Three times now I've woken under warmth and weight. Three times I've rolled into an intoxicating cloud of something or other pour homme. A different beautiful complex scent each time.
This has got to stop because its doing my head in. There are no men in my bed, only ghosts and memories. The smell, the warmth, the weight, its the cat sleeping on top of me. A cat that has, in a strange twist of events developed the skill of carrying the scent of a man long after he puts her back on the floor. Men that are friends and guests of my housemates.
She is the evil cat of torment. She is the evil cat that whispers loneliness into my heart while I sleep. She is the only creature on this planet willing to crawl under the covers with me so I might not kick her out, just yet.
The (dale) reinstated
Artboy was at the gallery. He snuck up on me between the flatscreen of two naked people under a bush with a manikin's disembodied leg and someone pretending to be an artist inside a poorly constructed wooden box. He was wearing a jacket that looked new but greatly resembled his old high school jacket. He looked young and I felt my thirty heavy years of hardened muscle and sinew suspend me upright in his presence, in anyone's presence.
There is a curious open space of waiting. I am waiting to see if I am going to feel. Listening for the creak of twisting beams. I am sitting on the floor with cat and heater and cigarettes. I had coffee and cake for dinner, not feeling it necessary to race straight home for shelter. I am sitting in this wide open space of curious testing, licking my finger and holding it out for a breeze. Two more hours and I'm going to declare this building safe for habitation.
There is a curious open space of waiting. I am waiting to see if I am going to feel. Listening for the creak of twisting beams. I am sitting on the floor with cat and heater and cigarettes. I had coffee and cake for dinner, not feeling it necessary to race straight home for shelter. I am sitting in this wide open space of curious testing, licking my finger and holding it out for a breeze. Two more hours and I'm going to declare this building safe for habitation.
Somebody order me some poise
?: So you basically live your life passionately for literature?
D: I deserve neither such praise nor such censure.
?: How have you been?
D: Fabulous, now fuck me.
?: Do you want a coffee?
D: Yes please.
?: Do you want a coffee?
D: Yes please.
Meanwhile back in the real world.
?: So you basically live your life passionately for literature?
D: Um, yep, I guess so.
?: How have you been?
D: There's a cake shaped like a typewriter. Do you like lawn bowls?
?: Do you want a coffee?
D: Do you think that I'm more likely to get married if I get a Dolly Parton wig? I could wear it on the train in the mornings.
?: Do you want a coffee?
D: I like triangular numbers despite it being an archaic concept. I think 27 is a triangular number, oh wait, its 28, no, um maybe 29, let me get a pen.
D: I deserve neither such praise nor such censure.
?: How have you been?
D: Fabulous, now fuck me.
?: Do you want a coffee?
D: Yes please.
?: Do you want a coffee?
D: Yes please.
Meanwhile back in the real world.
?: So you basically live your life passionately for literature?
D: Um, yep, I guess so.
?: How have you been?
D: There's a cake shaped like a typewriter. Do you like lawn bowls?
?: Do you want a coffee?
D: Do you think that I'm more likely to get married if I get a Dolly Parton wig? I could wear it on the train in the mornings.
?: Do you want a coffee?
D: I like triangular numbers despite it being an archaic concept. I think 27 is a triangular number, oh wait, its 28, no, um maybe 29, let me get a pen.
That was fast, I really am good at filling in forms
Just for a change let's talk about me.
Here are some examples of nice things people wrote in order to obtain, or in praise of after obtaining, a pdf of Ocarina, my little zine:
I really enjoy your blog; so fresh and crisp and unique
i adore the way you write and i adore your fuck-you vulnerability
in one of your posts you said you were tall. I didn’t realise that. Tall is good :-)
have ALOT of courage to write about your phone sex
Interesting. So according to a bunch of people I don't know I'm tall, fresh, crisp, brave, unique and fuck-you vulnerable. I can deal with that. In fact I really like some of it, especially the fuck-you vulnerability.
On Saturday at Vanessa Berry's book launch I ran into the man my friends have dubbed Mr X. The man I think of as being a room of lamps and shadows. I literally ran straight into him, I hadn't realised how tall he was before until I found myself chest height and looking up to see his face saying "Why Mr _____, what on earth are you doing here?" like I was in a bad old movie. I should have climbed that man like a tree and toppled him over right there and then but I am a sexual spaz, he doesn't like me and he's well and truly out of bounds. Damn it. i wish he thought I was fuck-you vulnerable, I think.
