Brace yourselves

I'm going in.

Cheese Porn Phone Sex or Death of Taxes

Elliot attempted to invent a new kind of porn, cheese porn, that is a video of one kind of cheese being stuffed with another kind of cheese, such as cheddar and edam. Then he attempted to invent a new kind of phone sex, the fondue kind. Oh this fondue pot is getting so hot, all the cheese is starting to melt. Give a man points for trying, even if it is odd. But now I am ruffled and having a good old fashioned panic, about two things.

I have to do my tax for 2006. If nothing is certain but death and taxes does not doing tax make me immortal? This is worry number one.

Worry number two is Elliot said he might like to look at my blog now that he has internet access. I don't believe I've ever had a proper blog related panic before. What if he reads it? What if he reads it and hates me? What if he reads it and thinks I hate him?

I think I need to go and have a cup of tea and a little sit down before I spend yet another evening wondering what Elliot is thinking.

Previous post deleted

Because I am the Captain of What I Do.

If you want to know what it said then ask me and I'll consider telling you, maybe.

This is rad, you should enter

Energized is the creative writing of six writers published in three different, contemporary mediums: SMS (the text will be circulated through the community by mobile phone, like a creative virus); LED (the moving message will be a scrolling short story); and traffic control variable message boards (mobile boards with story text will be moved around Albury to catch the eye of passers-by)

A fee of $500 will be gifted to the author of each work that is selected for publishing. A total of six works will be published as part of the Write around the Murray story festival.

Please see the attached entry form for further details or visit the Write around the Murray story festival website at www.writearoundthemurray.org.au

I've always wanted to see my words scrolling on a road sign.

Incoming coffee date

This Thursday evening I will be drinking coffee with a man I've never met before, as part of The Experiment. My friend Annushka has lined up a man for me. He knows its not a romantic thing so its just coffee and talk, this is too easy so I've decided to make it harder. Help me think of an odd topic to introduce into the conversation.

So far my only idea is to go on about how the government should fund a toast marketing board to promote the daily eating of toast by the general population. This idea is neither odd nor original, I already own a toast marketing board t-shirt. I clearly need help on this one. Go on, leave a suggestion.

I'll be back for the honey, and you

Spencer did a little gig tonight at an open mic night. I don't know what he was doing there, seeing as he's working on his third album but I'm sure as hell glad he decided to play. Stripped of his band and electric guitar his raw screaming talent was even more obvious, to me and the small band of friends.

I told him 'I'm only your friend cause you're such a talented bastard'. He looked me in the eye and said 'I had my doubts about you for a while'. I thought, shit. I thought I was joking, he thought he was joking but we touched on something there. The people I know and love the best are all talented bastards, the ones that aren't I drift away from, eventually. When their posturing turns out to be empty posing I lose interest in them as humans, is this because they are not exceptional or because they were pretending? This is one more thing I need to think about.

Call me, if you need a friend

Telemarketing survey dudes? I love those guys. I tell them everything. I tell them nothing. I tell them I am my own butler. I tell them I want an ice core done on my heart.
Ms Slamma?
Yes?
Can spare ten minutes for a survey?
Yes.
Ms Slamma can I ask you about your savings account?
I’ll give you my account.
I don’t need your account details. Can I ask whether you are happy with our services?
I don’t think I will ever be loved the way I need to be loved.
Are you unhappy with our customer service?
I need love that can be drilled like an ice core. I need love that plunges through the planet. I need the long shaft of rock and ice to re-tell the story of how this love cannot be towed out of orbit.
Ms Slamma?
I need a love that can survive moon walking communist arctic outposts with their spear guns and oil drills.
Ms Slamma?
I need the hard chains of an anchor.
Perhaps this is a bad time? I’ll call back tomorrow evening.
I’d like that.

Converting the non-believer is a tricky operation

The first thing you need to do is start slowly, appear as though you are not interested in whether or not they are paying proper attention when you say things like "The Doctor is one of the most complex characters ever written for television" or "This struggle between saving his one human companion or the entire human race is interesting don't you think?" or "That's a dalek, don't believe for a second that its not dangerous and worthy of a little scared reaction out of television watchers across the nation" or "Would you like to see a photo of me being chased by daleks down a corridor in bad shorts?" "No, daleks don't wear shorts, it was me, yes unflattering photograph is it not?".

