Thursday, 31 January 2008

Like a memory

The rain is adequate. I went and fetched dinner from Enmore Rd where people dashed across roads and down side streets or huddled under awnings. I strolled with my box of dinner holding my face up to the steady stream. The rain is adequate, it made my shirt heavy across my heart shifting things internal external. I keep saying I am sad. I feel sad. I am sad. I don't need bigger words. This is something that will lift. I feel a shifting towards the click of writing. I have been absent from myself. Zissou uninhabited me. He was a distraction from myself with his strong broad hands steering me through crowds with a light touch, opening doors, pulling out chairs, pushing creaks from my back. I was the opposite of bold and it was as brave as I could be. I was unspectacular.

Now I feel diligent words crawling beneath floorboards. I am reading with fresh intensity words across time. Letters from those who fought the pen. I know who I am. This is all I need to know. A writer writes.

Hello Mediamonitors

I am curious. Who are you?

Wednesday, 30 January 2008

Smut meme or I am so sorry that this is what is on my blog please direct all complaints to someone else as I already feel a bit low tonight becuase

you see I lost something this evening. I don't even know what it was. I wasn't able to hold it in my hands. I was too busy battoning hatches and not saying words out loud. I made a cast of myself and held it out in front waving its stupid plaster arms. I've become a marionette fortress good against the traitor within but open to flights of arrows.

Rups has tagged me for the second time. I did not complete my first tagging mission as I generally prefer to be smutty in person than on paper (or screen) but if I wasn't doing this right now I would be listening to the mixtape Martin sent me and indulging in some first class self pity. I am a little sad. I am sitting on the bed sticking my fingers into the space where possibility sat. It is not terminal but my hands are in my hair and my chin is cast down at an angle. My elbows are wide and careless. My left foot is tucked under my right ankle. My skin forgets so easily that it is skin.

So this Meme ...

You're welcome to post it on your blogs. You must call it the Smut Meme, you must link to me in the beginning paragraph, and you must tag 2 people, and link to them as well. Oh, and you must post this little blurb of instructions at the beginning, as has been done here.

1. Chocolate or Whipped Cream:
No. I firmly believe that things can be washed but I do not like to wash them in the middle of the night. I recently poured wine over a man and then licked it off and that is messy enough for me. I have lovely sheets.

2. Leather or PVC:
I generally prefer to own leather shoes. They are more comfortable for your feet and I find they breathe nicely and do not crack as easily. It is unfortunate that they can not be made shiny with bathroom cleaning spray.

3. Outdoor Sex or Indoor Sex:
In summer a screened veranda is ideal. The mozzies will not bite but there is an excellent freshening breeze. In winter outside is fine if there are adequate blankets and a fire. These are things that I have imagined because mostly inside is more convenient and local. I have never lived in a house with a screened veranda.

4. In the Jacuzzi or In Bed?
What the hell is a jacuzzi? Is that the same as a spa? Spas are terrible for fucking. A woman needs traction not floatation.

5. Bad Sex or No Sex:
Seeing as I will most likely never have sex again this question is not relevant, not relevant at all. The tealeaves have spoken.

6. Dominate or Be Dominated:
Well now. I don't know about that. Rups seems to think that it is all an illusion anyway.

7. Thigh highs or Bodystocking:
Unitard! I love to say the word unitard. Does anybody own a unitard?

8. Fast or Slow:
Doesn't matter. The tealeaves those cursed tealeaves.

9. Rough or Gentle:
In my imagination there is no hesitation, we walk together hand in hand. I'm dreaming. Sorry about that I seem to have been communing with the ghost of Kylie Minogue. Is she dead? No. Oh, sorry. I am glad she is not dead because I would not like to see ads on telly for best of Kylie albums, they would be very irritating.

10. Bite or Suck:
Are we still talking about chocolate and whipped cream because I need to tell you that I'm lactose intolerant. This is important because of the bloating and the sick making. Very bad to have lactose. Very bad indeed. When I invented the cow I had no idea that it would produce a substance poisonous to humans. This is the first animal that I invented. I was much better with the goat.

11. Role play or Reality:
Oh come on now these questions are just getting annoying.

12. Dirty Talking or Dirty Talking To:
Once or twice a man successfully managed the dirty style of talking or was it two different men. Wait I think it was two different men on different occasions. One was very very drunk.

13. Edible panties or No Panties:
Panties is an American word. I prefer the words knickers or underpants.

14. Spanking paddle or Bare-handed:
Paddle? What exactly is a paddle? Are we talking canoe paddle? Surely that would put holes in the ceiling.

15. Landing Strip or Kojak:
What? Oh. I see. I do not like a man that over-maintains.

16. Multiple Sessions or One Good Fuck:
This a bone of contention in The Peach. We are hoping to one day have a party funded by fifty cent pieces in a jar. If a Peachette has sex they put fifty cents in the jar but unfortunately we have been unable to work how many fifty cents per go. Does it count as a new fifty cents if you have a cigarette break?

17. Moaning or Screaming:
Is this question really asking if you prefer to shag zombies or zombie victims? This is a very odd question. Once I watched a movie called "Shawn of the Dead" which contained zombies and zombie victims who then turned into zombies so I'm sure you can understand my confusion.

18. Older Men or Young Men:
Ah now. I had thought it was younger men but I was mistaken but I could be mistaken now. Perhaps I had better just have a go at a few different ones and get back to you when I'm in a more informed position.

19. Threeway or No Way:
I would be perfectly happy to discover just one person on planet earth that would like to have a go at shagging me. Surely there must be one, somewhere out there beneath the rancid smog haze someone's thinking of me. Well probably not actually. Nope. No one at all.

20. Swing or No Swinging:
I am fairly certain that swinging requires a partner. I am a solo Dale alone in the universe, just me and the cat and a kite I once bought for someone else but never gave to them. I also have small statue of a tiger, it is very small, about five centimetres. It reminds of being small.

I suppose I had better tag people so that the blog fairy of doom does not cast further doom upon me. I tag Creamboy and Martin.

