Oh dear, I strike again, sorry about that Rita

I need to be microwaved, urgently. My ions or the tiny spaces inside my atoms need exciting into action. I blame Superman, a roll of gaffertape and my opera cape, these three things should never under any circumstances be combined. I am under strict instructions to not publish this photo of Superman but due to the gaffer tape opera cape incident I'm too tired to follow instructions.

Last night Superman and I headed to Rita's surprise birthday dinner. I wore an opera cape and red leather gloves, Superman wore my black pashmina as a scarf, he does that from time to time. I don't mind but I was slightly alarmed when I wrapped myself in it five minutes and ago and found it smelled like man instead of perfume dust and good dresses.

I spent a considerable amount of time and effort going person to person in an attempt to organise a spot of waltzing after dinner. I thought surely I could not fail to succeed, Superman bet my $1.12 that I would indeed fail. The tables were grey melamine, there were pink napkins stuffed into wine glasses, the middle of the tables had a raised rotating section, I was sure that all of this was in my favour. In the end when I gave the signal nothing at all happened so I waltzed around on the miniature dance floor in front of two mountain men playing country versions of Jimi Hendrix songs with tiny Ronita who yelled "Guitar! 8 9 10!" at odd intervals until she tired of being danced about on my hip and insisted on being taken to see the fish tank.

After the giant platter of stacked balls of deep fried ice cream arrived with a lone sparkler sticking out of the top we sang happy birthday and I was struck by the irresistible urge to give an impromptu speech. I said to Superman "I must make a speech!" I stood up in my green jungle print 1950's party dress and stared them down, those thirty people in their jeans and t-shirts. I insisted they all listen to me and one by one they did. Unfortunately I said "I just have a few things to say, oh wait I don't have anything to say", recovery was difficult from that point, sorry about that Rita.

I sat in my puddle of weariness and odd shame all the long way home to the city. I cheered myself up somewhere around Parramatta Rd by singing the names of all the shops into one long song. Superman begged me to stop. There are a lot of shops on Parramatta Rd.

Reinstalled at The Peach where I can generally stay out of trouble (let us not remember Zissou) we lit a fire in the library and talked, at length, about nothing in particular until suddenly it was after 3am and we were watching Laurie Anderson videos on you tube. This is where gaffer tape, a lamp and Superman prevented my gentle fall into comfortable slumber until sometime after 4am.

Spencer came by in the morning wearing a cowboy shirt and some shoes sharper than shark shit. He pulled a plastic case out of his leather satchel and waved it around, holding it by the tips of his long fingers, the one that can reach all the way to the bottom of a jar of pringles, it was a rough mix from his new album so I climbed up the bookshelf to play a cd (the stereo is very high). Things got very Rock in The Peach today with Spencer sprawling his long legs and sharp shoes out the end of an armchair and Superman sitting in the opposite corner and the rough mix playing on repeat. We filled that room with cigarette smoke, conversation and the fuck off undeniable evidence of just exactly why we lock ourselves away in rooms undertaking our own private necessary tortures.

I don't write songs, that's not my brand of necessary torture, but sometimes, if you stop kicking and screaming at life you'll find someone delivers a reason why, right through your front door and I think this is what I wanted to say last night in that grey melemine restaurant holding a pink napkin and standing like a fool in party dress and an opera cape. It might sound simple, like a table full of friends eating fried ice cream or two men sitting in The Peach with the stereo on but what it means is something so complex I can't find a way of staring at it.

I failed to remember that the sheep is not poisonous or How do humans steer?

Arrant is how Zissou just described this blog in an email. I'm not sure why he chose now of all times to read my blog for the first time. The invention of shark pants is not my finest hour.

My bottom is still sore. Yesterday I went for a longish walk to stretch out the muscles but I kept nearly crashing into people on Enmore Rd. This got me wondering about how humans steer. Grizelda and I had a go at walking then turning in the kitchen. Grizelda concluded that humans steer with their feet however I concluded that humans steer with their hips. I tried getting grizelda to put her hands on her hips and feel for movement when she decided to change direction, she still disagrees.

