I returned from the wedding triumphant. That had a lot to do with Spencer, Grizelda, my family and a few more friends like Ron and Robert and Mr X, and the usual list of suspects.
You see, about a year ago my brother decided to get married. Some time after that he decided to get married in a park, the same park where I was attacked by a man some years ago. The park is located in the town where I used to live with Artboy.
I haven't really been back there, not since I came crawling into The Peach.
I wanted to attend the wedding I just didn't want to go back to that town or that park or that region. I didn't even want to think about it. Spencer and Grizelda both received invitations so we stuffed ourselves into Grizelda's tiny red car and drove and drove and drove.
I packed brandy for the journey. Brandy and painkillers for my broken foot. By the time we narrowed in our trajectory we were one sheet to the wind. Arriving at the park, grass by a lagoon really, the first thing I noticed was the exact spot I crawled away in the mud, undercover of darkness, when I made my getaway all those years ago. The second thing I noticed was the white cat fur on my black dress left there surreptitiously by Oscar the kitten. I decided to focus on the dress.
I saw my brother arrive in a car full of men wearing tuxedos. A familiar sight thanks to his years of playing in big bands. And then my parents and then the ceremony and then nothing but acres of goodwill.
Spencer and I were drunk and chatty with relatives and friends alike. My parents kept ageing and beaming then tearing up and doing it all over again. I performed one good deed. There was the bridal waltz, and her parents walking up to join in, and my father with his wife and there over at a table sat my mother by herself. Her partner nowhere to be seen, I think she was photographing something. I stood a little uncertainly because of the wine and my broken foot but I made to over to her table and held out my hand. I lead my mother to the dance floor. She said "I'm not sure how to do this". "It doesn't matter", I replied. And so we waltzed on that roomy floor in between the tuxedo-clad big band and the hundreds of pair of eyes.
Afterwards my aunts and uncles came surreptitiously one by one to tell me what a good thing I had done asking my mother to dance. I did not disagree with them but I looked at them a little beadily. Its been some time since a relative thought highly of me. I thought for a moment of my dead grandfather and wondered.
After my brother took his new wife away in a car Spencer and I stole all the wine we could and started drinking while Grizelda worked at driving the car. The turn off to my old house came up ahead of us. I felt uneasy but shouted at the very last second 'turn here I want to see the house'.
Grizelda found the old house easily and brought her small car to a stop across the road from it. The new people had ripped out the old weeping cherry tree and chopped down the jacaranda. There was a white metal letterbox in place of the crazy old wooden one my father bought from a man who carved things with a chainsaw.
I remembered the last time I was there. Half mad and convinced I was being followed by a cube of sorrow. This time I was not alone. We got out of the car and crossed the road. Spencer and Grizelda held back but I walked on my broken foot, all dressed up and drunk. I walked right up the driveway smoking a cigarette and taking huge swigs from a stolen bottle of wine.
Memories that house seemed like a huge shadow falling over everything I do. I stared at the front door and waited for something to hit me until something did. I don't need this anymore. I ground out my cigarette on the red brick driveway, shrugged at the idea of Artboy and walked on back to the car.
Half way home Spencer said "You did good tonight". And I thought yeah, I did.
We sang and drank and laughed our way back towards the city. The street lights started growing on every corner and maybe a plane roared overhead or if it didn't it could have. People were walking everywhere on the streets and there was life more than darkness and the big solid feeling of coming home.
Thanks for listening.
That's a full lid.
Showing posts with label Artboy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Artboy. Show all posts
Every day an adventure of one sort or another
Boring bit upfront: I'm joining in on the 'blog every day in March' thing because I thought I might as well as not. Apparently lots of people are doing it, because of this guy, also there is a hashtag, #b03.
Another more different slightly less boring bit. I am beginning to love American public radio shows, like WNYC's Radiolab and NPR's Fresh Air and even This American Life. These shows seem to explore topics in a wandering way with genuine curiosity, I suspect this is how I prefer to think. Studying law I found I could never concentrate strictly on the topic at hand, the case in question would lead to thinking about the story of the people which lead to the topic of the story of the people which would lead to other people and their stories and then a new topic would arise and the process would start all over again. This kind of thinking is not ideal when attempting to think like a lawyer.
Happily I no longer need to attempt to think like a lawyer, not ever again, and so I have given myself a challenge. Does this style of thinking work for writing things down? Even if it's just writing for this stupid blog? I'll find out by experimenting. For the duration of this every day in March thing I will allow the wandering to have its way and see where I end up. End official boring bit, the next bit might also be boring too but it is not official.
The harbour slides into view in the most surprising way when you catch the train from Newtown into the City Circle. It's all tunnels and communication blackout and suddenly there the fuck it is, bridge and building and shining sea all in the small box of a glass train window and you've no choice but to centre yourself geographically, floating above the quay and the unreasonable view screaming Sydney, Sydney on repeat until the train slides away and noses back underground into darkness.
I walked from St James station to the NSW Gallery with one of the Bruce Green boys, the non-Artboy one, because he was going to work at the gallery. Seems to me like he works at every gallery and museum in the city. It's a stupid walk from the station to the gallery, underground tunnels, road crossings and then a walk along a park that feels unnecessary more than pleasant as though they dropped the gallery in wrong spot by accident.
Picasso is the reason I left the kitchen table on my day off, Picasso and a strong desire to be unromantic. Recently I have been accused of being a romantic by three separate men* on three separate occasions. I despise romanticism so I left the light to slide across the floor without me, left the teapot on the shelf and marched out into the world determined to be as unromantic as possible.
A solo expedition around an exhibition is not romantic but today it was moving, in places. A sketch near the beginning of the exhibition trapped me. Slammed me into reverie and there I stayed until an elderly woman in a red hat shoved me on purpose. I think it was a self-portrait, it was called something like "The artist drawing, with hand studies". One clear bold sketch of the artist, bare-chested and youthful with disembodied hands floating around the edges of the page in more ghostly lines, some of them hesitant and pale.
The rawness of Picasso's sketch appealed to me. More than anything I love the beginnings, the sketches, the demo tapes, the first draft, when there is nothing but raw art at work. A direct line from mind to page or sound or canvas. In this stage of work you cannot lie, you can not hide behind the reworkings and the polish that inevitably comes with experience. I don't dislike finished works but the raw beginnings excite me.
My love of raw beginnings has lead me to some odd places, tiny galleries in back alleys, bands playing under buildings and in warehouses or lounge rooms, people singing in the park at midnight and then of course there is PAN magazine. The editorial team is learning, very quickly, how to have a magazine but many of our contributors for each issue have no experience and I love this. This is one way of transferring raw beginnings from garages and kitchen tables into the hands of readers. Another way of examining the unedited beginnings has been, and still is, this blog. In the beginning of this blog I was new to the city, new to being alone, I was shot from my old life without warning and I was on the edge. Of course it transformed and I let it because here I remain unedited, without expectation or rules which exactly how I find my best friendships are, with Spencer and with others, like Robert.
I don't write much about Robert, he is intensely private, much more so than any person I have ever known but that doesn't mean he isn't around, sometimes in person and often in my thoughts or in my telephone, like today. Robert called from his hometown in another state and asked for a favour. I was inside a bookshelf when he called. I was building one of these flat-pack bookshelves in the hallway and found it necessary to lie the half-built thing down flat and slide in between the long pieces to tighten some screws. I didn't hesitate to say yes, it seems a great privilege to be asked by someone to be of help in their life. The favour involved climbing out from inside the bookshelf, out the window, the front door was blocked by the bookshelf and straight into a taxi to Kings Cross to make a cash deal with a real estate agent.
Robert, having flown out this morning for a month, received a call informing him he had indeed been approved for the flat he applied for but the real estate agent needed the deposit by close of business today. This is where my and my taxi catching come into play. After crossing the city again, this time in the comfort of a motor vehicle, I found myself face to face with an astonishing man. I suppose he might not be so astonishing on meeting him a second time but that first time had my ovaries in a knot.