Well then

Zissou has gone. We met for a drink then he had to go to a family dinner thing. He leaves first thing in the morning.

Tuesday, 29 January 2008

The Dog Ate My Serial: Series Two

The very fine Tim Sinclair of Cottage Industry Press has just launched The Dog Ate My Serial: Series Two.

It comes in like a phantom tide

Perspective, when it hits, is often late and sometimes unwelcome. What a distraction I am to myself when I wind all the winding parts and my arms turn in tiny monkey circles while I whizz and whir through Slammatown.

Today I was a different shape. From my pants to my heart to my face I was someone else. Even Robert asked if I had cut my hair. He said I looked different. I felt different like I'd flashed forward through time and landed in my pants with the right knowledge to get through a work day but that is all. I felt like a resurrected coma patient months into recovery with no memory of yesterday.

What a piece of work is a Dale, how ignoble in reason, how limited in faculties. I am indeed the quintessence of dust. Sitting on the Peach Deck spraying aeroguard everywhere, including the inside of my mouth in an unhappy accident, perspective crawled home and sat in a charade of faithfulness by my side.

I do not utter a false word. I want to be independent. I'm not ready to hang my hat on someone else and call it home. I am remembering the time I burst out of a flat in Randwick into the freezing night carrying the image of my life as rubble and dusty bricks. I remember stooping to turn a brick over and discovering that the other side had been painted the most incredible aching sky blue. Well I've built that sky blue hut now with the dusted bricks turned outwards in deference to wonder. I'm going to twist the staircases clockwise and carve out arrow slits. I'm boiling the oil.

Monday, 28 January 2008


What I need to say is tied into knots. I am pulling at the wrong ends of things and growing more frustrated as the shape I want to make is definite in its detail. I saw a movie this afternoon, what an expensive exercise it is to see a movie. I planned to set out on foot and see 'I'm not there' at the Dendy. I kept changing my outfit but was getting no closer to leaving the house. The light and heat cast a sturdy barrier between The Peach and the world.

In a last moment change of plan I set out with Grizelda. We went in the car over to the Broadway Centre and stood in line at megaplex number twelve million to see a safe romantic comedy. Or so I thought. They are never safe those romantic comedies. The ridiculous divide between life and film has never been more obvious. In life if you are a writer and you write something terrible about a person they call you a fucking cunt and never speak to you again. Sometimes it does not even need to be terrible and in that case they either go silent and sulky or yell and then never talk to you again. It is quite certain that they will not agree to marry you.

It is not sensible to be angry at a movie. Not sensible at all.

My missions

My missions are boring and small. Tiny worked cloths stitched together to make a day. Yesterday I fell into a pothole with scraping sides. It pulled off my cape with the symbol for Super Dale cast aside into a puddle. Today I made the pothole a comfortable place with breakfast, lunch and a movie.

Its alright. I'm alright. I had a lovely time and that is a good thing not a harbinger of doom it was just a mistaken shaking of my snowglobe.

Seven missions, one day

Two completed with five to go. This is easy. I am The Captain of Everything.

This is thirty one

There is a rash or reaction crawling across my chest and neck. I suspect it is the scented lotion carefully massaged into my skin last night by Zissou but what is this ticking of the clock. I had thought that at last I was inhabiting myself. I had thought I had kicked some great heavy clunking shoe hindering my steps but now here I sit in need of a showering wondering at the ticking of all clocks. Last night I said to Zissou "I like you" in sync with the painting of those same words across my mind. Today I do not wish to like that man. It is a small undesperate liking. It is not a raging irrational beast. It was a warm current.

I do not wish to like him because it is revealing new fears. It is one thing to think that he seems a good man and to enjoy his company but it is another to think I like this person. What a cold hard trap it could lead into. I wish to float. I wish to be as independent as possible. There is no immediate danger, I am not fighting kite strings of wild emotion.

Revision and rememberance cast different shadows than the moment itself. When the shadows shift I wonder that it was initially invisible. What a strong pulsing light aimed at my chest. There was a pause with my dress pulled up over my face, arms raised in unusual obedience. This is when the jack rabbit ragged edged scar over my heart held centre stage. I imagine, because it is invisible to me, a palm wide egg white jagged thing radiating thick raised arms out to red edges. It is clear that it came from within, that depth charge. A raging exploded blown out chest. Since the dying months of 29 I have been stitching and restitching starfish, ammunition, alphabets, wine, heat, flowers and glass into the red cavity. Shredded flaps of flesh closed neatly over it each time.

The dying days of 30 concealed the whole contraption and any person could step up pushing with their hands and stethoscopes. There was nothing there but smooth flesh, sunburn and heartbeats. Zissou in his clam foreign way brought laser beams and ultra sounds with flood lights and the newest constant unwinking strobe. It cast cold light and there, there the contraption revealed itself. What a fraud I am with my wine, heat, glass, starfish, ammunition, alphabet imitation of a heart. It spits out ticker tape lost fortunes. Do not proceed with this unraveling and fold now back into yourself. Dress in sheets of metal and hold up your bulletproof parts.

And what of my merged fractal self so much better than at the dawn of 30. I am upright and holding out my left palm I see the miniatures of the good in my life carefully painted and standing on their own but in my right palm a small figure of self holding out ridiculous empty arms.

Sunday, 27 January 2008

Foul mystery at The Peach

There was some failing on my part to properly understand that when someone is invited to your house in the early evening you might reasonably be expected to provide dinner. Anticipating champagne I concocted things using cucumber sliced thickly as a cracker substitute topped with smoked salmon, a slice of cherry tomato and chives. There was another plate with crackers and baba ganoush.

Zissou arrived on time with two bottles of champagne and a bottle of limoncello. I was, of course teased about my lack of dinner but kindly and not for long. I am beginning to like this man. I am harboring a small and hidden affection. Last night he was direct in intent but always kind, never assuming. We drank a bottle of champagne under the stars on the Peach Deck munching morsels and talking widely. Retiring early to the bedroom with wine and water I found myself standing quietly watching him undress me one slow thing at a time.

