Monday, 31 March 2008

I'm starting with the Dale in the mirror; turn and face the stranger

I tried photographing toothpaste but my phone kept running out of batteries. This was about eight hours after I made coffee holding an ice pack to my right ear. There are parts of me capable of refracting light. These things are all connected.

There's no greater mirror than this. When I meet a new friend, and this is rare, I pull focus and suddenly there I am. I had forgotten about this part of living. I had forgotten how to look at the person called I. But this is not a frantic stuffing of my sum parts into a paper bag for inspection. This is simple being without painting sets or staging lights. I don't need to open all the cupboard doors and drag an audience around pointing there and there and there. There are thinking parts of me not speaking but it is not a deception.

I'm walking my usual route and sitting in my same chairs, I feel comfortable that eventually my patterns will emerge into clear shapes without anyone having to resort to the measuring instruments.

Saturday, 29 March 2008

I passed Markus Zusak's ray of light test

MZ: If there was a ray of light and some kind of god came down and declared 'You can write this book but no one can ever read it'. Would you still write the book?

DS: (silently) Yes.

The winner of my dinner competition

Has declined the offer to attend the dinner.

Friday, 28 March 2008

Emotionally coherent nation

I do not write to produce writing. I do not write to give value to time. Delacroix is dead and I am sliding on a long exhaustion.

At the end of the evening one author walked out with a $35 000 cheque in her back pocket, running her fingers through her hair. I watched her leave the building, cross a road and wait for a taxi.

You should have heard me just around midnight

Its after midnight. I have just ejected The Peachettes from my bedroom. I have been helping Grizelda with a job application despite the turning of hours and the stasis of my essay. This is where I need an agent to act as a buffer between what I must do and what I am doing.

This essay writes itself only in slow deliberate words despite the grasp and stick of concepts and analysis in my surprising brain. What a powerful tool I have sitting up there, if only I could learn how to use it.

Wednesday, 26 March 2008

National Emergency

I have just discovered I have an essay due by 5pm this Friday. Its Wednesday night at 11pm. Fuck!

Looks like tomorrow night I will be very busy. Starting the essay now is out of the question. I am exhausted and have the intellectual capacity of a dead ant.

Fuck everyone I'm becoming an executioner

Here's my fear. I think I could execute someone. I'm not saying that I want to execute someone and I definitely don't think it is a good idea but still, I'm worried. I have a rubber hard vessel lodged in my brain that makes me feel certain that I could do it.

Here's the situation. I'm wearing overalls clutching a tray loaded with the lethal injection kit I walk over to the strapped human and place the tray on a small table. I organise the equipment taking care to make sure things are in the right order. It is a simple process. Connect the human to the drugs. Stand watching the fluid flow til empty, repeat three times then listen for breathing. Nothing. It is over.

Tuesday, 25 March 2008

Good thank you

Someone asked me today 'How are you, really?'. This is an interesting question with answers variable by the microsecond. I am not oscillating wildly; I flicker at things.

I might explode your cat and mouse game with my goldfish exterior.

Monday, 24 March 2008

The iron shocking the dumb wood

This evening stretches without hope of distraction or interlude, musical or otherwise. I find myself bored. I am not often bored but I have worn myself out with study. This is a sad state of affairs.

Won't somebody do something interesting?

Nosing around nosing around

Not a show by young adults for young adults (ten points if you get the reference) but a blog I visited last year. I thought it had been abandoned, I was wrong.

Sunday, 23 March 2008

I thought I heard someone at the door

What's that?
Its a kind of biscotti, the hard parts are my heart. You can chew on them if you like.
Is it true that you wanted you wanted him dead?
Yes, there were two kinds. One of them slipped in the bathroom.
What about that teapot filled with teeth?
Once it was discovered.
I don't understand what you are asking.
I think the explicit parts were too much and now all that happens is a kind of whirr followed by confusion.

I don't believe in ghosts

Artboy sent me this song after I saw him the other week. I told him I would never listen to the song, told him I have no place for imaginary hangings in frightened minds but now I'm listening to the song on repeat.

