Hard parts and jelly babies
I have the photos, I have the interview notes, I have eaten all the jelly babies. The jelly babies were Superman's idea and I think they helped at least a little. Everybody, except the cat, likes jelly babies.
Bent
I'm bent on remembering. I'm trying to catch something. I think I'm chasing the shape of myself. I trace it across clothes, beds and maps. My earliest memory is imagined. Cradled unsteadily on wheels, bound in blankets looking incorrectly at the hemispheric sky. A proper and tended garden, kind underfoot with loose dark soil. Fruit, flowers, chickens.
Things what will burn
First imagine a cheesy bossa nova casio keyboard style beat, now add acoustic guitar. Got it? Good now pause and say "Shit what will burn!". That's the theme tune to my imaginary television show called "Shit What Will Burn". Spencer, Madam Squeeze and I had our first imaginary taping of the show last night. We sat in front of the fire, I held up an object, Spencer played the theme tune then Madam and I said "things what will burn". I then placed said object into fire.
So far things what will burn include newspaper and the cardboard wrapper from a block of chilli chocolate. Good progress in imaginary television land with all the necessary typewriter isolation.
So far things what will burn include newspaper and the cardboard wrapper from a block of chilli chocolate. Good progress in imaginary television land with all the necessary typewriter isolation.
I work hard for it honey
Superman prevented me from marrying Steve Cannane, my photographer was late and they kept putting lemon instead of lime into my vodka. My shoes stuck permanently to the floor on no less than seven occasions, I had to remove my feet and a grow a new pair each time. I was plagued my hippies, can't abide hippies, and art kids that do not wash their hair or their armpits. I was teased about my plastic combs and the inexplicable excitement I experience each time the Freddie Mercury guy came into my line of sight (Freddie mercury guy is a young man, possibly twelve years old, who looks remarkably like Freddie Mercury) but overall a good time was had by all.
The first band I saw were good 73% of the time, that's not too bad. The Kill Devil Hills were adequate but The Holy Soul were outstanding. I'm headed over to my photographer's house, just as soon as I change out of my Eyeore pyjamas, to review the shots, based on what I saw on the tiny camera screen there's some great ones. All that remains is to arrange a time to meet Trent Marden from The Holy Soul to complete my interview. Well I think I also have to wee, I'll need to organise that too. A person simply can not wee wherever they are when the mood strikes them.
The first band I saw were good 73% of the time, that's not too bad. The Kill Devil Hills were adequate but The Holy Soul were outstanding. I'm headed over to my photographer's house, just as soon as I change out of my Eyeore pyjamas, to review the shots, based on what I saw on the tiny camera screen there's some great ones. All that remains is to arrange a time to meet Trent Marden from The Holy Soul to complete my interview. Well I think I also have to wee, I'll need to organise that too. A person simply can not wee wherever they are when the mood strikes them.
Coffee & cigarettes
One main point of conversation was what might happen if a person, by accident, happened to wee on their electric blanket in the middle of the night. Grizelda was sure that my mother might know but I said I would not ask her. Grizelda will now ask her mother this important question, Spencer and Madam Squeeze eagerly await the answer.
I've become a woman of luxury with my electric blanket and my plastic combs, the cat approves of both blanket and combs. Some people might not think that a cat and a woman should share a plastic comb but I don't mind, the cat seems cleaner than me most days. If it came to it I could wash the cat or the comb in the bathroom sink using soap and water.
I'll send myself to sleep thinking of postage stamps and the various hats worn by the Queen of England. I'll imagine my own currency with square coins stamped with pictures of the cat, a comb and an electric blanket. I'll dream about wheat and floating boats and sand dune horizons. I'll imagine the rhythm of the sea and microwaves and showers. I'll dream about jars of honey on a windowsill and you.
I've become a woman of luxury with my electric blanket and my plastic combs, the cat approves of both blanket and combs. Some people might not think that a cat and a woman should share a plastic comb but I don't mind, the cat seems cleaner than me most days. If it came to it I could wash the cat or the comb in the bathroom sink using soap and water.
