Sunday, 31 August 2008

Wilga Bob's twangled bone heart

I said "I hate Voss, I didn't make it to the end." He said "It twangled on my bone heart" as he pulled a page from Voss out of his wallet. He unfolded the page carefully, read me two lines then showed me a photo of his wife in fancy dress. His wife raised a glass and I noticed their matching wedding rings, modest, flat and gold.

I had no intentions of meeting anybody new or saying anything with meaning. Spencer and I were casually aimless in Newtown giving ourselves caffeine shakes and writing a list of pirate songs for my pirate mixtape. We stopped by a party The Spatula was at, the house was magnificent, the cat average but the people just not our own. We were walking down a laneway when we ran into them, Spencer knows them from round the traps, they asked us in and sat us down. They lit candles on their wooden kitchen table, served food on mismatched plates and somehow conjured Hank Williams sounds from a room nearby. I wasn't planning on meeting anybody new, I was wearing orange shoes.

Spencer crossed his legs and I noticed we were wearing the same socks. Her hair was like an old movie and he buttoned up his cardigan. He told me about cowboys leaning on a fence reciting Wilga Bob to each other but I wonder if he meant Mulga Bill. He said there was nothing but dust and stars and the obviousness of oxygen. They asked him for a poem so he began "The story of man makes me sick, inside, outside, I don't know" while the cowboys lifted elbows in quiet synchronised movements tipping VB cans inside VB holders until he finished. The cowboys said "I don't like that" turned their backs and walked away. He said there was nothing but dust, stars and the obviousness of oxygen. I thought it was something about belonging and the deliberateness of footsteps. I lay awake thinking about their wooden kitchen table, flat gold and Hank Williams.

The next day Spencer was wearing the same socks. Superman and I ran into Spencer and Madam after the movie, after we snuck pies into a movie. Superman managed his with sauce and didn't spill a drop. We crossed the road and walked into a church to look at the ceiling but it wasn't worth the effort. We retreated to the pub where I explained that if I was a man I would wee everywhere, with great accuracy and I tried, very hard, to think of the two kinds of camel.

Superman's going away for a while and now I'm wondering why I'm friends with him in the first place. 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. I think that's why. I remember thinking when I met him that I had no intention of meeting anybody new or saying anything with meaning. I was wearing red shoes.

Thursday, 28 August 2008

Spanish vs Mexican tunnels

I have socks. This has been a public service announcement. My new aim is to be the tallest man in the world, I start training on Monday. I am quite certain that I can achieve my new goal.

I was sitting on my bed smoking cigarettes, idly clicking through photographs of Mr X when it occurred to me that I must, with great haste, become someone else.

Wednesday, 27 August 2008

Do what thou wilt

I got fired by Bukowski today so I started a hellfire club but confused it with a glee and ended up short singing in a doorway. Distended harmony ended. He told me to step away from the words and the pens then he folded up my typewriter and put it in his wallet. I told him I have several plastic combs but he walked away and I was immensely relieved.

All I'm doing is giving meaning to time. Constructing a trailing alphabet self so that I'm sure, so that I'm sure. Its only maps of myself, I could give them to you but I need them for my swords and orange juice.

Tuesday, 26 August 2008

Like a hammer

When apathy knocks its best to answer. Sitting here two square and haunted. I hate you right now and its not cause you caught me in a real bad mood honey, that's not it at all. All personnel are required to leave the premises.

I like that concrete smack of head on floor, four legs are great, two legs are better. I'll take my tea Orwellian with ashes. I was going to carve things on your forehead with my knife but everybody's been sick. Two mulberries are blushed with pink and I have the first piece of advice for an imaginary child. Run.

Monday, 25 August 2008

Come on then

I anxiously await my rejection letter to confirm that I have not been double rejected. I now know of two people that have received their rejections and I want mine. Surely my piece of writing was not so bad that I have been rejected from receiving a rejection letter, that would indeed be disheartening.

