I caught the train at Redfern station I was exhausted. At first a sense of friendship and duty propelled me towards Penrith instead of Windsor and home. Artboy met me at Blacktown station where I had been waiting for twenty minutes stamping my feet, spilling my coffee and silently cursing as all the commuters streamed down the stairs and past me into waiting cars and buses.

By the time I was in the car and headed up the M4 I'd smoked way too many cigarettes, spilled half a soy latte down my jacket and generally smelled so bad that I felt worried. This was the first indication that something different was at hand. You see I regularly rock up to anywhere stinking like an ashtray with hair on end and half a muesli bar in my pocket. At the hospital I paid five dollars to park the car.

I walked into the room and positioned like sentries were Ron, my brother and Rhett. Artboy walked over to meet them and there you were in a plastic crate like nuts or taps at a hardware shop, you could have been wheeled in from anywhere.

Rita sat calmly and talked me through the birth. Spinal blocks, septic shock, a violent slashing through of muscles right into the core. How brave, how radiant and strong your beautiful mother. Ron held you easy as a tennis ball like heartache never existed. He said it was frightening when he came upstairs with just you, Rita pinned down by doctors and septic shock. He said frightening in a small flat voice with wide eyes, a half second where even the echo of his fear was unbearable to witness.

My brother sat ensconced in the corner, he is almost incapable of uttering an appropriate emotional response, it was his presence, his very presence, he came straight from work and stayed til visiting hours were over.

Ray came in, sandy-haired boy of a man. All of these men have sat in my house and let off firecrackers and drunk and smoked until dawn. Girlfriends come and hearts break even their friendships have hung by a thread but here they all are. We gather tonight like a pride. You have opened in us all the tribal urge to circle and protect. We stand in the spaces between ritual, searching each other, longing for the collective memory of arms and legs and hearts singing in age old celebration but we have none so we sit and stand and talk about anything but the beating of your heart.

I sit in the corner nearest the door slowing down my breathing, sitting in silent wonder at the fierceness welling in me. Ron passed you gently to Rita and a ripple went round the room, every muscle in every body flexed, all eyes on you, no thought but to ensure your safety in this one small movement. This is when we were more human, passionate, articulate, united than we have ever been. One moment, one movement, one gap between breaths. That was the small thing that happened.

Gold leader we have a problem, there are two Dale For A Days, I repeat two Dales today.

Dale For A Day by Gempires.

Since Dale Slamma has been a guest blogger on Gempires it is only fitting that Gempires shall now be guest blogger on Dale Slamma. And since Dale is The Captain, the theme of this post shall be Dale.

I imagine Dale sometimes. When I am imagining Dale she is almost always in one of two places - in her home, which I have never been to and therefore must invent for my mind; or on King Street, Newtown, which I know very well.

When I imagine Dale at home she is always having a cup of tea and a cigarette. I have almost no doubt that she keeps an ashtray by her laptop in her room, though she has never mentioned this. I sometimes wonder what she means by 'cup of tea.' I know she likes 'a cup of tea and a little sit down' (a favourite saying of hers, and it brings me the comfort of a soft mother in slippers) but we all have our different versions of 'cup of tea.' I mostly assume it is milky black tea with one sugar, but perhaps she is more inclined toward chamomile, or ginger? At any rate I know she uses soy milk because cow boobs have the wrong juice for her constitution, and so they should, as she is not a calf.

When I imagine Dale on King Street she is often standing in the gelato shop looking at the flavours and chatting to the person who spoons her fig sorbet into a cup. We have never clarified which gelato place she goes to, so while I suspect it may be the one opposite the supermarket (which was once a Woolworths, then an IGA, but I believe is now a Franklins) for some reason I always picture her at the one on the corner of Wilson Street. She always chooses a cup over a cone. I do not know why I have decided this.

My favourite place to imagine Dale is in her kitchen. I associate her kitchen with lots of wooden things - I am strangely comforted by wooden things: their look, their feel, their sound, their solidness - and in reveries I watch her eat from small wooden bowls at a dark wood table with walls that are half wood, much like you would find in an alpine cabin. I am not sure why I associate her with wood but I suspect it is because there is something calming about Dale. She seems to keep it together. If you drop something wooden it does not shatter.

I don't often imagine Dale at the stove. I think she is more of a sandwich and toast person. I do picture her at cafes with cake, I think she has mentioned cafes with cake, and since I have known Dale and have been reading her words I find myself thinking about cake much more often. This is a dangerous thing because I live so close to Acland Street in St Kilda which is famous for its proliferation of amazing cake shops with full window displays of tantalising tarts. I decided once that if Dale ever came to visit we would definitely have cake.

I think I knew Dale in a previous life. She seems exactly...something. Exactly right, I think is the best way to put it. Like, if I could have invented a person, I'd have made Dale Rockin' Slamma. For this reason, and she knows this, I feel like I have always known her.
And I hope I get to be guest blogger!