Here's what I know about the real estate man, he wears suits, an expensive watch and has very shiny shoes and the astonishing effect of sitting down next to him is the sudden and urgent need to breed, with him, immediately if not sooner. I don't know if he's handsome, I suppose he might be but not obviously so. His accent is thick and possibly Turkish. The hallmarks of Turkish language are vowel harmony and agglutination but I don't know what that means, he sounded deep and musical and unfamiliar. He doesn't hold himself in any particular way, his office is small and messy, he was not especially friendly nor was he too cold or overly professional. There is no logical reason for the unexpected feelings. It was raw and immediate and entirely unedited and I'll make sure it stays that way.
Sometimes the beginnings of making an acquaintance is the most profound part, before I find out that they wear novelty socks or dislike their mother or have a dull and heavy mind. Sometimes walking past someone and observing how they occupy the world in that moment is enough.
* Lex Wick is one of my accusers, the others don't have blogs.
Another more different slightly less boring bit. I am beginning to love American public radio shows, like WNYC's Radiolab and NPR's Fresh Air and even This American Life. These shows seem to explore topics in a wandering way with genuine curiosity, I suspect this is how I prefer to think. Studying law I found I could never concentrate strictly on the topic at hand, the case in question would lead to thinking about the story of the people which lead to the topic of the story of the people which would lead to other people and their stories and then a new topic would arise and the process would start all over again. This kind of thinking is not ideal when attempting to think like a lawyer.
Happily I no longer need to attempt to think like a lawyer, not ever again, and so I have given myself a challenge. Does this style of thinking work for writing things down? Even if it's just writing for this stupid blog? I'll find out by experimenting. For the duration of this every day in March thing I will allow the wandering to have its way and see where I end up. End official boring bit, the next bit might also be boring too but it is not official.
The harbour slides into view in the most surprising way when you catch the train from Newtown into the City Circle. It's all tunnels and communication blackout and suddenly there the fuck it is, bridge and building and shining sea all in the small box of a glass train window and you've no choice but to centre yourself geographically, floating above the quay and the unreasonable view screaming Sydney, Sydney on repeat until the train slides away and noses back underground into darkness.
I walked from St James station to the NSW Gallery with one of the Bruce Green boys, the non-Artboy one, because he was going to work at the gallery. Seems to me like he works at every gallery and museum in the city. It's a stupid walk from the station to the gallery, underground tunnels, road crossings and then a walk along a park that feels unnecessary more than pleasant as though they dropped the gallery in wrong spot by accident.
Picasso is the reason I left the kitchen table on my day off, Picasso and a strong desire to be unromantic. Recently I have been accused of being a romantic by three separate men* on three separate occasions. I despise romanticism so I left the light to slide across the floor without me, left the teapot on the shelf and marched out into the world determined to be as unromantic as possible.
A solo expedition around an exhibition is not romantic but today it was moving, in places. A sketch near the beginning of the exhibition trapped me. Slammed me into reverie and there I stayed until an elderly woman in a red hat shoved me on purpose. I think it was a self-portrait, it was called something like "The artist drawing, with hand studies". One clear bold sketch of the artist, bare-chested and youthful with disembodied hands floating around the edges of the page in more ghostly lines, some of them hesitant and pale.
The rawness of Picasso's sketch appealed to me. More than anything I love the beginnings, the sketches, the demo tapes, the first draft, when there is nothing but raw art at work. A direct line from mind to page or sound or canvas. In this stage of work you cannot lie, you can not hide behind the reworkings and the polish that inevitably comes with experience. I don't dislike finished works but the raw beginnings excite me.
My love of raw beginnings has lead me to some odd places, tiny galleries in back alleys, bands playing under buildings and in warehouses or lounge rooms, people singing in the park at midnight and then of course there is PAN magazine. The editorial team is learning, very quickly, how to have a magazine but many of our contributors for each issue have no experience and I love this. This is one way of transferring raw beginnings from garages and kitchen tables into the hands of readers. Another way of examining the unedited beginnings has been, and still is, this blog. In the beginning of this blog I was new to the city, new to being alone, I was shot from my old life without warning and I was on the edge. Of course it transformed and I let it because here I remain unedited, without expectation or rules which exactly how I find my best friendships are, with Spencer and with others, like Robert.
I don't write much about Robert, he is intensely private, much more so than any person I have ever known but that doesn't mean he isn't around, sometimes in person and often in my thoughts or in my telephone, like today. Robert called from his hometown in another state and asked for a favour. I was inside a bookshelf when he called. I was building one of these flat-pack bookshelves in the hallway and found it necessary to lie the half-built thing down flat and slide in between the long pieces to tighten some screws. I didn't hesitate to say yes, it seems a great privilege to be asked by someone to be of help in their life. The favour involved climbing out from inside the bookshelf, out the window, the front door was blocked by the bookshelf and straight into a taxi to Kings Cross to make a cash deal with a real estate agent.
Robert, having flown out this morning for a month, received a call informing him he had indeed been approved for the flat he applied for but the real estate agent needed the deposit by close of business today. This is where my and my taxi catching come into play. After crossing the city again, this time in the comfort of a motor vehicle, I found myself face to face with an astonishing man. I suppose he might not be so astonishing on meeting him a second time but that first time had my ovaries in a knot.
Here's what I know about the real estate man, he wears suits, an expensive watch and has very shiny shoes and the astonishing effect of sitting down next to him is the sudden and urgent need to breed, with him, immediately if not sooner. I don't know if he's handsome, I suppose he might be but not obviously so. His accent is thick and possibly Turkish. The hallmarks of Turkish language are vowel harmony and agglutination but I don't know what that means, he sounded deep and musical and unfamiliar. He doesn't hold himself in any particular way, his office is small and messy, he was not especially friendly nor was he too cold or overly professional. There is no logical reason for the unexpected feelings. It was raw and immediate and entirely unedited and I'll make sure it stays that way.
Sometimes the beginnings of making an acquaintance is the most profound part, before I find out that they wear novelty socks or dislike their mother or have a dull and heavy mind. Sometimes walking past someone and observing how they occupy the world in that moment is enough.
* Lex Wick is one of my accusers, the others don't have blogs.
Damp towel brings joy to undisturbed woman who sits contemplating doing a crime
Everyone is talking about love, who loves them, or doesn't, or should, did or could or who they love or don't, or want to, will do or could. I'm not listening to them because as usual I am thinking about myself. I used to love and it was terrible.
Sometimes it was fine or good or mildly excellent but most of the time it was terrible. In theory it was good, someone to share the bills and the worries and the joys and the chores and the adventure but most of the men I have loved, even platonic love, were impractical creatures and more trouble than use in most matters. Almost all of them were deliberately selfish, except Artboy who was basically Kirsten Dunst in Melancholia but without the expensive wedding dress.
When I reflect on the compromises I used to make, the effort I used to go to, the time and energy and worry I gave away, I feel a little ill. Like a mild dose of flu of experienced at high speed but then it is gone and I am here again. When I say here I mean in The Peach, in the present, in my reading glasses and a damp towel with nothing on my mind or my to do list except what I want.
This is ideal. What I love is this, being able to sit around in my reading glasses and damp towel and know that I will remain undisturbed. Well at least until Grizelda shouts down the hallway about cupcakes. She is insisting on making red cupcakes with heart-shaped pink icing thingos to give to the people at her work tomorrow, because she is thinking about love.
I am thinking about stealing one of the cupcakes and how fortunate I am to own more than one towel. I plan on leaving both towel and cupcake wrapper on the floor overnight.
Sometimes it was fine or good or mildly excellent but most of the time it was terrible. In theory it was good, someone to share the bills and the worries and the joys and the chores and the adventure but most of the men I have loved, even platonic love, were impractical creatures and more trouble than use in most matters. Almost all of them were deliberately selfish, except Artboy who was basically Kirsten Dunst in Melancholia but without the expensive wedding dress.
When I reflect on the compromises I used to make, the effort I used to go to, the time and energy and worry I gave away, I feel a little ill. Like a mild dose of flu of experienced at high speed but then it is gone and I am here again. When I say here I mean in The Peach, in the present, in my reading glasses and a damp towel with nothing on my mind or my to do list except what I want.
This is ideal. What I love is this, being able to sit around in my reading glasses and damp towel and know that I will remain undisturbed. Well at least until Grizelda shouts down the hallway about cupcakes. She is insisting on making red cupcakes with heart-shaped pink icing thingos to give to the people at her work tomorrow, because she is thinking about love.