Click here to vote on my latest poll, I'm closing it very soon.
I am enforcing a temporary man embargo starting now. I am not allowed to interact with men apart from can I have a giant soy latte, the men at work, single to the city please or yes I am fabulous but no I would not like to give you my bank account details. I wonder how long I can make it last?
Here are some examples of nice things people wrote in order to obtain, or in praise of after obtaining, a pdf of Ocarina, my little zine:
I really enjoy your blog; so fresh and crisp and unique
i adore the way you write and i adore your fuck-you vulnerability
in one of your posts you said you were tall. I didn’t realise that. Tall is good :-)
have ALOT of courage to write about your phone sex
Interesting. So according to a bunch of people I don't know I'm tall, fresh, crisp, brave, unique and fuck-you vulnerable. I can deal with that. In fact I really like some of it, especially the fuck-you vulnerability.
On Saturday at Vanessa Berry's book launch I ran into the man my friends have dubbed Mr X. The man I think of as being a room of lamps and shadows. I literally ran straight into him, I hadn't realised how tall he was before until I found myself chest height and looking up to see his face saying "Why Mr _____, what on earth are you doing here?" like I was in a bad old movie. I should have climbed that man like a tree and toppled him over right there and then but I am a sexual spaz, he doesn't like me and he's well and truly out of bounds. Damn it. i wish he thought I was fuck-you vulnerable, I think.
Click here to vote on my latest poll, I'm closing it very soon.
I am enforcing a temporary man embargo starting now. I am not allowed to interact with men apart from can I have a giant soy latte, the men at work, single to the city please or yes I am fabulous but no I would not like to give you my bank account details. I wonder how long I can make it last?
The (body) reinstated
"The (body) Reinstated"
Curated by Louise Dibben
as part of the Firstdraft Emerging Curators Program
Works by T.R. Carter, Anna Chase, Jon Wah, and Anastasia Freeman
opens Wednesday 27 June, 6-8pm
exhibition continues to 14 July 2007,
116-118 Chalmers St.
Surry Hills NSW
Two of these artists I love, one is on my list of sixteen personal enemies, none of them are Artboy. I have no idea what it will be like but come along and have a mini adventure, buy me a pink lemonade and I'll be your new best friend.
Ocarina
My sold out zine Ocarina is now available as a pdf. Sure you don't get the same effect as having a hand bound copy that I stitched myself with bookbinding thread that I dyed in my kitchen sink but hey, who cares? Email me and I'll send you one, on the condition that you write one nice thing about me in the email.
dale.slamma@gmail.com
dale.slamma@gmail.com
This is more serious than I thought
I was going to write a post titled "The trifecta of stupid, the amazing power of boring and my legs are steel springs" which was going to be both fascinating and astonishing, I composed it almost completely in my head during the hour long walk home from work. Instead, after a little visit over to Gempires I have decided to scrap the whole plan and go with something different. I want to talk about depression.
I want to talk about the eternal incredible fuckedness of depression. I want to fucking rant about fucking depression because I hate it. I hate it. I hate it. There is no room for eloquence here. There is no room in my life anymore for beautiful descriptions of the feeling of copper wires running through my veins that signals the beginning of depression. There is no room for romanticising about the heavy lead of my arms, the stark scars on my wrists and the inability to do, not anymore. If I even begin to suspect that maybe, just maybe I'm beginning to feel like I might maybe sort of feel like I'm headed for depressed I declare an all out Field Attack on the fucker that is depression. And these days I'm battle hardened and it doesn't stand a chance.
Here's what I do, step by motherfucking lock and load step. Step one, shop for battle foods, oily fish, vitamins with c, b zinc & magnesium, dark green leafy veg, dried apricots, almonds, starchy carbs and dark chocolate. These are battle foods as recommended by my doctor. I double my exercise, this encourages feel good chemicals, I set a definite sleep routine and stick to it, I lower caffeine, ban alcohol and other mind altering substances, I do yoga, I practice positive self talk and other cognitive behaviour stuff, no matter how stupid I feel doing it. I clean my house and keep my room immaculate, this is a battle ground and depression loves mess and disorder. I talk with two friends a day no matter how much the evil fucker of depression wants me to isolate myself. I dance, I sing and keep on doing it, every day, every fucking day until the copper starts to dissolve and joy creeps silently back to surprise me.