Dale For A Day by Anonymous.

"Look, it's on again!" he exclaimed, barely able to contain his excitement.


"Dale For A Day" Day!

She put down the newspaper and troddled over to the computer screen. "Damn," she thought, not giving voice to the word, lest the Parrot hear it and pick up another curse to add to his ever-growing repertoire.

"You know, the last time she did this, I had a brilliant, and I mean absolutely FUC--" she paused again, thinking of the bird. "I mean it was a bloody BRILLIANT post all ready to go, and some wanker beat me to it. I trashed the thing, you know."

"I know".

Her curiosity got the best of her. Again. "What's the theme this time?"

"Write something about me or to me or berating me or praising me or hating me; I don't care which and I will pick the one I react most strongly to, whether that is negative or positive."

"Oh hell, that's easy. I can think of several things off the top of my head." She rattled through them silently:

• Dale is hot, but tries to hide it with photos that make her look tired and haggard. Heh, that hits both "berate and praise", doesn't it?
• Dale is a helluva writer
• Dale is brutally honest with her readers and holds nothing back
• Dale is frequently incomprehensible until you've read the post twelve times. Then you realize she's a freaking genius.
• Dale is the object of fantasy for both men and women (that should raise a few eyebrows")!

"Fuck it. I'm not sending it in."

"Why not?"

"I can't take another rejection. Do you realize how hard I worked on the last one? I had a minute-by-minute account of her day all plotted out, and everything had a Beatles reference!"

He sighed and turned away.

"Well, maybe. I'll think about it. Where's that 'send' button?"

Tuesday, 21 August 2007

Something in the way you move or open slather bring it on fuck yeah

It is time for another Dale For A Day. Being the Special Guest Star on Gempires has reminded me that I started a 'segment' here called Dale For A Day. Anyone can be Dale for a day you just need to email me your post with details of whether or not you wish to remain anonymous. Last time it was first in best dressed but that was declared unfair by a local because they reckon the Americans are awake when they are asleep and got to read the post first.

I am setting a theme because I am The Captain of this blog, the theme is..... um.... shit, should have thought about that before I started typing. Ha! Me, Dale Rockin' Slamma. Write something about me or to me or berating me or praising me or hating me; I don't care which and I will pick the one I react most strongly to, whether that is negative or positive. You've got less than 24 hours, go.

Just like a tube of toothpaste but less minty

I am guest blogging on Gempires! Hooray for the fabulous Gemma. Clickity click to transport yourself to there.

or if you prefer Tim Sinclair to Dale Slamma...

Episode 5: The Dog Ate My Serial.

The amazing tale of the restorative mouthwash tonic

Once upon a time a Dale was moping, sitting on her bed turning over and over the dull coin of her existence when The Spatula and Grizelda burst through her bedroom door shouting and laughing about mouthwash. Experimentation in the bathroom had been taking place.

Grizelda was drooling due to having numbed her mouth with the blue one. The Spatula was beaming and laughing having whitened her teeth with the white one. Both maidens were pleased with their individual minty freshness but puzzled by the choice made by the other. Which is your favourite mouthwash Dale they pleaded, the blue or the white?

[Oh good lord where is this going? I have no idea but it might help to think WWJD? Indeed what would Jimi (Hendrix) do in this situation? Taking wisdom from Jimi is a difficult but rewarding way of life.]

Ah Grizelda and The Spatula I think if you look inside your minds you will discover I know what I want but I just dont know how to, go about gettin it feeling sweet feeling,
drops from my fingers, fingers. But if you're still in doubt you can always just dance it out cause that's what Dale thinking about Jimi would do.

I might have something in the works

But I'm not too sure what it is just yet. The odd feeling is slowly leaving, I am pushing against it as hard as I can. I am doing and thinking all the right things, I will not dig a hole to sit in this time.

Elliot phoned last night and we chatted happily, both concerned for the other as well as ourselves. I will phone him tomorrow and with each syllable push out the hollow places and return things to their proper place with me wishing that things were different, that he was not broken, but knowing at the same time that this is how it is and arriving at a place of acceptance. He is not the only man on this planet. He is not the only man on this planet capable of understanding me and in return being understood. There are good men that are whole and well and full of light and one of these days I am going to bump into one and say yes, you but before I speak the words he will lift a hand and place it gently on the side of my face.

This post is dedicated to kittens everywhere, especially those in New York State where the mean kitten killing god man lives.

Monday, 20 August 2007

Fuck it anyway

It looks like I have nothing to say. Nothing. Have used up allotted quota of words for lifetime. Its all mime from here on in.

Sunday, 19 August 2007

A distant constellation dying in the corner of the sky

Dale: Oh dear what can the matter be?

Three old ladies stuck in the lavatory!

Dale: They'll be there from Monday to Saturday.

