Sunday, 30 November 2008

Traumax, dress death, incredible happenings and the superness of Superman


One moment I was sitting in the Zammercarship happy after seeing The Maple Trail play at the Hopetoun and going to the gallery Serial Space, hungry for the late late dinner Superman and I were planning on having on the way back to The Peach. The next moment I was lying in an ambulance confused and hurting so profoundly that I did not know where exactly the hurt was coming from. At one point I heard a voice and said, "Oh, is Superman here too?". The ambulance lady told me yes he was but I forgot again and again and was surprised when he appeared by my side in my very own personal trauma room in the emergency part of RPA. I was sure that they were pretending, I could not remember being in a crash, they kept asking me how I opened the broken car door. I did not know that Superman had flung it open, not until he told me the next day.

Small notes of gratitude are scrolling through my still fuzzy and unattractively swollen head for:

Superman who was exceptional, even at 3am sitting in a plastic hospital chair at my side. He went out of his way to be extraordinary. For doing everything possible including making me go in the ambulance and stay in the hospital when I did not want to. For going to great lengths to print and post my manuscript that had to be posted, for wiping the terrible mascara trails from my face when I could not do it myself, for sitting in the hospital forever. For conjuring doctors to come and explain just what the hell was going on. For miraculously fetching hot hospital blankets fresh out of the drier when I was shaking with cold. For his powers of invincibility and not being horribly injured, for talking to everyone from police to parents and friends. For his concern for the occupants of the other car and his gratitude for everyone that helped. For holding amusing things in my field of vision when I could not move my head and could not stand staring at the one roof tile any longer. You're alright Superman.

The woman who lived on the corner where we crashed who came out with her dog, comfort and glasses of water while I sat on a wall and wondered what was happening.

The ambulance lady who was commanding and kind. She held me in a calm centre while police and people and firetrucks made chaos. She did not leave my side, sat by me and put a warm hand on mine every time I started to cry, even while she went about poking me and flashing lights in my eyes. In an amazing display of competence she took my arm softly and cannulated me while the ambulance was moving. She was stern and thorough and wonderful.

The emergency staff at RPA were mostly excellent, except for when six of them suddenly stopped doing all the odd things they were doing to me, all at once, rolled me on my side, cut off my clothes with scissors and let some doctor stick a finger in my bum. That was not excellent. It was also unexcellent when they held open my jaw for x-rays or when they bound my hands to my feet and pulled the ropes tight making my bones scream, or when the nurse pushed pain killers down my throat or when they insisted that the neck brace stay on. What was excellent was being voted favourite patient in emergency.

Grizelda stayed with me all day in the hospital and remedied my cracked lips with ointments, held things up into my limited field of vision for my amusement. For making tea and fetching pillows and telephoning my brother.

The Spatula for coming to the hospital and then missing her appointment to help Superman post my manuscript that had to be posted. For feeding the cat and marching to the shops to fetch me things.

My parents who miraculously appeared from far away. My Dad for waiting in the hospital and in my house, for talking with Superman and saying reassuring things. My Mum and her partner for coming armed with a teapot, two kinds of tea, a bottle of arnica and a fresh apple cake and talking to Superman and saying reassuring things.

Spencer for appearing with a pink shiny beruffled umbrella with whistle attached then sitting in The Peach listening to Superman and I tell and retell the same stories in a blurry fashion whilst high on painkillers.

Ron & Rita who telephoned me from a different hospital where they sit with Ronita and their brand new one day old baby which is so far named Untitled 2008. I am very upset that I did not get to see him this weekend, this tiny brand new person. Being smashed in a car is nothing compared to what just happened to Rita.

Sputnik and Boli for their messages of concern.

My dress, that served me well, I was wearing it the first time I met Superman, I had forgotten this until he pointed it out. My dress that went to parties, galleries, gigs, supermarkets and hospitals. I was going to have it altered next week because it has become too big. The first dress I ever bought for myself, I loved you so. RIP green jungle print 1950's party dress.

My painkillers for making typing and just plain being possible.