I've been waiting to feel. I'm waiting for the heart lump to pulse but so far nothing. Semiotics fail me. There's nothing. Not a drop, not a vacuous ominous space. Nothing. Foucalt, once again, you're wasting my time.

Artexpress

Such a painted moulding. How they latch onto issues as though it was life itself. I want to lay a square hand on their clay shoulders and say you are enough.

I'm filing my nails while they drag the lake

The heat sears my head in razor thin strips between tight parcels of foil. Such a busy lifting of elbows and protrusion of shoulder blades. One woman's hair falls in tiny snippets revealing her plain as a monk.

Me sitting with my two arcs of steel climbing out in giant reflective halves of an orange black strands poking limply between. My pomerian fringe pom pomming front and centre. One woman skulks tall and crumpled slooping about her duties with a forward fold in her middle and a droop in her neck. A great slow thing with cropped tangerine hair and old Notre Dame pushing up the back of her dress.

A quiet pride and measured intensity absorb all in their work, the sloop girl alone floats. There is hotel room coffee served in a silver plunger on a silver tray. My very own miniature silver milk jug and individually wrapped biscuits. I leave the milk and two paper sticks filled with sugar untouched on the tray. I move them to left of the tray in a neat line.

One girl in the back right hand corner shakes almost imperceptibly. She lacks the snapped aura of the competent as she hunches clutching and re-clutching fistfuls of hair. The other toned models of deportment move in precise minute movements.

I sip at my hotel room coffee biding my pain.

Friday, 21 March 2008

Hey Melbs

Go to that Pony place at 2am. You won't regret it.

Reverse widow posts letters

I walked past what should have been a Greek widow. She was hunched and curled under the weight of her years trailing reams of translucent monochrome cloth. She was walking bent into the sunlight holding a high hand, palm turned out to keep the sun from her eyes.

She angled her dark eyes up from under her arc and angle surprising me with the depth of her joyous smile. She nodded and shuffled on her way. I stood quiet and motionless clutching my bundle of letters. I glanced down and saw for the first time the lack of joy in my black hair, regulation standard issue arts blacks and my poorly made fair trade sneakers.

Pivoting on the ball of my left foot I turned to see the old woman laugh as her headscarf unfurled and ripped colour across the concrete canyon. Her clothes were all dyed the same colour. Red. The kind you imagine rippling against a white hot desert sky. Sahara red.

Its time for change. There is a pressing forwards I've been ignoring, sitting back turned to the world threading and re-threading the same strands through broken needles. I'm clutching at my mended parts pulling at scars and wondering if they'll hold. There's been enough healing. Its time to walk forwards.

Thursday, 20 March 2008

My pants are wet

This is worse than you think it is. I washed some clothes last night to wear to work today intending to toss them in the drier before counterbalancing my demons in the morning. Alack I slept through sunrise and into the morning. Now I am running up and down the hallway drinking coffee and brushing my teeth hoping this will somehow help the drier gain speed in its crucial mission.

Wednesday, 19 March 2008

You don't have to be rich

Salty sea dogs fear me. I carry the thickened syrup of rough waters in my mouth. This can sometimes happen when you put a pinch too many in your Rupert Soup. All I can taste is salt and it heightens my sense of smell. The frangipanis emit thick fogs unbearably sensual, all of Newtown looms in waves of coloured scent. I have poisoned myself with salt.

I've been trying to find someone to come see the Archibald exhibition with me. No one wants to. Not one person. You'd think one person might be interested, but no. Not a one and this is why when I was given a gift voucher for an expensive dinner in a boutique hotel in Paddington my heart dropped. Who among my friends would disappoint me first? I've decided to leave this up to them, all of them. Here's what I'm going to do.

Wanted - Interesting dinner companion
If you would like to join Dale Slamma for an overpriced (but fortunately paid for by the magic of gift certificate) hopefully delicious dinner in a small boutique hotel in Paddington simply email dale.slamma@gmail.com and explain how and why you would be interesting.