Sunday, 24 August 2008

Oh W, X, Y, Z, its just entered my head

Eight days now the world has been gently rocking beneath my feet. That first moment when you stand, two feet on land, and wonder if the ocean has followed you ashore. This afternoon it lifted, for a few hours, and I navigated happily around hearth and home with incautious steps. It descended this evening with regulation fatigue but I am hopeful now that it shall soon be gone.

It was a novelty run of invisible waters and I made myself Captain but minute by minute it became disconcerting until I wondered if I'd fallen out of rhythm. It would have been eminently sensible to consult a doctor at an earlier time but I was so sure each that the sensation would vanish. Superman, in his stern sensible way, convinced me to see a doctor. It was difficult to arrange, no doctors anywhere were available and I was stuck fast in my new rhythm of measuring steps between sturdy walls, the easy existence of rising in time for work then returning to bed before 8pm. It seems ridiculous now, the exhaustion tinged with blind optimism.

One small box of tablets, two days later and I'm beginning to feel myself again. I quite like the modern miracle of medicines.

Saturday, 23 August 2008


Long stretch of blue denim, brown cardigan knitted by my mother and a clean t-shirt that says "Adelaide". I've been measuring my legs again and they are the same length they were last week and the week before last. I've tied a small rectangular tag to my left big toe. I will clean my room as though I was dying.

I am the one steady thing today, the world rocks like a boat or perhaps its seismic, continental drift. I'm feeling tectonic again and a little like building a small house for chickens. I want straw and feathers, clucking, eggs and a reason for gumboots. I lay flat on my bed with my toe tag and my imaginary chickens. My mother phoned and asked if I was dead yet. I told her no but that she should keep hens, five hens.

I once knew a chicken called Mrs Hitler, she was mean and would peck at my small fingers. I cannot recall the names of the other chickens, Arthur was the rooster. We ate Henry the younger rooster. I watched as he was held down flat on a tree stump near the back of the garden near the tangelo tree, his head lopped off easily enough then he ran around the garden a little. I don't remember being frightened.

I once named a doll Mrs Gorbachev, inspired by Mrs Hitler the chicken. This memory is closely associated with ballpoint pens. My Grandmother was able, the year I acquired Mrs Gorbachev, to return to Estonia for the first time since arriving in Australia. She told me they did not have ballpoint pens, elastic knickers or stockings in Estonia. She would say "Ete foot, goot sildrens", eat food good children. I told her I didn't have a ballpoint pen or stockings either, my mother gave me a look then barked suddenly "Mama! No vodka for the children".

I am dizzy or rather I am still but the world rocks around me. I am traveling through time and wishing for eggs in the palms of my hands. I have seven ballpoint pens, twelve pairs of knickers with elastic, three pairs of stockings and one electric blanket. This inventory is incomplete.

Thursday, 21 August 2008


I found the Beaumont children somewhere between blinks staring at my computer screen. My eyes have been screaming and I'm reeling almost enough to clutch at hand rails. I've got a hunch that somebody's punched my emergency exit and I'm escaping into the blue one slow molecule at a time.

Wednesday, 20 August 2008

Marcus Westbury is not Bob Dylan

But I admire him none the less. He's gone and got another idea into his head and we all know what happens when Marcus Westbury has an idea.

Tuesday, 19 August 2008

Stranger dreams

Last night I had stranger dreams. I pulled myself off the floor and into sleep by 8:30pm. I had all the blankets and the electric blanket turned up high yet I shivered and slept and shivered. I woke between nations as I travelled in my sleep. I was fixing the world one city at a time by heating things with my electric blanket.

My bed swept across sands and through cities, some shining like a national guitar and some crumbling under my fingers like paper pasted glue. The heat was necessary. I was fixing the world one city at time with my electric blanket until I woke at 8:30am with The Spatula at my bedroom door giving me a wake up call.

There was something elemental in the need for heat. Burning out fevers and riding storms. I'm thinking I'm going to need a white nightgown with a high lace collar.