My spine for defying all things and not being broken despite the incredible concern of medical people. My left arm for coming out of the piece of car it was momentarily stuck in, this I remember.

I have this picture in my head of a smashed and shaken Superman coming back to the dark Peach alone in the early hours of the morning. How he walked alone and could not find a taxi for such a long time, opening the door to The Peach with my unfamiliar keys and feeling his way down the dark hallway then not going to bed but staying up and printing my manuscript. How he said he was shaking for hours. I would not like to have been him, I would not like to watch him flat and prone surrounded by doctors and lying forever in horrible pain. It is cold, uncomfortable and exhausting to wait in a hospital.

I do not remember the crash. Everything hurts except my right hand and left foot. My jaw is swollen down to my shoulder, I have no neck right now, none at all. My whole face retains a cartilage feeling that comes with a blow to the nose. My teeth, all of my teeth ache and ache and ache. I feel terrible, crushed, smashed, confused, unable to concentrate even on a movie. There is simple sadness and a base need for constant comfort. I cry unexpectedly, sleep unexpectedly, I have no desire to write these words but I type in an attempt to usher in some sense of normalcy and cast out determined surreality in this small window where the painkillers begin to work but have not yet rendered me unconscious.

Smashed

Dale Slamma will be back soon, just as soon as she recovers from being smashed, by a car.

Friday, 28 November 2008

Whores, psychonannies, damn building and a new kind of floor

Club 77 is the kind of dive I dream about. Strobe lights in the men's toilets, fluorescent picture of a naked woman spray-painted onto the wall. There is illegal indoor smoking, a Death Star mural, a faux stuffed tiger head behind the bar and a door bitch that has been watching re-runs of original Degrassi Junior High. The women's toilets are decorated with pink spray-paintings of razor blades and naked women on motorcycles. The main problem is the absence of either sticky or bouncy floors. I guess they must hose the bloody joint with a fire hose. Even the vending machine is lit with a red light.

Whores (Chris Colla from Atrocities, some guy I only know as Big Al and Sarah) climbed onto the low stage. Sarah looked damn beautiful under those lights drumming loose and raw like a slow motion roller coaster. This small band was, at times, extraordinary. Chris and Sarah came offstage, came over to sit with Spencer and me, they seemed short and like their ordinary selves. For a moment or two their music had made them large. I'll go out of my way to see them again though it could be difficult to track the trio down. Sarah tells me they might play under a different name each gig. They'll alway be Whores to me.

Psychonanny and The Babyshakers swear they aren't a rockabilly band but they were doing a grand impression of one, they could use more than one kind of drumbeat. Sonia has the kind of voice worth listening to, she's the opposite of a bombshell or what happens after the bomb has gone off. If I could figure out a way to be like her then I'd do it in a flash. You should have seen her up there, cigarette hanging low in the corner of one lip, tambourine rising and falling when she felt like it with an enviable amount of indolence. The not-Simon guitarist has a habit of muddying up the sound, someone give that man a slide, some pedals and the instructions to not play the same thing as Simon at the same time. One song, a slow song was grand until suddenly it transformed into yet another rockabilly song, I'm not sure why they did that. But Jesus they can roll when they get going with that sound that shakes your shoes until you're on your feet and shaking with your shoulders dropped back and knees bent in a stiff-legged forgotten dance from before Elvis.

Earlier I stepped aside so Anthony from Damnbuilders could take his shot, he stalked round the table aiming at balls and smoking cigarettes. Half the girls in Sydney, my side of Sydney not the shiny and terrible side, are developing a thing for him. I've seen him around and idly wondered how he managed to wear that kind of hat with that kind of beard without looking like a serial killer. Spencer and I were talking about him on the way back to Newtown. Spencer kept saying "Is it the beard? Is that what they like?". Someone said he once punched a man for calling him Grizzly Adams, I'd call him Grizzly Adams if I ever got the chance but I'd hang on round his neck really tightly until his urge to punch subsides. Damnbuilders opened with Batman, not Prince but Adam West, followed by what happens when you play Deep Purple in slow motion. After that who the hell knows what that was, I didn't mind it but things definitely took a turn for the what in the hell when Anthony shifted from guitar to keyboard, a sort of dance thing, greatly appreciated by the wall of Indie Kids obscuring my view.