I'll send myself to sleep thinking of postage stamps and the various hats worn by the Queen of England. I'll imagine my own currency with square coins stamped with pictures of the cat, a comb and an electric blanket. I'll dream about wheat and floating boats and sand dune horizons. I'll imagine the rhythm of the sea and microwaves and showers. I'll dream about jars of honey on a windowsill and you.
Google maps street view ruined my latent dreams of exploration
Superman has explained to me that I am a white person, he did this using a handy yet hilarious list, this has nothing to do with typewriters or maps.
I keep thinking about maps and all those mad explorers who perished because they followed valleys instead of ridges. Those mad explorers searching for an inland sea. The rivers must run for a reason but I 'm yet to figure it out, gravity doesn't hold much sway with me and the earth might after all be flat or hollow or floating madly in space like a moth at a light.
I've been exploring my explorations. I've got my maps pinned neatly to the wall, my religious green texta ritual highlighting and reducing my stepping thoughts. I'll photograph those maps one day and take out all the lines to see what shape I'm making on this earth but for now it closes my day and stains my fingers.
You can stare at the maps for hours and nothing will be revealed to you. There is no evidence of thought or dress or the rhythm of my footsteps, annotation is not my intention. Its the bare lines of being, things do not always end with revelations.
I keep thinking about maps and all those mad explorers who perished because they followed valleys instead of ridges. Those mad explorers searching for an inland sea. The rivers must run for a reason but I 'm yet to figure it out, gravity doesn't hold much sway with me and the earth might after all be flat or hollow or floating madly in space like a moth at a light.
I've been exploring my explorations. I've got my maps pinned neatly to the wall, my religious green texta ritual highlighting and reducing my stepping thoughts. I'll photograph those maps one day and take out all the lines to see what shape I'm making on this earth but for now it closes my day and stains my fingers.
You can stare at the maps for hours and nothing will be revealed to you. There is no evidence of thought or dress or the rhythm of my footsteps, annotation is not my intention. Its the bare lines of being, things do not always end with revelations.
You bloody fatherfucking arsehole
Its no good. I've looked in the mirror and I'm not Bob Dylan. I've checked in the fridge and I'm not Neil Young. I've taken off my underpants and thrown them on the floor, this is not a revolution.
I have wanted to be myself. I have wanted to be my own Bob Dylan one step ahead three steps to the side but I keep calling myself Judas. That moment when he turns and steps to the mic and cries "I don't believe you", that moment when he turns to his band with the instruction to play it fucking loud, that moment is every third beat of my heart.
I feel built up like a bulldozed paddock. I feel wound through with tarmac and macadam and the remnants of cobble stones. I want broad shoulders and calloused fingers, I want music to be my first language. I want cherry pie and a dishwasher. I want a long desk under my window. I want my telephone to be red.
I will not pretend to be a single building. I'm walking streets and running my hands through other people's lavender and wishing it was mine. I need land and a mid century typewriter.
I feel like a city.
I have wanted to be myself. I have wanted to be my own Bob Dylan one step ahead three steps to the side but I keep calling myself Judas. That moment when he turns and steps to the mic and cries "I don't believe you", that moment when he turns to his band with the instruction to play it fucking loud, that moment is every third beat of my heart.
I feel built up like a bulldozed paddock. I feel wound through with tarmac and macadam and the remnants of cobble stones. I want broad shoulders and calloused fingers, I want music to be my first language. I want cherry pie and a dishwasher. I want a long desk under my window. I want my telephone to be red.
I will not pretend to be a single building. I'm walking streets and running my hands through other people's lavender and wishing it was mine. I need land and a mid century typewriter.
I feel like a city.