There is a calmness in his strong hands. He is tall, much taller than me. He is broad and weathered. Stretched out naked you can climb across him like a continent. Each touch feels like the first screech of undercarriage onto the tarmac of some unimagined homeland. It is strange and calm and good.

The Spatula came home just around midnight, walking through my open bedroom door she stopped to say hello then said "I have to go" and took off down the hall. Zissou popped off to the bathroom so I wrapped myself in a pashmina and went to see if she was ok. She was out on the deck so I followed but stopped short when I discovered an unknown man. She introduced him with the wrong name, he corrected her, I retreated. Zissou and I went out to the deck to say hello, I paused to throw on some clothes. Zissou had poured them glasses of limoncello but they were sipping and turning up their noses. We retreated to the bedroom.

In the morning stretching and holding on to the remnants of sleep Zissou informed me that the man had made a naked foray into my bedroom sometime during the night. I was not woken but the man was discovered standing naked at the end of my bed. Zissou had quietly shepherded him out while I slumbered. On a trip to the bathroom in daylight I spotted some odd spots on the carpet in the hall outside the bathroom door. I told Zissou I suspected that the man might have vomited during the night, Zissou frowned and made breakfast plans.

At the cafe, between swallowing a mouthful of coffee and transferring scrambled eggs onto a piece of toast Zissou said "there is something I want to tell you" and launched into a tale most foul. Before showering he discovered the bathroom mat folded in the bathtub, he went to place it on the floor but it was filled with terrible faeces. What a shocking discovery for him to make inside The Peach.

The Spatula suspects it was the cat, I suspect it was the man but in either case I am mortified. What a terrible series of events to intrude on a wonderful evening. Now I am left sitting and pondering. I like Zissou and he says that he likes me. He is moving to Canberra very shortly to take up a position at a winery. I would like to see him again but am unsure of what the next move could be. It seems I am returning to my default setting of self-doubt. What charms could I possibly hold for a man who trails twenty more years than me, a man who feels so immense in character and heart that he has his own national borders.

Just in case I did not make it plain. I do not suspect Zissou of being the phantom crapper, not at all.

Saturday, 26 January 2008

I strongly suspect there is a problem with my brain

Zissou telephoned midweek to say he would like to come over and bring a bottle of champagne. All manner of minor panics are scrolling across my mind. My boss suggested that I cut cucumber into jatz size pieces and top with smoked salmon, tomato and chives. This sounds quite yummy so I have purchased ingredients, chilled wine and washed the dishes.

I will spend the remaining hours reading a book and suppressing the urge to panic, run and then hide. I am hoping that The Spatula will prevent any last minute bolting attempts. It has occurred to me that this might be perfectly normal, I am hoping this is true.

Its a fine time for living and it aint no time to die

The arrow of purpose has come back. I'm hauling the slack out of my own bow string over stones and the Great Dividing Range. There's something shiny I left near Mudgee; it has no relevance here. What I desire is to sharpen my focus and roll back the stone across thought. Words are what do it. The serifed ends of others. I will eat them.

Thursday, 24 January 2008

Metamorphosis? or recently a man said to me "those lips on my cock. yum" or is it just that old need to be terminally unique

As soon as I could successfully walk the length of the kitchen without stacking it and grabbing on to either the fridge or Grizelda my heart sank. I have chipped off another piece of myself only this time it won't be glued back on. I walked up to Grizelda and said 'what do you think?'. She sang 'Dale looks like a lady' and this was entirely the problem.

I was wearing a new dress, red heels and red lipstick. She looked down at my legs and said 'the hair has to go'. I'm drawing a line in the sand. Right there. Right in the lounge room in front of the best chair for watching telly. The leg hair stays.

When I first moved in to The Peach sure I was broken but I was walking around in my usual clothes. Oversize business shirts and loose trousers with sneakers for the office, jeans and whatever with sneakers for everywhere else. I had no lipstick, no clothes that showed any hint of what might be under them and certainly no dresses. These days I'm walking around with cleavage that once made a man walk into a pole outside The Duke, red lipstick, five dresses and now two pairs of heels (the walking in the heels may take some work). I don't know who this person is. I suspect I do not like her.

This new person, Dale from outerspace, is someone that sometimes men look at. She is someone that is sleeping with a man significantly older than her, she is someone who applies red lipstick. This is not ideal but I'm not sure what to do about it. Is the painted outer Dale changing the Dale inside? This is becoming a cog. I feel factions forming and there are pointed things beginning to push upwards. There is a sense of loss and wonder.

I should have said "no deal" because Gemma called me 'one of them' but I'm not one of them I just happen to own two pairs of shoes with stupid heels

Here's the deal, if Grizelda came to a poetry night with me then I would buy heels. It was a stupid deal but secretly I thought that the excuses would keep on coming and Grizelda would never set foot anywhere near such a thing as a poetry night but I was very wrong indeed. Last week I announced that on my birthday I would be attending Soiree Poetique at 72 Erskine. The Spatula and Grizelda both decided to accompany me as it was my birthday. Now I have heels, two pairs, shoes and boots.

Wednesday, 23 January 2008

New York you're a funny old town

This morning when I woke up I was a UN simultaneous interpreter. I put on the navy dress with the red flowers, beige heels and red lipstick. I walked ten blocks to the UN drinking coffee from a portable foam cup. When I got there I asked for a pay rise.

Tuesday, 22 January 2008

Oh dear

Now this might be an unusual problem to have but a problem it is. Dad phoned to say happy birthday and by the way would I like his mercedes? Um, is what I said shortly followed by pardon me but did you just say would I like a mercedes?

There is a catch. I must share the car with my brother. Share a car? With my brother who lives an hour's drive away, tricky but not impossible. I immediately commenced having odd visions of wearing thick framed sunglasses and a silk scarf tied around my head blowing cigarette smoke out of red lips speeding down the highway. Did I mention that its a vintage powder blue coupe? It was an exciting vision.