This whole human steering business has me once again remembering the horse. Whenever I was riding a good horse the signals for steering and change of speed, pace or impulsion are very subtle. For example a slight bracing of abdominal and lower back muscles can either shorten stride length and increase impulsion or transition down to a slower gait such as from canter to trot, trot to walk or walk to halt depending the emphasis used. Once I rode borrowed a friend's horse for a pony club exam, this was a mistake as her horse was used to camp drafting and barrel racing whereas my horse was more of a dressage horse. Whilst demonstrating that I could adequately control a horse at full gallop I sat up quite tall, braced my abdomen and lower back and slightly stiffened my elbows. This would have caused my horse to slow nicely into a very rounded canter, my friend's horse slid to a sudden motionless halt. The result was amnesia and yet another set of x-rays.

Pondering boringly about horses does not solve my problem. How do humans steer?

Like a memory

The rain is adequate. I went and fetched dinner from Enmore Rd where people dashed across roads and down side streets or huddled under awnings. I strolled with my box of dinner holding my face up to the steady stream. The rain is adequate, it made my shirt heavy across my heart shifting things internal external. I keep saying I am sad. I feel sad. I am sad. I don't need bigger words. This is something that will lift. I feel a shifting towards the click of writing. I have been absent from myself. Zissou uninhabited me. He was a distraction from myself with his strong broad hands steering me through crowds with a light touch, opening doors, pulling out chairs, pushing creaks from my back. I was the opposite of bold and it was as brave as I could be. I was unspectacular.

Now I feel diligent words crawling beneath floorboards. I am reading with fresh intensity words across time. Letters from those who fought the pen. I know who I am. This is all I need to know. A writer writes.

Well then

Zissou has gone. We met for a drink then he had to go to a family dinner thing. He leaves first thing in the morning.

This is thirty one

There is a rash or reaction crawling across my chest and neck. I suspect it is the scented lotion carefully massaged into my skin last night by Zissou but what is this ticking of the clock. I had thought that at last I was inhabiting myself. I had thought I had kicked some great heavy clunking shoe hindering my steps but now here I sit in need of a showering wondering at the ticking of all clocks. Last night I said to Zissou "I like you" in sync with the painting of those same words across my mind. Today I do not wish to like that man. It is a small undesperate liking. It is not a raging irrational beast. It was a warm current.

I do not wish to like him because it is revealing new fears. It is one thing to think that he seems a good man and to enjoy his company but it is another to think I like this person. What a cold hard trap it could lead into. I wish to float. I wish to be as independent as possible. There is no immediate danger, I am not fighting kite strings of wild emotion.

Revision and rememberance cast different shadows than the moment itself. When the shadows shift I wonder that it was initially invisible. What a strong pulsing light aimed at my chest. There was a pause with my dress pulled up over my face, arms raised in unusual obedience. This is when the jack rabbit ragged edged scar over my heart held centre stage. I imagine, because it is invisible to me, a palm wide egg white jagged thing radiating thick raised arms out to red edges. It is clear that it came from within, that depth charge. A raging exploded blown out chest. Since the dying months of 29 I have been stitching and restitching starfish, ammunition, alphabets, wine, heat, flowers and glass into the red cavity. Shredded flaps of flesh closed neatly over it each time.

The dying days of 30 concealed the whole contraption and any person could step up pushing with their hands and stethoscopes. There was nothing there but smooth flesh, sunburn and heartbeats. Zissou in his clam foreign way brought laser beams and ultra sounds with flood lights and the newest constant unwinking strobe. It cast cold light and there, there the contraption revealed itself. What a fraud I am with my wine, heat, glass, starfish, ammunition, alphabet imitation of a heart. It spits out ticker tape lost fortunes. Do not proceed with this unraveling and fold now back into yourself. Dress in sheets of metal and hold up your bulletproof parts.