Multiple entries encouraged. The winner will be notified by email, winning entry published on this blog. Remaining anonymous is a possibility.

Correspondence definitely entered into, Slamma loves a good argument.

Tuesday, 18 March 2008

This is the part I don't remember

An amalgam of scrambled lupine letters, recurring friends on street corners in an accident of accordions and learned memories. Concrete rhythms with feet and even that sky arches its supple roof. I am rising with the sun, pushing out demons in counterbalanced shapes. This is living with soups and the hot tin of ambition. This is the unimagined.

Monday, 17 March 2008

Brought to you by the letter B

Ronita ran up to me with her alphabet book said 'A' then 'fish'. She climbed into my lap and thrust the book into my hands saying 'more' with a rising inflection. She sat through three readings of the alphabet saying 'A' and then 'fish' each time.

I find her being astonishing. You can feel the elastic push of her expanding mind. I read A, B then paused asking "Can you say B?". She stared intently for a moment then with an upwards bounce for emphasis yelled "B!" her small hands raised and flailing with joy. I thought this is meaning unfolding. This a small making sense of the world. This is how it should be, caged gently in protective arms trying our hardest and knowing that whatever happens it will be alright.

Sunday, 16 March 2008

Bumble bees and toast are both kind of fuzzy and yellow

Superman sits to my left strumming the guitar and singing admirably, I am propped against the headboard typing. Last night Spencer's band had agreed to play at some mad warehouse party in Marrickville. Superman made the trek to The Peach and we set out to locate this warehouse at around 11pm. This is the part where my age pops and unfurls in a cloud of unkind streamers. I am too old to stand in a rough concrete courtyard between warehouses listening to shit bands whilst posing my limbs artistically under the deliberate architecture of my hair. Most others in attendance were clearly not too old, their sliding eyes travelled over my physical form with less than casual disinterest; these are The Callow Youth.

They were two hours behind schedule so coffee was sought back out in the real world and the electric daylight. Spencer, Madam Squeeze and Superman and I charted a course for Newtown. Here's the part where four people at a corner table sip at coffees with elbows wide and open, throats arced back in the ease of laughter and conversation. Spencer demonstrated classic frontman dance moves in a cafe format cabaret history of rock. Madam Squeeze drank her third vanilla milkshake of the day.

Meanwhile back at the warehouse The Callow Youth were disagreeing with the local constabulary. When we arrived everything was being shut down. A small mob of Callow Youth stood arguing with the police. A tall pale one towards the back called them fascists, that's when Superman and I sniggered in unison. Spencer's band did not play. The Callow Youth started some band up but it was feeling nasty in that hot metal warehouse with the uneven concrete floor and the pools and puddles of Callow Youth.

I was wearing Superman's hat but this did not help. It did not help when I introduced Superman to Artboy. It did not help when The Callow Youth swarmed in a doorway and I became stuck. It did not help when we could not get out of the complex because the gates were locked. It did not help when Spencer's band decided it was no good thing and did not play. It did not help when I realised Superman had come all this way and would not hear even one band, but I don't think it looked too bad.

The reason my sentences are stubborn and artless is simple. Superman and I headed back to The Peach. We drank wine on The Peach Deck for hours. Conversation folded into natural pleats, words rose in patterns and the cat sat quiet on the striped lawn chair under the stars. Conversation turned to hats and ear size versus face suitability for hat wearing. There was only one thing to be done. We moved inside and had a hat parade, we talked past dawn then slept until midday.

Superman is a woven thing, he is threaded and cross-threaded. There are tangles, dropped stitches and a great miraculous unfolding. Held to the light his patterns are intricate and stretch clear to the horizon impossibly large yet definite in shape. He's a tall stick of limbs spiking out heart and precisely the right amount of raw intellect and humanity.

Sylvia pounced on the bed midmorning waking me with a gentle swat of a gloved paw. She walked the length of Superman three times, placing each paw with slow precision before settling at my elbow, folding into herself with a contented breath.

