This morning the whole situation is starting to remind me of that episode of Dr Who where the Doctor convinces Ace she is half wolf or cat or something in order for them to get back from Crazy Planet 4 Million but the Doctor knows the whole time that Ace will suffer from this action.
On second thoughts it might be less like that and more like he's just letting me do this part of the deal because he thinks I'm better at it, or less afraid or something, than him. And I'm just not handling the stress well. Last night I smoked a cigarette in the shower. News flash - I quit smoking last year, so about five months ago now. Oh yeah, the deal.
So here's a super quick and confusing catch- up. Grizelda and I moved out to Summer Hill when Mr Oddweird, the landlord of The Peach, defaulted on the mortgage. We have a part-time housemate here in Summer Hill at Eggers, the new house, and I don't like it. The house is pretty but part-time housemates confuse my vibe. Cut jump. Grizelda has a boyfriend. She wants to move in with him when our arrangement with part-time housemate ends this October. Cut jump. I ring my mum and complain, violently and with great passion, about being swayed by the winds of housemates. Cut jump Mother offers me some assistance to buy a place of my own. Cut jump. Mr X wants in on the deal so we set about buying a place together. As friends.
Single People Alone Together.
Its so crazy it just might work.
Skip forward again to the present moment. As in this very exact moment in right now time. Grizelda's cat Oscar is asleep on the end of my bed, a bus pings and rumbles its way past my window. My mobile telephone lays flat and dormant by my pajama-clad legs. This is fucked. How many times does a person -in-the-middle-of-negotiations-to-buy-a-property have to phone the real estate agent to actually get through to them? HOW MANY?
Showing posts with label Smoke. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Smoke. Show all posts
This way comes
It is possible that I am panicking but I am not sure what I am panicking about. I was at a venue tonight watching some people do their thing and for no reason at all started panicking. Since then I have done about twelve stupid things, some regrettable and some forgettable like washing my hair and deciding to go to bed with the towel wrapped around my head instead doing something about drying my hair.
While I think about my hair wrapped in a towel I am beginning to narrow down the source of the panic to four separate moments in my day. They were small things, a handful or two of words, the opening of an envelope and something ill defined like false memories or faded photographs of strangers.
Its been a while since I have had to swallow against rising panic. It is unwelcome. I am saying to myself I will sleep well and wake in the morning with no trace of this unwelcome thing. I will do what I need to do and it will be grand like pianos or glass. I'm thinking about cigarettes and small flat orange cardboard boxes, stiff and lined with black paper.
Superman asked me today what kind of shop I would have if I had a shop and I answered the same old predictable answer and told him of my well imagined shop. I could have handed him a worn smooth memory of floor plans, stock lists and the smell of it but now I want to change my answer. My shop will be a memory shop, the kind where you can take all of your small moments from shelves and examine them one at a time. You can sit on the floor and reconstruct yourself or reconfigure things until they are right all the for the low price of nothing.
While I think about my hair wrapped in a towel I am beginning to narrow down the source of the panic to four separate moments in my day. They were small things, a handful or two of words, the opening of an envelope and something ill defined like false memories or faded photographs of strangers.
Its been a while since I have had to swallow against rising panic. It is unwelcome. I am saying to myself I will sleep well and wake in the morning with no trace of this unwelcome thing. I will do what I need to do and it will be grand like pianos or glass. I'm thinking about cigarettes and small flat orange cardboard boxes, stiff and lined with black paper.
Superman asked me today what kind of shop I would have if I had a shop and I answered the same old predictable answer and told him of my well imagined shop. I could have handed him a worn smooth memory of floor plans, stock lists and the smell of it but now I want to change my answer. My shop will be a memory shop, the kind where you can take all of your small moments from shelves and examine them one at a time. You can sit on the floor and reconstruct yourself or reconfigure things until they are right all the for the low price of nothing.
Retardedly exhausted
I'm sketching in hours with cigarettes and phone calls thinking about Gemma on her birthday and wishing I could pop in for a cup of tea with a surprise cake in a white box but Melbourne is nowhere near Sydney, I think this might be a design flaw.
I'm waiting for words or the space that words arrive in. Daily is difficult when you need to make room for words. I was glad this weekend for Superman's company with his easy way of letting me be unfiltered, tired and badly dressed. I was glad last night when Spencer and Madam Squeeze came to visit. We stuffed ourselves with Turkish food and I demonstrated my newly perfected Pirate Chicken Dance and my ability to play a G major scale slowly but just the way Superman taught me to on guitar.
Spencer sometimes talks about the geography of sound but now I'm thinking about the geography of self. We all sat in The Peach stuffing ourselves with Turkish food and listening to records like they were just invented. Superman put on God Gave Rock'n'Roll To You and it was ridiculous but we all knew the words. I sat on the floor with pide half way to my face singing God gave rock'n'roll to you, put it in the soul of everyone. We were all singing and it was good and ridiculous and if scribes were taking notes they would have called it cartography.
I'm retardedly exhausted and happy in a flopsy kind of way. I had a good weekend, those are small words, the answer to a Monday question. They should be bigger or interstellar or revealed in ancient bones because its a way of making maps when you have a good weekend.
I'm waiting for words or the space that words arrive in. Daily is difficult when you need to make room for words. I was glad this weekend for Superman's company with his easy way of letting me be unfiltered, tired and badly dressed. I was glad last night when Spencer and Madam Squeeze came to visit. We stuffed ourselves with Turkish food and I demonstrated my newly perfected Pirate Chicken Dance and my ability to play a G major scale slowly but just the way Superman taught me to on guitar.
Spencer sometimes talks about the geography of sound but now I'm thinking about the geography of self. We all sat in The Peach stuffing ourselves with Turkish food and listening to records like they were just invented. Superman put on God Gave Rock'n'Roll To You and it was ridiculous but we all knew the words. I sat on the floor with pide half way to my face singing God gave rock'n'roll to you, put it in the soul of everyone. We were all singing and it was good and ridiculous and if scribes were taking notes they would have called it cartography.
I'm retardedly exhausted and happy in a flopsy kind of way. I had a good weekend, those are small words, the answer to a Monday question. They should be bigger or interstellar or revealed in ancient bones because its a way of making maps when you have a good weekend.
Spanish vs Mexican tunnels
I have socks. This has been a public service announcement. My new aim is to be the tallest man in the world, I start training on Monday. I am quite certain that I can achieve my new goal.
I was sitting on my bed smoking cigarettes, idly clicking through photographs of Mr X when it occurred to me that I must, with great haste, become someone else.
I was sitting on my bed smoking cigarettes, idly clicking through photographs of Mr X when it occurred to me that I must, with great haste, become someone else.
Emu Plains and the mystery of missing Superman
This is terrible. I have been awake for about an hour, I am reporting to you from Superman's house. Its nearly ten am on Saturday morning and Superman is nowhere to be found. He got up in the middle of the night and did not return. I was awake enough to know that someone was making the sound of footsteps on a mattress then I rolled over and made attempt number five hundred and twelve to become comfortable.
It took me some time to work up the courage to leave the blankets and find the toilet. I wasn't sure just how cold this floor was going to feel under my feet. I knew where the toilet was so I set about navigating there. I'm staying in a room that opens directly off the kitchen, odd place for a bedroom. The kitchen here at Emu is almost supernaturally clean, in fact the whole house, hang on, I'm going to go and run my fingers along some furniture. No dust! The insides of the kitchen cupboards are organised with military precision, if tupperware ladies were the military, that would explain quite a few things I think.
