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.

Exploding tampon dinosaur shopping, breathe with me

I followed a man in a black tuxedo jacket around for about half an hour, he looked interesting and had a very organised way of walking about the supermarket. He bought ten litres of juice, one stick of french bread, a bag of apples and three kinds of soft cheese. He stopped and winked at me in the cheese aisle so I ran away, to the biscuit aisle, where it is safe.

Shopping is an excellent time to practice reciting poems, or so I thought until people started to look at me oddly. Today I was attempting to perfect Tug Dumbly's method of saying Yahweh. The "Yah" is pronounced as you breathe in and the "Weh" as you breathe out. It is meant to be soft and just audible above the sound of the breath. It might in future be prudent to take into account the possible religious beliefs of shoppers inside the Marrickville Metro on a Thursday evening before walking around declaring "God is unpronouncable" [breathe in] Y...H [breathe out] W...H" with a trolley full of boxes of matches.

The checkout chap raised an eyebrow as he scanned four large boxes of tampons, three large packages of boxed matches, one Vogue Living , several kinds of icing and a bag of plastic dinosaurs. I attempted to explain that I required the matches to explode the dinosaurs but I'm not sure that he understood.

I am about perform some test explosions with dinosaurs in the fireplace. I want to be careful to not explode Superman's head tomorrow, or my own for that matter. It would be difficult to enjoy cake with an exploded head.

If I try sometimes or Miahi Sora brings chaos with words or I got stuck in my head again or I have powerful, loving, glorious, valorous eggs

Bless Tug Dumbly and his breathing unpronounceable god. I was stuck in my office, not like The Spatula was stuck in hers, I was stuck in a vacuum of thought. I sat for two hours staring blindly at the computer after everyone had gone home willing myself to make a move, one way or the other but I couldn't. So I sat in my indecision unable to move or breathe or leave until suddenly it lifted and I knotted my scarf and turned the key in the lock.

Half an hour later I thought I don't care what happens next. I walked from Redfern to to Glebe with Can't Always Get What You Want by the Rolling Stones on repeat waiting for the guitar that scatterguns my heart. I wasn't hungry so I stopped at Oportos, sliding chilli dressed with chicken down my throat and reading a short story. I photocopied it for Superman because he needs these words for his chaos. I've anointed it in coffee rings and chilli oil. I've carried it kilometres and read it out loud cause I need these words for my chaos.

I got lost somewhere in Glebe and had to phone The Peach for internet navigation assistance. I wound up at Friend in Hand and sat down next to the one of The Beautiful Boys, a man practically scrambled over me to get the corner seat. I was going to elbow him in the head then I noticed he was the man in a hat that I followed around at the Sydney Underground Film Festival. He's obnoxious and quaint like a typewriter or a rock in my shoe.

Tug Dumbly featured and I remembered words I wrote about him once before. This time the chilli or the words or the vodka are jumping at me from the inside. I want to be clear about this but not right now. Right now I'm toxic with oncoming sleep and the absence of portents. Right now I'm spinning sentences in my hands about Mihai Sora and his beautiful chaos. Right now I'm thinking if it wasn't for the words there wouldn't be a reason.

Meaning will follow

I'm sitting in my office. Its six o'clock. Everybody else has gone home. I'm trying to decide if I want to walk over to Glebe and see Tug Dumbly at Friend In Hand. The usual suspects are busy and that leaves me walking alone through the back streets of Redfern, Eveleigh, Chippendale and Glebe. Do I want to go? Do I want to sit alone at some table watching Tug Dumbly while the others hive around me?

I sure as hell don't want to keep sitting here watching videos of beatboxing flute player Greg Patillo and thinking I might like to be Mark Mordue when I grow up. I need to make a break for it. Home or Friend in Hand. They seem equally impossible.

Yaarrgh for the drinken blooger

I set my hair on fire in Tug Dumbly's house and now my head hurts. I blame Benito Di Fonzo, that's rtight. You heard me. I blame Benito. I went a thing and Benito was there and somehow somewhere I ended up at a party in Chippendale singing Tangled Up In Blue and then setting my hair on fire in Tug Dumbly's bathroom. A Romanian poet gave me licorice papers to roll my cigarettes with.

My head really does hurt. I think I have burnt my head. There were at least seven conversations about my hair this evening and that was before the fire and Gary the Groper who valiantly tried to pick up The Spatula whilst simultaneously sticking his hands all over my person. As long as he kept above the clothes I refrained from punching him in the head quite hard.

Benito offerd me a xanax and I was slightly surprised. I don't think anyone has ever offered me a xanax before, perhaps I should have taken it. When I first saw Benito the usual Benito effect took place and words flew everywhere except out of mouth then Benito said "Are you wearing a wig?". That was the first conversation about my hair. Most of the other conversations I overheard rather than participated in, it was very odd and then there was the whole fire thing but nobody saw it.

Oh god I had two glasses of water and I feel terrible, my head is pounding from terrible wine and I don't even know what's happening I think my bedroom is traveling through time. Its time I went to sleep.