Grizelda miraculously poached us eggs. The day gently turned behind shaded windows and a merry veil of happy exhaustion. I believe I had a stupendously, ridiculously good time driving, walking, drinking, talking, hat parading, sleeping, breakfasting, sitting and song writing with Superman. I sure hope we can do it again some time.


An awesome song of joy and goodness by Superman and Dale Slamma:

Bumble bees and toast are both kind of fuzzy and yellow
All the little flowers smile at me and say hello
Cutesie little bunnies bouncing all around look at them go

Sunshine, yeah sunshine

Over on the hill with a pen and pad was Rimbaud
Furiously writing something nice look at him go
Butterflies fluttering by in the meadow

a pony, yeah a pony

Optional Bridge

And then there was a thunderstorm
And I turned into Nick Cave
And I constructed a murder ballad in a lime tree arbour

Bumble bees and toast are both kind of fuzzy and yellow
All the little flowers smile at me and say hello
Cutsie little bunnies bouncing all around look at them go

Sunshine, yeah sunshine

Over on the hill with a pen and pad was Rimbaud
Furiously writing something nice look at him go
Butterflies fluttering by in the meadow

a pony, yeah a pony

Comfortable pyjamas floating by in a rainbow
A kitten in a crocodile suit playing flute in a window
Folk with guitars, peaches and stars dancing real slow


This is the best place
This is the best place
This is the best place
Yeah

Friday, 14 March 2008

Lovely Rita (a) Neater Maid (would be real hard to find)


Rita of the waist length ringlets shaved her head for charity. I ate corn chips and watched, that's as close as I'll ever get to shaving my head. When a person has hair as awesome as mine it is their civic duty to preserve it by resisting the temptation to shave.

Wednesday, 12 March 2008

Stop the press: Ratcat was just in my car

Last night I woke underneath a blurred ball of howling fiends. The Mean Cat had broken into the house and was fighting my cat right on top of me. I thought I had been deported to the pits of hell. I yelled and the cats disappeared leaving me lacerated and bleeding from head to foot. This was not an omen of things to come.

The plan was to meet Superman for a night of poetry then maybe have a coffee, talk about the poetry and head home to pick out my most boring tie for the office tomorrow. Instead Superman was late and missed the poetry altogether. He arrived just in time to dive in my car and be sped away to Marrickville.

During the course of the afternoon I received a text message cordially inviting me to spend a few listening to The Cruel Sea get their groove on in preparation for their big gig tomorrow night. It is not sensible to suggest that this invitation required thought or consideration.

The room was small and tropical. Superman and I lounged on an enormous red bench seat that ringed the room, companionably close to Spencer and Madam Squeeze. Tex Perkins roamed the space microphone stand in tow singing every damn thing from Black Stick to a quite unexpected and calm Bohemian Rhapsody. The band was tight despite the odd dropped ball befitting the relaxed atmosphere. The bass player, who looks remarkably like Tim Rogers, has an elastic physicality to his playing that leaves nothing to be desired.

I think its the way Tex stands. The earth isn't made from rock for nothing. He draws it up through the flat booted soles of his feet until it gathers force and he lets rip. His presence wound its way around the room eating air and climbing walls until there wasn't a still molecule amongst us. Tex Perkins is frightening like he has more edges than middle.

Superman was grinning from ear to ear, I don't suppose he could believe his luck. I know I couldn't. He tried to pull a Tex Perkins face but the grin wouldn't disappear. I kept commanding "Stop grinning!" but of course he couldn't and this lead to the question "Does my grin look wolfish?". Hell yeah is what I thought, I don't think a grin could get more wolfish but I didn't think it would be polite so I said no then modified it to maybe just a little bit.

Superman decided that Tex Perkins did not look very tall. This necessitated a strategic walk by and an independent judge. Madam Squeeze declared Superman to be about a hand taller than Tex Perkins. This was a revelation for all involved, except maybe Tex Perkins who had no idea what we were doing.