I spent half an hour searching for coffee this morning. I found tea and green tea which is nice but its not fucking coffee. I have no idea where the nearest cafe would be. I had a look out the front and am sorry to report that I am surrounded, houses, cars, front lawns, children riding bikes with sunshine on their fucking shoulders, not one of these things produces coffee.
My next mission is to investigate as to whether I will be able to leave the house and then let myself back in. There is no sign of Superman's keys, his car is here but not his keys, his stuff is all here, in fact I am looking at this wallet. I might try and sneak out into the backyard for a cigarette.
There's a door that opens directly from the bedroom to the backyard. There is no grass in the backyard, its a paved paradise with three separate seating areas, a swimming pool and a bbq all surrounded by immaculate tropical gardens. I found the macadamia tree but not having a hammer nor a pocket oven ate no macadamia nuts. A cat named Casserole bailed me up by the clothes line where I was sucking down a cigarette in the sunlight. The sun always shines stronger out at Emu.
There are three doors from the backyard into the house, the cat showed me which one was unlocked and contained both cat bowl and cat food. I fed the cat but he did not produce any coffee. There are six doors from the room with the kitchen in it. I went through all six but still did not find any coffee. There are a series of closed doors at the end of a hallway but I'm not game to go through them, the cat looked at me wisely when I informed him of my decision. It is possible that Superman is behind one of the doors but that's only a possibility.
I'm considering going next door with a mug and begging for a spoonful of instant coffee. I'm considering changing out of my pyjamas and Superman's old man slippers but I'm not sure that would make it any more likely for the unknown neighbour to produce a spoonful of coffee. I tried phoning Rita for advice on where to look for coffee. Rita did not answer the phone. I was pretty sure that Ronita has them up at the crack of dawn each day but just maybe she's old enough to have figured out Saturdays.
I'm thinking about going home. This here is a no good situation. There is no fucking coffee in here, the toliet wall does not reach all the way to the ceiling and I have no idea where to look for a clean towel just in case I wanted to shower. The food is unidentifiable in its military containers. I'm cold, hungry, my back hurts from the strange bed and Superman is nowhere to be found. Here are my coordinates, organise a sky hook.
It took me some time to work up the courage to leave the blankets and find the toilet. I wasn't sure just how cold this floor was going to feel under my feet. I knew where the toilet was so I set about navigating there. I'm staying in a room that opens directly off the kitchen, odd place for a bedroom. The kitchen here at Emu is almost supernaturally clean, in fact the whole house, hang on, I'm going to go and run my fingers along some furniture. No dust! The insides of the kitchen cupboards are organised with military precision, if tupperware ladies were the military, that would explain quite a few things I think.
I spent half an hour searching for coffee this morning. I found tea and green tea which is nice but its not fucking coffee. I have no idea where the nearest cafe would be. I had a look out the front and am sorry to report that I am surrounded, houses, cars, front lawns, children riding bikes with sunshine on their fucking shoulders, not one of these things produces coffee.
My next mission is to investigate as to whether I will be able to leave the house and then let myself back in. There is no sign of Superman's keys, his car is here but not his keys, his stuff is all here, in fact I am looking at this wallet. I might try and sneak out into the backyard for a cigarette.
There's a door that opens directly from the bedroom to the backyard. There is no grass in the backyard, its a paved paradise with three separate seating areas, a swimming pool and a bbq all surrounded by immaculate tropical gardens. I found the macadamia tree but not having a hammer nor a pocket oven ate no macadamia nuts. A cat named Casserole bailed me up by the clothes line where I was sucking down a cigarette in the sunlight. The sun always shines stronger out at Emu.
There are three doors from the backyard into the house, the cat showed me which one was unlocked and contained both cat bowl and cat food. I fed the cat but he did not produce any coffee. There are six doors from the room with the kitchen in it. I went through all six but still did not find any coffee. There are a series of closed doors at the end of a hallway but I'm not game to go through them, the cat looked at me wisely when I informed him of my decision. It is possible that Superman is behind one of the doors but that's only a possibility.
I'm considering going next door with a mug and begging for a spoonful of instant coffee. I'm considering changing out of my pyjamas and Superman's old man slippers but I'm not sure that would make it any more likely for the unknown neighbour to produce a spoonful of coffee. I tried phoning Rita for advice on where to look for coffee. Rita did not answer the phone. I was pretty sure that Ronita has them up at the crack of dawn each day but just maybe she's old enough to have figured out Saturdays.
I'm thinking about going home. This here is a no good situation. There is no fucking coffee in here, the toliet wall does not reach all the way to the ceiling and I have no idea where to look for a clean towel just in case I wanted to shower. The food is unidentifiable in its military containers. I'm cold, hungry, my back hurts from the strange bed and Superman is nowhere to be found. Here are my coordinates, organise a sky hook.
I'm sick of myself when I look at you
I'll fill my shoes with powdered glass, that's all part of the deal. I'll walk you bloody as though I was always a typewriter. Spencer gave me Spencer P Jones on a flat disc with track listing handwritten on a white paper sleeve. He gave me a reason to glance sideways at the glass panel on the upstairs French doors in the cafe on Glebe Point Rd. I glanced at the glass panel fighting the urge to lurch my head through it. It wasn't cause Spencer's landed some astonishing people to record a spot or two on his new album.
Jagged teeth are tearing at my tongue, this is all part of my aphasia program, verb, transition. Tug Dumbly stood backlit like a monument but the microphone was shithouse and I lost inflections through electricity and trees. He was standing there holding his opaque decades like a frame but I'll sit through it. I'll sit through his time-frozen-yesterday's-decade Sydney vision humour to feel the molecular necessity of his breathing Yahweh poem and witness the tipping point of his verb, transition. He's a man on the edge of brilliance, if he dares.
I was sitting in the cafe fighting the urge to crash my head through the glass panel on a French door sucking down cigarettes and cradling coffee. Spencer keeps opening his mouth and the words are falling out. His words, other's words, its the way he arranges them, a stone fountain spitting out the absurd, the profound and the necessary. He's the most like a typewriter out of any man I know. Spencer said something and I was struck like a bell by my own lack of genius. I leaned back in my cafe chair blowing out cigarette smoke and cradling coffee, fighting the urge to lurch my head through the glass panel and pushing down the wordstorm.
I've wrapped myself in scarves and all the draping things I can find. I'm walking the hallway and eating mandarins. I'm washing dishes and changing the order of words in my head. I'm making piles of dirty clothes, talking at the cat, I'm putting on another pair of socks. I'm wondering at the order of things in my cupboards and counting newspapers in a pile. I'm cooking and eating eggs and toast, I'm putting pieces of broken glass in the bin. I'm wandering this house like a museum and calling it busy but what I'm really doing is investigating to see if I'm in a state of grace.
Jagged teeth are tearing at my tongue, this is all part of my aphasia program, verb, transition. Tug Dumbly stood backlit like a monument but the microphone was shithouse and I lost inflections through electricity and trees. He was standing there holding his opaque decades like a frame but I'll sit through it. I'll sit through his time-frozen-yesterday's-decade Sydney vision humour to feel the molecular necessity of his breathing Yahweh poem and witness the tipping point of his verb, transition. He's a man on the edge of brilliance, if he dares.