Oh dear what can the matter be atterby?

Dale: Well actually I think it is both complicated and ridiculously simple. Nature give us shapeless shapes, clouds and waves and flame.

Isn't that another Paul Simon lyric?

That's entirely beside the point.

There could be a copyright issue.

But I was already singing to myself you're the one, you broke my heart, you made me cry.

Who is the song about?

Oh, its just me. I don't need anybody else to sing about.

Buskers: Madam Squeeze: $2

This photo wasn't sideways a second ago. Madam Squeeze has Europe in her bones, she is accomplished, she speaks to your heart and your feet. She is worth more than $2.

Maybe just maybe I am fine with this

Or not. I haven't decided, maybe we weren't doing it right. No, that's not what I mean. I am confused by the absence of confusion. Before, or rather towards the beginning it was decided between us that we could do this without hurting each other. I said I'm not looking for anything other than friendship and as I said it I was astonished at the clarity of my meaning. I am not looking for anything other friendship with this man, right now. I love him, this is beyond doubt but it is not the fickle love that comes and goes with haircuts or seismic shifts.

I am astonished to find myself calmly sitting here after leaving him on King St with the dreaded Mr X. I whizzed myself off to the aquarium to spend a few hours with friends staring at fish as it was too rainy for the zoo. I am astonished that today I have no more words.

You don't bring me flowers

When not to fuck a buddy. I don't know the answer to this question because I just fucked one, a good one, one that I may or may not love. I feel odd, that is all. Maybe I am just tired. I need to think about this.

Friday, 17 August 2007


Ha! Reporting reporting recording in my brain. Internal non-stop ticketape parade, here is where I throw it out the windows. Men smiled at me on the street tonight so I stopped and asked Grizelda if I had sauce on my face. I didn't so I asked her why they were smiling at me and she said "Der, they are smiling at you, not sauce on your face". Oh that's odd I thought.

Things were a whirl of exhaustion, there was dinner at The Italian Bowl, sorbet of course and a short black that made me feel like I was space walking. I followed some amazing looking pirate/cowboys for a few blocks trying to take a sneaky photo but I couldn't manage it in the end. I am suddenly too excited to keep typing. I am going to the zoo on Sunday. The zoo! Lions and tiger and bears!

I looked for Mr X but of course he is never to be bumped into when the urge hits. This is probably a good thing. Mr X bad. Good night.

Thursday, 16 August 2007

My post from Liner Notes

Oh no Metro! My car was in need of inspection and having a pathological fear of the rogue mechanic in isolated industrial estates I elected the rooftop k-mart auto to do my inspecting. This is how I spent two hours of my life in a shopping centre navigating by smudges on tiles and pondering the nature of the labyrinth.

The residents of Newtown (Goths, Punks, Emos, Indie Kids, Hippies, just the usual) can ordinarily be found pushing their ironic granny shopping trolleys around in the Metro so imagine my surprise when I saw middle aged people in nicely ironed clothes wandering about buying things and smiling at each other saying things like Hello George how’s the wife? I don’t think I’ve ever been out and about before nine on a Saturday before, I didn’t realise I was time sharing my suburb with the middle classes.

I determined to read as much of the newspaper as possible, after a mere thirteen minutes navigating I located both a newsagent and a café. Brilliant until I tasted the coffee. Repellent. Utterly repellent and the very small cupcake (without pink icing) was $2.50 but any negative thoughts about coffee were soon chased away by the discovery of the words glioblastoma multiforme. It was love at first sight. These are the best new words I have discovered since vicissitudes and unitard.

Everything was brilliant until my space was invaded by people called Keith and Sharon. Keith was wearing high pants and an ironed tucked in polo shirt, Sharon was wearing floral jeans and a smock top, as if this wasn’t horrifying enough she managed to combine bad hair, cat wee perfume and teeth indistinguishable from gums. This is how I ended up reading the newspaper outside in the gutter just near the bus stop until the icy wind of death made it necessary to relocate to the park bench weirdly placed outside the pet shop.

Try as I might I could not disappear inside the newspaper. Millions of words came clambering at my eyeballs in articles about brain cancer and rock’n’roll and Post Modern Australian fiction but the Metro kept claiming my attention so I walked. I circumnavigated the entire shopping centre five times searching for meaning under fluorescent lights, this is not something I am going to recommend.

The Metro turned out to be unplottable, every corner delivered me somewhere I thought was five minutes from now. It seems the architects have been studying their myth and history. Imagine, a labyrinth in my very own neighbourhood, how very unexpected. I think I’m going stick with walking the streets and pondering on corners in the electric daylight from now on. In a strange twist of events it seems it was the Flaneur that conquered the Minotaur.