I thought I will drive everywhere in my powder blue mercedes. I will roll slowly up to traffic lights staring haughtily while truck drivers look down my top and I think poorly of them. I will drive too fast on the freeway. I will wear thin pants in winter to take advantage of the seat warmers in the leather seats. I will cease to wash my own clothes and only use the drive through facility at the laundromat. I will have important business meetings at restaurants where I can arrive late, park directly outside and then strut through the door in a white suit. I will buy red high heels and diamond earrings. I will carry a small shiny handbag. I will laugh with the tall handsome man sitting in the passenger seat. I will park in the driveway of my new dream home. I will drive myself and my new husband away from a cheering crowd at the wedding reception to the fanciest hotel in the universe. I will be knighted and become the Prime Minister. I will be the world's first Dale in Space. I will stand on a platform in a tiara holding flowers and accept my Nobel prize for achieving world peace. After all it is a very powerful car.

Then my brother phoned. He said I'll buy you out and I said ok.

I invented the cow

There is no dust in these corners. It was a jalapeƱo opera. A gap between teeth can blast silence through two poets served warm but raw.

Sunday, 20 January 2008


One hour and twenty three minutes before my 31st birthday I am sitting in bed wearing white cotton granny underpants and reading glasses. I am pondering my year of being 30 and wondering just how low my breasts will droop between now and when I turn 60, among other things. The Spatula bought me some chocolates from Belle Fleur. These are the best chocolates in the universe. Each chocolate is the best chocolate I have ever tasted. There must be drugs in them.

This year of being 30 has been one of revelations. I am tougher than I think I am. I am capable of surviving heartbreak, establishing a new life in the big city and walking around at night by myself. These are things I did not think I could do. I have been compiling a list of things that I have done for the first time.

Bought a dress
Worn red lipstickGone out for a drink with a man
Become insensibly drunk at a party by myself and accepted a lift home from a stranger
Started a blog
Been single for a whole year
Had sex with a man I just met
Had dinner by myself in a restaurant
Decided I did not want to interact with a man that was not good for me, then stuck with it
Made a friend through the internet (hoorah Gemma)
Talked on the telephone with people I don't know (Rups & Martin)
Survived from a single packet of biscuits for nearly a week
Used my life as an experiment
Told people how I was really feeling
Had phone sex
Taken my writing seriously
Made a zine
Walked home from work regularly
Rode in a taxi by myself
Made new friends from attending parties and spoken word things
Hugged my mother (not the very first time but the first time in a really long time, that was today, I was very surprised)
Glued myself back together and been pleased with the result

There is more but it is less tangible. I am beginning to come to grips with terrible freedom and its boundless white void of infinite possibilities. I have new night vision that illuminates the neon strips of imagined limitations. I've got a good missile lock on the black cold banded stripes of fear. They run from my heart to the horizon and back again but I'm in a fast jet now. I'll take on those stripes, I'll murder your raven. I'll walk my own steps despite your crazy drums and insistent absence because this it. The big show.

Can't get enough Slamma?

Read more about her excellent telephone voice here.

Ave verum corpus

I have presents. I have pistachio 1000 count sheets, JB Hi Fi voucher, journal, purse, notebook, article cut out of newspaper and a birthday card. These are lovely things. I have been admiring my new sheets by rubbing my face on them for about half an hour now. I am going to take them to the laundromat and have them washed tomorrow (can not wash at home due to rain). When I turned 30 I rid myself of all sheets that were not Egyptian cotton or had a thread count of 350 or less. I require high quality linens. There is no point in having a bed if it is not lovely. I would rather sleep in a swag outside next to the bin than have inferior sheets. Goodness, that sounded a little mad.

I had wanted to go to a posh restaurant for my birthday dinner after last year's disasterous non-event for my 30th. [In brief: I spent the weekend of my 30th birthday clearing Artboys' remaining things out of the garage at my old house. My mother handed me my present from the back of a ute where she was standing waist deep in stuff and said happy birthday. I sobbed so hard driving all the way to the new house in the city that I had to keep pulling off the highway; Artboy's things rattled in the boot everytime I turned a corner.] I dedicated quite some time to researching one within comfortable walking distance from where my mother and her partner are staying this weekend. When I went to book a table I discovered that the restaurant is closed for all of January so I settled on somewhere familiar and exactly half way between my house and mother's temporary nest.

After a feast with champagne and then a bottle of wine (a record for dinner with Mother, her partner and my brother) we walked out into the rain on Enmore Rd. At the corner of London St outside The Sultan's Table my mother tentatively put her hand on my arm, just lightly, for half a second. She withdrew her hand but then did it again leaving her hand there longer this time. I don't remember the last time my mother touched me.

Saturday, 19 January 2008


Gemma has demanded a post about her as well as her very own label. People rarely demand things from me so I shall comply. I have just had a hair cut, if Gemma lived in the same city I would be tempted to demand that she meet me at a cafe to examine my hair cut and offer praise, conversation and a reason to sit in a cafe. Gemma is having a slumber party tonight. I would like to go to a slumber party, I have excellent pyjamas and very much enjoy having pancakes. I am assuming that at some point during a slumber party there will be pancakes.

I keep going off to tidy things. My bedroom has been untidy all week, that stops now. It is better to be tidy. I am throwing things out after being inspired by Gemma's mass clearing out. I need space. Space and surfaces, then I will sit down and look at my freshly printed manuscript. I turn 31 on Monday, that is too old to be frightened of manuscripts, too old to be untidy, too old to be eating cheese when I know very well what will happen. There will be no more cheese, ever. Very sorry Gemma, I keep getting distracted but I am thinking of you.

Friday, 18 January 2008

One hour between entree and mains at Mama Maria's means a whole bottle of wine each

Restaurant conversation between The Peachettes:

S: What's that Vampire movie that I like?
D: Blade Runner?
G: Is that the one with the Jamaican bobsled team?
D: (singing) Blade Runner, the coyote's after you. Blade Runner, if he catches you you're through.