Sunday, 17 August 2008

I'm ready for my close-up or today was the day I was recorded for an album or holy calamity the new Holy Soul record is going to be amazing

It wasn't your normal mission though I was wearing my ordinary clothes. Superman was late, I filled my time by staring out the window intently, with the cat. I can see why cats do this, it is a calm place to be, still while the world rolls by.

In the end we were the first to arrive, they were still recording the horns so we snuck back out and looked for coffee. I had parked my terrible car opposite a cafe where I had spied a man. I declared "I want to be that man". He was old with a beret and an all white coffee cup. He blew blue smoke rings and sat like he meant it. We walked back to the cafe and Superman let me sit in the seat where the man had sat so I could pretend to be him, he's alright that Superman.

One or two people came and joined us as we waited for the horns to finish. I started to worry that I wouldn't be able to do it correctly and floated the possibility of miming. I practiced miming clapping under the table, I don't think anybody saw me.

We did the hand claps first, Jon Hunter conducting like a possessed Tex Perkins wearing enormous headphones and performing large, precise claps for us to follow. We had a few practice runs but it still took a few takes to get it right. Superman later declared that he clapped until his hands were red and then he clapped some more. There were about fifteen of us, including the band, circled around the microphone concentrating intently on matching our claps precisely to Jon's.

We compared red hands in the courtyard while something technical occurred then regrouped for the first vocal part. The singing was quite lovely, if I do say so myself. The next vocal part was more challenging. Spencer conducted with a chopstick, encouraging dynamic changes with large enthusiastic actions. We were quite terrible and took approximately seven thousand goes to get it right. I was worried that I did not sound enough like a pirate. Someone declared that we were not drunk enough, beer appeared in a neat pile beneath the microphone and drinking mightily encourage so drink I did. Superman later declared, with an enormous grin, that if anyone ever had any doubt about our pirateness that we now had conclusive recorded evidence to set them straight.

We listened back to what we had done and were amazed. The parts we recorded were the finishing parts to songs. We stood in a line in the hall while the music played. Its understood that I could be biased but I think this album is going to be spectacular. Madam Squeeze turned slightly pink as she picked out not only her accordion part but her voice in a song.

I'm trying to think calmly about the day but I'm grinning from ear to ear. I thought it might have something to do with being lucky enough to be a small part of something spectacular or that I'll have my name on the back of an album but I'm pretty sure its something else. It was a small room in Chippendale, there were bottles of beer on the floor and drums shoved into every corner but I was one voice among many. I found myself lost in simple rhythmic synchronized sound, I'm fairly certain there's no better place to be.

Thursday, 14 August 2008

Double the fist

Double The Fist is about as good as my imaginary show "Shit What Will Burn but it has the distinct advantage of actually being on television. I'll continue to watch it for as long as it may live, a team of psychologists is working round the clock to work out why. I suspect it may have something to do with The Riff (now with correct link). Recently the one good shop from The Riff moved to Newtown, not even shops are immune to that eastern tidal pull.

Last summer every time Grizelda and I walked up the street Grizelda would yell at a car. It was a small shitbox matt black with house paint, ill formed flames decorating the back end. She'd yell "Its so ugly!" but I kind of liked it. Its the sort of thing I might like, something ugly on purpose but it turns out the car is the Double The Fist car so now I am famous.

Sky hook

Today I will mostly be wanting a pony and wearing gloves.

Wednesday, 13 August 2008

Hard parts and jelly babies

I have the photos, I have the interview notes, I have eaten all the jelly babies. The jelly babies were Superman's idea and I think they helped at least a little. Everybody, except the cat, likes jelly babies.

Tuesday, 12 August 2008


I'm bent on remembering. I'm trying to catch something. I think I'm chasing the shape of myself. I trace it across clothes, beds and maps. My earliest memory is imagined. Cradled unsteadily on wheels, bound in blankets looking incorrectly at the hemispheric sky. A proper and tended garden, kind underfoot with loose dark soil. Fruit, flowers, chickens.