I am in love with this painting

Burrel Parade by Luis Martinez. The artist, who is now my 'friend' on Fspazbook tells me he has moved to Melbourne. Damn that city. Too many people I might like to talk to move there, first it was the tidal pull east into the city and now that I am here everybody has gone south. I was never very good on my cardinal points.

I've just showed this painting to Robert and he says he doesn't get it, says it leaves him cold and this is making me think. This is a map of how I am beginning to think about this painting and Luis's other work - my manuscript, Jeffrey Smart, my manuscript, bare feet on hot concrete in the dying light, a syncopated echoing of sprinklers. Place and displacement, isolation and community. Western Fucking Sydney.

I'll be back once I've done some thinking but in the meantime what do you think?

Roll of the dice

Well you win some and others.... As per Creamboy's instructions I have turned my life (partially) over to the roll of the dice. Today as I was pondering about vegans and their dire lack of B12 I took a gamble and now I am locked into a vegan experiment.

I will become a temporary vegan for two weeks commencing Saturday the 1st of September. What I need is a volunteer to make me a meal/shopping plan because I am a spaz an example of this is last night I was exhausted and after I fed the cat I ate three spoonfuls of nutella out of the jar and declared that dinner. So Creamboy and his rampant vegans I'm looking to you for clear ideas on what the hell to eat for two weeks otherwise it'll be toast, sorbet and coffee. Now if you'll excuse me I'm going back to my roast beef sandwich.

Wednesday, 15 August 2007

Oooh exciting

I am both here and in Liner Notes as a super special double Dale one day only deal. Please note the Liner Notes guest post is not the Marrickville Metro essay but the notes for the idea of it, sorry Gemma.

Oh and super thanks to NWJR for letting me invade his blog, which is written in Upstate New York, that's very exciting. I wish I was in Upstate New York. Is Upstate meant to be one word? I don't know I 'm just rambling again.

I accept

Creamycam said...

Think of my own dare? Ok...

1. I dare you to offer your soul to the next person who enters the front door of your house.

2. I dare you to imagine for an entire day that you're walking upside-down, and that there is a constant imminent threat that you will fall into the clouds.

3. I dare you to use the word 'dragonfly' in a sentence that illustrates how much you care about someone.

4. I dare you to make all of your decisions by the role of two dice, a la Beyond the Labyrinth, by Gillian Rubenstein.

Dale says:

1. The Spatula was the next person to walk in the door of my house and I vote that she doesn't count because she lives here, plus she has already stolen enough souls, she's not getting mine. Wait. I can't offer my soul to anyone because that bloody Mr X nicked it over chips with gravy and a shandy.
2. Ok, Saturday I will imagine.

3. To Mr X: I chased the dream of you across Newtown metallic and absent as a dragonfly until I looked in my left pocket and found you'd stuffed it with your own self-portrait.

4. I have already done a version of this with my experimenting but I will throw my life open
once again. Leave directions in the comments. I will do as instructed and report back.

Tricksy but not undefeatable

Exhaustion feels the same as despair. You'd know this if you've got the tide marks of despair in your eyes. I can see it if you have, it is instantly distinguishable, like a tattoo or a birthmark or the woman who carries the memory of rape.

There is a granular feel to my mind. All things slipping off one another made of mercury gravel. This is a night for ignoring thought and remembering that exhaustion is not the same as despair, no matter how similar the clothing.

Why do I like this?

Tuesday, 14 August 2007

Excogitate or just plain cogitate

"This country's planted thick laws from coast to coast... and if you cut them down... d'you really think you could stand upright in the winds that would blow then?" Robert Bolt A Man for All Seasons.

What is it about the law that has such a hold on me? I am sitting here on my bed in Grizelda's shower cap with dye periodically dribbling down behind my ears wondering about the nature of reason and justice. Gleeson CJ [CJ refers to Chief Justice] says in his book The Rule of Law and the Consitution "Law is not the enemy of liberty; it is its partner." I am not Gleeson CJ's biggest fan it is not secret that Kirby J is my all time favourite High Court judge. I went to hear him speak once and I almost swooned at the end of the lecture. His mind is fabulous. I could almost see the auditorium air fill with whirring cogs and the fog of all knowledge coiled at the merest nod of his head. If I could think. If I could think like that I would, actually I don't know what I would do, most likely I would apply myself diligently to something instead of dying my hair in order to be more ROCK but I digress.

I am once again beginning to think with clarity. I am beginning to be glad that I sacrificed five years of my life to study law. I beginning to think that I can think.

The dog ate my serial

Episode 4.

I fucked up the feed somehow

This is a boring notification to notify that I have fucked up the feed somehow and you may need to resubscribe but only if you want to. You might be happy rereading the What the hell is this? post forever and ever and ever each day being surprised and delighted by the odd elegance and charm of the giant broom thing.

There's no water!

