Sunday, 29 June 2008

I'm not metamorphic

I can't remember myself so I'm listening to Bob Dylan. I'm turning it up because I like it. I'm climbing inside it because I like it, here on my own. I can't tell you how it feels, you always asked me that question - how does it feel? There are ways of conquest, we all know that, but I have become impenetrable.

I'm not metamorphic.

Lacuna vacuus fines

Mots sans frontières.

Saturday, 28 June 2008

Tree like an elevator

Fragile as a cracked but whole egg, I'm sitting in this construction. Superman's blues guitar raising and lowering outer walls, I'm catching cross-legged glimpses of the gradated horizon. I don't mind that his blues doesn't yet build the whole house. I like this meccano raising and lowering revealing trees, sunsets and neighbours.

I should feel his superimposed rhythm as intrusion but this is basic, the rhythm has always been blue. Last night Superman and I sat upstairs at The Hopetoun eating nachos, with Artboy. I'm waiting for a telegram on how I feel, it'll say Western Union at the bottom and To Dale, at the top.

Friday, 27 June 2008

Head head purple

If I was a man I would have spectacular testicles. I am certain of this. I am drunk, this is good. I was so excited by the colours in my discarded clothes on the bathroom floor that I ran dripping wet and naked into the hallway to tell anybody I could find to come and look at my clothes on the floor. I didn't find anybody except the cat and she was interested.

I was wearing an orange shirt, a blue tie and a purple jumper but revealed on the floor was my underneath things, my tomato red singlet and royal purple underwear. It was a marvellous puddle of colour. I am very glad that Superman was already on his way home, it would have been one of those unfortunate incidents. Particularly unfortunate. Tomorrow night when Superman comes back I will remain clothed at all times, either that or I will wear only boringly coloured things to ensure no unfortunate incident occurs.

Wednesday, 25 June 2008

I'm sick of myself when I look at you

I'll fill my shoes with powdered glass, that's all part of the deal. I'll walk you bloody as though I was always a typewriter. Spencer gave me Spencer P Jones on a flat disc with track listing handwritten on a white paper sleeve. He gave me a reason to glance sideways at the glass panel on the upstairs French doors in the cafe on Glebe Point Rd. I glanced at the glass panel fighting the urge to lurch my head through it. It wasn't cause Spencer's landed some astonishing people to record a spot or two on his new album.

Jagged teeth are tearing at my tongue, this is all part of my aphasia program, verb, transition. Tug Dumbly stood backlit like a monument but the microphone was shithouse and I lost inflections through electricity and trees. He was standing there holding his opaque decades like a frame but I'll sit through it. I'll sit through his time-frozen-yesterday's-decade Sydney vision humour to feel the molecular necessity of his breathing Yahweh poem and witness the tipping point of his verb, transition. He's a man on the edge of brilliance, if he dares.

I was sitting in the cafe fighting the urge to crash my head through the glass panel on a French door sucking down cigarettes and cradling coffee. Spencer keeps opening his mouth and the words are falling out. His words, other's words, its the way he arranges them, a stone fountain spitting out the absurd, the profound and the necessary. He's the most like a typewriter out of any man I know. Spencer said something and I was struck like a bell by my own lack of genius. I leaned back in my cafe chair blowing out cigarette smoke and cradling coffee, fighting the urge to lurch my head through the glass panel and pushing down the wordstorm.

I've wrapped myself in scarves and all the draping things I can find. I'm walking the hallway and eating mandarins. I'm washing dishes and changing the order of words in my head. I'm making piles of dirty clothes, talking at the cat, I'm putting on another pair of socks. I'm wondering at the order of things in my cupboards and counting newspapers in a pile. I'm cooking and eating eggs and toast, I'm putting pieces of broken glass in the bin. I'm wandering this house like a museum and calling it busy but what I'm really doing is investigating to see if I'm in a state of grace.

