Moment of terror at the Olympia Milk Bar
I've had one of those illuminating movie moments where everything becomes clear, all my structured bounded thinking is swept aside like a house of cards and I know the truth of the matter, and it is horrible. I know exactly what I want, down to the finest smallest detail of putting away the clean tea spoons after the washing up is done.
I am suddenly love sick and forlorn. I am astonished at how secret and dark I have kept this from myself and now I don't know what to do. It all started when I set off on my adventure to see the Olympia Milkbar. Grizelda came with me in sidekick fashion and we were happily striding along the streets on Stanmore towards Parramatta Rd when I thought oh, there is a widening of thought amongst these well-kept family homes. I had temporarily forgotten how much I hunger for a warm home full of love to come home to, every day. As we walked past hundreds of semis and federations and bungalows all with flowers in the garden and a short neat front path a chasm opened in my chest. I will never have this because I am unlovable.
The Olympia was dark, only one light works in the whole shop. There is indeed a wall of empty chocolate boxes and the faint smell of death. I bought a can of coke just because there was nothing else to buy. The diminished man in his neat jumper made me pay my two dollars before he reached under the counter for my can. The man wasn't ashen and creepy in a comic book way as I was expecting. He was a lighthouse of sorrow. He illuminated my fissures and exposed my ridiculous capacity for love wider than the horizon and now I am raging inside with all this love turning in loops with nowhere to go.
I phoned Elliot. I phoned Elliot and we talked about cheese making and vibrators and going to the movies and marshmallows and his decision to be s&c (sober and celibate). I am sober and celibate but unlike Elliot I secretly wish for the opposite. I wish for a house with built in bookshelves and a fireplace in the bathroom, I wish for wine and dinner and crawling into bed with someone who wears flannelette pyjamas. Someone who might pop out of bed in the morning, don dressing gown and slippers then come back with two mugs of tea. I feel like Jane Austen's Emma when she realises no one must marry Mr Knightly but her.
Now I have a choice. I can sink or swim for the desolate shore. Which will it be? I'm voting for sink but I've run out of poison.
I am suddenly love sick and forlorn. I am astonished at how secret and dark I have kept this from myself and now I don't know what to do. It all started when I set off on my adventure to see the Olympia Milkbar. Grizelda came with me in sidekick fashion and we were happily striding along the streets on Stanmore towards Parramatta Rd when I thought oh, there is a widening of thought amongst these well-kept family homes. I had temporarily forgotten how much I hunger for a warm home full of love to come home to, every day. As we walked past hundreds of semis and federations and bungalows all with flowers in the garden and a short neat front path a chasm opened in my chest. I will never have this because I am unlovable.
The Olympia was dark, only one light works in the whole shop. There is indeed a wall of empty chocolate boxes and the faint smell of death. I bought a can of coke just because there was nothing else to buy. The diminished man in his neat jumper made me pay my two dollars before he reached under the counter for my can. The man wasn't ashen and creepy in a comic book way as I was expecting. He was a lighthouse of sorrow. He illuminated my fissures and exposed my ridiculous capacity for love wider than the horizon and now I am raging inside with all this love turning in loops with nowhere to go.
I phoned Elliot. I phoned Elliot and we talked about cheese making and vibrators and going to the movies and marshmallows and his decision to be s&c (sober and celibate). I am sober and celibate but unlike Elliot I secretly wish for the opposite. I wish for a house with built in bookshelves and a fireplace in the bathroom, I wish for wine and dinner and crawling into bed with someone who wears flannelette pyjamas. Someone who might pop out of bed in the morning, don dressing gown and slippers then come back with two mugs of tea. I feel like Jane Austen's Emma when she realises no one must marry Mr Knightly but her.
Now I have a choice. I can sink or swim for the desolate shore. Which will it be? I'm voting for sink but I've run out of poison.
50 and a half hours later - I give up
At 30 hours the phone rang. It wasn't for me, it was some guy Grizelda had been chatting to on the internet. How does that work? I don't think I like the idea of that instant typey message thing. So I've given up waiting for someone to rescue me because its just not going to happen. I'm not even going to rescue myself, I'm just going to sit and hope to get struck by lightning, develop consumption or have a brain fever and die tragically on the Mores (Enmore, Stanmore I don't care which one) or the Downs (Camperdown, Marrickville they're both downhill). Unless of course someone does eventually phone me. I'll keep counting the hours until someone does, just to see.