I was sitting in the cafe fighting the urge to crash my head through the glass panel on a French door sucking down cigarettes and cradling coffee. Spencer keeps opening his mouth and the words are falling out. His words, other's words, its the way he arranges them, a stone fountain spitting out the absurd, the profound and the necessary. He's the most like a typewriter out of any man I know. Spencer said something and I was struck like a bell by my own lack of genius. I leaned back in my cafe chair blowing out cigarette smoke and cradling coffee, fighting the urge to lurch my head through the glass panel and pushing down the wordstorm.
I've wrapped myself in scarves and all the draping things I can find. I'm walking the hallway and eating mandarins. I'm washing dishes and changing the order of words in my head. I'm making piles of dirty clothes, talking at the cat, I'm putting on another pair of socks. I'm wondering at the order of things in my cupboards and counting newspapers in a pile. I'm cooking and eating eggs and toast, I'm putting pieces of broken glass in the bin. I'm wandering this house like a museum and calling it busy but what I'm really doing is investigating to see if I'm in a state of grace.
Exaltation is not the word I'm looking for but I sure like the sound of it
I'm fairly certain that Keith Richards lives inside his guitar. Music is always there, he's just pointing out the obvious with particular movements of his hands like a child holding up an arm to a sky and a rainbow.
Superman caught me in the act of playing Mouse Trap by the fire. I was smoking cigarettes, eating Dale Biscuits and listening to The Rolling Stones bent as Atlas over the old board game trying my hardest to assemble the bright plastic pieces into something but there's nothing more confusing than a box full of bathtubs, ball bearings, plastic diving men and cardboard cheese.
I wanted to wash off my my red lipstick before we left for the cinema cause I've come to believe its the lipstick of doom but I didn't have time to explain with Superman standing in the doorway asking "Of all the things on our list of things we have to do before going is that really a priority?". I guess not, lipstick of doom is not a priority when the doom is imagined. I offered to drive in my shitbox of a car and I wasn't surprised when Superman said no, what was surprising was the song playing on the stereo in Superman's car. I liked it, I said that sounds happy but then the vocals started and I punched Superman right in the arm even though he was driving, such was the level of my surprise.
Superman told me he was making me a surprise but I wasn't expecting that, he recorded the song that we wrote and you know what, it sounds good. At the cinema Superman put massive headphones on me so I could listen to the song, I had a grand old time walking and dancing around right through the foyer and the cinema until I became confused by ads for stupid things and had to take the headphones off. Shine A Light was a privileged shifting of context and perspective. Its not every day you get to be on stage feeling every small electric zap of communication shooting between people who've been living inside each other's songs for so long that I don't remember myself without their music. The Rolling Stones don't sound how you think they sound.
The fire ate time again and nobody went to sleep before 4am. I slept fitfully, acutely aware in each waking state that everyone else was deep in slumber, Superman and the cat curling around each other like the world was a cardboard box. There were crepes, bananas, dizzy spells and supermarkets in the grey morning. I walked slowly in a dream shuffle pushing back spinning black balls of illness trying to infiltrate my equilibrium while the sky sat squat and monolithic, even in Newtown.
The rest of the day passed quietly, the Dr Who television marathon painting atmosphere while I paced and sat and stared and pushed my writing forwards one word at a time. Superman read away at his own work until Grizelda produced food for us all. Unfortunately we went and saw the Sex and The City movie, everyone cried, except me. I was furious and someone let the beast out of its memory box. Nothing ever turns out the way I expect it to. A shiny movie rammed with shoes and a girl who wears pearls with pyjamas is not supposed to hook down the sky and drape it over your head but that's exactly what it did, for a short while.
Artboy wants to meet me for coffee and I haven't been talking about it to anyone, except Ron, in a short and misguided online chat. The problem with Superman is that he listens, responds and generally makes more sense out of things than three of me strapped together holding out books of science. I am more used to walking around banging into things until I find my own way but don't misunderstand me, I'm not complaining about the lack of bumps on my head. A nice cup of tea, a little sit down, a chauffeured trip for tobacco later and I was lying on the lounge thinking this is alright.
Superman turned off the lights, lit a candle, put Sigur Ros on the stereo at top volume then laid himself down on the floor. I was the tiniest bit skeptical at first, needing as I did to reassemble things into shapes that made sense but nothing turns out the way I expect it to. Don't tell me sound can't be pixels cause I watched them last night through the pink of my eyelids stacking one on top of another in wave forms and human shapes and the good blue bricks of focus until everything was back where its supposed to be. I need to thank Superman for popping into my life and rearranging things, I'm not sure how but one of these days I'll manage it.
Superman caught me in the act of playing Mouse Trap by the fire. I was smoking cigarettes, eating Dale Biscuits and listening to The Rolling Stones bent as Atlas over the old board game trying my hardest to assemble the bright plastic pieces into something but there's nothing more confusing than a box full of bathtubs, ball bearings, plastic diving men and cardboard cheese.
I wanted to wash off my my red lipstick before we left for the cinema cause I've come to believe its the lipstick of doom but I didn't have time to explain with Superman standing in the doorway asking "Of all the things on our list of things we have to do before going is that really a priority?". I guess not, lipstick of doom is not a priority when the doom is imagined. I offered to drive in my shitbox of a car and I wasn't surprised when Superman said no, what was surprising was the song playing on the stereo in Superman's car. I liked it, I said that sounds happy but then the vocals started and I punched Superman right in the arm even though he was driving, such was the level of my surprise.
Superman told me he was making me a surprise but I wasn't expecting that, he recorded the song that we wrote and you know what, it sounds good. At the cinema Superman put massive headphones on me so I could listen to the song, I had a grand old time walking and dancing around right through the foyer and the cinema until I became confused by ads for stupid things and had to take the headphones off. Shine A Light was a privileged shifting of context and perspective. Its not every day you get to be on stage feeling every small electric zap of communication shooting between people who've been living inside each other's songs for so long that I don't remember myself without their music. The Rolling Stones don't sound how you think they sound.
The fire ate time again and nobody went to sleep before 4am. I slept fitfully, acutely aware in each waking state that everyone else was deep in slumber, Superman and the cat curling around each other like the world was a cardboard box. There were crepes, bananas, dizzy spells and supermarkets in the grey morning. I walked slowly in a dream shuffle pushing back spinning black balls of illness trying to infiltrate my equilibrium while the sky sat squat and monolithic, even in Newtown.
The rest of the day passed quietly, the Dr Who television marathon painting atmosphere while I paced and sat and stared and pushed my writing forwards one word at a time. Superman read away at his own work until Grizelda produced food for us all. Unfortunately we went and saw the Sex and The City movie, everyone cried, except me. I was furious and someone let the beast out of its memory box. Nothing ever turns out the way I expect it to. A shiny movie rammed with shoes and a girl who wears pearls with pyjamas is not supposed to hook down the sky and drape it over your head but that's exactly what it did, for a short while.
Artboy wants to meet me for coffee and I haven't been talking about it to anyone, except Ron, in a short and misguided online chat. The problem with Superman is that he listens, responds and generally makes more sense out of things than three of me strapped together holding out books of science. I am more used to walking around banging into things until I find my own way but don't misunderstand me, I'm not complaining about the lack of bumps on my head. A nice cup of tea, a little sit down, a chauffeured trip for tobacco later and I was lying on the lounge thinking this is alright.