My my, whoever has tickets for the Metro tomorrow night is in for a hell of a show despite the relative height of Mr Perkins.

I gave Simon from Ratcat a lift into Newtown. He is shortish, aging and fond of wearing leather caps. I used to want to marry him when I was in high school, don't tell anyone. Later that night Superman sent this message: Ratcat was in your car!

Yes indeed. Ratcat was in my car.

Ooooh

This is going to be exciting.

Saturday, 8 March 2008

Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name

This is Newtown calling. Ten points to Paris, five points to Newtown and twelve points for Dale Slamma, the greatest one person nation on earth.

Friday, 7 March 2008

It's like a jungle sometimes

Doorways became impenetrable. All of a Newtown a locked glass corridor showing how it is done how it is done but I was prevented from walking through any doorways. Some silent alarm sounded and I walked and walked without purpose.

My memory, with a wicked flick of her hand, reminded me I had been invited to an exhibition opening and then it stopped. I walked into the bakery and bought some foul and stinking square thing and ate and walked down the backstreets turning left onto Wilson St and counting out the numbers to 191. Spencer and Madam Squeeze saw me approach and they made, in unison, a face of alarm. A pared back grimace and a raising of the chin, a tightened grip on a handbag strap and a bottle of beer. We are all herd, at once I understood, Artboy was in the building.

I talked widely, admiring the shoes and netball dreams of one, placing a hand on others as I walked past with a nod and a word. I circled and circled in that crowd but it wound around me tighter and closer as the rain came and people pushed under the one small awning. I pushed through the crowd and stepped up into the gallery thinking myself safe to listen to the art (sound art) thinking I hadn't seen Artboy in any corner of any eye for ten minutes but there he was crouched beneath a piece wearing gallery cans listening and listening. Thinking Fuck the Art I went back outside.

Retreating to the relative safety of Madam Squeeze and Spencer it was some minutes before sound refocused and I joined the conversation but then it was too late. He was there, two metres to my left talking and talking to the netball one and Petey-O. I told Spencer I have to apologise to him. I sent him an email demanding he become undetectable in life. Spencer said "Be direct. Say what you have to say and get out. Then we'll go get a drink".

Tricky situations call for subtle yet inventive solutions. I hesitated then walked towards him. I paused thinking to wait for a break in the conversation but instead I said "Oy! I have to apologise to you so go over there" pointing round the corner. He came without a word.

Around the corner sheltering under a tree I looked straight at him and apologised. His face, oh god his face. It was all of him. He is hollow yet heavy as a sinking stone. He stood empty and grieving; a man constructed around a black hole. His shoulders pointed inwards sloping towards the opposite of possibility. All the while the rain. I stood like a beacon feeling the solid layers of myself hold me upright and strong. In this terrible comparison I have light. A shadow posing as a man. In this terrible comparison I am whole and well and full of light.

He said "I like your dress". He said "Sometimes there are things that I miss but I don't know if that is right." His face, oh god his face, not a mask not a mask, I was staring at ghosts contorted into pain. I thought he was dying. He should have been dying with insides hollowed out and nothing but racing grief and the shadow shapes of life imitating life. He said "Its good to see you." So I talked and he listened and he asked about my family while the tapes ran reruns in his head.

I thought I had made him into a ghost but I see now he was a ghost all along. Time pushed back and away the night that he left, the loud snap of his mind. I did not imagine nor embellish. These long months in The Peach I have carried guilt, grief and the repeating sound it was me it was me it was me I am not good enough I failed it was me it was me but it was him.

Spencer and Madam Squeeze walked me across a park in the pouring rain and we miraculously appeared on King St. There were pubs and finally a small gathering of six in a cafe. We sat sheltered cupping warm round cups laughing and talking. Spencer breaking into Jitterbug then a finger click every time a Wham Kid walked past. I was waiting for the lightning and torrential rain to make its sudden definite move inside my head. I was waiting for the laughter to die on my lips and cold grief to claim me.