Tuesday, 24 June 2008

My direction home

Much less than lightning like a pencil to the ocean but whole as a pie. Superman slapped me across the face, twice, in a forwards backwards both sides of my face tennis swing motion. It was violently shocking and swift though not violent beyond playful in intent. I suddenly noticed his height and the size of his hands, roughly twice the size of mine. I pushed my hand into my bag and pulled out a pair of red leather gloves. I held the gloves aloft, he skittered backwards a step or two but I lowered my arm a little and stood there in the freezing night, drunk, shocked and motionless outside the Enmore Theatre. This is the moment I keep coming back to, the literal slap in the face. It reminded me of something, something like how the illusion of control and safety can slip when you least expect it. I wasn't afraid of Superman, there was no need for fear, he was grinning his ridiculous grin, hopping about with his jeans rolled up to show off his pink stripy socks (a birthday present from me) with his long coat flapping in the wind. He looked like a cartoon pirate. My face didn't sting, it was a swift but gentle slap, I stood on Enmore Rd yelling insults with my arm held high noting the small silent compartment frozen in the centre of me.

Today has been a series of slaps in the face. Artboy is diehard3. He confessed via email this morning. His confession included this "There is a desire to remain some small part of your world. I'm sorry that this manifested itself as horrible trolling. I do not think I am a troll at heart."

Artboy is ten thousand things, each one of them the opposite of a troll. It is true that I wished him dead or more accurately - "I hope he feels like shit. I hope he curls into a ball of Heathcliff and beats himself over the head with a walking stick. I hope he crashes his jet into the Grose Valley and drowns under boulders with broken legs." Maybe I do still wish he was dead. It would be easier to live the rest of my life wondering what might have happened if he had not died instead of knowing what I know. It hits me like a slap in the face, not every day, not every week but often enough to have permanently rearranged my architecture.

I've been slapped before. Artboy slapped me across the face in his attempt to wrench the car keys out my hand the night that he went mad two years ago. He was screaming, then he slapped me and clawed at my hands. I wouldn't let him drive. He'd gone mad and I wouldn't let him drive. He started throwing punches but I stood silent and still as stone while he raged and hit me like a punching bag but we all know this story, the story of Artboy gone mad and Dale Slamma realising that no matter what she will never be enough.

My Dad slapped me once. He took three long steps, hit me across the face and told me to get in the car. I was ten and he was driving me to school, he had hurried me to be ready then made me wait while he gathered his things for the day. I told him he shouldn't have hurried me if he wasn't ready to go, that's when he took three long steps and hit me across the face. When I got to school I traced around the red swollen mark on my face with a purple texta. The teacher made me wash it off. I had forgotten about that, forgotten about Artboy's slap and the time my Dad hit me in the face until Superman flashed out his long playful arm and I stood motionless on Enmore Rd with a pair of red leather gloves in my right hand.

Monday, 23 June 2008

Digital Mystery

Who is diehard3?

The following people have, at one point or another, been suspected;
Superman
Creamboy
Artboy
Chris Brimstone
Elliot
Spencer
Dale Slamma (this one is ridiculous, I am clearly not diehard3)

If you will not confess then will you lead a merry chase?
I demand a clue.

Saturday, 21 June 2008

Womb

This is what I'm doing with my surround soul people and curlicue thoughts gravitroned out to make new walls. Kimya Dawson was key in this invocation made tangible. I sank to the floor .... oh someone is at my door.

This is not finished. I am not finishing it now. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe not. I have no idea.

Thursday, 19 June 2008

Exploding tampon dinosaur shopping, breathe with me

I followed a man in a black tuxedo jacket around for about half an hour, he looked interesting and had a very organised way of walking about the supermarket. He bought ten litres of juice, one stick of french bread, a bag of apples and three kinds of soft cheese. He stopped and winked at me in the cheese aisle so I ran away, to the biscuit aisle, where it is safe.

Shopping is an excellent time to practice reciting poems, or so I thought until people started to look at me oddly. Today I was attempting to perfect Tug Dumbly's method of saying Yahweh. The "Yah" is pronounced as you breathe in and the "Weh" as you breathe out. It is meant to be soft and just audible above the sound of the breath. It might in future be prudent to take into account the possible religious beliefs of shoppers inside the Marrickville Metro on a Thursday evening before walking around declaring "God is unpronouncable" [breathe in] Y...H [breathe out] W...H" with a trolley full of boxes of matches.

The checkout chap raised an eyebrow as he scanned four large boxes of tampons, three large packages of boxed matches, one Vogue Living , several kinds of icing and a bag of plastic dinosaurs. I attempted to explain that I required the matches to explode the dinosaurs but I'm not sure that he understood.