Two known associates of Freddie Mercury Guy played overly loud obsurely chosen tracks between bands, sitting in the dj booth looking like extras from the 1970's. I walked through a dense wall of marijuana smoke in the women's toilets, Sonia nearly got stuck in a cubicle and a Goth who calls himself a death rocker danced like it was 1952.

Thursday, 27 November 2008

Dear Melbourne


Please attend the launch of Sunblind by Geoff Lemon

Thursday 27th November at 7pm
The Dan O'Connell Hotel function room (the old back bar)
Corner of Princess and Canning streets, Carlton.

I have been reading and rereading this book and can't quite make out what I think of it, I'm taking this as a good sign.


Geoff Lemon is a known associate of The Hivesters. Gemma once described him as an 'increasingly attractive man', the more you stare at him the more attractive he becomes. I did intend to test that theory but was distracted by beating him at Balderdash. That's right, I beat Geoff Lemon at Balderdash, I am adding this to my list of triumphs.

I'll keep walking

The oddest day, sticky bun for dinner, urgent need for silence thick as honey. I keep talking about this but if you'll excuse me ten seconds at a time I might come back with an explanation. My mother just phoned me from the Russian Embassy, this has never happened before, she was talking about ram raiding something in Redfern but I advised her against that particular course of action. I am certain that committing imaginary crimes after retirement age is a bad idea, no matter which embassy you are currently sitting in.

Last Friday night I was standing in Z Block watching The Holy Soul (Spencer's band) play and it occurred to me that I love this music. I do not love it just because it is good or that it is Spencer's music, not even because I happen to be on the new, as yet unreleased, album. What I long for, more than anything, is to see the ribbons I'm tied together with, to pull apart my building blocks and cradle them one at a time like other people's children.

I like complete thoughts, it is rare that I have them. Rarer than milk and comets. The songs thread through my history, consistent, necessary and whole. You can hear in the songs the progression of their learning, as songwriters and musicians. If you listen, very closely, to their old songs on Myspace** you can hear me learning to stand in a crowd by myself. You can hear the shuffle of university things blocking cogs in my brain, you can hear my old red shoes that I loved so and photographed before finally throwing the tattered things out. You can hear beginning one complete thought.

Spencer sometimes brings songs to me raw and unmade, I hold my hands for them, greedy as children, because I know that by the time this one makes it onto an album I would have discovered or invented a brand new complete thought [or invention***].

** People in The Holy Soul! It is time to update your songs on Myspace because the songs on there now are very very old.

*** Like a chewable brain guard to protect my brain from terrible people, events, thoughts or activities. For example, I am at a pub watching some band, decide to go outside and come face to face with someone terribly toxic, horrid and regrettable. Instead of leaving with horrible thoughts or results in my brain I simply pop in a small square of delicious Slammatown Chewable Brain Guard and chat away confident that the person will have no harmful lasting effects in my brain, where it is important to not have harmful lasting effects.

Wednesday, 26 November 2008

I lost my hair straightener

JON WAH: A RETROSPECTIVE


JON WAH: A RETROSPECTIVE
1980 - 2008

Exhibition opens: 6 - 9pm
Thursday 4th December
Exhibition continues:
Friday 5th December -
Thursday 18th December

Serial Space:
33 Wellington Street Chippendale
Wednesday- Saturday 12 - 6pm

Wire

I have just bent a straightened paperclip back into its paperclip shape. This feels like something of an achievement.

Monday, 24 November 2008

Pass me my pipe and slippers I'm going to be a man today

According to Genderanalyzer:
"Dale Slamma is written by a man, however it's quite gender neutral."

Maybe I should show them the inside of my pants?