Walking home alone in silence the rain soaking upwards into my shoes and the bottoms of my jeans I was waiting to fall and be unable to stand. Two houses from The Peach striding faster than gravity, my right foot hit a wet leaf and my leg went out from under me completely. This is how I found myself two houses from home standing solid on my left leg, upright, stable and suddenly aware of my own balance and strength.

The Great Plastic Megaphone Mask

Sits in place, quite snug and most comfortable. Underneath it I am reconciling the parts of me acknowledging it is all a business and the parts of me that howl.

My case against The Arts

Begins in earnest this weekend. No. No it does not. This was a lie. A dream. A falsehood. A delusion.

Thursday, 6 March 2008

Wham Kids its five o'clock on the Space Captain's Clock

Oh my glasses are ridiculous alright. I need to be wearing a Space Captain's uniform at all times otherwise the whole thing is a disaster and yet... when I glanced down at my laptop, glasses, diary and phone sitting nicely with a casual elegance on my coffee table I realised something. These are my things and they are coordinated. It looks like I opened my handbag and a tiny man from Vogue Living popped out and arranged expensive borrowed accessories for a photo shoot.

Some months ago I was dreaming of owning a pair of white sunglasses. Every night for weeks I dreamt about them. They were amazing. I did not buy white sunglasses and now I am glad because they have been hijacked by those cursed Wham Kids. I hate Wham Kids. I want to hit them over the head with those blue freezer bricks that I keep in my freezer just in case I ever buy an esky.

Let's talk for a moment about Wham Kids. They need to be stopped at all costs. It all started early last year with a random spotting here and there on King St and I thought Oh those silly Newtown kids are at playing dress ups again but then one fateful day it happened. I walked down King St merrily singing a song about fig sorbet whilst bumping into people, I hurt my arse doing my washing by hand in the bathtub and temporarily lost my steering, when I looked up and there were hordes of them. Hordes! It was a rare moment of pure horror.

Wham Kids look like they are on their way to a Wham concert. They are all loose t-shirts with fluoro bits on them, white sneakers, white sunglasses (or blue or other neon colours), tight pants or flarey sort of little skirts. They have beads and chains and socks and hair oh lord the horror. Once I saw a Wham Man, to his credit he pulled it off, but still it was a little creepy. If a Wham Kid approaches you say "Choose life" then run.

Wednesday, 5 March 2008

All art is trying to be anaesthetic

Working in The Arts is boring. Here is the pop at the end of your dream bubble. Working in The Arts is tedious, relentless, mind numbing and ridiculous. All business is business and must run according to the laws that govern business. It matters little whether your aim is to promote and protect the rights of cellists. At the end of every day every day 9 to five, nine to 5 the accounts must be set in order. The bills must be paid, things must be typed, pieces of paper will be printed on and put into folders, there will be a database, you will stare at the database and then make it produce lists. People will telephone and be rude.

I'm shutting down The Arts. The people do not want it anyway. There is no money here. Nobody cares if another author steps over their fallen dream and sets fire to their pages. Nobody cares about the stupid old painters with their stupid old paint. Nobody cares about boys with laptops that go beep intermittently. So let's shut the whole thing down. Hand me your instruments, your brushes, your words, your sounds, your pencils, your cans of things that squirt, pass me your scrap metals, your felts and your pain. Set down your canvas, your needles, your laptops, your grid paper, your pigments and glass. Put here in this box your projectors and pastels, your oils and dogs made of flowers. Hand me your perspective, your dictionaries and pointe shoes, your bows and mouthpieces, your music stands, manuscripts and your ears, your neurons and your old boots without a brand name. Disarrange those words young poet cause I'm shutting the whole thing down.

Tuesday, 4 March 2008

Hello Deakin

Well then, I'm now officially a post graduate student. I had thought that I would never ever study again. I figured I'd left enough of my soul on the academic altar to please the gods but it appears I was wrong. Three pieces of paper are clearly not enough. I wish to quit my job. That slipped out unannounced.