Monday, 11 August 2008

Things what will burn

First imagine a cheesy bossa nova casio keyboard style beat, now add acoustic guitar. Got it? Good now pause and say "Shit what will burn!". That's the theme tune to my imaginary television show called "Shit What Will Burn". Spencer, Madam Squeeze and I had our first imaginary taping of the show last night. We sat in front of the fire, I held up an object, Spencer played the theme tune then Madam and I said "things what will burn". I then placed said object into fire.

So far things what will burn include newspaper and the cardboard wrapper from a block of chilli chocolate. Good progress in imaginary television land with all the necessary typewriter isolation.

Sunday, 10 August 2008

I work hard for it honey

Superman prevented me from marrying Steve Cannane, my photographer was late and they kept putting lemon instead of lime into my vodka. My shoes stuck permanently to the floor on no less than seven occasions, I had to remove my feet and a grow a new pair each time. I was plagued my hippies, can't abide hippies, and art kids that do not wash their hair or their armpits. I was teased about my plastic combs and the inexplicable excitement I experience each time the Freddie Mercury guy came into my line of sight (Freddie mercury guy is a young man, possibly twelve years old, who looks remarkably like Freddie Mercury) but overall a good time was had by all.

The first band I saw were good 73% of the time, that's not too bad. The Kill Devil Hills were adequate but The Holy Soul were outstanding. I'm headed over to my photographer's house, just as soon as I change out of my Eyeore pyjamas, to review the shots, based on what I saw on the tiny camera screen there's some great ones. All that remains is to arrange a time to meet Trent Marden from The Holy Soul to complete my interview. Well I think I also have to wee, I'll need to organise that too. A person simply can not wee wherever they are when the mood strikes them.

Saturday, 9 August 2008

Coffee & cigarettes

One main point of conversation was what might happen if a person, by accident, happened to wee on their electric blanket in the middle of the night. Grizelda was sure that my mother might know but I said I would not ask her. Grizelda will now ask her mother this important question, Spencer and Madam Squeeze eagerly await the answer.

I've become a woman of luxury with my electric blanket and my plastic combs, the cat approves of both blanket and combs. Some people might not think that a cat and a woman should share a plastic comb but I don't mind, the cat seems cleaner than me most days. If it came to it I could wash the cat or the comb in the bathroom sink using soap and water.

I'll send myself to sleep thinking of postage stamps and the various hats worn by the Queen of England. I'll imagine my own currency with square coins stamped with pictures of the cat, a comb and an electric blanket. I'll dream about wheat and floating boats and sand dune horizons. I'll imagine the rhythm of the sea and microwaves and showers. I'll dream about jars of honey on a windowsill and you.

Thursday, 7 August 2008

Google maps street view ruined my latent dreams of exploration

Superman has explained to me that I am a white person, he did this using a handy yet hilarious list, this has nothing to do with typewriters or maps.

I keep thinking about maps and all those mad explorers who perished because they followed valleys instead of ridges. Those mad explorers searching for an inland sea. The rivers must run for a reason but I 'm yet to figure it out, gravity doesn't hold much sway with me and the earth might after all be flat or hollow or floating madly in space like a moth at a light.

I've been exploring my explorations. I've got my maps pinned neatly to the wall, my religious green texta ritual highlighting and reducing my stepping thoughts. I'll photograph those maps one day and take out all the lines to see what shape I'm making on this earth but for now it closes my day and stains my fingers.

You can stare at the maps for hours and nothing will be revealed to you. There is no evidence of thought or dress or the rhythm of my footsteps, annotation is not my intention. Its the bare lines of being, things do not always end with revelations.

Tuesday, 5 August 2008

You bloody fatherfucking arsehole

Its no good. I've looked in the mirror and I'm not Bob Dylan. I've checked in the fridge and I'm not Neil Young. I've taken off my underpants and thrown them on the floor, this is not a revolution.