Settle Petal

After the onslaught of parties, concerts, meetings and things I find myself once again suspended in the space of no appointments. If it was always blank pages in diaries I would invent things to do, if I was always in demand I would develop a method of selection but I never know what is going to happen when so I say yes to everything, run myself into exhaustion and then sit by the phone for two weeks in a bubble of loneliness.

Perhaps I need a publicist, a personal publicist to promote me to friends and potential lovers. I need catch prhases:

Midweek Dale, delicious and pinstriped.
Friday night Dale, tired but relaxed.
Saturday night Dale; best served with a cocktail.

Or perhaps an advertisement would be better:
Dale Slamma an interesting and sometimes tired lady. Dale can walk around and talk about things, she is good at choosing cake, drinking pink lemonades, comfortable silences and repelling men. Call her today, nobody else is.

Thursday, 17 January 2008


I watched a show on telly that reminded me of living with Artboy. I don't like this but I am sure it is momentary. I've been thinking about time machines and stepping and restepping plot points and nailed down tracks.

Wouldn't it be grand to zip forwards then know in a flash what it is that one should do this instant to make the final picture all it could be. Should I be sitting here hunched and typing? Should I burn that freshly printed manuscript? Should I wake up tomorrow or is that in itself going to be the new error of my ways?

There is no possible way of knowing. It seems like a case of packing both my snorkel and my hiking boots. When Anne of Green Gables went off to college she was very excited about not knowing what was going to happen next. She said it is the bend in the road that is thrilling. It should be perfectly clear by now that one is not Anne of Green Gables (sorry about the 'one' business but I am occasionally partial to the impersonal third person). What should be perfectly clear by now is that I am a person that spazzes around bumping into things with intermittent pauses for thinking and admiring things.

I sometimes pause with my key in the front door to admire the invention of locks. It is like a tiny miracle. You simply push your tiny metal object into a seemingly solid surface, turn it a little and huzzah! you can swing open a wall to gain access. Excellent invention those locks.

Its important to note that

Chocolate topping that goes hard on top of soy ice cream is a miracle.

Wednesday, 16 January 2008


Creamboy is about to receive his first pay cheque as a doctor. Well done Creamboy. I of course offer my heartfelt congratulations on this milestone however it is not without a sting. Its moments like these that the measuring rods slide out of their invisible holsters. Creamboy's current specialty is vascular surgery, mine is disappointing people.

No. No that is not true. Mine is to be unfathomable and to take unexpected directions for unrevealed reasons. I am not powerless in this situation. I chose not to practice law. I chose to work for shit pay in the arts sector. I chose to turn in circles while my classmates from university walked straight down the line. I have real and complex ethical and artistic issues with the Australian law and how it impacts on the lives of ordinary people. I have thought this through drawing on all of my skills for abstract and higher reasoning. I have that law degree sitting in the bottom of my giant cupboard for a reason.

I wish that I could have buttoned up a grey suit and marched out the door every morning satisfied that I was doing the best that I could but I couldn't. Now. I might be ready now to begin reconsidering the law as a career path. Now, but not then.

I am going to take that darn degree out of the cupboard and prop it against the wall, just for a little while to see what happens.

Tuesday, 15 January 2008


My new and exciting printer does not work with my computer's operating system. My new and exciting way to deal with this is to paint my nails electric blue then stare moodily at the giant cupboard in my bedroom.

This feels like a structure that requires a ladder. Careful plans have been scattered by the inability to print. I am no Gutenberg. I bound my tools together with string where they clank with the incoming tide. I am walking in circles chanting if this is my dark age then let there be light.

There are hooks in my feet; I'm stomping and sticking. I'm shooting at tins while I hold them in my hands. There will be an intermission in this revolution.

Monday, 14 January 2008


I am determining just what it is that I want but it is an unconscious process. Facts are irrelevant. Unpinnings, discardings, unidentifiable shapes in black plastic bags. I cast things without feeling for hooks or paper boats. This puzzle has no edges.

Blessed are the cigarettes

Blessed are the cigarettes that divide my sleepless night measuring time into tiny tasks. They make my living breath tangible.

My left shoulder, the one that Zissou fixed with strong hands has cramped back into out of place and if I knew the man better I would be tempted to set my car to autopilot and find his hands wherever they are.

The Spatula is casting rectangular light above my door. This old house with its absurd windows above doorways. There was a sheet of cardboard pushed tight against the light but it fell out and then I put it on top of my ornate desk. Now there are plants, a lamp and giant squat three wicked candle sitting on top of it.

I feel out of order, too many questions and unrevealed thoughts. I am not bold enough to divine what it is that I am thinking. What am I doing going around filling my life with people and events. I need this house to be clean. I need this house to be tidy. I need to sit myself down and finish this manuscript. This world is all distraction.

Sunday, 13 January 2008

Disjointed is fine

Two coffees, two eggs, four pieces of toast, some greens with balsamic vinegar and five small glasses of water

Transformer is the perfect album for walking when the air is thicker than honey and the population is shiny with sweat. Lou Reed, the gaps in your synapses come in handy. I was walking towards coffee, coffee with Robert, his fabulous partner and the unknown quantity of his friend Gecko. There were orders, Robert interjecting with conducting hands saying " I brought you two together to talk about rock. Discuss."

Everyone has hard edges but when the people are not intertwined into your context the edges have points. It was not a barbed occasion in fact overall it was quite pleasant but all the edges were unexpected and me without my navigation equipment.

I've been thinking that I might not have a hard edge. It is true that there is someone in my office that I have not warmed to but I repent and repent after unpleasant thought. The people with coffee said Sufjan was wet and fey and I tried to think about this but my heartbeat is still fluttering with his wings.

One day, a long day, I remember it well. It was the day I sat on the floor and filed off my points revealing holes all over my armour; this is where the joy pours in.