And I'm not talking about the drought. Grizelda suddenly found herself mid-shower with a head full of shampoo and no way of washing it out. Our landlord had suddenly found it necessary to turn the water off for some reason or other without telling us first, right in the middle of everyone getting ready to go to work. The house is in considerable uproar and I have to confess that I am rather enjoying it. I like a bit of uproar now and then but I am of course terribly glad that I am not the one with the shampoo in my hair.

Actually being stuck with soapy nether regions is a bit of a fear of mine. If I was to lose water in a showering situation I would prefer it to be right at the beginning well before any kind of soap makes an appearance. But back to my own particular problem, I am still suffering from blastoma voodooitis of the mid regions and very much feel that a fully operational toilet would be a handy thing to have. There's the no water situation to be dealt with and the office to be dressed for, there's no point in staying here if there's no water no matter how bad the voodooitis. If only I had had some notice I could have filled the bath with water to flush the toilet with and wash the cat in an emergency cat-washing situation. Oh well, better get on with it.

Monday, 13 August 2007

What in the hell is happening?

The area between my neck and my legs has gone mental. I need some kind of personal emergency ambulance helicopter. It is not a digestive upset, it is not menstrual cramping but something in between. I think I am being attacked by somebody twisting a voodoo doll in the middle. This is the only logical explanation. I feel lightheaded and look fetchingly pale. Consumption? Spazitis of the middle regions? Blastoma of the guts?

Oh wait I know what it is. I've been reading a book called The Constitution and The Rule of Law for fun. I had forgotten I am allergic to the law. I can not digest it without ill effect. It is the artificial reasoning [it is actually called that]. Artificial reasoning is not good for a person. I've lost my counter intuitive legs, been on land too long you see. The sum of human reasoning should be approached with caution, I will don my showjumping helmet and gloves before proceeding. I think its going to be a long night.

Sunday, 12 August 2007

What the hell is this?

It looks like a giant broom head but round and hollow. It is across the road and a few houses down. I think I can feel it looking at me through the wall, I'm starting to get a bit worried. I'm also worrying about my sudden and complete obsession with the word glioblastoma or more accurately glioblastoma multiforme. Glioblastoma the word sounds like the most fun it is possible for a person to have without exploding but its meaning is in fact almost the opposite. It is a sort of deadly brain octopus which may or may not be from outer space and will most likely kill you until you are dead. Here lies Dale Rockin' Slamma, she thought she was at a marvellous party and insisted on wearing her Rolling Stones t-shirt right until the very end but it was only glioblastoma multiforme slithering into her brain, may she rest in party.

Another excellent word is gliss. or glissando but I prefer the shortened form gliss. The italics are important because the only time I see the word is in a musical score as an instruction in italics so that is how I think of it. I am not so pleased with the actual sound of glissandi in isolation, it is a sound that requires context and I'm not talking Great Balls of Fire here, it shakes my nerves and it rattles my brain.

I spent quite a lot of time this weekend writing an essay about the Marrickville Metro. I am working together ideas of the labyrinth, the Thunderdome, glioblastoma multiforme, newspapers and my own personal happiness. I had a fabulous time writing this essay with all the while in the back of my head the thought of rocking the blog world with the brilliance of my essay post. I sat at the table out on the deck in the lovely winter sunshine having cups of tea and eating pink cupcakes that Grizelda made. I haven't been this happy forever and that's when I put down my pink notepad and pencil and stopped. Sometimes it is the process and not the product that truly matters.

Buskers: Blues dudes: $1.20

These men are not masters of The Blues but I don't think you need to be. The Blues will forgive you almost anything if you can adequately construct its walls and they did. I sat two shops down out the front of Gelatomassi enjoying the cheek sucking in effect of my lemon sorbet joyfully encapsulated by their musical walls. What I love about The Blues is the structure, the resolving and resolving predictability of modulation that creates a safe place to inhabit. Sometimes you are most creatively free within set boundaries and this is a case in point as the harmonica wailed my existence in the house built by guitar. Fuck me I love Newtown.

Saturday, 11 August 2007

It is possible that Wil Anderson might want to marry me

Well, you never know. I'm going off to the Enmore to see him, just as soon as I sensibly cook and eat dinner. Wish me luck.

Thursday, 9 August 2007

From the Styx

I will let my friend speak for himself despite my general dislike for music made by hippies.

I am the forest activist who was chained to the ground through a car in the Styx Rd.

At 8:30am three police officers arrived in two police cars. I jumped into the car and locked myself into the pipe. Within moments my police liaison team were arrested without warning and put to the back of a paddy wagon by two young police officers. I was left alone with the senior officer who asked if there was anybody in the car. I said yes and asked for him to talk to my liaisons. The same police officer then attempted to smash the windows of the car with his elbow and on failing this smashed through the back driver's side window with a large stone. He opened the drivers side door jumped on top of me stating "I'm sick of you greenie c*nts". He then proceeded to hit my face repeatedly, stuck fingers up my nose, gouged at my right eye, pushed my head into the steering wheel with his knee, twisted my neck and verbally abused me. I was yelling, "This is not right, you are being filmed", to which he replied, "That's why I didn't break the other windows."