I am about perform some test explosions with dinosaurs in the fireplace. I want to be careful to not explode Superman's head tomorrow, or my own for that matter. It would be difficult to enjoy cake with an exploded head.

Wednesday, 18 June 2008

A history of medicines

She was shorter than I remember, her head was wider and her hair more unkempt but it was her alright walking down the street towards me with three books in a plastic bag, a Katoomba jacket slung over her left arm and an expensive handbag hanging off her right. We waited an age to be served at the cafe, she was staring uneasily at the dazed wandering waiter and flinching at noises, people and cars. She said its too busy here, like New York and the people are odd, like New York, you wouldn't live here if you knew about pollution. I told her I like it here but she glanced sideways and told me there's brown cloud above this town, she sees it every time she comes down from the mountains.

I gave her her birthday card, with the promise of a present inside. She gave me three books in a plastic bag, all signed by the authors and made out to me then she told me the curse had been lifted. I didn't know there was a curse so this came as something of a shock. I did know that she obsessed with dying by the age of fifty nine years and three weeks. No woman in her family, in my family, has lived past the age of fifty nine years and three weeks. I figured I was immune to to the age limit because on my father's side they all live forever but now she's telling there was some kind of curse.

Her sister, my aunt, is now fifty nine years and three and a half weeks old, this is all the evidence she needed to declare the curse lifted. She's shorter than I remembered or maybe I'm just walking a little taller but whatever the reason I think I know why someone would curse us. It all comes down to what Gemma called my 'fuck you vulnerability', truth is its not mine, it belongs to all of us, my shorter than I remember mother, my aunt, my long dead grandmother. It makes us unbearable, to ourselves.

Tuesday, 17 June 2008

No two people are not on fire

I need to learn something. I need to learn how to fall into words and come out smiling instead of shaking.

Monday, 16 June 2008

Sunday, 15 June 2008

Circle the wagons

I am magnificently lazy with my lion sized hair thinking London happens as far South as Sydney*. I've never been one for cardinal points but its here now despite my longing for bigger windows to better picture the wild juxtaposition of rain, fire and the small round cat at my feet.

I've been pushing things into my head feeling the lock down click pointing North away from empty. If there were halos mine would be garamond narrow 3. Hunger is sudden so I am longing like the cat for Grizelda's roasting chicken. She's calling back to the timer on the oven. I'm not sure what she's using but it sounds like a spoon cousin, not to cut out your heart but to baste it.

I am need of something, a day, a sleep, a rest, tea on a tray or adrenalin straight to the heart. I am exhausted despite my epic magnificent lazing on the floor by the fire. I am exhausted and it is all my fault. Friday night Superman and I went to hear Shaun Tan in conversation at Gleebooks and in his quiet way he informed my footsteps. I stood in line to have my book signed chatting ridiculously to Superman until it was my turn, he dipped his finger in ink and fingerprinted my book and I told him I threw a mandarin, he smiled up at me as he signed his name, I said I didn't mean to throw the mandarin.

Superman drove us across town to see Holly Throsby at The Factory and in her quiet way she informed my footsteps. We drank wine by the fire until it was impossibly late and slept until midday. The icy wind of death followed us from street, to cafe to street, through two movies, one delivered dinner and a drive across perimeters to Superman's house for supplies. We sat by the fire until it was impossibly late then we slept until midday and Superman sat in stern silence over his work. I began my epic sprawling, organising my wagon circle of books, papers and thought. I usually work alone because ribbons of thought pop and unfurl, they are easily tangled by the presence of people but lately I've been writing next to Superman while he sits silent and stern over his work. My mad ribbons are exploding everywhere but float easily around him and I don't mind reading out the occasional sentence or consulting on word choice or putting down my pen or book to take up one of his papers or thoughts.

This afternoon Superman suggested a sentence, I accepted it with unusual easiness and stared as it made miraculous sense out of a struggling infant paragraph. Nobody has ever offered me words before and I'm sure that if anyone had ever asked the question I would have stomped my foot and said I would never take words from another, if anybody dared to offer them. I would have stamped and blown out quick air like a horse. I am becoming increasingly aware that I am often wrong, about myself.