And what of my merged fractal self so much better than at the dawn of 30. I am upright and holding out my left palm I see the miniatures of the good in my life carefully painted and standing on their own but in my right palm a small figure of self holding out ridiculous empty arms.

Foul mystery at The Peach

There was some failing on my part to properly understand that when someone is invited to your house in the early evening you might reasonably be expected to provide dinner. Anticipating champagne I concocted things using cucumber sliced thickly as a cracker substitute topped with smoked salmon, a slice of cherry tomato and chives. There was another plate with crackers and baba ganoush.

Zissou arrived on time with two bottles of champagne and a bottle of limoncello. I was, of course teased about my lack of dinner but kindly and not for long. I am beginning to like this man. I am harboring a small and hidden affection. Last night he was direct in intent but always kind, never assuming. We drank a bottle of champagne under the stars on the Peach Deck munching morsels and talking widely. Retiring early to the bedroom with wine and water I found myself standing quietly watching him undress me one slow thing at a time.

There is a calmness in his strong hands. He is tall, much taller than me. He is broad and weathered. Stretched out naked you can climb across him like a continent. Each touch feels like the first screech of undercarriage onto the tarmac of some unimagined homeland. It is strange and calm and good.

The Spatula came home just around midnight, walking through my open bedroom door she stopped to say hello then said "I have to go" and took off down the hall. Zissou popped off to the bathroom so I wrapped myself in a pashmina and went to see if she was ok. She was out on the deck so I followed but stopped short when I discovered an unknown man. She introduced him with the wrong name, he corrected her, I retreated. Zissou and I went out to the deck to say hello, I paused to throw on some clothes. Zissou had poured them glasses of limoncello but they were sipping and turning up their noses. We retreated to the bedroom.

In the morning stretching and holding on to the remnants of sleep Zissou informed me that the man had made a naked foray into my bedroom sometime during the night. I was not woken but the man was discovered standing naked at the end of my bed. Zissou had quietly shepherded him out while I slumbered. On a trip to the bathroom in daylight I spotted some odd spots on the carpet in the hall outside the bathroom door. I told Zissou I suspected that the man might have vomited during the night, Zissou frowned and made breakfast plans.

At the cafe, between swallowing a mouthful of coffee and transferring scrambled eggs onto a piece of toast Zissou said "there is something I want to tell you" and launched into a tale most foul. Before showering he discovered the bathroom mat folded in the bathtub, he went to place it on the floor but it was filled with terrible faeces. What a shocking discovery for him to make inside The Peach.

The Spatula suspects it was the cat, I suspect it was the man but in either case I am mortified. What a terrible series of events to intrude on a wonderful evening. Now I am left sitting and pondering. I like Zissou and he says that he likes me. He is moving to Canberra very shortly to take up a position at a winery. I would like to see him again but am unsure of what the next move could be. It seems I am returning to my default setting of self-doubt. What charms could I possibly hold for a man who trails twenty more years than me, a man who feels so immense in character and heart that he has his own national borders.

Just in case I did not make it plain. I do not suspect Zissou of being the phantom crapper, not at all.

I strongly suspect there is a problem with my brain

Zissou telephoned midweek to say he would like to come over and bring a bottle of champagne. All manner of minor panics are scrolling across my mind. My boss suggested that I cut cucumber into jatz size pieces and top with smoked salmon, tomato and chives. This sounds quite yummy so I have purchased ingredients, chilled wine and washed the dishes.

I will spend the remaining hours reading a book and suppressing the urge to panic, run and then hide. I am hoping that The Spatula will prevent any last minute bolting attempts. It has occurred to me that this might be perfectly normal, I am hoping this is true.

Blessed are the cigarettes

Blessed are the cigarettes that divide my sleepless night measuring time into tiny tasks. They make my living breath tangible.