Roaming the hallway this afternoon with long fractious strides I examined the texture of the carpet with the soles of my feet. Eventually I settled into the last half hour of a television movie but unknown to me my phone was ringing in the front room. I discovered the missed call like a doctor arriving to find his wife two minutes dead with no hope of resuscitation. The phone said the call was from no number. No way to know who on this planet thought of me this evening at half past six. There was no message. I am still carrying the phone tucked into the top of my underpants, just in case.

Will I be a part of what you made?

A short train ride across the harbour. I rambled down to Luna Park and some sick making bar for wankers, I was there under duress for the birthday girl who is not a wanker despite her high rent. I would rather sit on the old boards of the pier in my good dress than hold out my palm and watch them take all my money. It was one glass of wine and then a taxi back to the other side.

Everybody knows the State Theatre is like a picture of itself. The Spatula and I with standing tickets to see Sufjan Stevens but three people were hit by lightning and failed to claim their seats in the very back row. We snuck around the railing and sat.

Earlier in the night, walking down the hill from Milson's Point station to the bar The Spatula said I was grinning like a chesire cat. I said "I am too happy, too many endorphins". My blood was thick like sunlight. It wasn't the harbour that did it, it wasn't the bottle green reflective salt smelling harbour, it wasn't that fuck ugly bridge, the opera house or the graceful arcs of the Anzac Bridge. It wasn't walking Sydney heat with my party dress on.

Sufjan Stevens stands small. His trumpet player blasts harmonics straight out of his open joyful chest. All had elastic limbs and out came the music, not from their instruments, not from there, that would have been too ordinary. They broadcast sound from their living molecules.

One moment the joy pulsed too brightly and I was pushed to the precipice but they fell, all of them, outside the melody and freedom reigned in unconnected noise. Sufjan walked away from the piano while those joyful others played his symphony for the expressway. He switched on the flashing lights in his hula hoop and danced an awkard unpracticed hoop dance. A small man, near the end of the night, walked calmly around attaching wings to the backs of their shirts. It was necessary.

Saturday, 12 January 2008

In a moment I will make coffee

He's still here. Supine. Wondering what it is that I am doing with the non-click click on the square pads over here on the other side of the bed while his eyelids echo internal tides. Showering the words came back. He chased them away, all of them but not like Benito, not like I was standing on the street with extra shoes tied tight around my tongue.

There was no fig sorbet but I do not mind. Words were ushered into small black velvet bags and tucked into spaces inaccessible and calm. Three hours and not one sentence formed. I trailed my fingers through floating acres of exclamation marks. His right hand circles my left ankle.

Dale for a day

Guest blogger: Mihai Sora

Dear Dale,

I have not written for more than a year. Unless you count birthday cards,
and I don’t count birthday cards. You will be my friend in Italy that I
never replied to after promising him so much. You will my friend in Rome.
Mexico, where the sunsets come with desert and the lazy smell of benzine.

This is the first weblog I have written on.

I worked in a very tall tower today. There are huge bands of windows that
go around the building like dirty glass belts. I work in the fourteenth
one from the top and the fourteenth one from the bottom.

Listen: You can see just about to the edge of the whole city from that high
up. But I didn’t look out the window once today.
I always look out the window – it’s hard to drag myself away. Everything
looks so much like Berlin. You know the feeling. Time dilation. But so
high up, like you’re in an airplane going somewhere. Leaving someone
behind. Returning to a place that's not quite home. That feeling.

You will be my friend in Paris. He’s very good with the ladies. Except this
one, the one he likes. She left him good. He didn’t like that very much,
but he couldn’t really complain.

You will be my friend in India. She’s there for the second time now. With a
new boy. He has a very good name, this new boy. But he’s a real jerk. Like
– American film kind of jerk. The type of jerk you don’t really expect to
meet in real life.

Dear Dale, I have not written in more than a year. Unless you count
Resumes, and I don’t count Resumes. You will be my friend in the Peach
that I said I would write to.

I’ve seen you in real life, fidgeting with the gentle glass things in your


Friday, 11 January 2008


I am slightly damp from the shower and naked, this is important to note because I have just rolled a cigarette so now I am covered in tiny flakes of tobacco. The tobacco flakes are sticking to me and will not swipe off, I am guessing this is not a good start to dressing appropriately to meet a man for drinks.

My hair is wrapped in a purple towel, my ears are full of water, something is slightly smelly in my bedroom but I do not know what. The heel of my left foot is sore due to over zealous scrubbing with that scratchy rock thing in the shower. The left side of my back aches and feels put out of place, there is a terrific crick in my neck.

I am hungry but unsure of what or how much to eat before embarking on my mission. Ah, my mission. I am meeting Zissou for a drink in one hour and forty nine minutes. This is ample time to dress, dry my hair, have something to eat and walk into Newtown. I think. My bedroom is quite untidy, things are strewn about, there are piles of books, clean clothes, a chocolate wrapper, shoes, unopened mail and a giant self portrait I painted in 1991.

Leaving the office I stuffed a linguistics text book in my handbag thinking that if conversation was stilted I could simply whisk it out and propose examining a sentence or two. I was very happy with this plan for about two minutes then I realised that it might be odd like a balloon holding a child. Best not to do that in a bar on a Friday night.

I will wear something that covers any remaining tobacco flakes, this will be my dress code.

Thursday, 10 January 2008

VIRMEN (Voluntarily Induced Retrospective Montage Enabling Nodule)*

Ever felt like you needed a montage, a getting things done montage ( to the tune of Eye Of The Tiger)? I do. Quite frequently. Now I have the ultimate solution.

Simply work very hard and complete all tasks, when you are finished install the nodule and your memory will be adjusted to montage format. You will believe that you achieved everything in the space of one song with the greatest of ease. Post $19.95 to PO Box Dale. The first five hundred lucky customers will receive a bonus musical interlude capsule complete with dance moves and bandanas.

* Thank you Robert for the acronym.

Dear Blog

Happy 10000.