I am thinking about stealing one of the cupcakes and how fortunate I am to own more than one towel. I plan on leaving both towel and cupcake wrapper on the floor overnight.
Wenceslas
I felt like Mrs Dalloway, or Clarissa Vaughn echoing fictionally around on her way to a dying poet with fistfuls of flowers. I went to steal them from gardens but street after street bore nothing but concrete and the bare bulb-ended green things that play flowers in the hot parts of the year. I think its OK to pay for flowers when the poet isn't dying faster than anyone else so I counted out ten gold coins while the cashier held out half an impatient hand.
Five days ago my father bellowed out words like, strident, abusive, arrogant and smirked while my aged aunt thrust both arms back into memory for the right word. 'Bohemian', she said. They called me bohemian, all those relatives in formal dress. I told Spencer and we scoffed over coffee. I'm the least bohemian person I know, here, in the new town, where I have burrowed out a cave room and set a fire in the corner. There are proper curtains and thread counts and cupboard complete with cups.
Some of the others here still drink whiskey out of jars and play the same crackling old records Joe Lynch might have listened to, if he had the money. Now of course there are crates of them on corners every Saturday morning.
I didn't come here to study them, to take down hasty notes in dark corners while they rollick across perfectly stationary floors. I came here unwillingly, rudder locked eastward, anchor gone screaming into the night. I came here in cardboard boxes and settled heavily into daily clockwork risings, for money, only for the money. The notes started small and scrawling, mystifying untranslated rubbings across self-erected tombs of the wildly living. But they have grown.
Walking across a whole morning with the single purpose of flowers information came to me. Neighbours appeared at my gate on the telephone to Marianne Faithfull, lay down chapters of books for my magazine, the radio spoke with the voice of real friends, in song and story. Two people left for Spain with guitars and tour dates, Spencer and I spoke about which shirt he should wear in Paris. I said purple, he said he'd wear whatever he liked but the point was he's leaving for another overseas tour. The point is I'm sitting in my window looking out where the snow would fall if the world ever flipped and we had a chance at crisp and even.
Five days ago my father bellowed out words like, strident, abusive, arrogant and smirked while my aged aunt thrust both arms back into memory for the right word. 'Bohemian', she said. They called me bohemian, all those relatives in formal dress. I told Spencer and we scoffed over coffee. I'm the least bohemian person I know, here, in the new town, where I have burrowed out a cave room and set a fire in the corner. There are proper curtains and thread counts and cupboard complete with cups.
Some of the others here still drink whiskey out of jars and play the same crackling old records Joe Lynch might have listened to, if he had the money. Now of course there are crates of them on corners every Saturday morning.
I didn't come here to study them, to take down hasty notes in dark corners while they rollick across perfectly stationary floors. I came here unwillingly, rudder locked eastward, anchor gone screaming into the night. I came here in cardboard boxes and settled heavily into daily clockwork risings, for money, only for the money. The notes started small and scrawling, mystifying untranslated rubbings across self-erected tombs of the wildly living. But they have grown.
Walking across a whole morning with the single purpose of flowers information came to me. Neighbours appeared at my gate on the telephone to Marianne Faithfull, lay down chapters of books for my magazine, the radio spoke with the voice of real friends, in song and story. Two people left for Spain with guitars and tour dates, Spencer and I spoke about which shirt he should wear in Paris. I said purple, he said he'd wear whatever he liked but the point was he's leaving for another overseas tour. The point is I'm sitting in my window looking out where the snow would fall if the world ever flipped and we had a chance at crisp and even.
Fist City
I had some interesting information from a friend of mine tonight. Originally him and his group of friends were Artboy's classmates at uni. My friend was telling me tonight that he was glad we are friends now, he said he didn't think he would ever be a friend of mine because of what Artboy told him way back when, all those years ago. Apparently Artboy's uni friends thought I was pretty awesome when they first met me and they told Artboy so but here's the interesting part.
Artboy told his friends that he was surprised I even talked to them, that I was prepared to be polite to them but I'd never let any of them in, not really. I think its time for some rule breaking, seeing as I am The Captain of What I Do and also it is three in the morning and I have just arrived home from The Townie (no one tell my mother).
Fuck you Artboy. Retrospectively fuck you.
Just as a side note I have discovered a new way to dry my hands with those loud air-blaster thingy-whatsits they have in public toilets. A foolproof method for actual hand dry-making rather than just standing in an unpleasantly loud and gusty place for twenty seconds but leaving with wet hands despite best efforts. All things considered this evening was triumphant.
Artboy told his friends that he was surprised I even talked to them, that I was prepared to be polite to them but I'd never let any of them in, not really. I think its time for some rule breaking, seeing as I am The Captain of What I Do and also it is three in the morning and I have just arrived home from The Townie (no one tell my mother).
Fuck you Artboy. Retrospectively fuck you.
Just as a side note I have discovered a new way to dry my hands with those loud air-blaster thingy-whatsits they have in public toilets. A foolproof method for actual hand dry-making rather than just standing in an unpleasantly loud and gusty place for twenty seconds but leaving with wet hands despite best efforts. All things considered this evening was triumphant.
Flapping at my kitchen wall
I thought if this lament is unending then lord let us cry. I was curled like an old plastic chip packet heated in the oven, inelegantly wetting the front of my shirt with an unrelenting flow of tears when a crow hit The Peach windows with a powerful thud and crumpling of feathers. Some days are wet with soup, tea and tears. Some days demand you walk up and down the hallway or follow the movement of light across the floor. This day I needed nothing more than to have freedom enough to feel.
The bird flew away but I was left stunned with my hands on the kitchen sink, immobile and staring at the place where the bird collided with my glass wall. The phone rang, it was Artboy, I made a silent dash and scramble to pause The Way We Were and shake off my crow-weirdness. Hubbell stood frozen at the end of Katie's hospital bed staring at her as his wife for the last time. I don't know how she stood it. I can see why everybody was going crazy for Barbara Streisand, her hands are entirely elegant and there is something about the way she stands and delivers a line. I talked to Artboy for hours while I stared at the frozen Hubbell in his Hollywood jacket and Cobra Kai haircut. I suppose the bad man from The Karate Kid was trying to look like Robert Redford but it took until today to work that out. I've never seen The Way We Were before.
A submerged and profound grief rolled in me like a whale in a pool as I spoke to Artboy today. Talking to anyone else feels like a waste of words but then I catch myself and remember I have my own life now. I have this freedom and joy. I have a house in the city and a media pass. I have friends and a magazine and a small but respectable stack of published work. I have my cat and my desk and I can tell people at parties that I am a Rock Journalist and it is not a lie. I told Artboy nobody ever thinks of Ted Hughes, what it must have been like to live with Sylvia Plath as her illness consumed every corner of his life. I don't know how he stood it.
After Artboy and the close of one of those conversations that jump syllable to syllable like synapses I finished The Way We Were and moved on Into The Wild. It was one of those stories that Loene Carmen sums up best by saying 'trying to romanticise what a cunt you are'.* He had a kind of Superman syndrome where he took the ordinary troubles of life and wound them so tight around his heart and fists that he was punching everyone, including himself, without feeling the blows. Stopped the beat of his heart because he thought he was only one who heard the noise of it. I didn't notice this about Superman until it was too late and I was interstate and trapped inside a house with his family's Christmas leftovers.
I didn't weep for the man who fled like a child into the wild but I did weep. I wept great heaving soundless sobs while I knelt down to choose movies, I wept as I washed dishes in the sink, spread marmalade on my toast, poured tea from the pot. There was no great sorrow, my mind was on ordinary matters much as it always is. I formatted my new hard drive sitting on the lounge room floor taking care not to tip tears into the keyboard of my laptop. My need for unfettered expression was profound, solid as the foundations of the earth. I suppose it as simple as this, monsoons sometimes happen as far south as Sydney.
* From the album Rock'n'Roll Tears - listen to it.