Twelve kinds of luxury
Free cigarettes from Bangkok, an electric blanket, some cushions, Chuck E Weiss, a brand new plastic comb and a glass of water. That's twelve kinds of luxury right there. I am against the colour orange, dirt orange, brown orange, earth orange, tree orange. I'm banning orange for the foreseeable future. Orange caught me with my gloves down, that was a boxing analogy.
Last night I saw Colonel Funtastico at The Empire Hotel. I wanted, very badly, to ask him to change his name from colonel to captain. There was a cowgirl with a particularly pink nipple, it might have been the stage lights but I'm not sure. I wasn't supposed to be able to see the nipple, it escaped without warning, let's be clear about what kind of cowgirl she was, it was the outer space kind and not the stripper kind, those being the two main types of cowgirl.
I am thinking about The Crossroads Pact, or was it a challenge? I am unsure. Last night after the hats, nipple, colonel and Benito Superman and I ate unsatisfactory cake at an unsatisfactory cafe. I was tempted, for a moment, in defiance of having had a marvellous time to draw to me all that glittering dark and sink somewhere below the ice but is difficult to be ridiculous with Superman. He has many anti-ridiculous qualities, this does not inhibit the spaz, let us also be clear about that.
Last night I saw Colonel Funtastico at The Empire Hotel. I wanted, very badly, to ask him to change his name from colonel to captain. There was a cowgirl with a particularly pink nipple, it might have been the stage lights but I'm not sure. I wasn't supposed to be able to see the nipple, it escaped without warning, let's be clear about what kind of cowgirl she was, it was the outer space kind and not the stripper kind, those being the two main types of cowgirl.
I am thinking about The Crossroads Pact, or was it a challenge? I am unsure. Last night after the hats, nipple, colonel and Benito Superman and I ate unsatisfactory cake at an unsatisfactory cafe. I was tempted, for a moment, in defiance of having had a marvellous time to draw to me all that glittering dark and sink somewhere below the ice but is difficult to be ridiculous with Superman. He has many anti-ridiculous qualities, this does not inhibit the spaz, let us also be clear about that.
Cushion my blow
In no particular order, things that are worse than an arm to use as a pillow:
shoe
spike
lake
volcano
fire
dead and decaying ordinary household rat
dead, decaying and collapsing carcass of a cow
mandarins
drill bit
shoe
spike
lake
volcano
fire
dead and decaying ordinary household rat
dead, decaying and collapsing carcass of a cow
mandarins
drill bit
Shall I cry hallelujah?
The differences between anything insurmountable and obvious, negligible. Cry Jolene cry hallelujah and the answers will come back the same. I'm feeling the fall of my human race but either one of those things will do. I came out of an absurdest den wearing a white spangled fur-trimmed cowboy hat staring at Superman in his gold opalescent cowboy hat. The hats were thrown as plates by outerspace cowboys under the direction of Benito Di Fonzo but it wasn't his fault. My five dollar dinner tasted like five dollars, I'm crunching governments in my teeth. This here is nothing but typing for the clatter of words.
I'm headed down the highway. I'm headed down the highway. That thought isn't going anywhere. This is the decision to type without reason without pausing for the bell that signals thought. This is the result of typewriters and the purposeful arranging of sound onto sound onto sound. You can build something that way but paper cuts landscape into fingers, so personal an invasion. I didn't invent the train, this does not prevent me from riding on them. Oh cows. Grass balm and how fat the river sits at Emu Plains molten glass green but without proper reason for being. I walked there once and wondered something about frogs or termites or the burrowed fighting for flesh.
I can't put my finger on it. Something shifts and Superman said he was like Bob Dylan with no answers and Newtown was empty and the coffee unfamiliar. There's sugar in blood and beheadings. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it, now I'm German and ancient cause Superman's reading Goethe and god it seeps across the room. Shall I cry hallelujah? I'm awake without fields or the awareness of the stopping of time. I'm shaking like coffee. So you think you can tell? Can you tell a green field? Ah I'm typing ether and airwaves and the unbalanced end of last year's mixtape. I'm making walk on parts in my war. Did I tell you that I'm fighting myself. Spider, spider.