Visitor number 10000 landed on this blog by googling "dale slamma", they have a mac, use telstra and it says they are from Griffith. Thanks for dropping by.

Wednesday, 9 January 2008


I have been warned to be careful. I will take this warning and carry it under my dress where it can accelerate the beating of my heart. I may need to get out of there fast.

Tuesday, 8 January 2008

Year of hamburgers

At the end of 2006 I resolved to only order hamburgers when I was out to dinner, if available on the menu. At the time it felt incredibly sensible. I had reached the point of being so unsure about who I was that the act of choosing from a menu was a defining moment.

Last Friday night I went to The Duke with The Peachettes for dinner. I ordered the hamburger and it was delicious but it dawned on me that it wasn't necessary and now I find myself having to make the stupid proclamation that I don't need to order hamburgers anymore. I'm ok to eat the fish or the pasta or the prawns or whatever other food I fancy. I think its getting on to salad time.

I'm wary. I 'm skittish. I'm meeting Zissou for a drink on Friday night. It is a small thing to meet a person for a drink. So unimaginably mundane for the masses but in my head it is turning into a turning point. Who I am meeting or why is less relevant than the fact that I am meeting someone for a drink. My second stupid proclamation for the night is that I have never met someone for a drink before. Friends, of course, people I know certainly, the experiment man didn't make it past one coffee but he was just an experiment man.

Inside there are a team of tiny workers hammering together the prefabricated pieces of my built in add on adult pack. I have no idea how the drink will go but I am not concerned about that. I am more worried about being flattened by the debris in my rising tide. I am clicking into place with a strong freeing of the dust and it is not because of someone else. It is me. I am ordering the fish, I am telling people no, no I don't like that. I am walking around content with the rhythm of my step and the limit in my stride while my flaws turn into facets.

Monday, 7 January 2008


One week until fig sorbet.

Salt of the office

My hair smells like salt. If I stop this mad office typing for a moment the smell buoys me and my arms and legs remember the suck and spit punishment of the ocean.

Islands upon islands.

Sunday, 6 January 2008


Special request. A definitions list for the cast of characters in Slammatown. Easy. This I can do. Much simpler than trying to define just how exactly that snorkeling makes me happy or why today when I sat on the edge of this continent with the lemon light behind me and nothing, oh nothing but that ocean, that I felt stitches pull tighter and empty places pop and vanish. I used to be scared of the edge of this land.

Not in any order.

Foto: Superman's friend. I like him, he lives near me, he seems kind and the verge of something, I'm not sure what but I'll stick around to find out.

Author of Gempires, owner of Cooper the small poodle. Gemma lives in Melbourne and visits Sydney occasionally. Gemma is super in all possible ways. Gemma is an honourary Peachette.

The Peachettes:
The Peachettes are residents or ex-residents of The Peach (my house).

The Spatula:
My friend for almost twenty years and a current Peachette. She is small. We met on the first day of high school. The Spatula sings, paints, massages and designs my zine "Ocarina". The Spatula is a necessary part of my context.

Cousin to The Spatula Leurf abandoned The Peach (she is still a Peachette) to pursue her studies in Perth which is a fucking long way away. Leurf is unpredictable, fantastic and stunning inside and out.

Younger sister (8 years younger) of The Spatula and a current Peachette. Grizelda is an excellent chef but does not like to have hobbies. Grizelda is rapidly becoming a good friend.

I like Ron, he's pretty tops.

My brother:
No explanation necessary. He is tall plays trombone professionally and has an unnatural love for all things flamingo.

Spencer is the walking talking home of rock. He fronts the band The Holy Soul. He sometimes wears a cowboy hat. Spencer went to university with my brother and Boli. His main squeeze is Madam Squeeze.

Madam Squeeze:
Madam Squeeze can often be found busking with her accordion on King St. She is a source of light.

He is a poet. He often eats toast during the day, he has a plant on his desk called Sylvester the Abject Plant. He is quite excellent.

I shared a house with Boli at university. He is a music therapist. He plays all the instruments to an excellent standard. He likes hats is recently married and is the man I phone to ask if I am being a spaz or not. He always tells me if I am being a spaz.

Mr X:
A friend of Elliot's. I don't see him very often. Sometimes I see him on King St, he does not appear to like me very much.

The Cowboy:
Lives next door. He sometimes sits out the back in a cowboy hat playing cowboy songs on his guitar.

Author of More Boring Rants from Anonymous Eccentrics. Creamboy is Superman's brother.

This is what I used to think about Superman: I high three Superman, he is excellent. He has a way of not letting me panic, the best way to describe is that he makes me stand on a platform which is higher than where I normally stand and I can see more, further forward, further back and with some clarity. He is immensely silly and quite possibly the most stubborn person I have ever met. When he makes a decision you can hear the clang of an iron gate dropping somewhere in the distance. We wrote a song. Superman is Creamboy's brother.

Now I don't think about Superman at all, I do sometimes think about Superman movies but that is not the same thing.

I once thought I loved Elliot. I fucked him more than once with little sexual success. He used to be an excellent friend. I haven't heard from him since I told him I wouldn't see him if he's drunk. He's back in rehab.

The ex. After seven odd years of living together he developed a major mental illness. He had a manic episode and literally went screaming out into the night. He did not come back. This is how our relationship ended. This is how my heart fractured. I sank to the floor and it took me a while to stand back up.

Benito Di Fonzo:
A man that I can not talk to because every time I see him my head empties of all words and I stand there like a fucktard. Once I went to a party with him and set my hair on fire in the bathroom. This was not on purpose. Benito is the author of Benito Di Fonzo Jr & The Loneliness of the Long Distance Writer.

My family.
Mum, her partner (I don't have a name for her on this blog), my brother, Dad, his wife (I don't have a name for her on this blog). Various relatives occasionally pop up, very occasionally.

Gemma reminded me that I have not written a definition for her. Initially I did not use the cat's name in order to protect her privacy however I have since realised that this is ridiculous. The cat does not have any friends with the internet. Sylvia is a Norwegian Forest Cat, she is four years old.