The bird flew away but I was left stunned with my hands on the kitchen sink, immobile and staring at the place where the bird collided with my glass wall. The phone rang, it was Artboy, I made a silent dash and scramble to pause The Way We Were and shake off my crow-weirdness. Hubbell stood frozen at the end of Katie's hospital bed staring at her as his wife for the last time. I don't know how she stood it. I can see why everybody was going crazy for Barbara Streisand, her hands are entirely elegant and there is something about the way she stands and delivers a line. I talked to Artboy for hours while I stared at the frozen Hubbell in his Hollywood jacket and Cobra Kai haircut. I suppose the bad man from The Karate Kid was trying to look like Robert Redford but it took until today to work that out. I've never seen The Way We Were before.
A submerged and profound grief rolled in me like a whale in a pool as I spoke to Artboy today. Talking to anyone else feels like a waste of words but then I catch myself and remember I have my own life now. I have this freedom and joy. I have a house in the city and a media pass. I have friends and a magazine and a small but respectable stack of published work. I have my cat and my desk and I can tell people at parties that I am a Rock Journalist and it is not a lie. I told Artboy nobody ever thinks of Ted Hughes, what it must have been like to live with Sylvia Plath as her illness consumed every corner of his life. I don't know how he stood it.
After Artboy and the close of one of those conversations that jump syllable to syllable like synapses I finished The Way We Were and moved on Into The Wild. It was one of those stories that Loene Carmen sums up best by saying 'trying to romanticise what a cunt you are'.* He had a kind of Superman syndrome where he took the ordinary troubles of life and wound them so tight around his heart and fists that he was punching everyone, including himself, without feeling the blows. Stopped the beat of his heart because he thought he was only one who heard the noise of it. I didn't notice this about Superman until it was too late and I was interstate and trapped inside a house with his family's Christmas leftovers.
I didn't weep for the man who fled like a child into the wild but I did weep. I wept great heaving soundless sobs while I knelt down to choose movies, I wept as I washed dishes in the sink, spread marmalade on my toast, poured tea from the pot. There was no great sorrow, my mind was on ordinary matters much as it always is. I formatted my new hard drive sitting on the lounge room floor taking care not to tip tears into the keyboard of my laptop. My need for unfettered expression was profound, solid as the foundations of the earth. I suppose it as simple as this, monsoons sometimes happen as far south as Sydney.
* From the album Rock'n'Roll Tears - listen to it.
Gunshots?
There were five or six sharp loud noises in quick succession. I was confused as to what could of caused the sound but Madam Squeeze looked like a woman who was ready to take cover. Spencer had a rabbit look of heightened alarm and I just stood there thinking surely not, couldn't actually be real gunshots. My main explanation for the sound not being gunshots was that there were no sirens. In the light of day this logic seems faulty.
We sat in a row on the stone railing at Town Hall waiting for Artboy's car to come and collect us. This was our second time of watching a spectacle go down George St. It began early this morning with marching bands and that annual city echo of dissonance and rhythm. Artboy was visiting the city to hear Jon Hunter play one of his excellent noise art sets at Serial Space and was kind enough to not only drop us off at The Metro but pick us up afterward as well. I'm not sure what surge of kindness overtook Artboy's senses but I was glad of the lift. The CBD is my least favourite place to be on a Friday or Saturday night. Everywhere you look the shivering women in identical blue satin strapless dresses are drunkenly turning back time and erasing the Women's Movement. They walk in groups, huddle in gutters, vomit in garbage bins and stand on street corners close enough to the passing traffic to cause me concern. There are men, nondescript men, hanging a drunk blue satin woman off their arms or walking in groups behind them leering drunkenly. I don't what has possessed the young, boring and mediocre women of Sydney to robe themselves in blue satin, become drunk and tempt me to use derogatory language but I don't like it. Not one bit.
I didn't get to bed until after three in the morning and I couldn't sleep until my ears ceased ringing. I will now remember to take ear plugs to every gig. The four of us sat up sitting tea and discussing our new collaborative group project of assembling the rules for time travel as explained by film and television. There was some debate about whether magical time travel fell within the scope of the project until Artboy raised Clarke's third law and settled the matter but this wasn' the most interesting part of the night.
I've been recalibrated by The Drones. I feel like I've been shot. I stood silent as a seawall while the sound broke over me and the crowd surged in tidal response. I was pushed into a cave while the universe formed around me. The Drones are terrifying and magnificent. Spencer has long thought Gareth Liddiard the best songwriter in Australia but I think I'm going to make my own small category of Australia's Best Human Recalibrator.
My review is in serious danger of never being written. I don't think they'll publish the single word review of "Wow!".
We sat in a row on the stone railing at Town Hall waiting for Artboy's car to come and collect us. This was our second time of watching a spectacle go down George St. It began early this morning with marching bands and that annual city echo of dissonance and rhythm. Artboy was visiting the city to hear Jon Hunter play one of his excellent noise art sets at Serial Space and was kind enough to not only drop us off at The Metro but pick us up afterward as well. I'm not sure what surge of kindness overtook Artboy's senses but I was glad of the lift. The CBD is my least favourite place to be on a Friday or Saturday night. Everywhere you look the shivering women in identical blue satin strapless dresses are drunkenly turning back time and erasing the Women's Movement. They walk in groups, huddle in gutters, vomit in garbage bins and stand on street corners close enough to the passing traffic to cause me concern. There are men, nondescript men, hanging a drunk blue satin woman off their arms or walking in groups behind them leering drunkenly. I don't what has possessed the young, boring and mediocre women of Sydney to robe themselves in blue satin, become drunk and tempt me to use derogatory language but I don't like it. Not one bit.
I didn't get to bed until after three in the morning and I couldn't sleep until my ears ceased ringing. I will now remember to take ear plugs to every gig. The four of us sat up sitting tea and discussing our new collaborative group project of assembling the rules for time travel as explained by film and television. There was some debate about whether magical time travel fell within the scope of the project until Artboy raised Clarke's third law and settled the matter but this wasn' the most interesting part of the night.
I've been recalibrated by The Drones. I feel like I've been shot. I stood silent as a seawall while the sound broke over me and the crowd surged in tidal response. I was pushed into a cave while the universe formed around me. The Drones are terrifying and magnificent. Spencer has long thought Gareth Liddiard the best songwriter in Australia but I think I'm going to make my own small category of Australia's Best Human Recalibrator.
My review is in serious danger of never being written. I don't think they'll publish the single word review of "Wow!".
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)
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)
By christ you should have seen us
Breaking news: Gemma is shutting down Gempires.
Gemma used to exist for me as the alphabet rearranged and the vague memory of a woman sitting behind a desk on a panel at TINA. I sat in that audience and heard her speak and thought "Blog? What is blog?".
I found Gempires about a year later just when my life got smashed with a hammer and as I read Gemma's words I thought I could do that and so I did. At first it was an involuntary exhalation, a daily reminder to keep breathing and then it changed and I used this space to make a map of my existence as proof, for myself, that I was real.
People started reading my blog, I don't know how, I suspect that the link on Gempires was the cause of it. My soy cheese tastes of vinegar, this is not related to Gempires. This blog used to be the result of things but now sometimes it is the cause. It is the reason that Gemma suggested we meet for a drink when she came to visit Sydney last year, it is the reason Gemma now exists for me as a whole and wondrous human. It is the reason I had phone sex with a man I'd never met, had no less than five separate strangers write to me and tell me that I should kill myself. It is the reason I met the excellent Superman, I have eaten my very own packet of Dale Biscuits, performed social experiments on myself, been stalked, had enormous fallings out with people and been recognised by strangers in the street. Once a woman had a blog that seemed almost entirely devoted to slagging off both Gemma and myself. To say that these results are unexpected would be an enormous understatement.
Gemma did warn me, she told me how my freedom in this space would shrink. She told me how people would overreact when I write about them, how people would assume the worst. She was right, my freedom here is diminished, Artboy saw to that, then Elliot, then almost everyone I know found their way here some way or another even Superman has misunderstood my meaning but here I am typing into white void with my hair wrapped in a towel and a cigarette burning in the ashtray, just like at the beginning. Right now this blog is not my reason to breathe but I need it still, could not manage without these unedited spontaneous words and for that Gemma I thank you.
Gemma used to exist for me as the alphabet rearranged and the vague memory of a woman sitting behind a desk on a panel at TINA. I sat in that audience and heard her speak and thought "Blog? What is blog?".