Unzip. Unzip inhibitions with purpose. This is a Goethe commitment. I will commit to something happening. You don't know what it is do you Mr Jones? Shall I cry hallelujah? It isn't sordid but it happened none the less. I know baby just how you feel. Can you see me standing with my back against the record machine? Don't even try to describe it.
I'm headed down the highway. I'm headed down the highway. That thought isn't going anywhere. This is the decision to type without reason without pausing for the bell that signals thought. This is the result of typewriters and the purposeful arranging of sound onto sound onto sound. You can build something that way but paper cuts landscape into fingers, so personal an invasion. I didn't invent the train, this does not prevent me from riding on them. Oh cows. Grass balm and how fat the river sits at Emu Plains molten glass green but without proper reason for being. I walked there once and wondered something about frogs or termites or the burrowed fighting for flesh.
I can't put my finger on it. Something shifts and Superman said he was like Bob Dylan with no answers and Newtown was empty and the coffee unfamiliar. There's sugar in blood and beheadings. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it, now I'm German and ancient cause Superman's reading Goethe and god it seeps across the room. Shall I cry hallelujah? I'm awake without fields or the awareness of the stopping of time. I'm shaking like coffee. So you think you can tell? Can you tell a green field? Ah I'm typing ether and airwaves and the unbalanced end of last year's mixtape. I'm making walk on parts in my war. Did I tell you that I'm fighting myself. Spider, spider.
Unzip. Unzip inhibitions with purpose. This is a Goethe commitment. I will commit to something happening. You don't know what it is do you Mr Jones? Shall I cry hallelujah? It isn't sordid but it happened none the less. I know baby just how you feel. Can you see me standing with my back against the record machine? Don't even try to describe it.
Emu Plains and the mystery of missing Superman
This is terrible. I have been awake for about an hour, I am reporting to you from Superman's house. Its nearly ten am on Saturday morning and Superman is nowhere to be found. He got up in the middle of the night and did not return. I was awake enough to know that someone was making the sound of footsteps on a mattress then I rolled over and made attempt number five hundred and twelve to become comfortable.
It took me some time to work up the courage to leave the blankets and find the toilet. I wasn't sure just how cold this floor was going to feel under my feet. I knew where the toilet was so I set about navigating there. I'm staying in a room that opens directly off the kitchen, odd place for a bedroom. The kitchen here at Emu is almost supernaturally clean, in fact the whole house, hang on, I'm going to go and run my fingers along some furniture. No dust! The insides of the kitchen cupboards are organised with military precision, if tupperware ladies were the military, that would explain quite a few things I think.
I spent half an hour searching for coffee this morning. I found tea and green tea which is nice but its not fucking coffee. I have no idea where the nearest cafe would be. I had a look out the front and am sorry to report that I am surrounded, houses, cars, front lawns, children riding bikes with sunshine on their fucking shoulders, not one of these things produces coffee.
My next mission is to investigate as to whether I will be able to leave the house and then let myself back in. There is no sign of Superman's keys, his car is here but not his keys, his stuff is all here, in fact I am looking at this wallet. I might try and sneak out into the backyard for a cigarette.
There's a door that opens directly from the bedroom to the backyard. There is no grass in the backyard, its a paved paradise with three separate seating areas, a swimming pool and a bbq all surrounded by immaculate tropical gardens. I found the macadamia tree but not having a hammer nor a pocket oven ate no macadamia nuts. A cat named Casserole bailed me up by the clothes line where I was sucking down a cigarette in the sunlight. The sun always shines stronger out at Emu.
There are three doors from the backyard into the house, the cat showed me which one was unlocked and contained both cat bowl and cat food. I fed the cat but he did not produce any coffee. There are six doors from the room with the kitchen in it. I went through all six but still did not find any coffee. There are a series of closed doors at the end of a hallway but I'm not game to go through them, the cat looked at me wisely when I informed him of my decision. It is possible that Superman is behind one of the doors but that's only a possibility.