*"London happens as far South as Sydney" is a line I stole from one of The Beautiful Boys, it is in one of his poems, I don't remember what it is called but it is good.

Walking with mandarins

I didn't realise I did this quite so much until Grizelda asked me to stop. I'm quite certain that walking up and down the hallway with a mandarin helps me to think clearly and I need to think clearly. I've been jamming things into my head, words, music, film and laughter. I've been jamming things into my head with full fists and a carelessness of aim so that now I walk flat like a camel lest it all clatter out onto the carpet.

It is a quiet tonight in The Peach, Grizelda lying on the couch watching telly, Superman sitting stern and silent, chipping away at his work in an armchair by the fire in the library. I am cross-legged and hunch back typing on the floor in front of the fire, me, my cat and my mandarin.

I am rewriting, reinventing and reinterpreting my first set of interview notes. So far all the sentences sound overtly constructed, like this one "She wants Sunday afternoons mixed in bowls with salad and the sprawling of fathers on outdoor furniture forming horizons out her kitchen window." I'll get there in the end but I might need a bigger bag of mandarins.

Thursday, 12 June 2008

Emotionless Rescue

Grizelda stood over it with her hands on her face bending forward but unable to touch it. I've got nothing in me but the urge to vacuum so that at my funeral they're not all standing around saying "She was thirty-one but never mastered the art of keeping a clean house, its so sad". Grizelda was distraught so I gently probed for signs of life. Its head lolled sideways its tongue thick and lifeless but its small heart was still beating so I scooped it up and carried it to the car and covered it in my favourite purple scarf. There wasn't a mark on it but it died none the less, the vet pronounced it dead on arrival then sprayed our hands with virus killing spray. He was tall with disordered hair, he thanked us for attempting to rescue the dead kitten then walked away in his white coat and student shoes.

I've got nothing in me but the urge to vacuum and these still life images of an emotionless rescue. I watched television with my warm and live cat on my lap then pulled cheap conditioner through my hair while the bathroom filled with steam. Yeah, I've got nothing in me tonight.

Pirates and ninjas are not natural enemies, I am sure of this, despite what Superman says

I need sleep more than words so I'm pushing back the sentences. I've got images of honey pots and my loose fist plunging. I'm asking you to call me Ishmael but I'm not sure why. Someone said 'There goes the mariner" but he was ancient and I thought ah ha, one of three, for now I'm unstoppable but of course everything is derivative. Superman bought me a tiny cake, tinier than the palm of my hand. The poet hooked metaphors on resonance but it resonated only in her mind and the names of plants walked brittle across my ears. Superman won the argument about pirates and ninjas with his research and words but I'm whistling out the opposite of a dirge.

Wednesday, 11 June 2008

Brilliant

I have thought this through and nothing could possibly go wrong. I will walk to Glebe and go the poetry at Sappho's as though nothing even happened. I will surprise even myself with my general good cheer, fortitude and lack of doom. I will sit at my usual table and stir my coffee in an unconcerned way. I will pull faces at Superman when the poetry is bad, I will tell The Beautiful Boy that his poem was excellent, because his poems are always excellent. I will leave early if I am tired. I will purchase a tiny chocolate cake, tinier than the palm of my small hand, I will eat it with the same tea spoon I use to stir my coffee. Superman might be late but I will not worry, I will sit happily by myself and make notes in my notebook because he always shows up in the end. When he arrives I will annoy him for five whole minutes by communicating to him my sense of empowerment using badly drawn sketches and sachets of sugar.

I will sit happily stirring my coffee and thinking how excellent it is that I have sewn this time into a useful shape because Superman is right. I am not the same person anymore and its been some time since Artboy had any power over me. I am not imagining the power slip, it is almost tangible. So you see, I've thought this through and nothing could possibly go wrong, that's why I agreed to meet Artboy for coffee. This is my year for holding up signs for other people to read and tomorrow I'm going to tell Artboy that I'm fine.

Tuesday, 10 June 2008

Science makes us pay

It saddens me to report that I am suffering increasing pressure to voluntarily remove all of my pubic hair in a violent and bloody fashion. Fortunately I have never been one to crumble under pressure, no need to make ready with the brandy and sticking plasters just yet.

Science strikes again, this time in the bathroom but I think I need to lie down for a while, I can't even attempt to explain what happened.