The next step is to walk away from the television saying I'll be back in a moment, just off to the shower and let them sit and watch, by themselves. I continued on in this tricky fashion until finally success! My young housemate Grizelda, who is too young to have any personal historical connection with the Doctor or even any knowledge whatsoever of The Doctor has been successfully converted into a fan, to the point of abandoning Grey's Anatomy in order to find out how The Doctor escapes from The Monster in a big pit on an unnatural planet impossibly orbiting a black hole. Just in case you were interested it was once again through thinking that The Doctor made his escape but even I have to occasionally sigh and say us deus ex as the Tardis was handily waiting in the black hole, for no reason.

Seesee-a-gogo or The literary adventures of a trashbag or Hey you! Lick my cigarette

What's a trashbag? Me. For now anyway. Two nights in a row drunk to the point of zero gravity in the pouring rain. Drunk to the point of trying to get strangers to lick my cigarette and being puzzled by their refusals. I have strawberry flavoured rolling papers, an experience I was attempting to share. But not one man would lick my cigarette, very disappointing. Last night it seemed all the disappointments of Friday night were reversed. Despite the weather and the advanced state of inebriation I talked with countless strangers, mostly men, mostly writers, it seems they've all been hiding from me in sharehouses in Lewisham.

I had the unexpected pleasure of conversing for hours with a group of fabulously interesting and enterprising men. They are starting a magazine, an interesting magazine. Their idea is not unique and many have dared and failed before them but I feel it is so necessary for independent press to exist. They seem intelligent and committed and in a drunken moment of whimsy I decided to offer my assistance and my email address. This afternoon to my surprise their fearless leader emailed me information about the drunken happiness of happy meals eaten on the way home and further details of the project. It seems serendipity has been called into action.

IMPORTANT NOTE: The purpose of coffee with the Seesee man is not romance but literature and the possibility of me lending a little hand to the whole mad operation. This is indeed important to note.

Both doomed and fucked

It was indeed a dark and stormy night. From the moment I awoke yesterday morning to the sound of pouring rain the whole thing was doomed. All day the weather raged and my anxiety grew. What kind of a woman turns her life into an experiment? This kind. The kind sitting hungover on her bed smoking cigarettes and figuring out how to report on a whole lot of nothing.

I feel empty this morning, a creeping kind of desolate as though all hope for romance has been lost. Only the foolhardy went out last night to battle the gale force winds and driving rain. At first I reveled in water water everywhere. At first I felt the retreat of burning drought but as I slogged, hood up, walking backwards into the wind between bars and pubs I lost my topsoil and any seeds of confidence sprouting there. At the first stop, my local, alcohol blazed a little trail in me and I sat on a high stool looking outwards at others for a change. My housemate The Spatula sitting perched across from me nearly bouncing in delight as six or seven men blew in through the door. The only man I vaguely liked the look of was the barman but he young, too young to even contemplate. We drank more, we moved to the other side of the bar, we drank more, we walked and walked through the storm and repeated the same process. Order drinks, scope bar, fail to do anything but the odd purposeful bump into or ask for a light.

I managed to interact with about four different men, one was just a 'Hi', one was "Have you got a light', one started giving me a massage but was dragged off by seven drunk others to find a kebab and one was an appalling man in a cycling shirt and terrible jeans who kept creeping closer and closer, feeling my breast with his elbow and upper arm whilst pointing at a woman saying "I'd fuck her, she looks like Sinead O'Connor with her hair done, I'd really fuck her". I told him she was gay to save a girl some unwelcome trouble.

The tempest continued and people wound tighter and tighter around each other embracing the familiar and ancient need to draw tight the ones they love against natural disaster. I became a pinball wizard bouncing off clusters of people. I became a flaneur. After 2am upstairs on the covered balcony at the front of the Townie I rolled a joint and blew empty smoke over the empty streets and declared the entire experiment a complete failure.

