Tuesday, 29 September 2009

Two seconds at The Hopetoun

I don't believe this is the end. There is a big grief behind this denial. I don't suppose I've talked about it before but The Hopetoun is one of the places where I suddenly looked down and found that my feet were standing just precisely where I always hoped they'd be. The other moment I don't talk about is the two seconds where one turned back birthed a god.

They come out of the crowd at The Hopetoun, the one standing next to you suddenly stops at the end of your sentence to look up at the stage. They might make a vague gesture with their head or nod at someone already scrambling onstage. There's always this moment; they breathe unaware of the accordion push of their lungs. They'll stare then at walls or the stage or their last chance to run for the green backlit EXIT. Here's the part that breaks my heart, the first step after they pivot and leave you standing in the crowd.  Barely head and shoulders above us but it's enough to get a clear idea of where they're coming from and just where we're likely to send them. It's how we spread our legs and birth our gods, forty centimetres off the floor.

Monday, 28 September 2009

There is a rumour

That The Hopetoun is shutting down. It might be best to panic after I find out if it is true or not, and not before.

Sunday, 27 September 2009

Ponies Are Necessary

I've had one of those ideas that feed themselves and now I have a London correspondent, a fashion editor and a sex columnist. Some days you wake up feeling slightly tired and wishing the blender worked well enough to blend a banana but by the time you go to bed you're the editor of a magazine. Weird how that works.

There will of course be more details, in the future.

Saturday, 26 September 2009

Pre-breakfast meeting sitting in underpants after all the guests have left but I am yet to moisturise, did I mention that my hair looks good?

Newtown cracked last night or it rolled over on the mattress and I saw her in clear light for the first time. I'm not blaming Spencer but he was definitely involved. There were empty houses where there was supposed to be Gypsies and somebody blamed Elvis for Kylie Minogue.  I can't recommend that you do this. Don't take a clear youth with intellect and use them as your eyes. If it weren't for my imminent breakfast meeting with Madam Squeeze I would have airlifted The Peach over three bridges and into the sea. I think the red dust rose up for a reason.

Friday, 25 September 2009

Anti-mashwoman at The Kill Devil Hills

It's the wrong side of midnight and I have to be up at 7, I left before the band finished playing but I'm not happy about it. I started the night out as a civilian but as soon as I discovered that The Annandale has installed soap dispensers in the ladies' toilets I decided to turn my notes into a review (which will theoretically be published sometime soon). I think I'm starting to love The Annandale, I used to think it was adequate with periods of shithouse sound but tonight there was soap and a chair with wheels. I managed to suffer only one mild disgrace when talking to members of bands such as Crow and The Mess Hall. I have a feeling The Annandale has taken pity on me, spread her beer-stained legs and offered me some shelter. I had nothing to do with the poor woman who tripped and fell down the stairs and lord knows if I was going to trip over anyone it would have been a Fenton or two. I had an awkward but passable conversation with John Fenton about kitchen stools and family photographs. He is using a scanner from 2001 but his computer is fairly new. I muttered strangely at Jed Kurzel who was interrupting my note-taking, I had to stuff my pen into the pockets of my jeans to shake his hand. I have no idea what he was saying to me, I was trying to grab the tail of a sentence as it flew through my head. I didn't manage to catch that sentence and I've been mourning its loss ever since. I suppose I should console myself with the fact that both he and I were rocking the double denim but mine slightly more stylish because I had made the addition of a silk tie.

Oh yes and the bands were quite good too.

For those people that like information the bands were:
Loene Carmen (solo)
The Holy Soul
The Kill Devil Hills

Thursday, 24 September 2009

I have a feeling

That pine green will be making a come back in poetry book spines next year. Oh yes, it will be amazing.

Tuesday, 22 September 2009

PS or Ra! Accidental in-lift rudeness

Check out my "review" of the instore gig to begin the launching of Damn You, Ra. One of these days I'll sit down and write a proper review, like a grown up, just not today. In other news I have developed the exciting skill of accidental in-lift rudeness.