At 49 and quarter hours my mobile rang. It was my brother telling me about a website that sells military hoodies. I rather want one but fear the general disdain of the Newtown locals would wear me down, they are very judgmental those Newtonites for all their dreadlocks, eye makeup and fancy pants. My brother and I have had some memorable occasions dressed in military gear. Once we donned gore-tex camouflage overalls and ran breathless and silent through the bush to the clearing and let off fireworks.
Another vivid memory is of us sitting in army hats at the bottom of the driveway carefully preparing and eating a ration pack as though we were in the trenches. Ration packs used to come with a tiny stand and fire starter style brick that you set on fire and warmed your canned food with.
Mystery
My hair has gone straight! Four days now it has been quite straight, as you can see in my photo. Maybe my hair's lost the will to curl, maybe its sad. I don't know what's going on. Its a genuine mystery.
The next person that phones me is going to rescue me. I don't care who it is or what they want. I am going to ask them to save me because I think I need saving. I am tired of being bold and determined and an international woman of action, this time I need someone to rescue me. I'm going to sit here until the phone rings, this could take a while.
The next person that phones me is going to rescue me. I don't care who it is or what they want. I am going to ask them to save me because I think I need saving. I am tired of being bold and determined and an international woman of action, this time I need someone to rescue me. I'm going to sit here until the phone rings, this could take a while.
Cracked
Caved, folded, snapped. That's what I did. Today I spent $5 on a zine. I was going to spend Sunday putting together a nice package of things and sketches and pictures to post to the author of the zine in the hope that it would be enough of a trade for them to send me a zine but when I walked past the shop that sells them I just wandered in and bought it. Seven days in to July and I broke the rules.
I've been trying to phone Elliot. I can't take any more of the silence. Three times I've phoned the rehab to be told he's at work or in an AA meeting. I'm beginning to think that he's avoiding me, I'm beginning to think that this July project is the worst thing I've ever decided to do.
What started very innocently has taken on a sinister quality. I am finding myself alone and without purpose, friends have withdrawn and I feel deserted. I know that at least one of my friends is trying to be helpful by not contacting me during July but I am bereft. I have somehow dismantled my happy busy self and all that is left is this new take on poverty and isolation. Things have been bleached and I am one step from rattle walking the hallway at home not knowing which rooms to attempt refuge in.
I've been trying to phone Elliot. I can't take any more of the silence. Three times I've phoned the rehab to be told he's at work or in an AA meeting. I'm beginning to think that he's avoiding me, I'm beginning to think that this July project is the worst thing I've ever decided to do.
What started very innocently has taken on a sinister quality. I am finding myself alone and without purpose, friends have withdrawn and I feel deserted. I know that at least one of my friends is trying to be helpful by not contacting me during July but I am bereft. I have somehow dismantled my happy busy self and all that is left is this new take on poverty and isolation. Things have been bleached and I am one step from rattle walking the hallway at home not knowing which rooms to attempt refuge in.
I'm walking down King St in the electric daylight
The sailors on shore leave stand out in their perfect white. I personally love an incomprehensibly sized boat and in particular an aircraft carrier, shame its an evil nuclear ship of destruction because I really do love aircraft carriers. A guy I know used to fly off an aircraft carrier, I have a photo of him looking completely calm and focussed, one second before they hit the go button and sling shot him out across the ocean. I used to practice being one of those signal people that do those crazy actions to launch a plane or helicopter, I've got the helicopter one down. I'm doing a demonstration right now. The important part is at the end you need to drop on to one knee with your head bent down and your arms folded across your chest or all else they will get chopped off.
So today. What happened? Ha! A writer writes, that's all you need to know because now it is time to walk up the street for some fig sorbet, surely the best food of them all.
So today. What happened? Ha! A writer writes, that's all you need to know because now it is time to walk up the street for some fig sorbet, surely the best food of them all.
Noli me tangere
Because today I am busy. Whole as a pie I tell you, whole as a pie. Now let me bend my head and write.
Who am I - or I - to demand oblivion?
I must go out to-morrow as the others do
And build the falling castle;
Which has never fallen, thanks
Not to any formula, red tape or institution,
Not to any creeds or banks,
But to the human animal's endless courage.