My left shoulder, the one that Zissou fixed with strong hands has cramped back into out of place and if I knew the man better I would be tempted to set my car to autopilot and find his hands wherever they are.

The Spatula is casting rectangular light above my door. This old house with its absurd windows above doorways. There was a sheet of cardboard pushed tight against the light but it fell out and then I put it on top of my ornate desk. Now there are plants, a lamp and giant squat three wicked candle sitting on top of it.

I feel out of order, too many questions and unrevealed thoughts. I am not bold enough to divine what it is that I am thinking. What am I doing going around filling my life with people and events. I need this house to be clean. I need this house to be tidy. I need to sit myself down and finish this manuscript. This world is all distraction.

In a moment I will make coffee

He's still here. Supine. Wondering what it is that I am doing with the non-click click on the square pads over here on the other side of the bed while his eyelids echo internal tides. Showering the words came back. He chased them away, all of them but not like Benito, not like I was standing on the street with extra shoes tied tight around my tongue.

There was no fig sorbet but I do not mind. Words were ushered into small black velvet bags and tucked into spaces inaccessible and calm. Three hours and not one sentence formed. I trailed my fingers through floating acres of exclamation marks. His right hand circles my left ankle.

Process

I am slightly damp from the shower and naked, this is important to note because I have just rolled a cigarette so now I am covered in tiny flakes of tobacco. The tobacco flakes are sticking to me and will not swipe off, I am guessing this is not a good start to dressing appropriately to meet a man for drinks.

My hair is wrapped in a purple towel, my ears are full of water, something is slightly smelly in my bedroom but I do not know what. The heel of my left foot is sore due to over zealous scrubbing with that scratchy rock thing in the shower. The left side of my back aches and feels put out of place, there is a terrific crick in my neck.

I am hungry but unsure of what or how much to eat before embarking on my mission. Ah, my mission. I am meeting Zissou for a drink in one hour and forty nine minutes. This is ample time to dress, dry my hair, have something to eat and walk into Newtown. I think. My bedroom is quite untidy, things are strewn about, there are piles of books, clean clothes, a chocolate wrapper, shoes, unopened mail and a giant self portrait I painted in 1991.

Leaving the office I stuffed a linguistics text book in my handbag thinking that if conversation was stilted I could simply whisk it out and propose examining a sentence or two. I was very happy with this plan for about two minutes then I realised that it might be odd like a balloon holding a child. Best not to do that in a bar on a Friday night.

I will wear something that covers any remaining tobacco flakes, this will be my dress code.

Definitive

Special request. A definitions list for the cast of characters in Slammatown. Easy. This I can do. Much simpler than trying to define just how exactly that snorkeling makes me happy or why today when I sat on the edge of this continent with the lemon light behind me and nothing, oh nothing but that ocean, that I felt stitches pull tighter and empty places pop and vanish. I used to be scared of the edge of this land.

Not in any order.

Foto: Superman's friend. I like him, he lives near me, he seems kind and the verge of something, I'm not sure what but I'll stick around to find out.

Gemma:
Author of Gempires, owner of Cooper the small poodle. Gemma lives in Melbourne and visits Sydney occasionally. Gemma is super in all possible ways. Gemma is an honourary Peachette.

The Peachettes:
The Peachettes are residents or ex-residents of The Peach (my house).

The Spatula:
My friend for almost twenty years and a current Peachette. She is small. We met on the first day of high school. The Spatula sings, paints, massages and designs my zine "Ocarina". The Spatula is a necessary part of my context.

Leurf:
Cousin to The Spatula Leurf abandoned The Peach (she is still a Peachette) to pursue her studies in Perth which is a fucking long way away. Leurf is unpredictable, fantastic and stunning inside and out.

Grizelda:
Younger sister (8 years younger) of The Spatula and a current Peachette. Grizelda is an excellent chef but does not like to have hobbies. Grizelda is rapidly becoming a good friend.