I found Gempires about a year later just when my life got smashed with a hammer and as I read Gemma's words I thought I could do that and so I did. At first it was an involuntary exhalation, a daily reminder to keep breathing and then it changed and I used this space to make a map of my existence as proof, for myself, that I was real.
People started reading my blog, I don't know how, I suspect that the link on Gempires was the cause of it. My soy cheese tastes of vinegar, this is not related to Gempires. This blog used to be the result of things but now sometimes it is the cause. It is the reason that Gemma suggested we meet for a drink when she came to visit Sydney last year, it is the reason Gemma now exists for me as a whole and wondrous human. It is the reason I had phone sex with a man I'd never met, had no less than five separate strangers write to me and tell me that I should kill myself. It is the reason I met the excellent Superman, I have eaten my very own packet of Dale Biscuits, performed social experiments on myself, been stalked, had enormous fallings out with people and been recognised by strangers in the street. Once a woman had a blog that seemed almost entirely devoted to slagging off both Gemma and myself. To say that these results are unexpected would be an enormous understatement.
Gemma did warn me, she told me how my freedom in this space would shrink. She told me how people would overreact when I write about them, how people would assume the worst. She was right, my freedom here is diminished, Artboy saw to that, then Elliot, then almost everyone I know found their way here some way or another even Superman has misunderstood my meaning but here I am typing into white void with my hair wrapped in a towel and a cigarette burning in the ashtray, just like at the beginning. Right now this blog is not my reason to breathe but I need it still, could not manage without these unedited spontaneous words and for that Gemma I thank you.
Sometimes when a person dresses like a pirate it is only a costume
I'm sitting in Ikea reclining on a sofa placed on a raised platform watching my very own personal parade. They've all shown up, samples from everywhere, every nation, every suburb, every brand of deodorant.
Grizelda and I came here looking for a chair named Jeff to place on the Peach Deck but I am so pleased by my very own personal people parade that I am sat here nodding mildly at the masses. This might be my ideal office. I can imagine myself sat here typing happily, I might periodically relocate to an office desk or a dining table and if I become tired I might nap in the pretend flat.
I like these nowhere spaces, where there are no obligations now. There is room here to think about the weekend and what has transpired. On Friday I was accused of being a lesbian when I told a man named Scrubber that no, I did not want him to exercise his "civic duty to make all women feel loved by making them feel sexy". I was standing in the same rehearsal space that I'd sat in watching Tex Perkins and The Cruel Sea rehearse before going on tour but everything was different. Some people were dressed like pirates but underneath you could smell their suburban skins, their organised kitchens and the spaces where ideas should be. Last time I was staring at Tex Perkins while he howled into the microphone, this time I was telling a man named Scrubber, who was wearing deck shoes, that no, I did not want to feel sexy.
In the bottom of my handbag I have the NYWF anthology, I bought it last night at the launch party, Benito Di Fonzo wrote "At least wait until I'm dead before you call me a cunt (again)" in the front of it and signed his name. Artboy appeared wearing a t-shirt and benito stooped forwards to read the small text on the front of the shirt while I thought this isn't right, this moment is as bad as exploding kittens with the power of thought. . I leant back against a brick wall, as far as I could, until I bruised my shoulder blades, and sipped from my bottle of water.
So I'm sitting in the in between space of Ikea on a mustard yellow chaise longue watching my own personal people parade with a book in the bottom of my handbag, two bruised shoulder blades and twelve kinds of memory. I think I kind of like it here, I might stay.
Grizelda and I came here looking for a chair named Jeff to place on the Peach Deck but I am so pleased by my very own personal people parade that I am sat here nodding mildly at the masses. This might be my ideal office. I can imagine myself sat here typing happily, I might periodically relocate to an office desk or a dining table and if I become tired I might nap in the pretend flat.
I like these nowhere spaces, where there are no obligations now. There is room here to think about the weekend and what has transpired. On Friday I was accused of being a lesbian when I told a man named Scrubber that no, I did not want him to exercise his "civic duty to make all women feel loved by making them feel sexy". I was standing in the same rehearsal space that I'd sat in watching Tex Perkins and The Cruel Sea rehearse before going on tour but everything was different. Some people were dressed like pirates but underneath you could smell their suburban skins, their organised kitchens and the spaces where ideas should be. Last time I was staring at Tex Perkins while he howled into the microphone, this time I was telling a man named Scrubber, who was wearing deck shoes, that no, I did not want to feel sexy.
In the bottom of my handbag I have the NYWF anthology, I bought it last night at the launch party, Benito Di Fonzo wrote "At least wait until I'm dead before you call me a cunt (again)" in the front of it and signed his name. Artboy appeared wearing a t-shirt and benito stooped forwards to read the small text on the front of the shirt while I thought this isn't right, this moment is as bad as exploding kittens with the power of thought. . I leant back against a brick wall, as far as I could, until I bruised my shoulder blades, and sipped from my bottle of water.
So I'm sitting in the in between space of Ikea on a mustard yellow chaise longue watching my own personal people parade with a book in the bottom of my handbag, two bruised shoulder blades and twelve kinds of memory. I think I kind of like it here, I might stay.
Management apologises for this post but she needs to have things in simple order right now
I have pondered to a standstill. It is a gentle way to be, pondered to a standstill, there is no cause for alarm.
- Jon Wah died. Artboy phoned me when I was standing in the supermarket looking at soup to tell me.
- I telephoned Superman because I found I was standing in the middle of the kitchen and didn't know what else to do. He said he would come over, I told him not to because it was too far but he said he was coming anyway. I asked him to bring a teabag from his cupboard.
- Grizelda made me dinner, then she made me eat it.
- There was a knock at the door. Superman and Artboy arrived at precisely the same moment.
- Superman went to the shops for teabags.
- Artboy took my hand and told me that he loved me.
- Superman returned with teabags, timtams and marshmallows.
- Artboy talked about marketing, sneakers and the worst song in the world.
- Artboy left.
- Superman lit a fire, made hot chocolate then made up a song about life being flopsy and not making sense.
- I made Superman look at all the photos on my computer. I could not stop myself. I don't know why I did that.
- I toasted some marshmallows over the fire by stabbing them with really big matchsticks and holding them close enough to toast but not close enough to burn my hands. I used the non-match end of the big match sticks.
- Superman showed me bad photos of himself. I thought he looked fine, he disagreed.
- Drying myself after a shower I noticed that my feet were pink from being in the hot water.
- Climbing underneath my excellent doona Superman announced that he was downloading the entire Rolling Stones discography and that in the morning he would put it on my computer.
- I said "That is the best thing that has ever happened, ever". He said "I thought you'd like that".
- I woke late, people in my office were kind when I said I would not be in this morning.
- Superman, Spencer and I sat in the Island Cafe all morning talking and taking turns to give the idiot from the music channel death stares as she sat at a neighbouring table blabbering gabble at the camera.
- We ate pies in the pie shop. I stood nine hot chips up in my pie before eating them, they were tall chips. There were only ever three chips at a time in my pie.
- Spencer went to work, I phoned my office and once again they were very kind when I said I would not be in this afternoon.
- Superman and I went to the movies. We saw Mongol, I wanted a pony, I ate maltesers, Superman ate some too.
- Back in The Peach there was tea, Superman decided to trim his beard. I don't know what he used to trim his beard. I do not have any beard trimming devices. Perhaps he brought his own beard trimming thing but why would he do that? It is true that he sometimes has muesli in his bag. I wonder what else he has in his bag.
- Superman left to go to his yoga class. He came all the way from Emu to The Peach because Jon Wah died and I was standing in my kitchen not knowing what to do. I was standing two steps away from the bench, two steps away from the pantry and two steps from the metal border thing that divides the lounge room from the kitchen. I like Superman.
Tree like an elevator
Fragile as a cracked but whole egg, I'm sitting in this construction. Superman's blues guitar raising and lowering outer walls, I'm catching cross-legged glimpses of the gradated horizon. I don't mind that his blues doesn't yet build the whole house. I like this meccano raising and lowering revealing trees, sunsets and neighbours.