Monday, 9 June 2008

Churchill was on to something, thanks Ron

Never, in the field of biscuit bakery, has so much, been owed by Dale Slamma, to Tim T.

Exaltation is not the word I'm looking for but I sure like the sound of it

I'm fairly certain that Keith Richards lives inside his guitar. Music is always there, he's just pointing out the obvious with particular movements of his hands like a child holding up an arm to a sky and a rainbow.

Superman caught me in the act of playing Mouse Trap by the fire. I was smoking cigarettes, eating Dale Biscuits and listening to The Rolling Stones bent as Atlas over the old board game trying my hardest to assemble the bright plastic pieces into something but there's nothing more confusing than a box full of bathtubs, ball bearings, plastic diving men and cardboard cheese.

I wanted to wash off my my red lipstick before we left for the cinema cause I've come to believe its the lipstick of doom but I didn't have time to explain with Superman standing in the doorway asking "Of all the things on our list of things we have to do before going is that really a priority?". I guess not, lipstick of doom is not a priority when the doom is imagined. I offered to drive in my shitbox of a car and I wasn't surprised when Superman said no, what was surprising was the song playing on the stereo in Superman's car. I liked it, I said that sounds happy but then the vocals started and I punched Superman right in the arm even though he was driving, such was the level of my surprise.

Superman told me he was making me a surprise but I wasn't expecting that, he recorded the song that we wrote and you know what, it sounds good. At the cinema Superman put massive headphones on me so I could listen to the song, I had a grand old time walking and dancing around right through the foyer and the cinema until I became confused by ads for stupid things and had to take the headphones off. Shine A Light was a privileged shifting of context and perspective. Its not every day you get to be on stage feeling every small electric zap of communication shooting between people who've been living inside each other's songs for so long that I don't remember myself without their music. The Rolling Stones don't sound how you think they sound.

The fire ate time again and nobody went to sleep before 4am. I slept fitfully, acutely aware in each waking state that everyone else was deep in slumber, Superman and the cat curling around each other like the world was a cardboard box. There were crepes, bananas, dizzy spells and supermarkets in the grey morning. I walked slowly in a dream shuffle pushing back spinning black balls of illness trying to infiltrate my equilibrium while the sky sat squat and monolithic, even in Newtown.

The rest of the day passed quietly, the Dr Who television marathon painting atmosphere while I paced and sat and stared and pushed my writing forwards one word at a time. Superman read away at his own work until Grizelda produced food for us all. Unfortunately we went and saw the Sex and The City movie, everyone cried, except me. I was furious and someone let the beast out of its memory box. Nothing ever turns out the way I expect it to. A shiny movie rammed with shoes and a girl who wears pearls with pyjamas is not supposed to hook down the sky and drape it over your head but that's exactly what it did, for a short while.

Artboy wants to meet me for coffee and I haven't been talking about it to anyone, except Ron, in a short and misguided online chat. The problem with Superman is that he listens, responds and generally makes more sense out of things than three of me strapped together holding out books of science. I am more used to walking around banging into things until I find my own way but don't misunderstand me, I'm not complaining about the lack of bumps on my head. A nice cup of tea, a little sit down, a chauffeured trip for tobacco later and I was lying on the lounge thinking this is alright.

Superman turned off the lights, lit a candle, put Sigur Ros on the stereo at top volume then laid himself down on the floor. I was the tiniest bit skeptical at first, needing as I did to reassemble things into shapes that made sense but nothing turns out the way I expect it to. Don't tell me sound can't be pixels cause I watched them last night through the pink of my eyelids stacking one on top of another in wave forms and human shapes and the good blue bricks of focus until everything was back where its supposed to be. I need to thank Superman for popping into my life and rearranging things, I'm not sure how but one of these days I'll manage it.

Saturday, 7 June 2008

Interview with a Slamma

Tomorrow morning I commence my new project, I am going to submit it for rejection from The Sleepers Almanac. I need to interview some people for my project. Interviewing is a tricky process but I find if I spend the first five to ten minutes working hard to create the right vibe then the rest is easy. Sometimes I fear I am equally cursed and blessed. People pour their hearts into mine, quite freely, like tipping milk from a great height.