Superman turned off the lights, lit a candle, put Sigur Ros on the stereo at top volume then laid himself down on the floor. I was the tiniest bit skeptical at first, needing as I did to reassemble things into shapes that made sense but nothing turns out the way I expect it to. Don't tell me sound can't be pixels cause I watched them last night through the pink of my eyelids stacking one on top of another in wave forms and human shapes and the good blue bricks of focus until everything was back where its supposed to be. I need to thank Superman for popping into my life and rearranging things, I'm not sure how but one of these days I'll manage it.
I'll be drinking til we meet again
I'm not going to walk you through this. The inbox inside my telephone is empty, that's the only thing that's empty. The bathtub is full of DVD's there are office chairs on wheels in my kitchen, the table is piled higher than the top of my head with books. I tried and failed to access my kettle and there is nowhere to have a little sit down. I am sharing my bed with two boxes, one basket, seven books and a plate with the corners of toast, I ate the rest of that toast on Friday morning.
I still don't know what happened really. I know that it definitely started with condiments and now everything is upside down or in the wrong room, this is a not a metaphor. The cat is confused and somebody put their sneakers in the pantry. Last week I decided I would write cover versions of poems in short story form. I am sick of the musicians and their freedom, Grizelda made herself pasta bake for dinner and The Spatula ate cereal for breakfast every morning. This week I decided to sit sensibly in my warm jumper and write my essay and The Peachettes systematically dismantled my carefully assembled still life.
Superman canceled cause he's sick and I was disproportionately upset, somebody has filled the hallway with chests of drawers. I was on my way home from an emergency trip to Ikea, I was pushing a trolley with my impulse purchase white steel locker, two lampshades and one scented candle. I was trying not to vomit a one dollar hotdog and lingonberry soda in the carpark. I was disproportionately upset and wishing it was possible to wind back two days and stand in a house without a wardrobe in the middle of the bathroom.
My brother arrived and he smirked at the chaos, said he definitely did not want to be helping with this shit so we walked to a cafe and waited for Boli. Boli told me he wondered what in the hell I was thinking when I first told him I was moving into a sharehouse in the Inner West. He looked at me and he was thinking about the horizon. There are pillows in the kitchen sink.
The Hoptoun, geological anomaly, guaranteed to be at least thirty degrees in there, no matter how cold it is outside. Fault lines and lava. Spencer took to the stage and three songs in I thought I have had enough of this shit. They've got everything we ever needed, songs, presence, skills, magic, they even have the fucking trousers.
I'll tell you about my bias. I expect more from my friends, I expect rooms to explode and audiences set on fire or I cringe and that is why I am sick of this shit. Gig after gig after gig Spencer's band, The Holy Soul, cancel sentences in my brain. They shake out reason and my arm rises unconsciously with the heel of my hand pressed out in reverent salute while the crowd surges around me calling for more. I'm sick of this shit where Spencer packs venues and rolls light and the hard edge of rock right through the middle of every fucking person there then wakes up on Monday morning and goes to his shit job.
So I'm standing on the footpath outside The Hopetoun sucking down cigarettes and pink lemondae with Boli and my brother. Up walks Artboy and fuck me if this day just didn't get worse. This is how it used to be me, my brother, Boli and Artboy at Spencer's gig but that was before The Holy Soul were good and Spencer was just trying on his rock face to see how it fit, that was in The Swamp Bar at uni, that was before I lived in a house with filing cabinets and oil paintings on the front verandah.
Something's shaken loose and I'm rattle walking in circles again. My essay seems fucked beyond redemption, fail this and I have to pay back the grant money. My home has vanished and I'm living in that junkyard from The Labyrinth, Artboy has pulled off my permanent bandages and I'm a walking, shaking, heartbeat away from panic. I sent Artboy a text message as I watched him cross the road and walk down some dark street. I was pressed against the wall of The Hopetoun standing next to Madam Squeeze, surrounded by friends, flanked by friends, I was standing in the middle of my very own Roman Turtle formation but the words still came out and now the inbox in my telephone is empty and there's six mugs in my sock drawer.
I still don't know what happened really. I know that it definitely started with condiments and now everything is upside down or in the wrong room, this is a not a metaphor. The cat is confused and somebody put their sneakers in the pantry. Last week I decided I would write cover versions of poems in short story form. I am sick of the musicians and their freedom, Grizelda made herself pasta bake for dinner and The Spatula ate cereal for breakfast every morning. This week I decided to sit sensibly in my warm jumper and write my essay and The Peachettes systematically dismantled my carefully assembled still life.
Superman canceled cause he's sick and I was disproportionately upset, somebody has filled the hallway with chests of drawers. I was on my way home from an emergency trip to Ikea, I was pushing a trolley with my impulse purchase white steel locker, two lampshades and one scented candle. I was trying not to vomit a one dollar hotdog and lingonberry soda in the carpark. I was disproportionately upset and wishing it was possible to wind back two days and stand in a house without a wardrobe in the middle of the bathroom.
My brother arrived and he smirked at the chaos, said he definitely did not want to be helping with this shit so we walked to a cafe and waited for Boli. Boli told me he wondered what in the hell I was thinking when I first told him I was moving into a sharehouse in the Inner West. He looked at me and he was thinking about the horizon. There are pillows in the kitchen sink.
The Hoptoun, geological anomaly, guaranteed to be at least thirty degrees in there, no matter how cold it is outside. Fault lines and lava. Spencer took to the stage and three songs in I thought I have had enough of this shit. They've got everything we ever needed, songs, presence, skills, magic, they even have the fucking trousers.
I'll tell you about my bias. I expect more from my friends, I expect rooms to explode and audiences set on fire or I cringe and that is why I am sick of this shit. Gig after gig after gig Spencer's band, The Holy Soul, cancel sentences in my brain. They shake out reason and my arm rises unconsciously with the heel of my hand pressed out in reverent salute while the crowd surges around me calling for more. I'm sick of this shit where Spencer packs venues and rolls light and the hard edge of rock right through the middle of every fucking person there then wakes up on Monday morning and goes to his shit job.
So I'm standing on the footpath outside The Hopetoun sucking down cigarettes and pink lemondae with Boli and my brother. Up walks Artboy and fuck me if this day just didn't get worse. This is how it used to be me, my brother, Boli and Artboy at Spencer's gig but that was before The Holy Soul were good and Spencer was just trying on his rock face to see how it fit, that was in The Swamp Bar at uni, that was before I lived in a house with filing cabinets and oil paintings on the front verandah.
Something's shaken loose and I'm rattle walking in circles again. My essay seems fucked beyond redemption, fail this and I have to pay back the grant money. My home has vanished and I'm living in that junkyard from The Labyrinth, Artboy has pulled off my permanent bandages and I'm a walking, shaking, heartbeat away from panic. I sent Artboy a text message as I watched him cross the road and walk down some dark street. I was pressed against the wall of The Hopetoun standing next to Madam Squeeze, surrounded by friends, flanked by friends, I was standing in the middle of my very own Roman Turtle formation but the words still came out and now the inbox in my telephone is empty and there's six mugs in my sock drawer.
Let my own lack of a voice be heard and thank you for making pancakes
It wasn't because of the swirling cold trailing across first one part of me and then another. That's not something I need to say, its a leitmotif, the unsanctioned spontaneous incidental music to thought. I committed the small crime of assuming that Superman would be late so I crawled out of the shower at ten past six draped in towels but there he was ensconced in an armchair in the rear of The Peach.