I have wanted to be myself. I have wanted to be my own Bob Dylan one step ahead three steps to the side but I keep calling myself Judas. That moment when he turns and steps to the mic and cries "I don't believe you", that moment when he turns to his band with the instruction to play it fucking loud, that moment is every third beat of my heart.

I feel built up like a bulldozed paddock. I feel wound through with tarmac and macadam and the remnants of cobble stones. I want broad shoulders and calloused fingers, I want music to be my first language. I want cherry pie and a dishwasher. I want a long desk under my window. I want my telephone to be red.

I will not pretend to be a single building. I'm walking streets and running my hands through other people's lavender and wishing it was mine. I need land and a mid century typewriter.

I feel like a city.

Monday, 4 August 2008

Twelve kinds of luxury

Free cigarettes from Bangkok, an electric blanket, some cushions, Chuck E Weiss, a brand new plastic comb and a glass of water. That's twelve kinds of luxury right there. I am against the colour orange, dirt orange, brown orange, earth orange, tree orange. I'm banning orange for the foreseeable future. Orange caught me with my gloves down, that was a boxing analogy.

Last night I saw Colonel Funtastico at The Empire Hotel. I wanted, very badly, to ask him to change his name from colonel to captain. There was a cowgirl with a particularly pink nipple, it might have been the stage lights but I'm not sure. I wasn't supposed to be able to see the nipple, it escaped without warning, let's be clear about what kind of cowgirl she was, it was the outer space kind and not the stripper kind, those being the two main types of cowgirl.

I am thinking about The Crossroads Pact, or was it a challenge? I am unsure. Last night after the hats, nipple, colonel and Benito Superman and I ate unsatisfactory cake at an unsatisfactory cafe. I was tempted, for a moment, in defiance of having had a marvellous time to draw to me all that glittering dark and sink somewhere below the ice but is difficult to be ridiculous with Superman. He has many anti-ridiculous qualities, this does not inhibit the spaz, let us also be clear about that.

Cushion my blow

In no particular order, things that are worse than an arm to use as a pillow:

dead and decaying ordinary household rat
dead, decaying and collapsing carcass of a cow
drill bit

Sunday, 3 August 2008

Shall I cry hallelujah?

The differences between anything insurmountable and obvious, negligible. Cry Jolene cry hallelujah and the answers will come back the same. I'm feeling the fall of my human race but either one of those things will do. I came out of an absurdest den wearing a white spangled fur-trimmed cowboy hat staring at Superman in his gold opalescent cowboy hat. The hats were thrown as plates by outerspace cowboys under the direction of Benito Di Fonzo but it wasn't his fault. My five dollar dinner tasted like five dollars, I'm crunching governments in my teeth. This here is nothing but typing for the clatter of words.

I'm headed down the highway. I'm headed down the highway. That thought isn't going anywhere. This is the decision to type without reason without pausing for the bell that signals thought. This is the result of typewriters and the purposeful arranging of sound onto sound onto sound. You can build something that way but paper cuts landscape into fingers, so personal an invasion. I didn't invent the train, this does not prevent me from riding on them. Oh cows. Grass balm and how fat the river sits at Emu Plains molten glass green but without proper reason for being. I walked there once and wondered something about frogs or termites or the burrowed fighting for flesh.

I can't put my finger on it. Something shifts and Superman said he was like Bob Dylan with no answers and Newtown was empty and the coffee unfamiliar. There's sugar in blood and beheadings. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it, now I'm German and ancient cause Superman's reading Goethe and god it seeps across the room. Shall I cry hallelujah? I'm awake without fields or the awareness of the stopping of time. I'm shaking like coffee. So you think you can tell? Can you tell a green field? Ah I'm typing ether and airwaves and the unbalanced end of last year's mixtape. I'm making walk on parts in my war. Did I tell you that I'm fighting myself. Spider, spider.

Unzip. Unzip inhibitions with purpose. This is a Goethe commitment. I will commit to something happening. You don't know what it is do you Mr Jones? Shall I cry hallelujah? It isn't sordid but it happened none the less. I know baby just how you feel. Can you see me standing with my back against the record machine? Don't even try to describe it.

