Sunday, 31 October 2010

Some Peachettes like paints

Zebsicle - spray paint, poscas and burners
K2, our newest Peachette*, likes paint. She likes the kind that sprays, the kind that comes in a texta and the  kind you need to apply with a brush. She's started making a name for herself around town, which is nice. This Thursday K2 will be exhibiting in a group show at aMBUSH Gallery as part of the Changing Lanes Festival. Art will be for sale, etc blah fundraiser for FBI radio.

Check out the aMBUSH Gallery website for details.

* Right, so, I might have forgotten to mention that The Spatula discharged herself from The Peach around Easter time. It was agreed that there is only room for one exceedingly annoying person in The Peach at any one time and seeing as I was the most exceedingly annoying person ever it made sense that I should stay and she should go. The Spatula packed up her 59246708274607402867085376 chattels and departed The Peach forever. We had a small party after she left because, let's face it, any excuse for a small party will do.

Now let's talk about K2. K2 is young, swinging and like a breath of fresh air. She shares my penchant for creative pursuits, rock and roll music, shooting inanimate objects with water pistols and drinking beer. Life is sweet at The Peach. To your right is an unauthorised photograph of K2 readying her painting paraphernalia. I have no idea what burners are but
I do know that you need a bed sheet in the front yard to make them work properly.

Friday, 29 October 2010

Slamma makes a telephone call

Sometimes a Slamma will telephone a Spencer.

S: Hello! What! [sound of fifty men having a singalong in background]
DS: What on earth are you doing?
S: Having a singalong.
DS: Where?
S: Courty. You coming?
DS: Nope.
S: What?
DS: Nope.
S: Wait I'm going to lie down on the floor so I can hear you better.
DS: How will that help?
S: It will. Hang on. See?
DS: Nope. Did you say you were at the pub?
S: Yep.
DS: Maybe don't lie on the floor at the pub. You'll get kicked out.
S: I won't get kicked out. They can see I'm on the telephone.
DS: Why does that help.
S: Don't be stupid. Did you see you were coming to the pub?
DS: Nope.
DS: Nope.
S. I thought you said yes.
DS: No, it was no.
S: I'm on the floor now under the table.

SLAMMATOWN - Carry bread, fly a fast jet and use men for sex

Sometimes I wish words of wisdom would fall out of the sky and knock some sense into my head. So far this has never happened. I believe the time has come to compile a partially annotated list of advice I’ve received from old people, in case any of us ever need it.

Let’s start with advice from my mum, who is not really that old yet.
“Never play with explosives in the garage because you might blow off the tops of your thumbs. If this happens you will not be able to be a jet fighter pilot because your thumbs will be too short to reach the ‘fire rockets’ buttons.”

Continue reading on RHUM...


Some woman said Eat Pray Love. Vanessa Berry had the better idea to Eat Sort Dig which got me thinking about my three. Read Write Drink? Write Sleep Fuck? Rock Drink Write? Eat Write Sleep? Think Write Read? Sleep Rest Snooze? Coffee Talk Listen? Pens Tea Ponies? I think I'm going to need more than three.

Monday, 25 October 2010

An ordinary tale in one sentence

I'll write it for you. You said there was no way, no fucking way, you could tell your other friends, the ones you ride your days with. I'll tell it for you to take shocked load off your shoulders and make it just another narrative swinging loose across Sydney.

You said you marveled at the crassness of his gesture. He had crossed the floor and run a firm finger down your throat, answered your puzzled face with his lips, retreated at the footsteps of the others returning to the fray. He repeated variations of the gesture, when no one was watching, answered your objections about his girlfriend with a casual shrug, stepped close to push his hand up the back of your dress and as far between your legs as he could reach. He said, 'I like being rude'.

I know you are ordinarily won over with words, seduced by intellect and the stupid force of your respect and admiration. You weren't able to explain how a drunk and guttural man, with questionable morals, lead you so easily from your long and beloved celibacy to such a splayed place.

You said he pissed through a paling fence onto your favourite kind of flower, wanted you to watch the hard stream hurtling out the end of his already erect penis. I would have walked away but you paid for the taxi across town, let him push that finger back up your skirt while the taxi driver switched on his windscreen wipers.