Spider, spider, spin
Your register and let me sleep a little,
Not now in order to end but to begin
The task begun so often.
from Autumn Journal by Louis Macneice
Who am I - or I - to demand oblivion?
I must go out to-morrow as the others do
And build the falling castle;
Which has never fallen, thanks
Not to any formula, red tape or institution,
Not to any creeds or banks,
But to the human animal's endless courage.
Spider, spider, spin
Your register and let me sleep a little,
Not now in order to end but to begin
The task begun so often.
from Autumn Journal by Louis Macneice
Unbelievable tragedy of epic proportions
I have developed an odd inability to have anything closer than one metre to my throat. If anything comes closer than that I start gagging. Walking home from work I had to carry my overly large satchel style bag, stuffed with one pair of shoes, most of a loaf of bread, a large dutch cream potato, half a manuscript and a magazine, clamped under my arm like some kind of crazy lady. I couldn't even have the strap on my shoulder or I would start gagging and have to stop and breathe and concentrate on not vomiting in front of all the suit wearing people. This is not good. Its a long way home from work, about four kilometres. I'm going to spend the evening constructing some kind of hover bag with homing technology and an on board champagne cooling compartment. Take that NASA.
People of Melbourne, get yourselves Sticky
I have never wanted to be in Melbourne more. My current obsession, Vanessa Berry, is having the Melbourne launch of her book Strawberry Hills Forever in Melbourne tomorrow afternoon. She is hosting a tea party and has been hunting out lovely teacups, taking them home and washing them nicely especially for the occasion.
So people of Melbourne go and get yourselves to Sticky on Friday afternoon at 5pm for sticky buns, laughter and the sound of teacups.
So people of Melbourne go and get yourselves to Sticky on Friday afternoon at 5pm for sticky buns, laughter and the sound of teacups.
D is for Dale who took lye by mistake or D es por Dale que bebi� lej� a por error.
Open the double locker in this clanking chest. They are hauling in the masses and puzzling them into shapes, working the pointed ends into the rubber heart is what I was thinking as I walked home. But then I thought, that's shit, don't write that, so I didn't. This Friday I have the privilege of spending a day, whole as a pie, tapping away at my manuscript. One problem. There are no words.
I started this silly blog to try and unblock the block. A way of letting words out without caring too much about them. An edit-free spontaneous place to put words. Perfect. Until now I am once again faced with my old nemesis, The Book. I had this crazy idea that if I put all these restrictions on myself that my focus would spiral back into the thinking writing part of my brain. A time-honoured tradition amongst writers. There was a French school of writers who would eliminate one or more letters from the alphabet to make themselves think harder about word choice. Another school of thought is that writing is work, same as all other work, chopping wood or making cakes. Work that can be worked at. Yet another school of thought is that writing is automatic, a sort of divine gift that the author has little control over. I say bollocks to all of them. Its much more complicated than that.
A lovely friend of mine, Rita, emailed me today to say that she likes my blog and can one day imagine someone sitting in a cafe being arty and reading a book written by me. That's the nicest thing anyone has ever said, better even than the man who told me I had spectacular breasts, better than when someone told me I was smart, better than when Elliot said I could make any hat look good, better than the one time my Dad said he was proud of me (graduation day from law school). But I'm not sure I can do it.
Studying law is a piece of piss compared with the cold dead weight of unwritten words trailing crazy opals in the dust behind me. Doing anything is a piece of piss compared to the terror of the next sentence. What will it be? Where will it come from? How the fuck am I going to have an idea?
All week I have been scattered and ridiculous, distracted even from my distractions. I can't concentrate on trying to concentrate. Even my computer at work is developing an anti-Dale forcefield of mythic proportions. I am almost certain that Robert, the new man at work, wants to murder me by jumping on my head and shouting For fuck's sake just shut the fuck up, but he is very polite and hasn't even frowned.
I have one more day to prepare myself. Wish me luck, I'm going to need it.
I started this silly blog to try and unblock the block. A way of letting words out without caring too much about them. An edit-free spontaneous place to put words. Perfect. Until now I am once again faced with my old nemesis, The Book. I had this crazy idea that if I put all these restrictions on myself that my focus would spiral back into the thinking writing part of my brain. A time-honoured tradition amongst writers. There was a French school of writers who would eliminate one or more letters from the alphabet to make themselves think harder about word choice. Another school of thought is that writing is work, same as all other work, chopping wood or making cakes. Work that can be worked at. Yet another school of thought is that writing is automatic, a sort of divine gift that the author has little control over. I say bollocks to all of them. Its much more complicated than that.