Five times today I almost grabbed my bag and fucked off out of there straight to a temporary employment agency. I didn't and in my small mind that makes me exemplary. Walking to the station this afternoon weighed down by course materials and dvd's (very odd that dvd's are also course materials) I felt an alarming feeling. I like this. I like that enrolling in a course of study suddenly gives clear shape and definition to my life. Its like a drug, permeating everything, controlling time, actions and behaviour towards others.

Am I so weak a character that an official framework like university is necessary to shape my days? Yes is the terrible answer. I must do this in addition to full time employment, I must do this at the cost of time with my manuscript, time with my own free mind, energy for undoing and redoing the bits of myself that need care. Is this what I want? No is the terrible answer but I am locked in to this. The Australia Council For The Arts is paying for this because of where I work. If I quit my job I owe Deakin University more money than I have. Pulling out of the course is not an option if I want to keep my job and I do want to keep my job because I don't have another to go to.

It is a beautiful well spun trap. I should sit with my texts and course materials and enjoy the view. Let's see if I can.

Monday, 3 March 2008

Deus ex machina

I might follow the yellow brick road, we all know it worked for Dorothy. I failed to determine the nature and reason of the track and now this blog is sinking. The end is yet to be determined and as usual I call upon the author to explain but this time she's missing.

There's no hook to my days at the moment. No tag line, no cheap way of rendering clouds into words. Not a moment of amusement worthy of recalling nor a writhing pit of despair throwing out words worse than fire. The sentences keep deserting me. At first there was nothing only a wondering at the lack of sentences but now I am angry. I am sitting in my office all day seething with anger. It is anger without words or a point of focus. This is not heartbreak or old fashioned artistic frustration and the doubting of my soul. It is plain ugly anger and I frighten myself thinking what if I had someone to take it out on. What if I beat my own imaginary wife?

I have a suspicion but it is small and mewling pitifully not a charging thing of hardened hooves like they usually are. If I was a game then anger is the comical giant monster that appears for no reason and must be defeated with five blows counting as one before the level ends and the portrait of myself, drawn by others, moves up a level.

The problem, the problem THE PROBLEM the problem this problem is I haven't found all the bags of gold stashed under rocks and behind squeaking animated nonsenses. I'm not finished on this level. I didn't find any entrance to a cave. There were no sudden stone gates or opening walls. I haven't jumped over any pits of lava or swum through infested waters with a miraculous bubble round my head. I'm just walking and walking and beginning to think I might like it here and then it descends and the oversized monster appears. I need my sentences back. The only way to fight invisible monsters is with words.

Dear People of The World

Spencer is looking for a new house. He is tall, has a favourite mug and once scored 10/10 for a pikelet he made. Spencer prefers to live in the Inner West, he has several hats but no so many they'd get in your way.

People of The World I know you have houses with rooms in them. I can see them.

Sunday, 2 March 2008

In a drunken moment of clarity it hit me with force and for once I didn't lie about it

I am quiet now in an after storm mode of sitting curled in and sacred. I have done all the things I do not do. I have reacted and overreacted. I have apologised to myself, to Spencer and then to Artboy.

Spencer because I left a ridiculous drunken message on his Sfpazbook wall. Spencer replied with humour and not a trace of anger which would have been well within his rights.

Artboy because I unforgivably emailed him saying "Yep, drunk but anyway you should just not be detectable. That's it. Not detectable". He replied with such humility, grace and sorrow that I spent a day stranded on a chair unable to move or speak or do anything at all until I sent another email apologising. What possible right could I have to ask another person to be undetectable to me in this life.

Me. I apologised to myself because Elliot sent a message saying that he wants to approach me but is too scared. His typo made the scared into sacred and it was this more than anything that prompted me to reply. Now he has phoned, we have talked but not about anything at all. I let the silences rest and the pauses unwind into meaninglessness.

Now I sit quiet in the aftermath of doing all the things I do not do. I dropped my mask and it cracked. This is the year of holding up signs for others to read.