I'm going to wear my shoes with soles as thin as paper because I need them to take me back in time. I'm going to walk up Glebe Point Rd with a novel and a notebook and a purse stuffed with small money. I'll order coffee black and strong and I'll cross one leg over another as I lean forward in my chair stirring the sugar in with small clicks of the tea spoon. I'll ask my questions and shorthand my notes, this is going to be interesting.

Friday, 6 June 2008

Breaking news


This just in.

Dale Slamma said:
"I couldn't believe it. A package arrived on my desk addressed to me, nothing odd so far, except that it contained a genuine can of Dale Biscuits and a handful of excellent zines by Tim Train. The biscuits are delicious and I am quite delighted. I want to say something about Winston Churchill but I'm not sure what yet."

Thursday, 5 June 2008

Needles and pins yeah

Usually it starts on my forehead, a hot prickling pins and needles, it slides down the sides of my face and my lips go numb in the centre. Sometimes its my arms, both of them, pins and needles down the backs of my upper arms then it walks in reappearing in my forehead. I've thought about doctors and their poking fingers then I think about something else like a tiny chocolate cake, tinier than the palm of my hand. I wish I had a tiny chocolate cake, tiny enough to make you draw back your lips before biting into it.

Thoughts aren't slipping out of my mind I'm just not having any. I'm concerning myself with the small and menial, remember to drink water, remember to eat food, remember to wear different clothes. I wore the same thing three days in a row. Sunday Monday Tuesday were all spent in my horrid blue house dress and I can tell you Friday's definitely on my mind. Wednesday Thursday I wore the same black skivvy and blue jeans. Ah here it is again. It is not dizziness but a slipping away of the ability to anchor myself, the hot pain and sliding numbness in my forehead and the sides of my face. I keep telling Grizelda I think I'm dying, you'd probably better take me to the hospital, she told me if I can tell that I'm dying then I'm probably not so she's not taking me anywhere. I wish I had a tiny chocolate cake, tinier than the palm of my hand.

Wednesday, 4 June 2008

Strong as a helicopter

Music is trying to kill me using the television, it has been for some time now. I never know when it is safe, what channels to avoid, I can't even watch old episodes of Buffy without the cold fist of fear in my heart. At first I thought capitalism was watching me, tracing my every step, you see we haven't always had the best relationship. Two weeks ago I spent an entire Saturday afternoon waiting on the corner to take a photo of a car. I see it all the time this car, the shiny Saab with a giant home made sticker of a lemon taped to the side. I wanted to photograph the car and now television is trying to kill me.

It seemed so obvious, Saab were wreaking their revenge using television as the medium with good old capitalism calling the shots. You see television doesn't just pull a gun and try to shoot me, its using this ad. I've tried everything, I watched it over and over and over again to try and build some immunity. It didn't work and I became desperate.

I was talking to Superman on the phone, I was telling him about my immunity building advertisement watching, told him that television was trying to kill me and you know what, he was kind of super about it. Robert, who is generally the model of a modern major miracle, thinks I am mental (about this), everyone else points out the obvious overdone literal interpretation of the song or just rolls their eyes but Superman had an idea. He said, its the song, the song and her voice, its simple and you believe her.

I think he might be right but I still haven't figured out a way to stop that goddamned fist of fear or the hooks that pull me from my chair to my knees while my heart is blackhole screaming into every silent night. I might need to buy a gun. I'm gonna wear a white jumpsuit and shoot the television.

Its still here

The throbbing in my head is still here but I'm learning to live with it like an extra foot or a triple thud heart. Its biological and calm. I'm walking at the same pace as the pulse in my face so that hallways and roads make more sense. I came here to the office because I am sure that it will fade if I sit very still and type with a quiet calm.

The pain at the bottom of my spine, the pain in my arm, my battle wound from typing, and the holes in my shoes sucking up rain water are problems that I need to address. It is odd, amongst this raggedness, that I do not feel that I am coming undone. I feel like a ship with a manageable hole or a remote control tank blown open and carefully welded back together because the insides are still good and all the little soldiers still have their hats on.

Tuesday, 3 June 2008

Captain Fuck Off

Yeah you heard me. This day begins and ends with my face pulsing from the pressure in my head. Exhaustion has gathered its army, in my head, and it is not lying down in peaceful slumber it is a writhing pulsating mass pushing out the gaps in my synapses. If I was the sound of the universe this pulsing would end us all.