A lovely friend of mine, Rita, emailed me today to say that she likes my blog and can one day imagine someone sitting in a cafe being arty and reading a book written by me. That's the nicest thing anyone has ever said, better even than the man who told me I had spectacular breasts, better than when someone told me I was smart, better than when Elliot said I could make any hat look good, better than the one time my Dad said he was proud of me (graduation day from law school). But I'm not sure I can do it.
Studying law is a piece of piss compared with the cold dead weight of unwritten words trailing crazy opals in the dust behind me. Doing anything is a piece of piss compared to the terror of the next sentence. What will it be? Where will it come from? How the fuck am I going to have an idea?
All week I have been scattered and ridiculous, distracted even from my distractions. I can't concentrate on trying to concentrate. Even my computer at work is developing an anti-Dale forcefield of mythic proportions. I am almost certain that Robert, the new man at work, wants to murder me by jumping on my head and shouting For fuck's sake just shut the fuck up, but he is very polite and hasn't even frowned.
I have one more day to prepare myself. Wish me luck, I'm going to need it.
No shit Sherlock
The post "Dale for a day" was not written by Dale Slamma. Real Dale returning v. soon.
Dale for a day
Dale for a day by ......?
12.01
Sit up in bed with laptop on lap editing thing and trying to get to grips with wordpress, which is beyond you, and chatting to various people - so much more fun to do this sitting up in bed with no makeup on and hair in eccentric braid thing sticking up from top of head than actually having to be somewhere properly dressed and looking animated. Also, chatting in the privacy of your aloneness means that nobody can disapprovingly tell you you are smoking too much. Only one of these people is beloved lover going on about his other lover. Clearly you are not jealous in the slightest, as can be seen by your furrowed brow and uncomprehending: "But why?" when opposite scenario occurs.
2.00
Tell chattees you must go to sleep. Set alarm clock and note vaguely that you must be awake in less than three hours. Somewhere in the intervening time you have managed to bend wordpress to your will, and have cybersex, slightly freaking the other person out towards the end.
2.30
Door is flung open by daughter, who wishes to tell you about new car. Door is able to be flung open due to failure of feminism, which means that some months ago you managed to half get the lock out of the door in an attempt to change it in order to lock daughter out and safeguard clothes, money, makeup etc, and have ever since been plaintively begging daughter to order her musclebound boyfriend to yank the rest of it out. Even though you are slightly apprehensive, as last time you asked him to loosen a screw in the doorhandle, he yanked the whole doorhandle off. Anyway, you now have uncloseable bedroom door which means daughter is free to steal cigarettes and chat whenever she feels like it. You weren't asleep but pretend you were in a vain attempt to induce filial guilt.
3.00
Daughter having returned your phone which she has had for two days, you are able to read messages saying that you don't have to go into work at all. Triumphantly stay awake until 4.45.
5.00
Painfully reminded that you forgot to turn alarm off.
9.50
Wake up. Drink vast amounts of coffee before remembering that it is decaff, and therefore useless.
6.00
Have bath, with very little memory of what has happened in the intervening hours. In bath, accidentally shave off mosquito bite.
6.45
Have such incredibly strong orgasm you almost pass out. Actually, you do pass out.
7.00
Roused by daughter to go out and do something about something with her phone, which involves getting dressed etc. At some point are told that you are mean and horrible, reply by pointing out how incredibly badly brought up she is, are reminded you were sole bringer-upper. Buy coffee for tomorrow morning.
8.00
Happily collapse back into smoke-fugged, laptopped bedroom, exhausted by brief exposure to humanity.
8.02
Fucking child rings fucking doorbell because it is obviously easier for you to get up and open door than it is for her to get keys out of pocket. Tear her fucking head off and stuff it down her fucking throat. She doesn't notice, and goes out again.
8.10 - 11.59
Look forward to peaceful evening wondering whether to have toasted cheese or toasted cheese, intermittently clearing up dismembered baby bats and lizards that cat likes to bring in through your bedroom window.