Around twenty contractors, obviously aggravated at the valley being blockaded, arrived soon after. The contractors began threatening me, intimidating me, throwing cold water on me and filming me. Had the police officer not been so volatile in his initial contact with me I would have considered unlocking myself at this point but felt safer being attacked by one police officer in side the car than locking off and being left alone with twenty angry contractors. I was inadvertently put in a position where it was both unsafe and unwise to unlock myself from the ground. SES and police rescue were called due to their experience in these situations, however, they could not come until the next day. Instead I had volunteer fire brigade and ambulance officers who were in no way equipped to handle the situation. I was given the option of staying locked on for another night or having some of the boys dig me out. I explained that I would happily wait. They chose to dig me out. The contractors started working towards my release, not with professional tools such as the Jaws of Life, oxy torches and grinders. They used an axe, screwdrivers, a shovel, a car jack and a rock to dig at the concrete. Unprofessional tools wielded by unprofessionals in a situation where my wellbeing was not their priority. The car was jacked up, stretching my arm to expose the concrete. I questioned my safety and in response was hit with the butt of the axe in the arm. This turned into somewhat of a sick game where I talk, I get hit and my 'rescuers' laugh. It was announced by one of the contractors that a reporter for the Mercury had arrived and I thought this would help my situation. However I was told to keep my mouth shut and the car door was closed so as not to see me. The door was opened around fifteen minutes later after she had gone. When the door was opened there were some wives of contractors present getting told, "Take a look at this ugly stinking ippy." A blunt object hit my arm once more and when I screamed and swore in agony I was told "Don’t swear in front of the ladies" and was hit again. The digging and hitting rescue lasted about three hours. I released my clip when it became blatantly obvious that my arm was in danger, once a contractor drove up in his machine to lift the car up. This would have meant my arm would be suspending four bags of concrete. I collected belongings, some of which were soaked by logger’s urine and was driven away uncuffed in the front of a police car with country and western playing through the external speakers of the car.

Throughout my ordeal my civil liberties and basic human rights were stripped of me. The police officer and others abused me both physically and mentally during my 'rescue' for standing up for my beliefs that old growth should not be logged and that Tasmanian forestry practices are poor and unsustainable.

Recommended by Madam Squeeze

Are good things such as bad robot dancing in a goth club, Gary Numan and spicy beef wonton noodle soup. Everybody knows that Thursday is Happy Chef day. Oh yes it was a good day.

Things I recommend listening to Madam Squeeze and her amazing accordion next time you walk down King St. I also like to hug her while she wearing her accordion because of the joyful noise it makes but I only do this because she is my friend.

Walking up to Newtown from the office in the fading light I was headed straight into the clear twilight blue that arched into indigo. Sometimes all that you need is your own steady footsteps and rhythm of your heart.

Wednesday, 8 August 2007

D is for Dale who took life by mistake

So I went hunting poets and I did nab one. A famous one but by nabbing I mean a thing for work. I walked up to Glebe Point Rd, a nice half hour from the office and listened happily to tunes by Spencer on my mp3 thingy. Spencer recently revealed that he does most of his song writing whilst walking around with that long particular stride of his. This explains the biological pulse that drives his music. When he was explaining it to me in the Courthouse one evening his spoken words took on the same rhythm and just for a moment I was invited into his mind, into his creative well. That was a spectacular moment but that was two weeks ago.

Tonight in Sappho's reading the fucking brilliant beginning of a$4 book, The Deep Field by James Bradley (I feel bad about buying second hand books because the author does not receive any royalties, sorry James) and sipping a fucking brilliant soy latte I thought this is alright. I'm rather enjoying myself and I have the words words words of poets to keep me company later if I start to feel lonely.

I took a little wander around the place and chatted with the poet who once called me gracious and the organiser of the event who resembles a demented muppet when in front of a microphone. I was just considering a second chocolate croissant (I am allowed to eat as much cake as I like this week as long as I stay alive in a kind of temporary Faustian pact) when in walked the man from SeeSee. He is lovely and young and brilliant, he introduced me to his friend who had heard about me, woo hoo for people telling other people about me, there should be more of it. They joined me at my little round table and before long in came The Spatula and the poetry began. Most of the poetry was dire but being but recently reacquainted with the joys of being alive I cared not a fig and filled the space expecting resonance with idle chatter and the good accidental bumping of shoulders. At the beginning of proceedings the MC gave me a mention and point, getting me to raise my hand for identification, that was fun. It was along the lines of And Dale Slamma from (my work) is here this evening, raise your hand Dale, if anyone needs advice on stuff something else blather whatsy and then... people clapped. That was unexpected but I am rambling. I am the Captain of what I post.