How now can I turn and focus on what must be done? This waking day shrinks and expands and Superman has the distinct advantage of transporting himself across Sydney to a different space, one without film echoes and half finished crossword puzzles. You know, you really shouldn't smoke in bed but in this house it is a a sanctuary from cold and the others shrugging off art like an unwanted coat.
After pancakes and the communal raft of existence over coffee Superman decided a film was necessary so we moved speakers and newspapers and rolled a joint. I wrapped myself in something warm, fending off the trailing cold and welcoming the artificial haze. I lazed and smoked and huddled on this bed and Superman pressed play. Some films walk across moments using your footprints as its own.
Grizelda had dropped us near the restaurant in Paddington and we crossed a road and walked a block and the cold trailed across first one part of me then another. The restaurant, housed in a boutique hotel, had a small but grand entrance. The tables were low and the chairs had arms. I dropped the cushion from my chair then moved to a neighbouring table. We calculated, carefully, the cost of things and just how much we could consume, for free. This is the dinner competition dinner. This is Superman kindly acting out a small part in my long list of life as experiment. The two cheapest mains were to our liking and left, enough, just enough for a bottle of wine. The small list of wine we could afford fell into two categories, wine we could pronounce and wine we could not pronounce. It is not difficult to discern which wine we ordered.
Conversation, as it is with Superman, was often easy, sometimes light but always alive. We argued, vigorously, from our different corners about the possibility of a government sanctioned sound effect to be played immediately after being hit in the face with a pie and idea of an object possessing a subtle height. The food was an elevated level of existence standing in clear contrast to the weeks where I forage in the pantry for a dry biscuit seeking only the absence of hunger.
The wait staff could have frightened me, but they didn't. Superman had to test the wine and I think his artful draping of a scarf helped him in this matter but I'm not sure. When the almost frightening staff were looking away we swapped plates and the pastry from the lamb shank pie scattered clear to the horizon. The other plate, the one without pastry was a kind of chicken heaven, the kind a chicken would never dream about.
The wine continued and the hired piano player drifted away, replaced by a woman with light fingers. Her two small children stood by the piano and sang in their floral dresses, it could have been anytime but a glow appeared where none had been. The wine continued and the edges of my mouth went pleasantly numb. The wine continued then we walked the length of the wallpapered hall. Superman disappearing briefly behind a door marked "the dungeon". The potential for waking inside Fawlty Towers was never far away.
We walked down Oxford St in a bid for coffee while the cold trailed across first one part of me then another. We were too far from cafes and the late night bookshops so we climbed into a cab and ordered Newtown where I have already drawn my shapes and I can pull towards me coffee at will.
Walking home to The Peach I thrust my hands in my pockets, my red leather gloves an ineffective shield, my red leather shoes becoming invisible as the cold trailed across first one part of me then another. I poured rum for no wine could be found. Superman transformed into a troubadour, relating things only in song. Cat food isn't ordinarily laced with Valium.
This morning's pancakes have vanished and I wish only for the absence of hunger. I must turn now to the things that must be done, pushing away the echoes of film and ignoring the loss of my footprints. The cold trails across first one part of me, then another. This is where I turn the heater on.
How now can I turn and focus on what must be done? This waking day shrinks and expands and Superman has the distinct advantage of transporting himself across Sydney to a different space, one without film echoes and half finished crossword puzzles. You know, you really shouldn't smoke in bed but in this house it is a a sanctuary from cold and the others shrugging off art like an unwanted coat.
After pancakes and the communal raft of existence over coffee Superman decided a film was necessary so we moved speakers and newspapers and rolled a joint. I wrapped myself in something warm, fending off the trailing cold and welcoming the artificial haze. I lazed and smoked and huddled on this bed and Superman pressed play. Some films walk across moments using your footprints as its own.
Grizelda had dropped us near the restaurant in Paddington and we crossed a road and walked a block and the cold trailed across first one part of me then another. The restaurant, housed in a boutique hotel, had a small but grand entrance. The tables were low and the chairs had arms. I dropped the cushion from my chair then moved to a neighbouring table. We calculated, carefully, the cost of things and just how much we could consume, for free. This is the dinner competition dinner. This is Superman kindly acting out a small part in my long list of life as experiment. The two cheapest mains were to our liking and left, enough, just enough for a bottle of wine. The small list of wine we could afford fell into two categories, wine we could pronounce and wine we could not pronounce. It is not difficult to discern which wine we ordered.
Conversation, as it is with Superman, was often easy, sometimes light but always alive. We argued, vigorously, from our different corners about the possibility of a government sanctioned sound effect to be played immediately after being hit in the face with a pie and idea of an object possessing a subtle height. The food was an elevated level of existence standing in clear contrast to the weeks where I forage in the pantry for a dry biscuit seeking only the absence of hunger.
The wait staff could have frightened me, but they didn't. Superman had to test the wine and I think his artful draping of a scarf helped him in this matter but I'm not sure. When the almost frightening staff were looking away we swapped plates and the pastry from the lamb shank pie scattered clear to the horizon. The other plate, the one without pastry was a kind of chicken heaven, the kind a chicken would never dream about.
The wine continued and the hired piano player drifted away, replaced by a woman with light fingers. Her two small children stood by the piano and sang in their floral dresses, it could have been anytime but a glow appeared where none had been. The wine continued and the edges of my mouth went pleasantly numb. The wine continued then we walked the length of the wallpapered hall. Superman disappearing briefly behind a door marked "the dungeon". The potential for waking inside Fawlty Towers was never far away.
We walked down Oxford St in a bid for coffee while the cold trailed across first one part of me then another. We were too far from cafes and the late night bookshops so we climbed into a cab and ordered Newtown where I have already drawn my shapes and I can pull towards me coffee at will.
Walking home to The Peach I thrust my hands in my pockets, my red leather gloves an ineffective shield, my red leather shoes becoming invisible as the cold trailed across first one part of me then another. I poured rum for no wine could be found. Superman transformed into a troubadour, relating things only in song. Cat food isn't ordinarily laced with Valium.
This morning's pancakes have vanished and I wish only for the absence of hunger. I must turn now to the things that must be done, pushing away the echoes of film and ignoring the loss of my footprints. The cold trails across first one part of me, then another. This is where I turn the heater on.
Like getting beaten over the head with a rainbow
That's how it went.
Then we watched Indian cricket and WWF with the volume down so we could play Mondo Exotica, fifties lounge tunes and tiki tales.
Good lord.
Thankfully there are cigarettes.
Then we watched Indian cricket and WWF with the volume down so we could play Mondo Exotica, fifties lounge tunes and tiki tales.
Good lord.
Thankfully there are cigarettes.
Apposite
Today today today I hit my head and rubbed engine oil in my right eye. It was an accident and I sat in the gutter with my things strewn across the road wishing for urgent rescue, none was to be had. When I finally arrived at the office, battered and with one crazed red eye I stared momentarily at the spinning lady of doom.
I can make her stop and spin the other way, at will. Superman says this is because my left and right brain functions are balanced. I am developing a different theory. All day I argued with myself out loud. I did not realise this until Robert mentioned it as I was leaving, he found it amusing, I find it alarming.