Dear Woman from Level 4 of that building I was in for a bit today,

I am terribly sorry. I did not mean to repeat aloud what you said when you declared 'god damn' into your mobile phone. It came out of my mouth with no warning at all, I think I was wearing a red dress. I did not mean to make the other ten people in the lift laugh with careless abandon so that their access passes bounced and clacked on their little corporate chests. I can assure you that I was secretly writing poetry while they were thinking about money. I might as well mention they were laughing at me and not at you, unknown woman from level 4. You may be consoled that I felt a kind of burning awkwardness and a little bit like an accidental arsehole as I walked across the beige tiles of your lobby. Later that afternoon Aleksandr considered my conundrum, he said that he didn't think you would take it the wrong way, if you were a person with a sense of humour. I have no idea if he will be right, I don't have that kind of information about him yet but I am slowly learning the contents of his ipod and that he likes to wear my hat. I hope this information will assist you.


Monday, 21 September 2009

Holy Fucking Hell

Here's a thing not to do. Don't go running around town getting drunk on a Monday night with young Aleksandr because he might take you to a bar where a jug of snakebite is real cheap and the backpackers from upstairs come down to race crabs. I have the feeling the light shades were covered in hula skirts and most people were wearing shorts. I don't recall an occasion where I have cheered for a small crab with a number painted on its back, lifting my beer glass in chorus with a dense crowd of international men. My crab was beaten by a crab named "Tradesmen Entrance". I suspect that crab belonged to a group of men wearing bike shorts, rubber truncheons and handcuffs.

I ran away in the end, made a break for it up the stairs and back out onto the street. I was surprised to find myself on George St and close to Central Station. I was quite sure that my geography took leave at the same time as my senses and that I was located somewhere brand fucking new. I met up with Spencer on King St in one of those same old pubs where the locals are local and the sausage sandwiches are free. Spencer took his time laughing at me for running away and into the night. I guess next time I see him I'll try and explain that sometimes when I find myself somewhere new I just need to run until I stop.

Saturday, 19 September 2009

Damn You, Ra

I kept staring at Rusty from You Am I not for any other reason than he is a man that knows Tim Rogers. Spencer told me to stop it then I realised that Spencer is also a man that knows Tim Rogers, not as well as Rusty but still there you go. Next time I might stare at Spencer. I was jammed into Repressed Records like a sunburnt sardine with Newtown's finest unwashed. Today was the first day in Spencer's album launch juggernaut. It was an instore album launch, Spencer and Mr Hunter worked out that if they continued to sell records at the rate they sold during the instore gig then they would be earning 36 million dollars a month. I double checked their calculations, they are correct but the likelihood of this happening is just about the same as me returning to my international modeling career. If it does come true then Spencer can start paying for my coffee. To help my free coffee dreams come true go and buy the album.

For those people who like information the album is called "Damn You, Ra" by The Holy Soul.

Did I mention that I am on this album?

Oh shit! I am definitely going to listen to this every year.

Thursday, 17 September 2009

Bill shock or confusion - They charged me to remove my right hand

Look at the knuckles on my left hand. There's bone under that skin pushing pale against my architecture. What a traitor shadow trading with child's wish for aphasia.

Wednesday, 16 September 2009

First draft after walking through Central at lunch time with two fans and one man

I could tunnel to America
using sharp facts I want to forget about you
Your Moses hurled me from the mountain
Rained down stones that I swallowed like lead

Tuesday, 15 September 2009

There's lipstick on my microphone

Dear Australian Tax Office,

Your late processing of my tax refund has prevented me from buying a ticket to see Elvis Costello, please register my extreme disappointment and the inevitable uncomfortable listening that I will have to do outside the Enmore Theatre. Happily the theatre is extremely close to my house, unhappily this is not because of you. You will receive no credit for the proximity of my private residence from the above mentioned venue.


It is telling that I am frightening people on buses by grinning like a Cheshire cat despite having to stand outside to listen to Elvis Costello, whom I love and will not be persuaded otherwise, not by anybody. You will not receive any credit for my current state of general elation, sincere happiness or abiding love for Declan MacManus who is an actual songwriter and not just a man who wanders about with a guitar case full of a guitar and an empty heart clutching at three achingly average incomplete songs.