He hesitated before he walked you drunk across the road. Wondered out loud whether his girlfriend would be waiting in the doorway. You blanched then, offered to shake hands and leave him in faithful slumber but he grasped your hand and you both tiptoed through the tall shrubs in his small square of a front garden. He was peering ahead and you were throwing empty pictures back up at the blank moon. Nobody was sitting in the doorway, nobody has an easy time finding the right key with a virtual stranger under one arm and cold beer running loose from knuckles to knees.

The floor was hard and covered in paint, the whole space stank of paint. You said you were wondering if you'd been poisoned by the fumes. I thought of all the centuries of women who walked willingly into the artists'  bare-floored urban hovel and survived the stink of linseed oil, turpentine and oil paint. It is usually the man himself who is a point of danger.

I remember every detail you spat out of your still bleeding mouth. His vigorous delight at your unforced ferocity. His ill-timed pauses to enquire after your level of comfort and well-being. The unexpected sensuality of a slow and standing undressing, how he took a whole step back to admire each newly revealed part of your form. I remember your explanation for each one of your swollen injuries but I still don't understand how you broke a one-hundred-year-old fireplace with the bare balls of your feet.

He sounds like the kind of man I'd walk around to get to a friend. I imagine him almost shorter than you, black-haired, crow-footed, awkward with dancing but laced with lean muscle.

Neither of us wasted time with manufactured shock. It was out of the ordinary, an unexpected deviation from the rutted path of your character but we do not lead an unexamined life. Not all of us could casually murder eleven men and sink their battered bodies in the nearest dam, but like you, I have been devious and selfish as well as kind. I have found cruelty and cracked it as a whip even after I saw red welts rising in alarm. Neither of us paused to think about her, the absent one who can be found some nights sitting in a doorway.

The strength of him reminded you not of your limits but how rare it is to be overpowered. One knee planted on the bed, the other moving apart your already splayed thighs. You tried, out of curiosity, to force a shift in positions but found yourself turned into a furious dough clinging round the steel edges of a machine. Even the subtle tilt of your pelvis, to make the most of his relentless strength and rhythm, was impossible until you worked out how to make your intentions known.

No embarrassment was found, not in the small moments where a long-term lover would have known the curve of you well enough to need no guided entry. Not in the rare minutes of repose, seven eighths submerged in sleep, he clung to you like a limpet and uttered her name. Whispered his shock and joy at how much, how far, how hard, this night, you had fucked.

I laughed at the thought of you popping up on to one elbow, all matter-of-fact to say 'no dude, you've got that wrong, you've been fucking me'. He apologised, blamed his momentary confusion on sleep, said something quite like the right sort of thing but he was already hard up inside you again, ramming home a new rhythm. Had you pneumatically pinned like a butterfly.

The smell of him was phenomenal, hard odours of a man spearheading a new movement and sparing no strength for tomorrow. Old piss wafting from the miniature tiled cupboard miraculously containing a bathroom. Paint fumes, jet fuel, car exhaust, clouds of alcohol rising off him like steam. How alien a man is when you allow yourself infrequent encounters. How sinewed, hard and unequally strong. This man, I imagine is slightly shorter than you, held your heels over your head with one arm. Countered the full push of your strength with an increase in speed. Held his calm eyes open over your exertions.

You were grateful for the consensual overpowering. Sure that never before has the rallying of every one of your fibres been so easily contained. Never been able to dash yourself against brute strength like storm waves breaking on rocks until everything was rip torn and leaking clean new blood.

You kept meeting his open eyes. Came back to his face watching over you constant as sky. Writhed under his watchfulness, became a maelstrom crushing lone ships at sea. He saw everything, swallowed whole every contorted grimace, rolled fold of bent flesh, mapped the longitude of your thrown back throat. You thought he was wearing the look of a landlocked man being shot out of a canon aimed straight at the ocean. His mouth came gloriously open, dropped words of admiration straight into your ear.

He answered in two words your long-held wonderings of why that woman delved six years deep into sound hoping to discover how some low-rumbled sounds have us ecstatically believing we are in the presence of god. Someone said a priest found her impaled on a pipe organ, the surgeon as shocked as anyone when her intestines dropped out of her vagina.

When you rose out of the rank pool of sweat, blood, beer, come and piss the sun was knocking like a debt collector on your eyelids. You crept across the cold floor, squat-pissed in the blacked out bathroom. Thanked the foresight that left all of your clothes in one pile by the door. Leaving him unconscious you ghosted to what passes for a kitchen, sucked Warragamba hard straight out of the tap. Blew foaming mouthfuls pink with blood down his plughole. Pulled his last bottle of beer out of your handbag and left it prominently positioned on an otherwise empty shelf. You were irritated by the politeness of this gesture.