I am lucky. I can do this without medication. I can manage this very effectively, I do it so automatically now that sometimes the copper comes and goes almost immediately. I am lucky because these are battles I can win.
If you feel depressed seek help. Go to Beyond Blue, see your doctor, there are free psychologists at community health centres, you can go without a referral. There are government funded programs that pay for you to see psychologists in private practice with a referral from your doctor. If your doctor is a fuckhead go to a different surgery, go to a different surgery until you get a human doctor with compassion that will take time to help. There are many of these doctors out there. If you are a woman and want to feel safe there are community organisations for women only that have counsellors that offer free or subsidised services. This is information every person on planet earth should know.
If you are suicidal, or want to be, call this number 13 11 14 or click here.
If you feel so bad that you can't do any of the above then call the person that you love best and tell them you need help, not tomorrow, not on the weekend, not in the morning, now.
If this post was too boring and off topic for you then you, my friend, are the luckiest person alive. Regular services resume tomorrow. Right now I need to go and point some good vibes in the general direction of Gempires who is brave and strong and astonishing.
Final word. I am really happy, yes, really, no fooling, I am. This is thanks to winning the battles so consistently that I can store my battle helmet in the same cupboard as my lungeing whip.
I want to talk about the eternal incredible fuckedness of depression. I want to fucking rant about fucking depression because I hate it. I hate it. I hate it. There is no room for eloquence here. There is no room in my life anymore for beautiful descriptions of the feeling of copper wires running through my veins that signals the beginning of depression. There is no room for romanticising about the heavy lead of my arms, the stark scars on my wrists and the inability to do, not anymore. If I even begin to suspect that maybe, just maybe I'm beginning to feel like I might maybe sort of feel like I'm headed for depressed I declare an all out Field Attack on the fucker that is depression. And these days I'm battle hardened and it doesn't stand a chance.
Here's what I do, step by motherfucking lock and load step. Step one, shop for battle foods, oily fish, vitamins with c, b zinc & magnesium, dark green leafy veg, dried apricots, almonds, starchy carbs and dark chocolate. These are battle foods as recommended by my doctor. I double my exercise, this encourages feel good chemicals, I set a definite sleep routine and stick to it, I lower caffeine, ban alcohol and other mind altering substances, I do yoga, I practice positive self talk and other cognitive behaviour stuff, no matter how stupid I feel doing it. I clean my house and keep my room immaculate, this is a battle ground and depression loves mess and disorder. I talk with two friends a day no matter how much the evil fucker of depression wants me to isolate myself. I dance, I sing and keep on doing it, every day, every fucking day until the copper starts to dissolve and joy creeps silently back to surprise me.
I am lucky. I can do this without medication. I can manage this very effectively, I do it so automatically now that sometimes the copper comes and goes almost immediately. I am lucky because these are battles I can win.
If you feel depressed seek help. Go to Beyond Blue, see your doctor, there are free psychologists at community health centres, you can go without a referral. There are government funded programs that pay for you to see psychologists in private practice with a referral from your doctor. If your doctor is a fuckhead go to a different surgery, go to a different surgery until you get a human doctor with compassion that will take time to help. There are many of these doctors out there. If you are a woman and want to feel safe there are community organisations for women only that have counsellors that offer free or subsidised services. This is information every person on planet earth should know.
If you are suicidal, or want to be, call this number 13 11 14 or click here.
If you feel so bad that you can't do any of the above then call the person that you love best and tell them you need help, not tomorrow, not on the weekend, not in the morning, now.
If this post was too boring and off topic for you then you, my friend, are the luckiest person alive. Regular services resume tomorrow. Right now I need to go and point some good vibes in the general direction of Gempires who is brave and strong and astonishing.
Final word. I am really happy, yes, really, no fooling, I am. This is thanks to winning the battles so consistently that I can store my battle helmet in the same cupboard as my lungeing whip.
He ain't heavy
My excellent brother came for a visit this afternoon. He opened the front gate and paused to admire the plastic pink flamingos he planted in my front garden before walking up the path announcing I am here and I am beautiful!
We wandered up into Newtown with him rejecting all of my favourite places to eat, he declared himself the I Ching of lunch and stopped regularly to proclaim that we should turn west, even if that meant straight into a brick wall. The I Ching of lunch eventually lead us into a dank thai restaurant for $7.50 lunch specials where we sat companionably, I was talking earnestly on small matters, he was randomly interrupting with an unrelated witty aside.