Ah now I need to thank two people for cupcakes, firstly Damo who kindly baked me a virtual one and to Giselle on Facebook who sent me some sort of Facebook cupcake (I didn't know you could do that). Hooray for cupcakes and goodnight Australia its time to let the pillows do the stylin'.

I'm wearing a different tie & I'm hunting


Tuesday, 7 August 2007

I'm wearing a tie and I've chosen my crazy

Wearing a tie renders an everyday outfit respectable unless you are a schoolboy with the amazing ability to make everything appear shambolic. This is a new and interesting fact about me wearing ties and now for the crazy.

4:15pm this afternoon I went outside to the office courtyard to have a cigarette, by this time I was seriously considering plotting a way out of this damn planet, for good when something shifted and a long forgotten sentence scrolled in. What you think is what you feel. Simple stupid. This is something I already know, if I pay attention to what I am thinking I can start to change the way I feel. Simple stupid. So I lined up the troops for battle and what do you think happened?

A tilt and a shimmer, the upstairs window nearly jumped out of its frame and in an instant the beast unhooked and was lost. The SMH called it the mystery of shaking houses but I know what it was. I'm wearing a tie and my black dog shook the world in retreat.

Monday, 6 August 2007

Who's breaking your heart while I'm breaking mine?

Point ridiculous. When you are in the kitchen and a housemate comes home from work and asks you how your day was you can say Fine thank you and carry on chopping the giant mushroom or you can throw yourself on the floor and try to stop your heart beating and hope that the ambulance arrives too late. I chose the mushroom. This is what I do. I always choose the mushroom and I'm sick of it. I want a go of the crazy.

I want to wake up on the floor all the way through a bottle of vodka and know that nothing else matters because I can drink another one today. I want to run out of the house screaming and leave everyone to pick my pieces while I sit sheltered and responsibilities bounce off my shell. I want to lie under the doona and not come out, no matter what. I want to waste away my brain cells one at a time until the government pays for someone to come to my house every day and feed and bathe me. I want to smash the computers in my office and set fire to the place, I want to walk out of there in tall boots with broken glass crunching under my heels.

But I am the one who carries on. I am the one with the silent screams and the calm busy hands. This is boring, even for me. I'm sick of being only shadow.

Sunday, 5 August 2007

Cross stations

Or battle roads, I don't know. Artboy phoned, it was business, he is putting money into my account to try and pay off the terrible debt he left me with but he said its good to talk to you. I didn't know what to say, I kept repeating myself and thanking him for paying the money to me even though its not enough to cover the debt. I don't know what I'm doing. I didn't feel anything while I was talking to him. Not a damn thing and I still don't. This is curious. I wonder if I have become an unconscious master of blocking him out. I wonder if some silent night I will once again start sobbing and be unable to stop or if this is it, the end. What a piteous end to a love that restrung my dna, turning red into blue. A polite conversation about banking, the click of the phone, two beats of my heart then nothing.

I am furious with myself for over-complicating things with Elliot when there is really no need to. He is a good friend. He is possibly the only friend that understands almost every corner of my heart. He always knows precisely what I mean, sometimes before I do. There is no need for this stupid head of mine to try and fast forward through time and space. He is a good friend and nothing has happened to change that. I have not done anything wrong, I have not attempted to manipulate things, I have not uttered a false word, I have not held his hand to the fire and I don't intend to. One sentence keeps running through my mind. It was there when Grizelda was chattering something while my electric toothbrush whirred, it was there when the man in a queue stood too close to my left elbow, it was there when the cat purred on my lap, it is here now. I do not wish to be disturbed. But what does that mean and why is it running dot matrix through my head?

Tea Party

I decided to throw a tea party on the deck to celebrate my housemates returning home. We are a diverse trio. When our household divided in three yesterday evening we took determinedly different paths.

Grizelda went west. The couple she went to stay with quarreled and they left the pub as soon as they arrived only to find themselves locked out of the house. A window was smashed and tempers frayed though Grizelda maintains it wasn't entirely a write off.

The Spatula arrived home from a night of high flying that included being on the guest list at Zeta Bar, using shampoo to make bubbles in the Hilton penthouse spa bath and waking up next to a toy designer. To my absolute delight The Spatula managed to stuff her handbag full of Crabtree & Evelyn goodies from The Hilton's bathroom. Nice one.

And as for me, well I think you already know, I may have left out the part where I watched The Bill, that June Ackland was getting proposed to again. She knows how to bag them that June.

Damn him

Almost immediately after I pressed publish post on the last post the internet went down and the phone rang. It was Elliot phoning 'illegally' from the rehab to make sure I was ok, to demonstrate his ability to hug down the phone, to say all the right things. How is it possible that I have let him become so ingrained that every second thought is of him? This is going from shit to fuck in a hurry. I need a new solution. I need a Dale distraction. I need to be the Captain of how I feel.