What if I am not in balance with myself but in fact locked in an eternal battle of left vs right. What if this is the reason that I can neither fall off the edge nor climb to the top. I am smashing things then tallying the cost and sweeping the floor. I am piling things neatly then setting them on fire while I call the fire brigade.
Last night in Sappho's cafe I sat at a round sandstone table, like an upturned cotton reel, with Spencer, Madam Squeeze and Superman. We were listening to poets. They were casting out words and I was flailing with my nets and traps. There were ten glasses, two wine glasses, one tall and faceted bottle, one sugar cannister round like a column and five small and flat, white ceramic saucers.
While the poets spoke low into the microphone I imagined I was standing. I imagined I was standing and hurling those glass things against the sandstone table with merry arms and infernal strength. I imagined a night illuminated by flying shards and the stunned arc of people watching in awe as the fragments froze in midair. What beautiful things we make.
What I was actually doing was sitting on my white plastic stool, my left leg folded over my right, my knee pointed towards Superman and his listening face smoking a cigarette over my small red notebook listing the number of glasses and saucers and tea spoons. My left foot was pressed against the column of the sandstone table.
I can make her stop and spin the other way, at will. Superman says this is because my left and right brain functions are balanced. I am developing a different theory. All day I argued with myself out loud. I did not realise this until Robert mentioned it as I was leaving, he found it amusing, I find it alarming.
What if I am not in balance with myself but in fact locked in an eternal battle of left vs right. What if this is the reason that I can neither fall off the edge nor climb to the top. I am smashing things then tallying the cost and sweeping the floor. I am piling things neatly then setting them on fire while I call the fire brigade.
Last night in Sappho's cafe I sat at a round sandstone table, like an upturned cotton reel, with Spencer, Madam Squeeze and Superman. We were listening to poets. They were casting out words and I was flailing with my nets and traps. There were ten glasses, two wine glasses, one tall and faceted bottle, one sugar cannister round like a column and five small and flat, white ceramic saucers.
While the poets spoke low into the microphone I imagined I was standing. I imagined I was standing and hurling those glass things against the sandstone table with merry arms and infernal strength. I imagined a night illuminated by flying shards and the stunned arc of people watching in awe as the fragments froze in midair. What beautiful things we make.
What I was actually doing was sitting on my white plastic stool, my left leg folded over my right, my knee pointed towards Superman and his listening face smoking a cigarette over my small red notebook listing the number of glasses and saucers and tea spoons. My left foot was pressed against the column of the sandstone table.
Another word for cigarettes
My infrastructure.
A place to hang hours.
Or
Dear Cigarettes,
You are my infrastructure, a place to hang my hours.
or
Dear Cigarettes,
You are my infrastructure. My hours hang on your corners.
or
This is my infrastructure, breath made tangible, my hands lazing through curling hours.
A place to hang hours.
Or
Dear Cigarettes,
You are my infrastructure, a place to hang my hours.
or
Dear Cigarettes,
You are my infrastructure. My hours hang on your corners.
or
This is my infrastructure, breath made tangible, my hands lazing through curling hours.
INRI
Well we all have crosses to bear. I am standing underneath one and it looms large, larger than the school taught Bruce Dawe cross flying up in my childhood mind. Larger than Rio or the impossibility of running on scissors.
This is my afternoon microwaving baked beans and staring at textbooks, this is my early evening still sitting in this morning's gym clothes pulling at my hair, this is my night gathering intellectual discomfort at the molecular level. This is high level gut wrenching sonic boom procrastination.
Dear Deakin University,
I take back my grant application, I take back my fees, I take back the small promise that I would do this because I have made a mistake. I need my downtime back. I need hours of rolling words in my head and cigarettes in my fingers. I need space between objects and unexpected horizons. I need the pointless wandering in my hallway. I need invented crises and a reorganised pantry. I need the starkness of an empty life and the hard edges of nothing. Dear Deakin university I think I have made a mistake.
This is my afternoon microwaving baked beans and staring at textbooks, this is my early evening still sitting in this morning's gym clothes pulling at my hair, this is my night gathering intellectual discomfort at the molecular level. This is high level gut wrenching sonic boom procrastination.
Dear Deakin University,
I take back my grant application, I take back my fees, I take back the small promise that I would do this because I have made a mistake. I need my downtime back. I need hours of rolling words in my head and cigarettes in my fingers. I need space between objects and unexpected horizons. I need the pointless wandering in my hallway. I need invented crises and a reorganised pantry. I need the starkness of an empty life and the hard edges of nothing. Dear Deakin university I think I have made a mistake.
I am allergic to my dressing gown
I tried flapping it around and then putting it in the drier. I tried superheating it on top of the heater. I tried steaming it in the shower but still the explosive cat terrifying sneezes come one after the other. I am propelled backwards with flailing arms. I have stumbled into the fridge, the housemate, the wall, two doorways and three chairs. This is not ideal.
I am clawing at my face, tearing at my eyes, pushing pointed scratching sticks down my throat. I am cold and miserable and my legs are thrown in the air with the force of each sneeze but this is not what I wanted to talk about. I want to smoke. I want to push out air and watch it unfurl. I want my living breath made tangible.
I want to stride across roads and throw down my cigarette lit and glowing under the feet of a stranger. I want to flick it in your face, press it to your arm, hold it to your eye. I want to screen reason and dim lights. I want to stop sneezing long enough to think about this properly.
I am clawing at my face, tearing at my eyes, pushing pointed scratching sticks down my throat. I am cold and miserable and my legs are thrown in the air with the force of each sneeze but this is not what I wanted to talk about. I want to smoke. I want to push out air and watch it unfurl. I want my living breath made tangible.
I want to stride across roads and throw down my cigarette lit and glowing under the feet of a stranger. I want to flick it in your face, press it to your arm, hold it to your eye. I want to screen reason and dim lights. I want to stop sneezing long enough to think about this properly.
Console
I have pinprick burns all over my face, I'm not that used to cooking anymore. Grizelda fled The Peach and headed west for some Parramatta action. Grizelda should watch out, I think Parramatta is one of the places Spencer is going to edit out when he reconfigures the world into Spenconia. Queensland of course will have to go, I'm hoping the Bank Hotel will vanish from King St one day but Spencer says he's just thinking about the big things at the moment, like Queensland and everything between Bowral and Canberra and Canberra and Melbourne. Canberra gets to stay because it is odd enough to be interesting.
With The Peach to myself I should have rolled twelve fat joints and sat around in my underpants licking chocolate off the carpet but instead I cleaned everything, telephoned my mother and washed the cat's bowls. In a mad fit of non-thinking I decided to make felafel, this is where my brother phoned and said he was looking for some food to eat. I wore an apron but failed to protect my face from hideous and invisible hot oil droplets. The felafel was delicious but still my brother and I set out on a mission to the pastizzi cafe. The pastizzi cafe was jumping, not a spare millimeter of room. Full mouths, warm bellies and pots of tea were stacked like puppies in a basket. A man with a guitar and woman with a double bass were playing Eleanor Rigby in a corner. I love the pastizzi cafe. If I was a restaurant I would marry it.
My brother announced, in the island cafe over coffee and cigarettes, that he is odd and that he is going to embrace his oddness. His announcement made me quite proud. I took a meditative moment to stir the vanilla through my coffee and lick down the paper on my cigarette. I was going to say something important but Spencer appeared from around the corner and reverse moonwalked over to the table and sat down. Madam Squeeze followed shortly after walking her long narrow walk and smiling for England.