After lunch walking down King St puffing on cigarettes and examining human shaped knife blocks for sale in a shop window I suddenly made sense to myself. This happens almost every time I stand next to my brother. His height, his broad shoulders and barrel chest somehow put me into perspective. I cease to feel too tall, too unusual looking with hair too big. His hair is wild, huge, you can tell this even from his neat short haircut. His eyes are dark, much darker than mine, bearing traces of unknown ancestry but with the same almost imperceptible hint of an Asian curve as mine. My eyes are green, my skin is pale, his eyes were so black when he was born the doctors thought he might be blind. He is swarthy and handsome, almost identical to my father, very Continental as ladies used to whisper as my father walked by.
I am thinking again of place and displacement, of all the molecules breathed by my Grandparents on their different continents, the Home Counties, the ice, amber and humidity of Estonia, the jungles of India merging into Shanghai and the always distant echo of Portugal. All of this is who I am and who I never will be. The woman adoring her new life in the Inner West and desperately missing the unexpected spaces of Western Sydney.
We wandered up into Newtown with him rejecting all of my favourite places to eat, he declared himself the I Ching of lunch and stopped regularly to proclaim that we should turn west, even if that meant straight into a brick wall. The I Ching of lunch eventually lead us into a dank thai restaurant for $7.50 lunch specials where we sat companionably, I was talking earnestly on small matters, he was randomly interrupting with an unrelated witty aside.
After lunch walking down King St puffing on cigarettes and examining human shaped knife blocks for sale in a shop window I suddenly made sense to myself. This happens almost every time I stand next to my brother. His height, his broad shoulders and barrel chest somehow put me into perspective. I cease to feel too tall, too unusual looking with hair too big. His hair is wild, huge, you can tell this even from his neat short haircut. His eyes are dark, much darker than mine, bearing traces of unknown ancestry but with the same almost imperceptible hint of an Asian curve as mine. My eyes are green, my skin is pale, his eyes were so black when he was born the doctors thought he might be blind. He is swarthy and handsome, almost identical to my father, very Continental as ladies used to whisper as my father walked by.
I am thinking again of place and displacement, of all the molecules breathed by my Grandparents on their different continents, the Home Counties, the ice, amber and humidity of Estonia, the jungles of India merging into Shanghai and the always distant echo of Portugal. All of this is who I am and who I never will be. The woman adoring her new life in the Inner West and desperately missing the unexpected spaces of Western Sydney.
I am the Captain of What I Do
Just a reminder to the peoples of the world. I am the Captain of What I Do and today I elect to stay warmly inside the house and engage in some serious pottering about, some picking things up and putting them down again and the drinking of cups of tea in various locations around the house to see if it tastes better in any particular room or chair.
I am going to brush up on some Latin as it is important to remember more than simply nemo dat non quod habet, very important. I will read some book, I may write some book but either way its a fuzzy slipper kind of a day. A day to spend in joyful isolation from the world unless of course I wander up to the cafe and sit my joyful isolation down with coffee, cake and the comforting murmur of strangers.
I am going to brush up on some Latin as it is important to remember more than simply nemo dat non quod habet, very important. I will read some book, I may write some book but either way its a fuzzy slipper kind of a day. A day to spend in joyful isolation from the world unless of course I wander up to the cafe and sit my joyful isolation down with coffee, cake and the comforting murmur of strangers.
Practice makes perfect
If a person, I'm not saying who, needs to practice having phone sex how should they go about it?
Click on this link to cast your vote.
Click on this link to cast your vote.
Launch it - There was a cake shaped like a typewriter!
Indeed there was, at the fabulous book launch I attended this afternoon for Vanessa Berry's book Strawberry Hills Forever. I was having a generally fabulous time until I suddenly realised the place was full of men, stylish men, stylish academic men, stylish single academic men and that's when I freaked out because I am a sexual spaz. I am a sexual spaz that was unable to say the word Cock at the crucial moment, a sexual spaz that floats around pinballing silver and self-contained, alone.
All day I have been wondering about sex. Wondering how on earth people manage to have sex. Wondering what Rupert was really doing on the other end of the phone. Was he sitting at the kitchen table, periodically refreshing his cup of tea and idly flipping through the latest Vogue Living or was he spreadeagled on the lounge room floor for all to see? I guess I'll never know.