Ron:
I like Ron, he's pretty tops.

My brother:
No explanation necessary. He is tall plays trombone professionally and has an unnatural love for all things flamingo.

Spencer:
Spencer is the walking talking home of rock. He fronts the band The Holy Soul. He sometimes wears a cowboy hat. Spencer went to university with my brother and Boli. His main squeeze is Madam Squeeze.

Madam Squeeze:
Madam Squeeze can often be found busking with her accordion on King St. She is a source of light.

Robert:
He is a poet. He often eats toast during the day, he has a plant on his desk called Sylvester the Abject Plant. He is quite excellent.

Boli:
I shared a house with Boli at university. He is a music therapist. He plays all the instruments to an excellent standard. He likes hats is recently married and is the man I phone to ask if I am being a spaz or not. He always tells me if I am being a spaz.

Mr X:
A friend of Elliot's. I don't see him very often. Sometimes I see him on King St, he does not appear to like me very much.

The Cowboy:
Lives next door. He sometimes sits out the back in a cowboy hat playing cowboy songs on his guitar.

Creamboy:
Author of More Boring Rants from Anonymous Eccentrics. Creamboy is Superman's brother.

Superman:
This is what I used to think about Superman: I high three Superman, he is excellent. He has a way of not letting me panic, the best way to describe is that he makes me stand on a platform which is higher than where I normally stand and I can see more, further forward, further back and with some clarity. He is immensely silly and quite possibly the most stubborn person I have ever met. When he makes a decision you can hear the clang of an iron gate dropping somewhere in the distance. We wrote a song. Superman is Creamboy's brother.

Now I don't think about Superman at all, I do sometimes think about Superman movies but that is not the same thing.

Elliot:
I once thought I loved Elliot. I fucked him more than once with little sexual success. He used to be an excellent friend. I haven't heard from him since I told him I wouldn't see him if he's drunk. He's back in rehab.

Artboy:
The ex. After seven odd years of living together he developed a major mental illness. He had a manic episode and literally went screaming out into the night. He did not come back. This is how our relationship ended. This is how my heart fractured. I sank to the floor and it took me a while to stand back up.

Benito Di Fonzo:
A man that I can not talk to because every time I see him my head empties of all words and I stand there like a fucktard. Once I went to a party with him and set my hair on fire in the bathroom. This was not on purpose. Benito is the author of Benito Di Fonzo Jr & The Loneliness of the Long Distance Writer.

Slammas:
My family.
Mum, her partner (I don't have a name for her on this blog), my brother, Dad, his wife (I don't have a name for her on this blog). Various relatives occasionally pop up, very occasionally.

Sylvia:
Gemma reminded me that I have not written a definition for her. Initially I did not use the cat's name in order to protect her privacy however I have since realised that this is ridiculous. The cat does not have any friends with the internet. Sylvia is a Norwegian Forest Cat, she is four years old.

Zissou:
I met him at a party, at my house on new year's eve, he stayed the night. We met for drinks, he stayed the night. He said "are we going to do this again?" I said "call me sometime" he said "I will". He called, we met another two times. He is a good man. He moved interstate for work, this made me sad.

The Beautiful Boys:
A bunch of beautiful boys of a literary bent. I admire them greatly for their verve, intellect, joy and youth.

Failed Ant Farmers:
Members are Superman, Spencer and Madam Squeeze and me.

There is more but really today I cannot be bothered.

I think this is all. I should make links but oh I am lazy, so lazy. I am tired from swimming in Clovelly Bay for hours on end. The ocean is battering this continent so a sheltered beach was necessary but still, it was the edge of things.

Telephonic

I have spent the last hour attempting to telephone people. Not one person answered. I did not telephone Gemma as I am frightened of making her sick of me.

The horrible exhaustion has shifted through all of its usual phases but what exhaustion does not know is that I recognise its face no matter how hard it tries.