The remains of the day was spent submerged in surreal conversation, this is when I discovered that "Long Way to The Top" has the following chord progression ACDC, that The Eagles waged a soft rock war Toto and that Spencer can moonwalk sideways as well as backwards. We sipped at hot chocolates then walked around in companionable formations hunting down records and staring at lamps. I came home full, tired and holding a can of L&P in one hand and a cd called Mondo Exotica; Fifites Lounge Music in the other.
I'm wondering if I should have dipped my feet in paint when I first moved here. I'm wondering if its possible to trace back every step or zoom out into space see what shapes I'm making walking around here on earth. I have a feeling that I'm writing my own name.
With The Peach to myself I should have rolled twelve fat joints and sat around in my underpants licking chocolate off the carpet but instead I cleaned everything, telephoned my mother and washed the cat's bowls. In a mad fit of non-thinking I decided to make felafel, this is where my brother phoned and said he was looking for some food to eat. I wore an apron but failed to protect my face from hideous and invisible hot oil droplets. The felafel was delicious but still my brother and I set out on a mission to the pastizzi cafe. The pastizzi cafe was jumping, not a spare millimeter of room. Full mouths, warm bellies and pots of tea were stacked like puppies in a basket. A man with a guitar and woman with a double bass were playing Eleanor Rigby in a corner. I love the pastizzi cafe. If I was a restaurant I would marry it.
My brother announced, in the island cafe over coffee and cigarettes, that he is odd and that he is going to embrace his oddness. His announcement made me quite proud. I took a meditative moment to stir the vanilla through my coffee and lick down the paper on my cigarette. I was going to say something important but Spencer appeared from around the corner and reverse moonwalked over to the table and sat down. Madam Squeeze followed shortly after walking her long narrow walk and smiling for England.
The remains of the day was spent submerged in surreal conversation, this is when I discovered that "Long Way to The Top" has the following chord progression ACDC, that The Eagles waged a soft rock war Toto and that Spencer can moonwalk sideways as well as backwards. We sipped at hot chocolates then walked around in companionable formations hunting down records and staring at lamps. I came home full, tired and holding a can of L&P in one hand and a cd called Mondo Exotica; Fifites Lounge Music in the other.
I'm wondering if I should have dipped my feet in paint when I first moved here. I'm wondering if its possible to trace back every step or zoom out into space see what shapes I'm making walking around here on earth. I have a feeling that I'm writing my own name.
Failed ant farmer
I spent more time than is sensible ransacking the house for drugs. Oh I found some stuff but it wasn't mine and it wasn't what I was after. What I wanted was a Camberwell Carrot. I wanted to do something to my brain but what I found was five millimetres of a stem wrapped in foil with three bits of green leaf so small it was virtually undetectable. I stuffed it in the end of half a cigarette I found in an ashtray then smoked it. Here's what happened. I stayed up way too late watching telly and not doing anything then I ate two forkfuls of cold spaghetti followed by half a spoon of peanut butter. My mouth turned into a bad cafe floor so I smoked another cigarette, in the shower.
There was a time when everybody was always high. There was a time when I could send a text message asking for drugs and almost immediately my lounge room would be full of people, with drugs. I'm not talking vest wearing junkies sitting in the corner facing the wall all night. I'm talking about happy boys with smokeless pipes and insatiable urges for ice cream. Tonight one message went unanswered so I rang my brother and he said yeah he might be able to hook me up if I'm not in a hurry but what he was really saying was no.
I want to drive around in my shitbox car all day. In my pyjamas. I want to get fucked up and ease this dis ease. I don't know where its coming from or what its supposed to be doing. This morning I was happy as a clam watching Boli walk across the stage in his academic gown throwing out the kind of glow that hurts your cheeks and busts your heart with pride. This morning I was walking around my university campus crunching knowledge with my flat shoes trailing years and the sure flag that I did something.
This evening I was sitting in an armchair staring at a virtual chess board spitting with fury at the fuck off metaphor of it all. I know how the pieces move, I know the aim but I'm new to this game. I can see disaster coming but don't know how to stop it. Every move feels defensive and every now and then I see all the gaps in my half baked strategy and just like that I wanted out. Dis ease is sitting in my window. It must be cause there's been a change in the light.
There was a time when everybody was always high. There was a time when I could send a text message asking for drugs and almost immediately my lounge room would be full of people, with drugs. I'm not talking vest wearing junkies sitting in the corner facing the wall all night. I'm talking about happy boys with smokeless pipes and insatiable urges for ice cream. Tonight one message went unanswered so I rang my brother and he said yeah he might be able to hook me up if I'm not in a hurry but what he was really saying was no.
I want to drive around in my shitbox car all day. In my pyjamas. I want to get fucked up and ease this dis ease. I don't know where its coming from or what its supposed to be doing. This morning I was happy as a clam watching Boli walk across the stage in his academic gown throwing out the kind of glow that hurts your cheeks and busts your heart with pride. This morning I was walking around my university campus crunching knowledge with my flat shoes trailing years and the sure flag that I did something.
This evening I was sitting in an armchair staring at a virtual chess board spitting with fury at the fuck off metaphor of it all. I know how the pieces move, I know the aim but I'm new to this game. I can see disaster coming but don't know how to stop it. Every move feels defensive and every now and then I see all the gaps in my half baked strategy and just like that I wanted out. Dis ease is sitting in my window. It must be cause there's been a change in the light.
Hey window pane
I 'm having a zipper installed with a hook and an eye and a clasp and a line of pearl buttons. I've got window panes. I've mad ticking devices, holes for coffee pots, tampons, pineapples, cushions, telephones and I'm still lined with red velvet.
I might sometimes cry in the middle of your shopping centre staring wildly at a man with coca-cola tattooed across his existence while those double drop doors trap snap open dragging gravity down my thoracic diaphragm but I think I'm going to say no.
I'm standing with a drink in my hand and a phone in the other. I'm writing a message to Superman about a man who should probably be shot into orbit with the dull glow of a satellite cause he'll know what I mean. I'm standing there counting pumpkins and dividing things by six just like I'd have to if I was shopping in China. I'm standing there waiting for food and poking at my upright spine then Elliot calls and he sounds drunk and he wants to see me. He wants to see me now, tonight, now and he's offering to pay for anything. I thought he was in detox, I thought he was safe with his tubes and wires and bleach echoing off cold white floors but he's in my hand and that voice is cutting through red tape.
I said yes, I said are you alright. He said no, he said thanks, he said I need to see you. I should have dropped my drink. He said I'll meet you anywhere. I said come to the house at 7 then I sat at the plastic table screwed into the shopping centre floor. I'm sipping post-good post-mix out of a cardboard cup but I'm not crying yet. I know if he comes to the house that I'll unravel until I'm in his arms and I'm breathing the god damned lime rind stink of his skin.
I've gone ultra flat and Grizelda's staring at me from across the plastic table so I pick up my phone and type out a message. I hold it up to Grizelda and she nods. I'm not going down his rabbit hole this time. These are the days of miracle and wonder with my voicebox flattened and the trap doors open. I'm sending a message using seven words. I won't see you if you're drunk.