12.01
Sit up in bed with laptop on lap editing thing and trying to get to grips with wordpress, which is beyond you, and chatting to various people - so much more fun to do this sitting up in bed with no makeup on and hair in eccentric braid thing sticking up from top of head than actually having to be somewhere properly dressed and looking animated. Also, chatting in the privacy of your aloneness means that nobody can disapprovingly tell you you are smoking too much. Only one of these people is beloved lover going on about his other lover. Clearly you are not jealous in the slightest, as can be seen by your furrowed brow and uncomprehending: "But why?" when opposite scenario occurs.
2.00
Tell chattees you must go to sleep. Set alarm clock and note vaguely that you must be awake in less than three hours. Somewhere in the intervening time you have managed to bend wordpress to your will, and have cybersex, slightly freaking the other person out towards the end.
2.30
Door is flung open by daughter, who wishes to tell you about new car. Door is able to be flung open due to failure of feminism, which means that some months ago you managed to half get the lock out of the door in an attempt to change it in order to lock daughter out and safeguard clothes, money, makeup etc, and have ever since been plaintively begging daughter to order her musclebound boyfriend to yank the rest of it out. Even though you are slightly apprehensive, as last time you asked him to loosen a screw in the doorhandle, he yanked the whole doorhandle off. Anyway, you now have uncloseable bedroom door which means daughter is free to steal cigarettes and chat whenever she feels like it. You weren't asleep but pretend you were in a vain attempt to induce filial guilt.
3.00
Daughter having returned your phone which she has had for two days, you are able to read messages saying that you don't have to go into work at all. Triumphantly stay awake until 4.45.
5.00
Painfully reminded that you forgot to turn alarm off.
9.50
Wake up. Drink vast amounts of coffee before remembering that it is decaff, and therefore useless.
6.00
Have bath, with very little memory of what has happened in the intervening hours. In bath, accidentally shave off mosquito bite.
6.45
Have such incredibly strong orgasm you almost pass out. Actually, you do pass out.
7.00
Roused by daughter to go out and do something about something with her phone, which involves getting dressed etc. At some point are told that you are mean and horrible, reply by pointing out how incredibly badly brought up she is, are reminded you were sole bringer-upper. Buy coffee for tomorrow morning.
8.00
Happily collapse back into smoke-fugged, laptopped bedroom, exhausted by brief exposure to humanity.
8.02
Fucking child rings fucking doorbell because it is obviously easier for you to get up and open door than it is for her to get keys out of pocket. Tear her fucking head off and stuff it down her fucking throat. She doesn't notice, and goes out again.
8.10 - 11.59
Look forward to peaceful evening wondering whether to have toasted cheese or toasted cheese, intermittently clearing up dismembered baby bats and lizards that cat likes to bring in through your bedroom window.
Dale for a day or D is for Dale who died of ennui
Its time to let someone else take over for a day. If you want to be Dale for a day go ahead and write the post, send it to me and I'll publish it cause whatever it is your Dale did for a day its got to be better than what I did.
Science was right! You really need to eat breakfast or you won't be able to concentrate. I found this out the hard way by spending an entire afternoon with my brain on holiday yet still having to do all my work. Unfortunate for the poor man who phoned to ask my advice about something and I asked him if he spelt his name the same way as the evil dictator.
I am perplexed about some things and desperately wanting to contact a few people to clarify some comments left on this blog but as they were all left by men I can't so I will have to remain perplexed. I am also very cross at having to pass on the opportunity to have some free apple tea delivered right to my door as the marketing opportunity was sent by a man. I love tea. I love apple tea (and tobacco). I love delivered right to my door. I am beginning to wonder how much is enough?
Email your Dale for a day post to dale.slamma@gmail.com and I'll publish it. If I really like it I might even do what your Dale did and see how my version works out.
Science was right! You really need to eat breakfast or you won't be able to concentrate. I found this out the hard way by spending an entire afternoon with my brain on holiday yet still having to do all my work. Unfortunate for the poor man who phoned to ask my advice about something and I asked him if he spelt his name the same way as the evil dictator.
I am perplexed about some things and desperately wanting to contact a few people to clarify some comments left on this blog but as they were all left by men I can't so I will have to remain perplexed. I am also very cross at having to pass on the opportunity to have some free apple tea delivered right to my door as the marketing opportunity was sent by a man. I love tea. I love apple tea (and tobacco). I love delivered right to my door. I am beginning to wonder how much is enough?
Email your Dale for a day post to dale.slamma@gmail.com and I'll publish it. If I really like it I might even do what your Dale did and see how my version works out.
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