I rediscovered something I already knew. My friend Dave has this theory about drinking wine. He calls the first sip the horror. He maintains that he finds the first sip of any wine to be vile, he lets it wash around in his mouth while he pulls faces and stands on his left foot. But then he takes a second sip and it is better, by the fourth all horror dissipates for him and the true full flavour of the wine makes itself known. I'm like Dave's wine. I see it in other people as they first take a step back and look with worried eyes at the tall woman with crazy hair talking academic nonsense and unfiltered inappropriate natter at their stunned selves. But if they talk with me again, and again, they unfold and connect with me. This is what's important, to me, arcs of ideas and connecting of emotional existence, its a shame that its almost completely incompatible with getting random sex from strangers. I better think about this a little.

3:15am

It was a dark and stormy night. Seriously tempestuous would be a better way to put it. Too drunk to typee. Details tomorrow. Only reason photos cause of experiment that's all. I bought Elliot a kite for my birthday, that was nice. Its orange.

Ok tiny more tyope. Problem must be problem of Dale not good also can't find thinger for taking makeup off face too cold for water splashing so too bad anyway. Cat yelling why? Maybe all men allergic? Want seriously to be typing things good but not. Am now wearing world's worst jumper, very ugly, very warm. Just let things out of head. So unsleepy I think because of cola in several of drinks. Am too old for caffeine in evenings which is a great shame. Best idea is to have coffee at excellent cafe late late at night with world all in a bubble of self, with cigarettes which are good despite bad. Developing real fear of being crazy lady with big hair as suffer from bighairitis. Not only do I suffer from this but I like people also big hair. It is good. Hair must be eminently messable to achieve maximum pillow stylin. Putting this on list of things that are good in people. Eminently messable hair. Sometimes have been asked if that is a wig, no is just hair trying to stand on end because it is funner that way. Oh what is that? Must be tail of cat. I had banana bread with honey and walnuts walking down the street in a tempest. So sick of rolling cigarettes need urgent help with rolling cigarettes. Am angry that cigarettes in packets cost money, should be free. There are supposed to be details of what I did but surely less interesting than other things until morning when head thinking. Shcoking lack of diectics, is that the wrong word? YOu know how 'the' functions in a sentenc as a sort of pointer word to help determine subjcet? Linguistics sux anyway. All linguistics now completely banned. Am taking over world and banning linguistics and yelling of cat for no reason when late. I am the Captain of what I do and I say sit here nicely in jumper with one more cigarette and type type cause typing fun alternative to no sex. Cat nice now, very fuzzy. Its quite late and wonder when will wake up in morning. There are sentences that are good that are not here right now so its very important to not touch manuscript, please remember not to type words in manuscript, would ruin many many words that are already good and not needing bad typing. I had a joint on the balcony at the Townie, everybody asking who's smoking weed but not suspecting me! Sneakers are for sneaking but sometimes if they are canvas water can go in and make your socks wet, even the stripy kind this is important. Even if stripy socks are your favouritte kind of socks they can get soggy.

List of places I went, some very bad.
Courthouse, Zanzibar, Kelly's, Marly Bar, bakery, Townie, more? Um... thinking....Madam Fling Flong not open, the Newtown all gay all the time, The Bank too sucky to contemplate, high wankery factor. Best if sleeping, better if hugging but oh well have jumper.

It has begun

Before special Experiment makeover by housemates (give me strength)! My favourite part is the rain wet hair and the 40 hours in an office creases under my eyes.

What signifies a phone call?

What the hell people! I know its mostly my fault for chatting about it but really, I had no idea that people would bother with 'reactions' to my little conversation with Rupert. So just for the record:
No. I have not gone mental.
No. Rupert is not mental.
Yes. Rupert takes pictures of himself and writes posts about sex.
No. I am not going to take pictures of myself and I have already written posts about sex, just check the archives.
Yes. I will write posts about sex again, if I ever have any, this issue is pending until I meet a man that I can have sex with.
Yes. I might phone him again. Because. He is an interesting man and I like talking to interesting people.
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ENDS