Saturday, 4 August 2007

Shaking Elliot

Dale I would rescue you if I could but I can't. That is I want to rescue you but I'm not in a position to right now. I'll call you this afternoon and see how you are going, see if you've managed to find someone to keep you company this evening and then we can talk on the phone tonight if you're lonely.

Yeah right, good thing I'm not holding my breath waiting for that phone call seeing as its 10pm, I left a message for him at five and he hasn't called me back. This is the shake I've been needing, Elliot is by definition a fuck up and it doesn't matter how I bother to think of him in my head because the cold hard fact is that he doesn't love me, doesn't mean what he says and I'm wasting head space imagining the impossible.

Bring on the night

Loose end. That's me. Usually I would delight in the turn of events that will leave me with the house all to myself tonight but this week I have been curiously flat and filled with the evil seeds of loneliness.

Desperately seeking Dale. I need to be sought out, I need someone anyone just one person to seek my company but its not going to happen. Everyone I know is filled with busy plotting plans for the night that do not involve me so I will sit here in this house and bat away my demons, one at a time until it is late enough to attempt sleep. In the meantime I might try and tire myself with menial tasks and pointless wandering, I am uninterested and uninteresting but I'm hoping its only temporary.


I was just undressing for bed when I realised I might be a bit cold, that's where the wow comes in. How great are pyjamas! It is possible that I may have been smoking something. This might have lead me to believe that taking alternative bites of coconut cake and toast with salami was as close to heaven as you're going to get.

The evening began with a ritual stroll to Guzman Y Gomez but took on a variation when The Spatula and Grizelda took me to a cocktail bar. I am in love with a drink. This must remain top secret. The whole drink was divine from bottom to top, everything about it was perfect including my deft picking up of maraschino cherries, chopstick style, using two straws. The drink was potent enough for me to part with fifty dollars at the record shop and leave smiling despite this being a very stupid thing to do. I didn't even mind when The Spatula and Grizelda barred me from the sorbet shop and then the cafe. I happily walked all the way home without looking at anything, standing on any street corners imagining dead poets or even bothering to look about me or think about things in any way at all. I didn't even eat one thing made from figs.

The Spatula took me for a drive to pick something up from someone and I ended up sitting at the most enormous kitchen table I've ever seen drinking seriously good red wine, smoking some things whilst dipping bread in oil and trying very hard to take seriously the people telling me that the government puts fluoride in the water to sedate the population. You never know what's going to happen next when you walk up the street in Newtown, I'm still trying to work out if this is a good thing.

Thursday, 2 August 2007

We sold our clothes to the state, I make a lot of mistakes

I need to add smoke and mirrors to the room of lamps and shadows analogy of Mr X. He is man-shaped toxicity. Walking away from one coke, one shandy and half a bowl of chips at the Courthouse with Mr X I closed my eyes and wished for an industrial chemical emergency shower. I wanted to tear off my clothes and blast away all thought of him using the fire hydrant on King St. Mr X is a man to be avoided.

He peppers his conversation with invisible suicide dives and lines every damn thing with bile. He smiled over his beer and talked of things meant to disarm whilst sliding across the table propositions of malice. He wants me to think ill of Elliot, even dragging out the ridiculous 'did you know Elliot is afraid of jelly?'. I'm well aware of Elliot's feelings towards jelly, this is unlikely to have any serious side effects. But he was sinister and nasty amidst the ridiculousness and I am dying to phone Elliot and tell him he was right all along. I urged him to contact Mr X, to maintain the friendship despite all of Elliot's objections. Elliot thought he was negative and toxic and I stupidly would not believe him because he formed this opinion before going to rehab. I was dying to phone Elliot and tell him but now I'm not so sure.

Yesterday walking down Botany Rd in Waterloo I stopped dead outside the supermarket and stared stupidly at a clay tile set into the pavers. Help make this a chewing gum free zone. I don't think so. Chewing gum is related to bubble gum and I love bubble gum. I went in to the supermarket to buy some but again stopped in my tracks. Artboy was in the chocolate, floor cleaners, soft drinks and pet food aisle. I followed him around the supermarket for five minutes before he turned around abruptly and sort of stamped a foot in my direction. It wasn't him. It obviously wasn't him and I don't why I thought it was. I left without bubble gum.

Sitting on the brick wall outside the supermarket I smoked a cigarette and scrolled through my phone looking for people to call [There's a Troy in my phone, I don't know any Troys this is very odd]. I phoned Ron and after niceties and listening carefully to Ron's news of the day he told me something that my brother had said. My brother said "Dale thinks that Elliot is her boyfriend. She must have had him lined up before Artboy went mental." All that resulted from this knowledge sits heavy and silent. I think I might need to have a lovely biscuit with a cup of tea. I've got some people to cross off my Christmas card list.