Your feet were flashing like imaginary fish walking you home without navigation. As you stumbled towards Stanmore the Saturday joggers came crawling like cockroaches on to Enmore Rd. Someone said they saw you hailing a taxi, some said you were waiting for a bus but I saw you down by the roadside where even the whites of your eyes were trying not to cause too much of a fuss.

I took you home with me then, poured you bleeding and shaking under the warm jets of my shower. I wrapped you kindly in clean towels. Two thirds towards the bottom of the tea pot you stopped holding your face and spitting out blood. You said  you supposed it wasn't remarkable, from now on you could tell the whole tale in one sentence. I got drunk and had a one night stand.

Third paragraph from the bottom contains a conglomerate of stolen lines, used without permission, from Benito Di Fonzo, Trent Marden and me from something I thought of three weeks ago. In some other paragraph I have made free use of a dream Geoff Lemon once had about murdering a cricket team.

Pillow synchronicity

Reading a poem too fast is the same as sitting on a chocolate cake.

SLAMMATOWN - Mashwoman revisited

I seem to have a habit of accidentally injuring famous or even semi-famous people. Like the time I wasn't paying attention to what I was doing with my arms. I was quite excited and not a little elated after just witnessing something astonishing on a small stage on top of a mountain. I was performing an involuntary dance of happiness when my knuckles came into sudden contact with something hard. That's when Brian Campeau staggered forward into my field of vision and it became clear that he was the hard thing I had hit. He said something to me, I know not what, embarrassment has a muffling effect on my ears. He staggered forward clutching at the lower parts of himself and performing a strange little sort of hop. At the time he was almost semi-famous, he is now definitely semi-famous but I’m pretty this has nothing to do with time I punched him in the cock.       
Continue reading on RHUM...

Tuesday, 19 October 2010

I am my favourite horse

It recently dawned on me that I am nobody's favourite person. I was having a bit of a ponder about flying wall ducks and the stiffness of measuring tapes when it popped into my head. I am nobody's favourite person. I don't mean that everybody hates me, only that everybody I know has at least one person who rates higher than me in their invisible rating scale of people, like their long-standing grew-up-together-best-friend or a boyfriend or wife, or the undying object of their unrequited love.

I am no more a workhorse.

Five seconds after coming to that conclusion I felt immensely pleased. I have discovered a new kind of freedom. So far I have used this freedom to leave parties without saying goodbye, not reply immediately to missed calls, text messages or email and importantly to not bother about including people in my plans. If there is not one person out there who will be especially hurt to not be said farewell to or invited to the art gallery, movie, cafe, bookshop, picnic, graveyard, Peach Deck or ferry ride then I needn't be bothered wasting time thinking about other people when I make plans. I can do whatever I like, whenever I like and not have to answer to anyone. Spencer will tell me I'm being a fuckwit if I start running around being deliberately rude, but his scale of rude is quite different from mine to begin with. What I would consider quite rude indeed he wouldn't even consider.

When there is someone, I mean someone special, a first port of call on all matters large and small I have the luxury of a second opinion. That opinion can stretch across all facets of life, from what I am wearing to what I'm saying, eating, thinking, reading and most importantly, what I am writing. In cases like this I have acquired a constant reader.

I am a racing horse.

I despise a constant reader, one that feels like they need to comment on every single letter of the alphabet, wants to know if I was talking about them, wants to know if this is really what I mean to say. It is easy to be weighed down by a constant reader who wants to act as a second head, no neck was built to withstand that kind of strain. It's like holding a mirror so close to a dancer that it shatters with every point of a toe.

Don't go feeling sorry for me walking around being nobody's favourite person. I have no constant reader, no man burdened with mental illness tracking my every move, no person aching to call me to account for every minute I spend in silent reflection. No watchdog counting the relative merit of every spindle of thought. I have the freedom to fail, flail or spend the whole day writing without interruption. I can cancel any obligation without guilt, I can stay away for days or curl into the arms of a good idea. I am my favourite horse.

Thursday, 7 October 2010

SLAMMATOWN - Fucking magnets!

'Miracles' by Insane Clown Posse is the stupidest song of all time. Take these lyrics for example:

“Look at the mountains, trees, the seven seas
And everything chilling underwater, please
Hot lava, snow, rain and fog
Long neck giraffes, and pet cats and dogs…

I see miracles all around me
Stop and look around, it's all astounding
Water, fire, air and dirt
Fucking magnets, how do they work?”