Thursday, 10 September 2009

Dear Dawn Tan

Your blog handmade love makes me feel happy, every day and one day, when I have twelve more pots of money, I will buy one of your little paintings and hang it on my wall.

Monday, 7 September 2009

The opposite of thorns on a rose

I want to watch somebody die, see that flat-pack end of them. I've seen the crash, click and climb of most things, spider-legged horses breathing out the last of their tree-strength, a new woman slide out of a torn vagina but not that bitter end. You can blame science if you like, both sides now, I want to discover just why we are supposed to operate as the exact opposite of thorns on a rose.

Friday, 4 September 2009

Dear Anastasia Freeman

Your exhibition* is sophisticated and beautiful, successful on many levels but none more than the personal. I was re-enchanted, or at least I was until I walked round the corner and found myself back on Oxford St in the rain but I can't really hold you responsible for that. Thank you for meeting me in a miniature wedding cake of a building that I misremembered as being slightly blue. You slid out all the possibilities hidden within each work of art, at the going down of the sun I will remember them.

* Thaumaturgy - Kudos Gallery - 6 Napier St Paddo - until 12th September

Thursday, 3 September 2009

We have liftoff

Who would have thought it would be so difficult to explain exactly what I mean when I say I've invented a Little Richard crash helmet.

Wednesday, 2 September 2009

Interesting study

Curious admixture of a man, he has the correct ratio of shoulder width to visible chest hair but his nose leaves me with the impression of daintiness. He is altogether a different sort of man, one that might attend Oxford University between the wars.

To be continued...

Tuesday, 1 September 2009

Microwave is not the same as ultrasound but both will heat blue coloured goo to an acceptable temperature

He said he wanted to put things in my shoes. I was lying face down and he had a good hold of my left heel with his right hand, he massaged his fingers up my heel and across until they were as far underneath an ankle bone as fingers can be. I said "What kind of things? Roller skates, ponies, marmalade sandwiches, dynamite? It's dynamite isn't it? Dynamte!" He scoffed, "Dynamite! Why would anyone put dynamite in shoes?" then told me to lie still and cooperate. I thought about trying to leave because things had shifted from odd and uncomfortable into definitely very painful but he had smeared my left leg with several kinds of goo, first clear, then slightly yellow and finally blue and I thought I might slip over and skid into the doorframe or stain my red dress or something infinitely terrible but as yet unimagined. I tried to ask him what was with the different kinds of goo but every tiny deliberate movement of his freakishly strong arms and fingers sent a shiver of pain so pure and undiluted that I had to switch breathing from autopilot to manual. I endured for as long as I could before calling a halt to proceedings, he said he was just about to finish anyway then he held me down flat while he wiped away the goo with three towels, each one a different shade of blue.

I did not discover what he wants to put in my shoes or why he needs three separate kinds of goo but I am quite determined to find out. I am going to see him again on Thursday.

Little things big Monday night

I've been walking after midnight on my way home from drinking with a friend. I rose up unexpectedly from the comfort of my chair and walked out into the night. I met him at the cafe but we wound up high above King St playing records and sharing a longneck bought with the last loose change we had. He was ripping the filters off his cigarettes and showing me the evidence of something that should be an irrational continent-spanning love but he said it was only a couple of good songs and a photograph of a painting. I would have said write something new and post it south but he'll probably think of that on Thursday and stay up all night to catch the morning post. That will have, I hope, a transforming effect. I walked the back way home ducking under the railway line through Piss Alley. I don't think I've ever seen the streets so empty, nothing but one tourist at a bus stop in an electric-yellow dress and a small crowd mopping floors at Istanbul. I was photographing public garbage bins and private doorways.

It was somewhere between King and Wilson, on one of those big-tree streets that I stooped to snap a pelargonium stem. I carried it home and pushed it into the dirt with the other snapped and stolen plants struggling to grow roots where my arms and its arms have been. I will water the way to remember this night.