In Z Block's final hour a man spilled red soda into my shoes

Spencer finished art, last night. He did it with guitars, two drummers, an occasional accordion and the raising of his right arm but right now I’m in Penrith RSL watching a big band. The women are dancing together, men all dead.

I avoided Z Block for a while, a year or two, feeling that it belonged to all the things I left behind when the great tide moved me East and away from this RSL with big band afternoons, shopping malls and heat haze. I came back for the last hurrah, the night the University of Western Sydney shut its art school doors.

Most of the time I think of Western Sydney in the frame of mind I reserve for being stung by bees, undergoing chemotherapy or being pulled out to sea in a rip but I have to tell you this big band is very good.

Z Block is a rat maze warehouse with toilets and one kind of ceiling higher than ladders. Whole glass walls fold and raise like sails with insides worse than weather like, greenhouse, submarine, Western Sydney maybe that’s why they’re shutting it down.

It is important to note that the trombone section just spelled out a giant letter ‘E’ using four trombones, this made the audience clap.

I cut beats with tennis balls in some sort of miniature satellite dish, the balls tracked by cameras, projected onto walls and generating sounds. I drank wine from a popular interactive fountain, saw brains floating in tanks, stood on a platform wearing headphones and a vest heavier than lead. I walked in spirals through diaphanous curtains, a jelly fish forest and the space where once there was a giant walk through vagina. Student art is always precisely what it should be but this is isn’t about the art its about the artists.

We all went, all except Boli who was tired from Jazzercise, the long haul west to where we first came across each other, in Z Block, O Building or the Swamp Bar or on the hills in Werro. The catering at the last ever Grad Show defied the temptation to go out with a bang and instead supplied us with baskets of sandwiches and two bath tubs full of beer. The big band is now playing Jump by Van Halen.

The woman who fell out the window with Spencer, Mona and Mr Hunter made some noises. Freddie Mercury Guy took to the stage with his band Numea, he was breaking for cigarettes in the middle of his set, rolling on the floor and screaming like Damo Suzuki.

It is difficult to define the feeling of a university exhaling, memory confined to memory.

I might have been eight years old when they opened the University of Western Sydney. My father took us, my brother and I, to the grand opening. There were free balloons, sausage sandwiches and the biggest library I had ever seen. Dad stood above us on the big set of stairs with the light looming behind him. He told us about the necessity of this university, the great hope for the future, access to education for everyone no matter where you live. He talked about the tyranny of distance and explained the concept of elitism then looked up at the ceilings with a kind of reverence muttering about brutalist architecture. I stood three steps down clutching my balloon and staring about with a sort of wonder.

Fourteen years later I walked down those same set of steps and took my place in the queue outside the co-op bookshop, clutching my first ever compulsory book list, a small sense of hope and a free balloon. Nine years after that I stood there holding half a sandwich, a free can of beer and a mobile phone.

The problem is that this university is mine, I belong to it. I have belonged to it since that day on the stairs but it is very difficult to define the feeling of a university exhaling. At the end of the night a man pulled down the folding glass wall, the lights went off and there was nothing left to do but leave.


(article about shutting down Z Block)

Saturday, 22 November 2008

This Peach-House room my Prison (tired plus sniffy narrowly defeats restlessness)

This Peach-house room my prison ! I have lost
Beauties and feelings, such as would have been
Most sweet to my remembrance even when age
Had dimm'd mine eyes to blindness ! They, meanwhile,
Friends, whom I never more may meet again,
On springy health, along the King St,
Wander in gladness, and wind down, perchance,
To that still roaring pub, of which I told ;
The roaring pub, o'ercrowded, narrow, deep,
And only speckled by the dim cheap light

Friday, 21 November 2008

Bats

I like this zine. I'm thinking about why, maybe one day I'll come up with some reasons.

Thursday, 20 November 2008

Wednesday, 19 November 2008

Where is the cat?