Lord I is drunk

Ween. I saw Ween. Good lord I went and saw Ween. Afterwards people came to my house seeing as it so handy to The Enmore Theatre. Spencer told me he is now Artboy's Fspazbook friend. This is fucked. I wish Artboy was dead. This is drunken thinking. I think. It would be handy if he actually was dead. Dear Artboy (mental fucktard), Please go and die now. Right now or alternatively you could do it retrospectively so that when you went completely mental you died then. Much better that way. Regards, Dale (the person you fucked over). Yep definitely drunk on 70's rose. Mateus. Spell? Matuese? I don't care how you spell it. It is in a roundy sort of bottle, or it was, now it is in my roundy sort of belly. Some of it is in Spencer's belly, also some in Rita, her friend's belly and maybe Ron, no not Ron and not Madam Squeeze. They be too high classed for 70's rose.

Oh lord I don't know what's going on. I have the house to myself. It was good before. I sat in the loungeroom and read books. This can not happen when other people are here because they always watch television. Always! Bad. Television is for sometimes watching and sometimes turning off. Not for always watching.

There was a man in the upstairs bar at The Enmore who would not leave me alone. I stood next to the security guards until one of them said "Do you know him?". I said "NO!" then they spoke into their radios and people came and took the man away.

Typing is ok to do if you are by yourself or sometimes if you are not by yourself. Madam Squeeze told me her conception story. Remarkable how many people are conceived whilst parents in fancy dress costumes. If I had to choose fancy dress costumes for my conception story, hang on, not sure about this. One combination that produced a child was Lucille Ball and Groucho Marx. Perhaps my parents were dressed as a fucktard and a spaz or as neurosis and unattractiveness or a train crash and an imaginary alien invasion. What about a tidal wave and a drought or a dead woman and a pointless existence. Maybe 70's rose a bad idea. Maybe I'm a bad idea.

Oh dear. Drunk bad. Usually drunk fine if not excellent but tonight suddenly typing about fancy dress parents of doom.

Ron has suggestion if ever find self fucking Tex Perkins. Obviously is a man that needs double bagging. In order to detect if one of the bagging layers has been compromised simply smear an amount of tiger balm between the two condoms. If top layer compromised then immediate detection possible. My idea is to not shag Tex Perkins thus avoiding serious tiger balm related lady injury.

1:37 am and all is well. Friends all gone home to their houses of anti-doom. I am sitting in blankets typing about fancy dress parents of doom and seriously wondering if I should get up and visit the tinkle palace. My brother said tinkle palace the other day. Very stupid indeed. Who walks around saying tinkle palace.

The Cowboy Book of Etiquette says "Don't say where you are going, just say Excuse me and then go".

Saturday, 1 March 2008

Those educators made me the opposite of Lois Lane; I call upon the author to explain

Equal measure. A spoon for spoon wandering around existence with sore hands and feet and curiosities about crucifixions. Was it a drowning? Something about arms and legs and inabilities of blood, I don't know, I don't know. You could fill this bucket with it. Newtown opens its stitches; watch me walk right in between bulging sutures and the woman with a skirt but no pants. You can even have a coffee if you desire.

That curious island of a cafe with its easy listening can't smooth your edges Newtown. You are ragged under new pink lips Newtown. The pirate man hesitated tonight before leaning in close with his sounds and I wonder what you did to him to make him pause and consider before bobbing his top hatted head. The people with shoes walked. The people with shoes, and that includes me, walked all over you sometimes noticing a hum now belongs to another and the pies have lost their joke.

Newtown I'm wondering about your party dress and the laundries and what people do with their boxes of powder. I'm remembering yesterday buying decaf coffee in my gym clothes then drinking chocolate milk in the rain. Vanilla fridge wipe with the aftertaste of socks. All this preceded by the lifting of weights unseasonably chewing lactose enabling mint tablets and now I'm telling you I'm the opposite of Lois Lane. I call upon the author to explain.