I met him at a party, at my house on new year's eve, he stayed the night. We met for drinks, he stayed the night. He said "are we going to do this again?" I said "call me sometime" he said "I will". He called, we met another two times. He is a good man. He moved interstate for work, this made me sad.

The Beautiful Boys:
A bunch of beautiful boys of a literary bent. I admire them greatly for their verve, intellect, joy and youth.

Failed Ant Farmers:
Members are Superman, Spencer and Madam Squeeze and me.

There is more but really today I cannot be bothered.

I think this is all. I should make links but oh I am lazy, so lazy. I am tired from swimming in Clovelly Bay for hours on end. The ocean is battering this continent so a sheltered beach was necessary but still, it was the edge of things.

Ordinary moments

The problem I find is that every moment feels ordinary. There was merriment on The Peach Deck last night for The Spatula's birthday, it was a smooth running affair. There was lobster, scallops, prawns and all manner of delicious things.

Gemma and Cooper once again graced The Peach with their presence, my brother was there, Leurf the long lost Peachette came by. There was drinking, singing, some dancing (mainly Gemma and Cooper) and general chatting with laughing but it is delving I want. I crave meaning. I yearn for every moment to be a turning towards something more. I am not sure what it is that I am missing this day; perhaps it is the absence of sleep.

I am thinking that Gemma has a calm presence that does me good. I want to be flighty but she sits with certainty. It is not usual for me to be relaxed when we have only met four times, not usual at all. Ordinarily I require years, long years.

Saturday, 5 January 2008

Staring with plastic

I am carrying around a transparent plastic shell moulded in the shape of scissors. I am staring at it and thinking. Its shape is unexpected.

Thursday, 3 January 2008


I have spent the last hour attempting to telephone people. Not one person answered. I did not telephone Gemma as I am frightened of making her sick of me.

The horrible exhaustion has shifted through all of its usual phases but what exhaustion does not know is that I recognise its face no matter how hard it tries.

Moments ago I sent an email to Zissou. I thought he was an interesting man and it might be good to have a glass of wine with him sometime. I suggested this in an email. I have no idea what the outcome will be but I am tired of being timid. He is interesting, he obviously does not find me completely appalling so why not suggest a drink? It is myself that requires convincing. Surely it is not too odd to suggest a drink?

I require an instruction manual. Chapter five "How to communicate with a man you find interesting after you already had sex with him the first time you met him and to whom you were quite rude in the morning without meaning to be because you were suffering from a dreadful hangover". Ideally there would be example emails such as:

Dear Man with whom I have had sex, been rude to and just met,

A drink sometime would be interesting. Yes?



I was sleepy. Last night I could not sleep. Exhaustion spent the night making shapes under its ghost sheet and now when it raises its arms I am frightened.

Tuesday, 1 January 2008

Etiquette, equity, equality

I feel as though I have been unfaithful, to myself, and unfair to the man who shared my bed. Earlier in the day, yesterday, I told Gemma that I was just going to have to get used to the idea that I will never have sex ever again. I did not utter false words, I was sincere and in a place of acceptance so imagine my surprise when I found myself pinned like a butterfly and stroked like a fractious horse at the close of the very same day.

He is older than any man I've ever slept with before, I can not deny that this was something I was thinking about this morning when I made a break for couch. Other factors in the couch move included feeling dire, very dire and like something was going to explode out of my stomach and then my head and also possibly my bowel.

The man, I should call him something. I shall call him Zissou. Zissou was astonishing. Everything was slow and monumental like an ancient calling. Zissou worshiped me like I was a temple. His hands, strong calm hands reminded my skin that it is skin. It was a slow revealing of nerve endings and the connectedness of all my parts. I could not help but think of a dressage master working a temperamental horse in hand. I know this will not make sense to anyone who has not calmed a horse with long slow strokes using their whole being to transfer safety through velvet skin.

I was selfish and he was willing me to be selfish. I regret now running to the couch for solitude but I felt at the time that what had happened was something so astonishing I needed to inflate a bubble of self to hold to me just a little bit longer.

Of course I would not be myself without moments of spaz, it was not all golden light with nerves on fire. At one point I started to ask if he had read any Sartre because I am reading "What is literature" and am keen to hear people's opinions on the book. I am fairly sure that the question was inappropriately asked, needless to say it went unanswered.

9:46 am

I've had approximately three and a half hours sleep, some of that on the couch; seedy is not an adequate word.

I've started this year in an unexpected manner. Walking between parties we found ourselves opting to view the fireworks from Stanmore Station. At the end of the platform you can see the city skyline and the Harbour Bridge. So there we stood with our bottles of drink, cigarettes and one small poodle.

Gemma is asleep in The Spatula's office, Cooper the small poodle occasionally wanders about then goes back in the office for more sleep. One person has left already, I feel slightly guilty about this. Last night when we ran out of spare beds I kindly offered him half my bed but in the morning after two hours sleep and feeling like hell on skates I woke up and spent a momemnt wishing that I had not done that. I transferred to the lounge for some alone time which caused him to wake up and go home so that I could have my bed back. I feel slightly guilty but on the other hand I have my bed back.

Yesterday was fantastic. Gemma, Spencer, Madam Squeeze, two Spatula friends, one Grizelda friend and The Peachettes ate and drank our way through all manner of things until almost sunrise. We walked over to visit The Beautiful Boys for an hour or two then wandered back to The Peach for general merriment.

I have realised that I have not written one thing worth reading since Christmas Eve. For a week now this has been the blog of the uninteresting, the skimming of my surface. It is an example of telling without showing but I don't think I mind too much. There is a time to delve and time also to breathe and just be, there are no obligations here.

In a way, last night, I temporarily opened my arms to the unexpected. I took tentative steps down a new path, while it was not unpleasant I find I might need to backtrack, just a little, until I recognise the foliage and can spot in the distance my ordinary orb of context.

This will be my year of holding up signs for others to read.