I am waiting for midnight. I am quite sure that I must sit here and wait for midnight. I want the house to grow silent, I will grow less weary as it ticks into dark submission. Back ache, head ache. I am quite sure that I must wait for midnight. I have been waiting for something since late afternoon, an idea word perfect or the right kind of moving light. I won't sleep until I have more words, back ache, head ache, it is necessary to sit here at this desk until something occurs to me. I am quite sure that I must wait for midnight. This can't be the way of things, it is too slow, I will be posting nothing but hope copied eight times and stapled.

Tuesday, 18 November 2008

Some god got hold of me lightly

Not swift like a river but sure as something paved after the retreat of ripping flattening machines. Sometimes pens, most often the tips of all of my fingers not at once but in sequences like a boxer's dance.

There is a destination now. I have put down the need for directions remembering that thing of seeing only as far as the headlights allow and that being enough to steer by. It is novel to have a project of this size. I hold it captive as a striped and stingless bee.

Scurf

A woman carving fat meat out of the moon with her knife until it was nothing but moon rind. I had forgotten that idea until a distinct lack of adequate lighting caused in me something like a squint. I had wanted a bath but I'm stuck in the memory house where there was none. It used to be the palest green and on from there its all black letters and backlit screens. I find I have been waiting for that random descent but it is work like everything with elbows and my left shoulder blade.

Sunday, 16 November 2008

[synth wind] I hear all the people of the world in one bird's lonely cry [synth chimes & synth wind]

Highway dreaming I thought I was imagining cats. Cats running and driving and raining then suddenly a crowd. I rose like one of those American cheerleaders from the centre of the crowd with a flying V guitar. Spencer roared into the microphone, I raised my arm and began. It was the best version of Walk This Way ever heard on planet earth, all because of me and my flying V. The impossibility of this highway driving dream is maximum.

Sometimes driving is a thing to do, the end in itself like walking to the moon or running fish from the airport. Superman said it was Aidan Roberts who first played him Ogre Battle by Queen, it does not seem to have been influential in his songwriting. I still to this moment refuse to believe that this is Superman's favourite Queen song, I declare it to be terrible in five hundred different ways although I do confess to liking Superman's version that he sang, stopping every so often to listen to his mp3 player to check the lyrics, as we sped down the highway.

There is more, or there was more, words or something quite like them but sometimes it is better to sleep than type.

Saturday, 15 November 2008

Safe as houses

One twenty five am. Despite desperate attempt to sleep I have had the best idea I have ever had. Safe as houses. I need a camera, notebook, pen and a car. I have all of these things, except a camera. My telephone takes photographs, that was a mad invention I wonder who thought of that, but my telephone is neither new nor fancy and the photographs are generally dim. I need use of an excellent camera. Of course I will need words but I can make those myself.

Friday, 14 November 2008

Three sets of 3am, regular satelite sightings and a grand case of backwardsitis

I've seen three sets of 3am blink past with red digital clarity. I've been examining the qualities of night. Here at The Peach there is no discernible difference between midnight and the beginnings of dawn. At the old house the stars rotated and you could feel the pull of hours, winds, temperatures and time but here in the city they have progress. Electric lights, aeroplanes, boats, the always drone of engines and the synchronised tapping of heels on concrete.

The Spatula and I have a history of disagreeing about things such as condiment storage solutions, the necessity of novel reading and different kinds of men. Sputnik the satellite man is a new friend of The Spatula's, a grown up sleep over kind of friend, and I find myself unable to form any serious objections to him.

Grizelda has always pronounced not the word she was thinking of but a different word entirely. This week she stared at her computer screen to find that she had typed words backwards. She stood to the right of the sink, next to the disused coffee machine, a green milk jug and one pink tea cup and told me that she does not know how to spell words forwards let alone backwards. I believe she might be developing a new very mild superpower, either that or a serious brain disease.

Wednesday, 12 November 2008

My own personal Jimi

It seemed perfectly logical, standing in my bedroom with my pyjamas on backwards saying out loud "Yes! Brilliant! That is a very good idea" then I said it again sotto voce in case I woke Grizelda in the next room.

This morning I floated down the hallway in a dream of rubber legs, waving my hands with submerged inertia and a wide calm smile thinking I feel special, I am special, this is grand. It wasn't until I reached the tea and toast stage that I realised I was off my fucking head.