I had no idea a giraffe could live peacefully under the sea with cats, dogs, rain and lava. Thank you Insane Clown Posse for furthering my education. Clearly the song, and possibly the posse, is stupid but the clowns have a point.

I wanted to take a few examples from my everyday life, like icebergs, corn flour and beer bottles, to explain in flawless prose just why everyone should be walking around thinking everything is not only amazing but possibly a miracle. I was twirling my pencil in preparation for writing something profound when I came to a stunning scientific conclusion, quite similar to the whole apple-falling-on-the-head-inventing-gravity-thing. Insane Clown Posse is Indie.

Continue reading on RHUM...

Wednesday, 6 October 2010

Introducing Project Polymath

I've had some ideas in my time, for example walking on custard, like Jesus but sweeter. More formally known as my Afterdinner Jesus Project: An experiment using non-Newtownian viscoelastic fluids for purposes of entertainment. It was a spectacular failure but as yet I've not been deterred from having ideas.

I first had the idea for Project Polymathic one month ago. I was sitting at my dad's dining table, chatting about art and life, when Dad suddenly said, 'He's a polymath, unlike the rest of us'. I thought, hang on a minute, I don't want to be 'the rest of us' and for a moment became quite bitter at the thought of being so ordinary. When I got back to The Peach I decided to make an origami donkey as a birthday present for Abdullah. After the fifth donkey attempt failed I started sticking bits of paper onto other bits of paper and instead made a collage titled 'Abdullah's Birthday Garden of Donkey Happiness'. People seemed to quite like the picture and this where the idea formed.

The most obvious thing to do after making one semi-successful birthday present is to become a polymath, like Leonardo da Vinci or Qutb al-Din al-Shirazi, by doing one of everything. By everything I mean artistic pursuits within the realms of 'stuff I like'.

For my first two acts of polymathic proportions I intend to perform as a sound artist with my hypothetical band The John Entwistle School of Standing Very Still and have my visual art exhibited in a gallery, neither of which I have done before.

I suspect this is going to take a very long time.

I will now chew my vegemite toast vigorously

The taxi driver smelt like penis but he drove me home so my feet could be silent. Earlier this evening I caught the bus to Glebe. I hate Glebe but I went anyway because Geoff Lemon was doing a spoken word gig at the Friend in Hand. I don't hate Geoff Lemon, not yet.

Geoff performed admirably but offstage he was incoherent with jet lag and exhaustion so I wandered over to Spencer's house and yelled about the internal violence of words. Spencer deserves some kind of medal, in fact he proposed that someone should pay him money for being my 'keeping it real person'. I'm not entirely sure what that job would entail, I assume part of the role is to sit with me in a cafe while I yell about things and accidentally knock over water glasses and ashtrays.

Spencer has a habit of keeping large pieces of folded paper about his person. He will produce one from time to time and let me read over whatever he is working on. There is no greater privilege than seeing a song half-written, before even the song itself is sure of what it should sound like. Though perhaps I would like to rifle through another writer's desk. Uncurl the edges of all of those bits of paper and watch the words crawling towards each other, in the way that words on curled bits of paper do.

After the spoken word gig, after giving up on the possibility of having anything within the realms of a normal conversation with the valiant but sagging Geoff. After walking through the backstreets of Glebe where my feet flashed like imaginary fish and I remembered most of yesterday in slow motion. After Spencer came out of his gate and talked with me about the violence of words, and the taxi driver who smelt like penis, I made two pieces of toast. Spring is the best season for the vigorous chewing of toast, it has none of winter's demands for warm cups and the laying on of blankets.

In other news if you search using the words 'age of adz review', my review is the first result. In your face other people without toast. In your toastless face, is what I would say if I was that way inclined but I'm not so forget about it.

Tuesday, 5 October 2010

Neil! Get a haircut or at least stop staring so strangely

Sugar Mountain: Live at Canterbury House 1968 made me travel back in time and who doesn’t want to travel back in time? There is no excuse for not listening to this album. Blah blah album reviewing words, Neil is good etc

Read the actual review on RHUM...

Sunday, 3 October 2010


Haul up the buildings like nightshades. I don't want to see anybody's horizon. All day I poured wine  across the back of upturned glasses.

Saturday, 2 October 2010