Saturday, 2 August 2008

Emu Plains and the mystery of missing Superman

This is terrible. I have been awake for about an hour, I am reporting to you from Superman's house. Its nearly ten am on Saturday morning and Superman is nowhere to be found. He got up in the middle of the night and did not return. I was awake enough to know that someone was making the sound of footsteps on a mattress then I rolled over and made attempt number five hundred and twelve to become comfortable.

It took me some time to work up the courage to leave the blankets and find the toilet. I wasn't sure just how cold this floor was going to feel under my feet. I knew where the toilet was so I set about navigating there. I'm staying in a room that opens directly off the kitchen, odd place for a bedroom. The kitchen here at Emu is almost supernaturally clean, in fact the whole house, hang on, I'm going to go and run my fingers along some furniture. No dust! The insides of the kitchen cupboards are organised with military precision, if tupperware ladies were the military, that would explain quite a few things I think.

I spent half an hour searching for coffee this morning. I found tea and green tea which is nice but its not fucking coffee. I have no idea where the nearest cafe would be. I had a look out the front and am sorry to report that I am surrounded, houses, cars, front lawns, children riding bikes with sunshine on their fucking shoulders, not one of these things produces coffee.

My next mission is to investigate as to whether I will be able to leave the house and then let myself back in. There is no sign of Superman's keys, his car is here but not his keys, his stuff is all here, in fact I am looking at this wallet. I might try and sneak out into the backyard for a cigarette.

There's a door that opens directly from the bedroom to the backyard. There is no grass in the backyard, its a paved paradise with three separate seating areas, a swimming pool and a bbq all surrounded by immaculate tropical gardens. I found the macadamia tree but not having a hammer nor a pocket oven ate no macadamia nuts. A cat named Casserole bailed me up by the clothes line where I was sucking down a cigarette in the sunlight. The sun always shines stronger out at Emu.

There are three doors from the backyard into the house, the cat showed me which one was unlocked and contained both cat bowl and cat food. I fed the cat but he did not produce any coffee. There are six doors from the room with the kitchen in it. I went through all six but still did not find any coffee. There are a series of closed doors at the end of a hallway but I'm not game to go through them, the cat looked at me wisely when I informed him of my decision. It is possible that Superman is behind one of the doors but that's only a possibility.

I'm considering going next door with a mug and begging for a spoonful of instant coffee. I'm considering changing out of my pyjamas and Superman's old man slippers but I'm not sure that would make it any more likely for the unknown neighbour to produce a spoonful of coffee. I tried phoning Rita for advice on where to look for coffee. Rita did not answer the phone. I was pretty sure that Ronita has them up at the crack of dawn each day but just maybe she's old enough to have figured out Saturdays.

I'm thinking about going home. This here is a no good situation. There is no fucking coffee in here, the toliet wall does not reach all the way to the ceiling and I have no idea where to look for a clean towel just in case I wanted to shower. The food is unidentifiable in its military containers. I'm cold, hungry, my back hurts from the strange bed and Superman is nowhere to be found. Here are my coordinates, organise a sky hook.

Friday, 1 August 2008

Embargoed - things that definitely did not happen

You can tell when I'm carrying a secret, I've got that square television under my jumper shape going on and I'm stepping like my shoes are tied together so I'll frame it like this. My friend did not come over with two new as yet unreleased albums. I'll slip on one them and say he rhymes with Mex Terkins because mentioning the other album would lead to certain death, my certain death for a start with a domino back through journalism.

My friend sipped at his tea then pointed his pointy finger at me saying "You better not write about this on that blog of yours Slamma". He put his cup down then crossed his legs, I turned up the volume, just a little, while I wondered about how to get away with writing about it.

I'm sitting here with the cat looking at me disapprovingly, I'm counting out the wasted hours of my life while the calculator goes mad and I'm adding up to nothing. Its lucky I'm no fucking accountant, I'm not quite ready to take my place in the crowd.