Last night a man called Sputnik had plied The Spatula and I with so much alcohol that I thought I had invented an indoor hot rain cupboard and was going to call it a shower. After enjoying a blast in the indoor hot rain cupboard and dressing backwards in my favourite pyjamas I decided that I was too drunk to sleep and a solution must be found. My solution was codeine, an unremembered amount of codeine.

Sitting in the library listening to the excellent crunch of toast inside my head the pieces fell together. My one drink turned into many drinks, then sambuca shots, then different shots, then rum, much pirate rum and a joint or two miraculously produced from somewhere inside The Spatula's handbag. Sputnik was convincing with his arguments for drinking and he wasn't shy about putting his wallet where his mouth was and so in this way found myself lead along the path from Sensibletown to Fuckedupville which is where I made my own personal Jimi decision and swallowed an ill advised amount of tablets. Unlike Jimi I did not drown in my own vomit but woke happy as a chicken and floated around until well past midday. I think I might take up guitar, I could be a genius.

Tuesday, 11 November 2008

Bring the outdoors in

It really looked a lot like Jesus laying flat on its back with arms spread out in a cruciform. I didn't notice its missing hind legs or the bloodless absence of tail until my eyes slid over its shining belly and I had bent in supplication to collect it in my gloved hands.

It may as well have died for me, this small thing shining and wracked on the floor. You could throw yourself from heights in an attempt to save me, record it in books and I'll file it alphabetically at the end of each day, the a's and b's together on the highest shelf.

Eight hours a day have been stolen, five days a week I wait for the evening or weekend. This nine to five numbness remains despite the freedom to do as I please. I find nothing works in these ghost hours except the cat on her new found path of destruction dragging the outside in. I'm not yet lost but turn constantly to look for the ballast and find nothing. Cacoethes hangs in corners. I will cover it with cloth.

Sunday, 9 November 2008

Parachute or I have a temporary spray on pirate tattoo or Superman buys new and exciting hat


Dave Graney reckons that it can't be a jumpsuit if its got pockets but I stopped thinking about this as soon as Christos Tsiolkas appeared on stage in the writers' tent. Writers have a tendency to hold themselves too tightly but Christos was generous, articulate and kind. He signed my book and I felt ridiculous but happy as I walked away and around a corner to perform a happy dance of happiness.

Its been a marvelous jumping as though from lily pad to lily pad. There is an infinite variety of possibilities here in my small existence. Spencer fell out of a window at Paquita and Mona's flat on Friday night. He landed on an awning, was unharmed and spent the rest of the party being most popular with the ladies. I ran about like an aeroplane in Mona's stadium sized bedroom, had several interesting conversations with strangers and attempted to recruit a new Failed Ant Farmer. To assist with my recruiting I gave the man my card, he turned it over in his hand and said "There are no phone numbers or addresses, just your name". I said yes, because that is how I planned it.

Madam Squeeze did not win the busking competition at the Newtown Festival despite my excellent clapping and cheering. I was disappointed until I acquired my very own first ever spray on temporary tattoo of awesomeness. I can not believe it has taken me thirty one years to realise my temporary tattoo dreams. The photo, whilst not entirely excellent, demonstrates my extreme joy on this grand occasion.

Tea cups bookend days. Grizelda sheltered her sunburnt self indoors but Spencer, Madam Squeeze, Superman and I sat under mulberries and stars wearing hats and trying very hard not sing Eye Of The Tiger.

Friday, 7 November 2008

I have written a list

Teapot
Submarine
Smoke
Failed Ant Farmers
Pip's party
Washing line
List
Architecture takes too long
Make it five at a time

The only one who could ever reach me

Three drinks, one headache, two cigarettes and a codeine tablet. Its past midnight and blowing cold so I caught a rare taxi home after leaving Spencer on the corner outside the cafe Superman can't abide.

Things stopped making sense this morning. I turned on the stereo, sat down at my desk and took up my pen. Before words hit paper I got one text message from Elliot. Now I know that there are no mobile phones in rehab. I'm going to go and get a biscuit or something, hang on.