Monday, 2 June 2008

ah ah ah ah ah beep


I said ok, who is this really? And the voice said, definitely smoking but you should go shopping because there is no food here. And I said, you don't need food if there's coffee and cigarettes.

Sunday, 1 June 2008

Break your your fast bitches

I'm thinking about pitching a new range of breakfast cereals to Sanitarium, I'll say "Yeah so I know you're all religious and shit but you should make these and give me money". That will be my pitch.

Captain Fuck Off
A surly cereal for cynical people
Bacon flavoured coffee cereal with a minty aftertaste

Captain Wow
The firm poo bran cereal you've been waiting for
Crunchtastic bran stuff will make you shit right


In other news paradise is just exactly like where you are now only much much better.


Oh dear, I strike again, sorry about that Rita

I need to be microwaved, urgently. My ions or the tiny spaces inside my atoms need exciting into action. I blame Superman, a roll of gaffertape and my opera cape, these three things should never under any circumstances be combined. I am under strict instructions to not publish this photo of Superman but due to the gaffer tape opera cape incident I'm too tired to follow instructions.

Last night Superman and I headed to Rita's surprise birthday dinner. I wore an opera cape and red leather gloves, Superman wore my black pashmina as a scarf, he does that from time to time. I don't mind but I was slightly alarmed when I wrapped myself in it five minutes and ago and found it smelled like man instead of perfume dust and good dresses.

I spent a considerable amount of time and effort going person to person in an attempt to organise a spot of waltzing after dinner. I thought surely I could not fail to succeed, Superman bet my $1.12 that I would indeed fail. The tables were grey melamine, there were pink napkins stuffed into wine glasses, the middle of the tables had a raised rotating section, I was sure that all of this was in my favour. In the end when I gave the signal nothing at all happened so I waltzed around on the miniature dance floor in front of two mountain men playing country versions of Jimi Hendrix songs with tiny Ronita who yelled "Guitar! 8 9 10!" at odd intervals until she tired of being danced about on my hip and insisted on being taken to see the fish tank.

After the giant platter of stacked balls of deep fried ice cream arrived with a lone sparkler sticking out of the top we sang happy birthday and I was struck by the irresistible urge to give an impromptu speech. I said to Superman "I must make a speech!" I stood up in my green jungle print 1950's party dress and stared them down, those thirty people in their jeans and t-shirts. I insisted they all listen to me and one by one they did. Unfortunately I said "I just have a few things to say, oh wait I don't have anything to say", recovery was difficult from that point, sorry about that Rita.

I sat in my puddle of weariness and odd shame all the long way home to the city. I cheered myself up somewhere around Parramatta Rd by singing the names of all the shops into one long song. Superman begged me to stop. There are a lot of shops on Parramatta Rd.

Reinstalled at The Peach where I can generally stay out of trouble (let us not remember Zissou) we lit a fire in the library and talked, at length, about nothing in particular until suddenly it was after 3am and we were watching Laurie Anderson videos on you tube. This is where gaffer tape, a lamp and Superman prevented my gentle fall into comfortable slumber until sometime after 4am.

Spencer came by in the morning wearing a cowboy shirt and some shoes sharper than shark shit. He pulled a plastic case out of his leather satchel and waved it around, holding it by the tips of his long fingers, the one that can reach all the way to the bottom of a jar of pringles, it was a rough mix from his new album so I climbed up the bookshelf to play a cd (the stereo is very high). Things got very Rock in The Peach today with Spencer sprawling his long legs and sharp shoes out the end of an armchair and Superman sitting in the opposite corner and the rough mix playing on repeat. We filled that room with cigarette smoke, conversation and the fuck off undeniable evidence of just exactly why we lock ourselves away in rooms undertaking our own private necessary tortures.

I don't write songs, that's not my brand of necessary torture, but sometimes, if you stop kicking and screaming at life you'll find someone delivers a reason why, right through your front door and I think this is what I wanted to say last night in that grey melemine restaurant holding a pink napkin and standing like a fool in party dress and an opera cape. It might sound simple, like a table full of friends eating fried ice cream or two men sitting in The Peach with the stereo on but what it means is something so complex I can't find a way of staring at it.