I should feel his superimposed rhythm as intrusion but this is basic, the rhythm has always been blue. Last night Superman and I sat upstairs at The Hopetoun eating nachos, with Artboy. I'm waiting for a telegram on how I feel, it'll say Western Union at the bottom and To Dale, at the top.
I should feel his superimposed rhythm as intrusion but this is basic, the rhythm has always been blue. Last night Superman and I sat upstairs at The Hopetoun eating nachos, with Artboy. I'm waiting for a telegram on how I feel, it'll say Western Union at the bottom and To Dale, at the top.
My direction home
Much less than lightning like a pencil to the ocean but whole as a pie. Superman slapped me across the face, twice, in a forwards backwards both sides of my face tennis swing motion. It was violently shocking and swift though not violent beyond playful in intent. I suddenly noticed his height and the size of his hands, roughly twice the size of mine. I pushed my hand into my bag and pulled out a pair of red leather gloves. I held the gloves aloft, he skittered backwards a step or two but I lowered my arm a little and stood there in the freezing night, drunk, shocked and motionless outside the Enmore Theatre. This is the moment I keep coming back to, the literal slap in the face. It reminded me of something, something like how the illusion of control and safety can slip when you least expect it. I wasn't afraid of Superman, there was no need for fear, he was grinning his ridiculous grin, hopping about with his jeans rolled up to show off his pink stripy socks (a birthday present from me) with his long coat flapping in the wind. He looked like a cartoon pirate. My face didn't sting, it was a swift but gentle slap, I stood on Enmore Rd yelling insults with my arm held high noting the small silent compartment frozen in the centre of me.
Today has been a series of slaps in the face. Artboy is diehard3. He confessed via email this morning. His confession included this "There is a desire to remain some small part of your world. I'm sorry that this manifested itself as horrible trolling. I do not think I am a troll at heart."
Artboy is ten thousand things, each one of them the opposite of a troll. It is true that I wished him dead or more accurately - "I hope he feels like shit. I hope he curls into a ball of Heathcliff and beats himself over the head with a walking stick. I hope he crashes his jet into the Grose Valley and drowns under boulders with broken legs." Maybe I do still wish he was dead. It would be easier to live the rest of my life wondering what might have happened if he had not died instead of knowing what I know. It hits me like a slap in the face, not every day, not every week but often enough to have permanently rearranged my architecture.
I've been slapped before. Artboy slapped me across the face in his attempt to wrench the car keys out my hand the night that he went mad two years ago. He was screaming, then he slapped me and clawed at my hands. I wouldn't let him drive. He'd gone mad and I wouldn't let him drive. He started throwing punches but I stood silent and still as stone while he raged and hit me like a punching bag but we all know this story, the story of Artboy gone mad and Dale Slamma realising that no matter what she will never be enough.
My Dad slapped me once. He took three long steps, hit me across the face and told me to get in the car. I was ten and he was driving me to school, he had hurried me to be ready then made me wait while he gathered his things for the day. I told him he shouldn't have hurried me if he wasn't ready to go, that's when he took three long steps and hit me across the face. When I got to school I traced around the red swollen mark on my face with a purple texta. The teacher made me wash it off. I had forgotten about that, forgotten about Artboy's slap and the time my Dad hit me in the face until Superman flashed out his long playful arm and I stood motionless on Enmore Rd with a pair of red leather gloves in my right hand.
Today has been a series of slaps in the face. Artboy is diehard3. He confessed via email this morning. His confession included this "There is a desire to remain some small part of your world. I'm sorry that this manifested itself as horrible trolling. I do not think I am a troll at heart."
Artboy is ten thousand things, each one of them the opposite of a troll. It is true that I wished him dead or more accurately - "I hope he feels like shit. I hope he curls into a ball of Heathcliff and beats himself over the head with a walking stick. I hope he crashes his jet into the Grose Valley and drowns under boulders with broken legs." Maybe I do still wish he was dead. It would be easier to live the rest of my life wondering what might have happened if he had not died instead of knowing what I know. It hits me like a slap in the face, not every day, not every week but often enough to have permanently rearranged my architecture.
I've been slapped before. Artboy slapped me across the face in his attempt to wrench the car keys out my hand the night that he went mad two years ago. He was screaming, then he slapped me and clawed at my hands. I wouldn't let him drive. He'd gone mad and I wouldn't let him drive. He started throwing punches but I stood silent and still as stone while he raged and hit me like a punching bag but we all know this story, the story of Artboy gone mad and Dale Slamma realising that no matter what she will never be enough.
My Dad slapped me once. He took three long steps, hit me across the face and told me to get in the car. I was ten and he was driving me to school, he had hurried me to be ready then made me wait while he gathered his things for the day. I told him he shouldn't have hurried me if he wasn't ready to go, that's when he took three long steps and hit me across the face. When I got to school I traced around the red swollen mark on my face with a purple texta. The teacher made me wash it off. I had forgotten about that, forgotten about Artboy's slap and the time my Dad hit me in the face until Superman flashed out his long playful arm and I stood motionless on Enmore Rd with a pair of red leather gloves in my right hand.
Digital Mystery
Who is diehard3?
The following people have, at one point or another, been suspected;
Superman
Creamboy
Artboy
Chris Brimstone
Elliot
Spencer
Dale Slamma (this one is ridiculous, I am clearly not diehard3)
If you will not confess then will you lead a merry chase?
I demand a clue.
The following people have, at one point or another, been suspected;
Superman
Creamboy
Artboy
Chris Brimstone
Elliot
Spencer
Dale Slamma (this one is ridiculous, I am clearly not diehard3)
If you will not confess then will you lead a merry chase?
I demand a clue.
Brilliant
I have thought this through and nothing could possibly go wrong. I will walk to Glebe and go the poetry at Sappho's as though nothing even happened. I will surprise even myself with my general good cheer, fortitude and lack of doom. I will sit at my usual table and stir my coffee in an unconcerned way. I will pull faces at Superman when the poetry is bad, I will tell The Beautiful Boy that his poem was excellent, because his poems are always excellent. I will leave early if I am tired. I will purchase a tiny chocolate cake, tinier than the palm of my small hand, I will eat it with the same tea spoon I use to stir my coffee. Superman might be late but I will not worry, I will sit happily by myself and make notes in my notebook because he always shows up in the end. When he arrives I will annoy him for five whole minutes by communicating to him my sense of empowerment using badly drawn sketches and sachets of sugar.
I will sit happily stirring my coffee and thinking how excellent it is that I have sewn this time into a useful shape because Superman is right. I am not the same person anymore and its been some time since Artboy had any power over me. I am not imagining the power slip, it is almost tangible. So you see, I've thought this through and nothing could possibly go wrong, that's why I agreed to meet Artboy for coffee. This is my year for holding up signs for other people to read and tomorrow I'm going to tell Artboy that I'm fine.
I will sit happily stirring my coffee and thinking how excellent it is that I have sewn this time into a useful shape because Superman is right. I am not the same person anymore and its been some time since Artboy had any power over me. I am not imagining the power slip, it is almost tangible. So you see, I've thought this through and nothing could possibly go wrong, that's why I agreed to meet Artboy for coffee. This is my year for holding up signs for other people to read and tomorrow I'm going to tell Artboy that I'm fine.
Tetris Restaurant
Newtown was full so I slid in and out of formation trailing The Peachettes feeling sorry as a hangover. Newtown was different tonight, I wanted to howl with the sirens or lay down in the gutter feeling nothing but cold and concrete. I tried sending a message to Spencer but the message wouldn't send, I tried phoning but the phone told me I hadn't paid my bill. I felt like a knocked and ignored ashtray.
I don't know why I didn't pay my phone bill, I don't remember opening the bill and thinking I must pay that. I don't remember opening the bill then setting it down again either. Some days tasks become heavy and I have wanted, desperately wanted to be a person who can slide over the edge.
I'm looking around this room and noticing things have been coming undone. My pants need repairing, there are piles of unopened mail, my sheets need changing, I have no winter coat, incomplete study puddles in corners, the books are unread, the washing not done, even my shelf in the fridge is empty, my calls to friends remain unreturned and over there on the floor by the heater is a knocked and ignored ashtray. It used to be lovely in here.