I have licorice. Licorice can be used as an antispasmodic, I think it only works on your belly, not your whole being so if you are running around being a spaz then eating licorice is not going to help you make better choices. Spencer and I were talking like we do, wandering around our ticking histories and rethreading ourselves through new needles and hallways. We tried building a case for something that others would have us tear down, we agreed that its effects were possible to discuss but that the thing itself defied all language and sound.

I was sitting in a cafe in Glebe last Sunday night with Spencer, Grizelda and Superman. The man at the next table was so drunk that he slid to the ground knocking over chairs and table. Superman hurried to help him like the only living thing in a hall of statues. While Superman grasped the man's arms and hauled him to his feet I set his table right and breathed carefully so as not to weep. He had bread in a paper bag, it was ruined by spilled coffee and I wondered if he had any money for more. I wanted to help but this was beyond my resources. I thought of Elliot sliding down walls and chairs and beds and halls and me. He's been sitting in my brain like a helicopter on a launch pad until this morning when suddenly there he was. I wonder if I conjured him somehow.

I looked at Elliot's message twice, he said simply "How are you Dale?". I put down my phone and walked into the kitchen. I stood next to the kettle, one hand raised, and waited for the water to boil. Its not a steam filled ritual but the water must be boiling.

Wednesday, 5 November 2008

This is very exciting

I am quite sure that I am going to win and by this time tomorrow I will be the new President of America. I will give my first press conference from the Sydney Opera House congratulating Americans on voting for me, after that I will have a nice cup of tea and comb my hair because it seems to me that in America they like their Captain to have neat hair. I will comb my hair once a day out of respect for the people of America.

My first point of business will be to film and then broadcast instructional videos in Orwellian tea making in all of Americas major language groups such as American and Spanish. I was shocked and dismayed to learn that not all Americans own or operate kettles. Kettle prices will be subsidised using an honesty scale of need. Any American can walk into a kettle shop and say they would like a snazzy kettle and then state how much they can afford to pay, a student for example could pay negative twenty dollars so that they may then have enough money to purchase tea, tea pot and tea cup. A very rich American could pay any amount they like thus assisting with the subsidising scheme.

My government will open Fairtrade tea shops where Fairtrade tea can be purchased at reasonable prices, all staff will be trained in all manner of tea making to assist customers with tea making enquiries. All businesses in America will be encourage to provide for staff whilst at work.

This will be a tea revolution. The effects of drinking tea shall be felt quite quickly, prompting the citizens to ask for gun amnesties, free education, health care and paid parenting leave. Employers will offer civilized amounts of paid holidays, four weeks a year would be a good start and the shocking number of returned soldier suicide attempts (currently 1000 per month) would subside.

The Americans will of course attempt to paint The Peach white but I will calmly explain that it must remain a terrible peach colour because it is The Peach. The cat will be remain my ineffective personal assistant. I will accept the offer of a cleaning person to come and clean The Peach once a fortnight. I will type grand speeches and make excellent decisions and renounce the silly title Leader of the Free World whilst drinking tea on the Peach Deck. I will accept a modest salary, the use of a helicopter and a fine horse. I shall call the horse Joe if it is a boy and Jolene if it is a girl, those are American sounding names.

Tuesday, 4 November 2008

No shit Sherlock

I caught the end of the book show and I can see why Robert despises it so but it did inspire to take and finish reading 'The Outsider". I began reading it on the train to Ron & Rita's about this time last year. I caught the mountains train and sat back with my book but spent most of the journey in quiet reverie which was a grand idea as it turned out I stayed up extremely late drinking all manner of ill-advised drinks and then stumbled around the Newtown festival the next morning holding one year old Ronita in my tired and sunburnt arms.