Moments ago I sent an email to Zissou. I thought he was an interesting man and it might be good to have a glass of wine with him sometime. I suggested this in an email. I have no idea what the outcome will be but I am tired of being timid. He is interesting, he obviously does not find me completely appalling so why not suggest a drink? It is myself that requires convincing. Surely it is not too odd to suggest a drink?

I require an instruction manual. Chapter five "How to communicate with a man you find interesting after you already had sex with him the first time you met him and to whom you were quite rude in the morning without meaning to be because you were suffering from a dreadful hangover". Ideally there would be example emails such as:

Dear Man with whom I have had sex, been rude to and just met,

A drink sometime would be interesting. Yes?

Dale

Etiquette, equity, equality

I feel as though I have been unfaithful, to myself, and unfair to the man who shared my bed. Earlier in the day, yesterday, I told Gemma that I was just going to have to get used to the idea that I will never have sex ever again. I did not utter false words, I was sincere and in a place of acceptance so imagine my surprise when I found myself pinned like a butterfly and stroked like a fractious horse at the close of the very same day.

He is older than any man I've ever slept with before, I can not deny that this was something I was thinking about this morning when I made a break for couch. Other factors in the couch move included feeling dire, very dire and like something was going to explode out of my stomach and then my head and also possibly my bowel.

The man, I should call him something. I shall call him Zissou. Zissou was astonishing. Everything was slow and monumental like an ancient calling. Zissou worshiped me like I was a temple. His hands, strong calm hands reminded my skin that it is skin. It was a slow revealing of nerve endings and the connectedness of all my parts. I could not help but think of a dressage master working a temperamental horse in hand. I know this will not make sense to anyone who has not calmed a horse with long slow strokes using their whole being to transfer safety through velvet skin.

I was selfish and he was willing me to be selfish. I regret now running to the couch for solitude but I felt at the time that what had happened was something so astonishing I needed to inflate a bubble of self to hold to me just a little bit longer.

Of course I would not be myself without moments of spaz, it was not all golden light with nerves on fire. At one point I started to ask if he had read any Sartre because I am reading "What is literature" and am keen to hear people's opinions on the book. I am fairly sure that the question was inappropriately asked, needless to say it went unanswered.

9:46 am

I've had approximately three and a half hours sleep, some of that on the couch; seedy is not an adequate word.

I've started this year in an unexpected manner. Walking between parties we found ourselves opting to view the fireworks from Stanmore Station. At the end of the platform you can see the city skyline and the Harbour Bridge. So there we stood with our bottles of drink, cigarettes and one small poodle.

Gemma is asleep in The Spatula's office, Cooper the small poodle occasionally wanders about then goes back in the office for more sleep. One person has left already, I feel slightly guilty about this. Last night when we ran out of spare beds I kindly offered him half my bed but in the morning after two hours sleep and feeling like hell on skates I woke up and spent a momemnt wishing that I had not done that. I transferred to the lounge for some alone time which caused him to wake up and go home so that I could have my bed back. I feel slightly guilty but on the other hand I have my bed back.

Yesterday was fantastic. Gemma, Spencer, Madam Squeeze, two Spatula friends, one Grizelda friend and The Peachettes ate and drank our way through all manner of things until almost sunrise. We walked over to visit The Beautiful Boys for an hour or two then wandered back to The Peach for general merriment.

I have realised that I have not written one thing worth reading since Christmas Eve. For a week now this has been the blog of the uninteresting, the skimming of my surface. It is an example of telling without showing but I don't think I mind too much. There is a time to delve and time also to breathe and just be, there are no obligations here.

In a way, last night, I temporarily opened my arms to the unexpected. I took tentative steps down a new path, while it was not unpleasant I find I might need to backtrack, just a little, until I recognise the foliage and can spot in the distance my ordinary orb of context.

This will be my year of holding up signs for others to read.