And now after showers and the brilliant revelation of clean teeth and warm water I have spotted something. The bad idea coffee was curious. He said "I like to walk around in Newtown and laugh at the Newtown people". I kept looking at him and expecting Elliot to be just to the left or coming up from behind, he felt like an empty chair at a dinner party.
Walking home after dinner I ran into someone I haven't seen since Artboy. She put a hand on my shoulder and it felt like sorrow. I think she was checking to see what pieces of my heart I held in my hands. I kept looking at her and memories flashed like a slide show.
The people tonight were bookmarks for pages I've already read so now I'm flipping things around stepping over my knocked and ignored ashtray, taking refuge in my clutter. I'm clanging things together just to hear what sound they make. I'm smoking all my cigarettes and spitting out mantras. I've spread out my pencils and books and magazines and newspapers. I'm wearing twelve mismatched accessories and thinking about pigeons and telephones and apples. I'm leaving the last sentence up to you.
I don't know why I didn't pay my phone bill, I don't remember opening the bill and thinking I must pay that. I don't remember opening the bill then setting it down again either. Some days tasks become heavy and I have wanted, desperately wanted to be a person who can slide over the edge.
I'm looking around this room and noticing things have been coming undone. My pants need repairing, there are piles of unopened mail, my sheets need changing, I have no winter coat, incomplete study puddles in corners, the books are unread, the washing not done, even my shelf in the fridge is empty, my calls to friends remain unreturned and over there on the floor by the heater is a knocked and ignored ashtray. It used to be lovely in here.
And now after showers and the brilliant revelation of clean teeth and warm water I have spotted something. The bad idea coffee was curious. He said "I like to walk around in Newtown and laugh at the Newtown people". I kept looking at him and expecting Elliot to be just to the left or coming up from behind, he felt like an empty chair at a dinner party.
Walking home after dinner I ran into someone I haven't seen since Artboy. She put a hand on my shoulder and it felt like sorrow. I think she was checking to see what pieces of my heart I held in my hands. I kept looking at her and memories flashed like a slide show.
The people tonight were bookmarks for pages I've already read so now I'm flipping things around stepping over my knocked and ignored ashtray, taking refuge in my clutter. I'm clanging things together just to hear what sound they make. I'm smoking all my cigarettes and spitting out mantras. I've spread out my pencils and books and magazines and newspapers. I'm wearing twelve mismatched accessories and thinking about pigeons and telephones and apples. I'm leaving the last sentence up to you.
Slip sliding away
Vale Holiday Slamma. I saw him every day, in my imagination. I regret now not fighting for custody. It started back when his brother died. When Artboy and I came home and found him in the kitchen while the cat sat and stared at his small form. She wasn't supposed to sit on the kitchen bench but that's where she was, sitting and staring and twitching her tail. It wasn't sensible to name them so, the older one Celebrate, but they were mine and I loved them.
It wasn't sensible to sing their names as a daily chant while I walked the length of the kitchen fetching bowls and stirring porridge but they were mine and I loved them. We all know Artboy went mad and I was left on the floor with the cat. Artboy's mother offered to help care for Holiday, to take him into her house and make sure he had all the right things so I let him go. I helped her pack his small things into his Winnie The Pooh suitcase, it wasn't sensible of me to buy a tiny Winnie The Pooh suitcase to keep his things in but he was mine and I loved him so.
I never saw him again, missed the chance to say goodbye, didn't even know he was ill. I guess it was good of Artboy to sling me an email. RIP Holiday Slamma.
It wasn't sensible to sing their names as a daily chant while I walked the length of the kitchen fetching bowls and stirring porridge but they were mine and I loved them. We all know Artboy went mad and I was left on the floor with the cat. Artboy's mother offered to help care for Holiday, to take him into her house and make sure he had all the right things so I let him go. I helped her pack his small things into his Winnie The Pooh suitcase, it wasn't sensible of me to buy a tiny Winnie The Pooh suitcase to keep his things in but he was mine and I loved him so.
I never saw him again, missed the chance to say goodbye, didn't even know he was ill. I guess it was good of Artboy to sling me an email. RIP Holiday Slamma.
In the morning
Two days ago I went to an exhibition called "Black in fashion: From mourning to night". I wandered freely around the space wishing for shawls and mantles tut tutting myself for packing only stupid floppy clothes and my red clown shoes to wear for the whole holiday.
Tonight I am laying out my own black things in careful layers from socks to scarf. People say I don't need to wear black to a funeral, just wear something clean and tidy, like a wild throwback to the days of children in school uniforms at official functions but I like the ritual. I can do without the weddings and the christenings, I rolled up my prayer mat years ago and lord knows my hair is not a covenant between me and anything but I like the ritual of grief and the standing of us all in rows.
I can't remember the order of funerals I have attended. I remember the ones I was absent from. I remember the man before Artboy that attempted suicide again and again before he finally got it right but I wasn't there in the end. I wasn't standing in my place in that row. I was sitting on the floor conjuring silken memories of golden skin and his impossible height, remembering how I used to lay on top of him and my feet would reach the middle of his shins.
I remember the strange swelling of the Estonian choir at my Grandmother's funeral, the hard ball of centuries coming right in across from that frozen ocean. I remember the old men standing guard for my Grandfather's coffin, their sword hands faltering and the one who fell to his knees in the aisle. I remember my brother staring up at me tear stained and ragged, his eyes wide with the shock of his own grief and my Mother. My Mother sitting at a table with a plate full of tiny sandwiches whispering to herself under her breath and the whole time her face hard and soft and alien.
I remember the ones who should have died but didn't. I remember taking blow after blow with the car keys firmly in my right fist. I should have let him drive. I should have held them out in sacred silence and let Artboy open the portal to my own ritual of grief. Instead I stood like a column with my purpling swelling face under the manic blows of a madman's fist until he ran screaming into the night and the car sat silent in the driveway.
Tomorrow I am an extra. A demonstration of the importance the main players hold in my glass jar. My memories of the man are small and new. He played the piano while I waltzed in his lounge room. We sat side by side on the lounge eating cakes. We shared a cup of tea and a laugh while the cricket droned and he watched and I watched his wife watching him with her glass of juice half way between the kitchen bench and her mouth, then she smiled. He was dying and watching cricket and she was smiling into her juice. She was beautiful standing in her kitchen fixing memories in her head nodding a quiet nod and mending her courage.
I'll take my place in the row tomorrow in my black pressed clothes. I'll drive the distance and sit in silence, I'll curb my rambling mind and leave my clown shoes in the cupboard. This is something that matters.
Tonight I am laying out my own black things in careful layers from socks to scarf. People say I don't need to wear black to a funeral, just wear something clean and tidy, like a wild throwback to the days of children in school uniforms at official functions but I like the ritual. I can do without the weddings and the christenings, I rolled up my prayer mat years ago and lord knows my hair is not a covenant between me and anything but I like the ritual of grief and the standing of us all in rows.
I can't remember the order of funerals I have attended. I remember the ones I was absent from. I remember the man before Artboy that attempted suicide again and again before he finally got it right but I wasn't there in the end. I wasn't standing in my place in that row. I was sitting on the floor conjuring silken memories of golden skin and his impossible height, remembering how I used to lay on top of him and my feet would reach the middle of his shins.
I remember the strange swelling of the Estonian choir at my Grandmother's funeral, the hard ball of centuries coming right in across from that frozen ocean. I remember the old men standing guard for my Grandfather's coffin, their sword hands faltering and the one who fell to his knees in the aisle. I remember my brother staring up at me tear stained and ragged, his eyes wide with the shock of his own grief and my Mother. My Mother sitting at a table with a plate full of tiny sandwiches whispering to herself under her breath and the whole time her face hard and soft and alien.
I remember the ones who should have died but didn't. I remember taking blow after blow with the car keys firmly in my right fist. I should have let him drive. I should have held them out in sacred silence and let Artboy open the portal to my own ritual of grief. Instead I stood like a column with my purpling swelling face under the manic blows of a madman's fist until he ran screaming into the night and the car sat silent in the driveway.