Its the Newtown festival next weekend and I feel obliged to finish the book I started before it becomes one year but alas I have lost my Camus. It is nowhere to be found, not in the library (currently being reorganised from autoboigraphical into alphabetical order) nor in the shelves in my room. I've looked in all of my drawers, baskets and cupboards. It is impossible that one of the Peachettes should have taken it into their rooms, as a general rule the Peachettes do not read books. It is becoming a puzzling puzzle of Sherlockian proportions. My next move is to examine cigar ends, footprints and newspaper habits of all people involved. This could take a while.

Good enough for George Orwell

Today tolerable, not hot at all. No eggs.

Monday, 3 November 2008

This way comes

It is possible that I am panicking but I am not sure what I am panicking about. I was at a venue tonight watching some people do their thing and for no reason at all started panicking. Since then I have done about twelve stupid things, some regrettable and some forgettable like washing my hair and deciding to go to bed with the towel wrapped around my head instead doing something about drying my hair.

While I think about my hair wrapped in a towel I am beginning to narrow down the source of the panic to four separate moments in my day. They were small things, a handful or two of words, the opening of an envelope and something ill defined like false memories or faded photographs of strangers.

Its been a while since I have had to swallow against rising panic. It is unwelcome. I am saying to myself I will sleep well and wake in the morning with no trace of this unwelcome thing. I will do what I need to do and it will be grand like pianos or glass. I'm thinking about cigarettes and small flat orange cardboard boxes, stiff and lined with black paper.

Superman asked me today what kind of shop I would have if I had a shop and I answered the same old predictable answer and told him of my well imagined shop. I could have handed him a worn smooth memory of floor plans, stock lists and the smell of it but now I want to change my answer. My shop will be a memory shop, the kind where you can take all of your small moments from shelves and examine them one at a time. You can sit on the floor and reconstruct yourself or reconfigure things until they are right all the for the low price of nothing.

Saturday, 1 November 2008

Strange days indeed

My mother's Great Dane Horatio will be marching in a rhododendron festival parade wearing a special outfit, that was not quite the information I was expecting to hear when I phoned my mother this morning.

I don't think the idea of an extremely large dog marching in a flower parade directly lead to the chicken nuggets but I am quite sure its a contributing factor. I left the house in search of food but I turned right at the front gate instead of left and found myself completely surrounded by schoolboys outside the shops. An older boy was stationed at the zebra crossing, he saw me approaching and put out his arm to stop a gaggle of younger boys to let me pass. The younger boys stopped in their tracks without a second thought and waited for me to round the corner and cross the road.

I had forgotten about schools and schoolboys wearing ties carrying identical school bags. They frolicked like polite kittens on either side of the road except for the older boys who were gangly and lovely like lopsided homemade cakes. I stopped to think of them all arriving in houses, throwing down their bags and running up hallways to find kitchens and parents and cold drinks on a hot afternoon. I longed momentarily for a clockwork house run by clockwork parents, a dinner time and designated places at the table. A place where everybody helps set the table and clean up afterwards, while the clockwork parents sit down with cups of tea and watch the news. I wanted a house where the salt and pepper comes out of a cupboard before dinner and goes away again afterwards. A house with a special container for used tealeaves that are wrapped in newspaper and put in the compost at the end of every day and a kitchen where the lights go off at the same time every night but I don't this explains the chicken nuggets either.

I walked laps around the shop with a red basket hanging on my left elbow searching for food I might like to eat. I stopped in front of the freezers because they were cold and inadvertently spied a box of frozen chicken nuggets. I do not remember ever buying such things before. I opened the freezer and put the box in my basket and walked to the front of the shop to pay for them, they were six dollars and forty nine cents.

I ate the chicken nuggets in front of the television whilst watching Ice Road Truckers. I was not aware of a show called Ice Road Truckers until today. The basic premise seems to be that men in terrible hats drive big trucks across ice. During the ad break I added tomato sauce to the chicken nuggets. The nuggets were greasy, crunchy on the outside and rubbery on the inside and tasted of bread crumbs, cardboard and oven. I'm not sure what came over me, like I said I can't entirely blame the idea of a large dog marching in a flower parade or a gaggle of coltish skittering school boys but I am quite sure they must have had something to do with it.