This is the part where I'm crying in the middle of your shopping centre sipping post-good post-mix out of a cardboard cup and noticing that I've come undone. So now I 'm having a zipper installed with a hook and an eye and a clasp and a line of pearl buttons.
I'm stitching in ways to stay whole. I'm listening to people beginning to matter who are saying I'm doing the right thing. I might sometimes dance in your own kitchen, I might walk around shooting words at targets in my head. I might spend two days trailing tendrils soaking up your presence but right now I'm sitting in bed smoking my own cigarettes, wearing Superman's sunglasses and rubbing pawpaw ointment into my face and just so you know, I'm feeling fine.
I might sometimes cry in the middle of your shopping centre staring wildly at a man with coca-cola tattooed across his existence while those double drop doors trap snap open dragging gravity down my thoracic diaphragm but I think I'm going to say no.
I'm standing with a drink in my hand and a phone in the other. I'm writing a message to Superman about a man who should probably be shot into orbit with the dull glow of a satellite cause he'll know what I mean. I'm standing there counting pumpkins and dividing things by six just like I'd have to if I was shopping in China. I'm standing there waiting for food and poking at my upright spine then Elliot calls and he sounds drunk and he wants to see me. He wants to see me now, tonight, now and he's offering to pay for anything. I thought he was in detox, I thought he was safe with his tubes and wires and bleach echoing off cold white floors but he's in my hand and that voice is cutting through red tape.
I said yes, I said are you alright. He said no, he said thanks, he said I need to see you. I should have dropped my drink. He said I'll meet you anywhere. I said come to the house at 7 then I sat at the plastic table screwed into the shopping centre floor. I'm sipping post-good post-mix out of a cardboard cup but I'm not crying yet. I know if he comes to the house that I'll unravel until I'm in his arms and I'm breathing the god damned lime rind stink of his skin.
I've gone ultra flat and Grizelda's staring at me from across the plastic table so I pick up my phone and type out a message. I hold it up to Grizelda and she nods. I'm not going down his rabbit hole this time. These are the days of miracle and wonder with my voicebox flattened and the trap doors open. I'm sending a message using seven words. I won't see you if you're drunk.
This is the part where I'm crying in the middle of your shopping centre sipping post-good post-mix out of a cardboard cup and noticing that I've come undone. So now I 'm having a zipper installed with a hook and an eye and a clasp and a line of pearl buttons.
I'm stitching in ways to stay whole. I'm listening to people beginning to matter who are saying I'm doing the right thing. I might sometimes dance in your own kitchen, I might walk around shooting words at targets in my head. I might spend two days trailing tendrils soaking up your presence but right now I'm sitting in bed smoking my own cigarettes, wearing Superman's sunglasses and rubbing pawpaw ointment into my face and just so you know, I'm feeling fine.
Hours
I went for the art but was hastened away by scenester crap. Superman saved the day with sorbet, I ordered one scoop of fig sorbet in a cup but what I got was crepes with banana, butterscotch sauce and fig sorbet. Things went from disappointing to awesome in three mouthfuls. This was exceeded by a trip to Pentimento where I asked if they had any books on extreme ironing while Superman smiled winningly over my shoulder, no such book was produced, in fact the only thing produced was a snigger but I'm fairly certain that I didn't care and all of that was yesterday.
Skip forwards, chess games and kite flying, pink lemonades, facebook and muesli, steaming mugs and rain. This afternoon Spencer paid a visit and for a short while there The Peach was hijacked by madmen with guitars at their feet, you tube under their fingers and pizzas just everywhere until Spencer had to leave for a seance and the walls stopped bulging with the shock of it all.
So now here I sit stretched and warm with tea and cigarettes. Superman's fading lights and thickening time. Self-awareness slips easily from his shoulders while I sit and he strums and sings uncovering songs that were always here. This is a house with songs in it
Melbs a-go-go
Now I love Gemma dearly but her internet is intolerably slow. We have returned from a trip to the northside where I patted Marting Kingsley, that was odd.
I have decided to write a report about my Melbourne adventures and adventures I am having. This morning I bought a dozen eggs but when Gemma opened the box there were only eleven eggs inside. I caught a tram by myself to Brunswick St. I ate something unidentifiable and oh yes I may be drunk.
I can't get a grip on St Kilda. Not yet. The bay is unexpected, everything has it placed to the side where as Sydney stares at its harbour like a television.
There was beer and some kind of oil infused bread at the pub where I sat chatting with Gemma, Rupert and Martin. Imagine I put links there.
Yesterday I sat in Gemma's frontyard plaing cards and eating cake while Gemma had a garage sale. Its like a hive this builiding. This is what I will now imagine when I think of that Louis Macniece poem, thigh over thigh in the hive of home.
Things are becoming disjointed. I am outof context and unsure of the sound of my footsteps. The red in my hair is fading and these shoes are meandering down a new street every day. There are some things I am sure of but these are small. I am sure that I need my hair. I am sure that I do not like covers bands. I am sure that I like the curtains hanging numb in my bedroom. I am sure that I miss my cat.
It smells of salt here, in waves, and Gemma stands like a monument. There is no doubting the force of her existence. Where I am staying, in this happy hive, is a stone's throw from cake shops. I don't just mean a shop that makes bread and some crap cakes. This is art. This is serious art and I do not think I will ever eat anything except kugelhopf ever again. Nothing but kugelhopf and cigarette smoke shall ever pass these lips. This is my decree.
I have decided to write a report about my Melbourne adventures and adventures I am having. This morning I bought a dozen eggs but when Gemma opened the box there were only eleven eggs inside. I caught a tram by myself to Brunswick St. I ate something unidentifiable and oh yes I may be drunk.
I can't get a grip on St Kilda. Not yet. The bay is unexpected, everything has it placed to the side where as Sydney stares at its harbour like a television.
There was beer and some kind of oil infused bread at the pub where I sat chatting with Gemma, Rupert and Martin. Imagine I put links there.
Yesterday I sat in Gemma's frontyard plaing cards and eating cake while Gemma had a garage sale. Its like a hive this builiding. This is what I will now imagine when I think of that Louis Macniece poem, thigh over thigh in the hive of home.
Things are becoming disjointed. I am outof context and unsure of the sound of my footsteps. The red in my hair is fading and these shoes are meandering down a new street every day. There are some things I am sure of but these are small. I am sure that I need my hair. I am sure that I do not like covers bands. I am sure that I like the curtains hanging numb in my bedroom. I am sure that I miss my cat.
It smells of salt here, in waves, and Gemma stands like a monument. There is no doubting the force of her existence. Where I am staying, in this happy hive, is a stone's throw from cake shops. I don't just mean a shop that makes bread and some crap cakes. This is art. This is serious art and I do not think I will ever eat anything except kugelhopf ever again. Nothing but kugelhopf and cigarette smoke shall ever pass these lips. This is my decree.
Oh yes
The Peach has turned into some kind of luxury home with quality appliances. We are the proud owners of new incomprehensible European washing machine and top quality clothes drier but that's not what I'm really interested in saying.
I've made a personal comeback. I'm folding laundry in a ball gown smoking cigarettes and dancing to Loene Carmen. I've got my stomping boots on. My red lispstick is smeared but I'm brushing my teeth anyway.
I've made a personal comeback. I'm folding laundry in a ball gown smoking cigarettes and dancing to Loene Carmen. I've got my stomping boots on. My red lispstick is smeared but I'm brushing my teeth anyway.
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