Tomorrow I am an extra. A demonstration of the importance the main players hold in my glass jar. My memories of the man are small and new. He played the piano while I waltzed in his lounge room. We sat side by side on the lounge eating cakes. We shared a cup of tea and a laugh while the cricket droned and he watched and I watched his wife watching him with her glass of juice half way between the kitchen bench and her mouth, then she smiled. He was dying and watching cricket and she was smiling into her juice. She was beautiful standing in her kitchen fixing memories in her head nodding a quiet nod and mending her courage.
I'll take my place in the row tomorrow in my black pressed clothes. I'll drive the distance and sit in silence, I'll curb my rambling mind and leave my clown shoes in the cupboard. This is something that matters.
I don't believe in ghosts
Artboy sent me this song after I saw him the other week. I told him I would never listen to the song, told him I have no place for imaginary hangings in frightened minds but now I'm listening to the song on repeat.
I've been waiting to feel. I'm waiting for the heart lump to pulse but so far nothing. Semiotics fail me. There's nothing. Not a drop, not a vacuous ominous space. Nothing. Foucalt, once again, you're wasting my time.
I've been waiting to feel. I'm waiting for the heart lump to pulse but so far nothing. Semiotics fail me. There's nothing. Not a drop, not a vacuous ominous space. Nothing. Foucalt, once again, you're wasting my time.
It's like a jungle sometimes
Doorways became impenetrable. All of a Newtown a locked glass corridor showing how it is done how it is done but I was prevented from walking through any doorways. Some silent alarm sounded and I walked and walked without purpose.
My memory, with a wicked flick of her hand, reminded me I had been invited to an exhibition opening and then it stopped. I walked into the bakery and bought some foul and stinking square thing and ate and walked down the backstreets turning left onto Wilson St and counting out the numbers to 191. Spencer and Madam Squeeze saw me approach and they made, in unison, a face of alarm. A pared back grimace and a raising of the chin, a tightened grip on a handbag strap and a bottle of beer. We are all herd, at once I understood, Artboy was in the building.
I talked widely, admiring the shoes and netball dreams of one, placing a hand on others as I walked past with a nod and a word. I circled and circled in that crowd but it wound around me tighter and closer as the rain came and people pushed under the one small awning. I pushed through the crowd and stepped up into the gallery thinking myself safe to listen to the art (sound art) thinking I hadn't seen Artboy in any corner of any eye for ten minutes but there he was crouched beneath a piece wearing gallery cans listening and listening. Thinking Fuck the Art I went back outside.
Retreating to the relative safety of Madam Squeeze and Spencer it was some minutes before sound refocused and I joined the conversation but then it was too late. He was there, two metres to my left talking and talking to the netball one and Petey-O. I told Spencer I have to apologise to him. I sent him an email demanding he become undetectable in life. Spencer said "Be direct. Say what you have to say and get out. Then we'll go get a drink".
Tricky situations call for subtle yet inventive solutions. I hesitated then walked towards him. I paused thinking to wait for a break in the conversation but instead I said "Oy! I have to apologise to you so go over there" pointing round the corner. He came without a word.
Around the corner sheltering under a tree I looked straight at him and apologised. His face, oh god his face. It was all of him. He is hollow yet heavy as a sinking stone. He stood empty and grieving; a man constructed around a black hole. His shoulders pointed inwards sloping towards the opposite of possibility. All the while the rain. I stood like a beacon feeling the solid layers of myself hold me upright and strong. In this terrible comparison I have light. A shadow posing as a man. In this terrible comparison I am whole and well and full of light.
He said "I like your dress". He said "Sometimes there are things that I miss but I don't know if that is right." His face, oh god his face, not a mask not a mask, I was staring at ghosts contorted into pain. I thought he was dying. He should have been dying with insides hollowed out and nothing but racing grief and the shadow shapes of life imitating life. He said "Its good to see you." So I talked and he listened and he asked about my family while the tapes ran reruns in his head.
I thought I had made him into a ghost but I see now he was a ghost all along. Time pushed back and away the night that he left, the loud snap of his mind. I did not imagine nor embellish. These long months in The Peach I have carried guilt, grief and the repeating sound it was me it was me it was me I am not good enough I failed it was me it was me but it was him.
Spencer and Madam Squeeze walked me across a park in the pouring rain and we miraculously appeared on King St. There were pubs and finally a small gathering of six in a cafe. We sat sheltered cupping warm round cups laughing and talking. Spencer breaking into Jitterbug then a finger click every time a Wham Kid walked past. I was waiting for the lightning and torrential rain to make its sudden definite move inside my head. I was waiting for the laughter to die on my lips and cold grief to claim me.
Walking home alone in silence the rain soaking upwards into my shoes and the bottoms of my jeans I was waiting to fall and be unable to stand. Two houses from The Peach striding faster than gravity, my right foot hit a wet leaf and my leg went out from under me completely. This is how I found myself two houses from home standing solid on my left leg, upright, stable and suddenly aware of my own balance and strength.
My memory, with a wicked flick of her hand, reminded me I had been invited to an exhibition opening and then it stopped. I walked into the bakery and bought some foul and stinking square thing and ate and walked down the backstreets turning left onto Wilson St and counting out the numbers to 191. Spencer and Madam Squeeze saw me approach and they made, in unison, a face of alarm. A pared back grimace and a raising of the chin, a tightened grip on a handbag strap and a bottle of beer. We are all herd, at once I understood, Artboy was in the building.
I talked widely, admiring the shoes and netball dreams of one, placing a hand on others as I walked past with a nod and a word. I circled and circled in that crowd but it wound around me tighter and closer as the rain came and people pushed under the one small awning. I pushed through the crowd and stepped up into the gallery thinking myself safe to listen to the art (sound art) thinking I hadn't seen Artboy in any corner of any eye for ten minutes but there he was crouched beneath a piece wearing gallery cans listening and listening. Thinking Fuck the Art I went back outside.
Retreating to the relative safety of Madam Squeeze and Spencer it was some minutes before sound refocused and I joined the conversation but then it was too late. He was there, two metres to my left talking and talking to the netball one and Petey-O. I told Spencer I have to apologise to him. I sent him an email demanding he become undetectable in life. Spencer said "Be direct. Say what you have to say and get out. Then we'll go get a drink".
Tricky situations call for subtle yet inventive solutions. I hesitated then walked towards him. I paused thinking to wait for a break in the conversation but instead I said "Oy! I have to apologise to you so go over there" pointing round the corner. He came without a word.
Around the corner sheltering under a tree I looked straight at him and apologised. His face, oh god his face. It was all of him. He is hollow yet heavy as a sinking stone. He stood empty and grieving; a man constructed around a black hole. His shoulders pointed inwards sloping towards the opposite of possibility. All the while the rain. I stood like a beacon feeling the solid layers of myself hold me upright and strong. In this terrible comparison I have light. A shadow posing as a man. In this terrible comparison I am whole and well and full of light.
He said "I like your dress". He said "Sometimes there are things that I miss but I don't know if that is right." His face, oh god his face, not a mask not a mask, I was staring at ghosts contorted into pain. I thought he was dying. He should have been dying with insides hollowed out and nothing but racing grief and the shadow shapes of life imitating life. He said "Its good to see you." So I talked and he listened and he asked about my family while the tapes ran reruns in his head.
I thought I had made him into a ghost but I see now he was a ghost all along. Time pushed back and away the night that he left, the loud snap of his mind. I did not imagine nor embellish. These long months in The Peach I have carried guilt, grief and the repeating sound it was me it was me it was me I am not good enough I failed it was me it was me but it was him.
Spencer and Madam Squeeze walked me across a park in the pouring rain and we miraculously appeared on King St. There were pubs and finally a small gathering of six in a cafe. We sat sheltered cupping warm round cups laughing and talking. Spencer breaking into Jitterbug then a finger click every time a Wham Kid walked past. I was waiting for the lightning and torrential rain to make its sudden definite move inside my head. I was waiting for the laughter to die on my lips and cold grief to claim me.
Walking home alone in silence the rain soaking upwards into my shoes and the bottoms of my jeans I was waiting to fall and be unable to stand. Two houses from The Peach striding faster than gravity, my right foot hit a wet leaf and my leg went out from under me completely. This is how I found myself two houses from home standing solid on my left leg, upright, stable and suddenly aware of my own balance and strength.
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