Rupert asked me what I liked, I had to stop and think. What do I like? Suddenly I was unsure and this got me thinking. If I could choose a man from a man catalogue how would I pick one out if I don't know what I like? Its important to know what you want so you don't end up with fish eyeball soup when you're hungering for pancakes. So I went to the cafe with Grizelda and The Spatula, we wrote lists of what we like in men whilst recording how many of the men walking by we would sleep with. Here's my list:
Intelligent
Eminently messable hair
Vibe of goodwill
Tallish
Empathetic
Creative
Well read
Intellectually passionate
Inquisitive
Has good people that love him
Attractive testicles (by this I mean not a weird set of low hangers, I came across some once by accident and it wasn't good, but I mean they were really low)
Does good scarf
Likes icing
Resourceful
Kind
This is what I think I like but what I really need is to figure out how to translate this raw data into having sex, that' s one tricky equation when you're a sexual spaz, like me. I might just have to wait for that teleporter to Melbourne to be invented.
Here's the scores:
Dale- 11
Grizelda - 3
The Spatula - 5
All day I have been wondering about sex. Wondering how on earth people manage to have sex. Wondering what Rupert was really doing on the other end of the phone. Was he sitting at the kitchen table, periodically refreshing his cup of tea and idly flipping through the latest Vogue Living or was he spreadeagled on the lounge room floor for all to see? I guess I'll never know.
Rupert asked me what I liked, I had to stop and think. What do I like? Suddenly I was unsure and this got me thinking. If I could choose a man from a man catalogue how would I pick one out if I don't know what I like? Its important to know what you want so you don't end up with fish eyeball soup when you're hungering for pancakes. So I went to the cafe with Grizelda and The Spatula, we wrote lists of what we like in men whilst recording how many of the men walking by we would sleep with. Here's my list:
Intelligent
Eminently messable hair
Vibe of goodwill
Tallish
Empathetic
Creative
Well read
Intellectually passionate
Inquisitive
Has good people that love him
Attractive testicles (by this I mean not a weird set of low hangers, I came across some once by accident and it wasn't good, but I mean they were really low)
Does good scarf
Likes icing
Resourceful
Kind
This is what I think I like but what I really need is to figure out how to translate this raw data into having sex, that' s one tricky equation when you're a sexual spaz, like me. I might just have to wait for that teleporter to Melbourne to be invented.
Here's the scores:
Dale- 11
Grizelda - 3
The Spatula - 5
Oh Rupert! You've gone and popped my phone sex cherry
Now this may come as a bit of a shock but the Slamma got slammed, metaphorically speaking.What happened? One moment harmless chitter chatter and talk of household pets the very next I was in a definite state of disarray and having phone sex with Rupert.
It was Rupert's idea and I thought why the hell not? Until he asked me what I was wearing and I said Eeyore pyjamas and started laughing. Rupert, being slightly more experienced with this type of thing, was able to admirably rescue the situation and what ensued was far from unpleasant. I will confess that I was less than bold and when Rupert quite firmly took charge I didn't mind at all. In fact it was probably best all round really, considering. Considering I was slightly bewildered and not a little befuddled.
Rupert is of the opinion that this an experiment worth repeating so I give you the Great Phlog Experiment of 2007 Part I, in fast forward minimal detail form. I'm afraid a blow by blow description is beyond my powers, this time. After we had established that we would indeed engage in phone sex and gotten over the hurdle of my Eeyore pyjamas. Oh, now I suddenly find myself unable to continue. The best idea might be to go off and close and your eyes and imagine... but it might be good to note that my fingers look inexplicably sausagey in this photo, they don't normally look like that, not sausagey at all.
Randwick belles have noodles
I made noodles! Noodles! Well, I helped make them. Not in the way that the cat helps me type by watching but in an actual stretch dough out into noodle shapes way of helping. But now it is extremely late at night and thinking faculties are waning.
I caught a bus to Randwick, I made noodles, I ate warm fruit salad but the best part was conversation. I am finding more and more moments of joy. Building this life of mine from the rubble, turning each dusty brick over to discover some kind stranger has painted the other side a most incredible aching sky blue.
I caught a bus to Randwick, I made noodles, I ate warm fruit salad but the best part was conversation. I am finding more and more moments of joy. Building this life of mine from the rubble, turning each dusty brick over to discover some kind stranger has painted the other side a most incredible aching sky blue.
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