I'm considering going next door with a mug and begging for a spoonful of instant coffee. I'm considering changing out of my pyjamas and Superman's old man slippers but I'm not sure that would make it any more likely for the unknown neighbour to produce a spoonful of coffee. I tried phoning Rita for advice on where to look for coffee. Rita did not answer the phone. I was pretty sure that Ronita has them up at the crack of dawn each day but just maybe she's old enough to have figured out Saturdays.
I'm thinking about going home. This here is a no good situation. There is no fucking coffee in here, the toliet wall does not reach all the way to the ceiling and I have no idea where to look for a clean towel just in case I wanted to shower. The food is unidentifiable in its military containers. I'm cold, hungry, my back hurts from the strange bed and Superman is nowhere to be found. Here are my coordinates, organise a sky hook.
It took me some time to work up the courage to leave the blankets and find the toilet. I wasn't sure just how cold this floor was going to feel under my feet. I knew where the toilet was so I set about navigating there. I'm staying in a room that opens directly off the kitchen, odd place for a bedroom. The kitchen here at Emu is almost supernaturally clean, in fact the whole house, hang on, I'm going to go and run my fingers along some furniture. No dust! The insides of the kitchen cupboards are organised with military precision, if tupperware ladies were the military, that would explain quite a few things I think.
I spent half an hour searching for coffee this morning. I found tea and green tea which is nice but its not fucking coffee. I have no idea where the nearest cafe would be. I had a look out the front and am sorry to report that I am surrounded, houses, cars, front lawns, children riding bikes with sunshine on their fucking shoulders, not one of these things produces coffee.
My next mission is to investigate as to whether I will be able to leave the house and then let myself back in. There is no sign of Superman's keys, his car is here but not his keys, his stuff is all here, in fact I am looking at this wallet. I might try and sneak out into the backyard for a cigarette.
There's a door that opens directly from the bedroom to the backyard. There is no grass in the backyard, its a paved paradise with three separate seating areas, a swimming pool and a bbq all surrounded by immaculate tropical gardens. I found the macadamia tree but not having a hammer nor a pocket oven ate no macadamia nuts. A cat named Casserole bailed me up by the clothes line where I was sucking down a cigarette in the sunlight. The sun always shines stronger out at Emu.
There are three doors from the backyard into the house, the cat showed me which one was unlocked and contained both cat bowl and cat food. I fed the cat but he did not produce any coffee. There are six doors from the room with the kitchen in it. I went through all six but still did not find any coffee. There are a series of closed doors at the end of a hallway but I'm not game to go through them, the cat looked at me wisely when I informed him of my decision. It is possible that Superman is behind one of the doors but that's only a possibility.
I'm considering going next door with a mug and begging for a spoonful of instant coffee. I'm considering changing out of my pyjamas and Superman's old man slippers but I'm not sure that would make it any more likely for the unknown neighbour to produce a spoonful of coffee. I tried phoning Rita for advice on where to look for coffee. Rita did not answer the phone. I was pretty sure that Ronita has them up at the crack of dawn each day but just maybe she's old enough to have figured out Saturdays.
I'm thinking about going home. This here is a no good situation. There is no fucking coffee in here, the toliet wall does not reach all the way to the ceiling and I have no idea where to look for a clean towel just in case I wanted to shower. The food is unidentifiable in its military containers. I'm cold, hungry, my back hurts from the strange bed and Superman is nowhere to be found. Here are my coordinates, organise a sky hook.
Embargoed - things that definitely did not happen
You can tell when I'm carrying a secret, I've got that square television under my jumper shape going on and I'm stepping like my shoes are tied together so I'll frame it like this. My friend did not come over with two new as yet unreleased albums. I'll slip on one them and say he rhymes with Mex Terkins because mentioning the other album would lead to certain death, my certain death for a start with a domino back through journalism.
My friend sipped at his tea then pointed his pointy finger at me saying "You better not write about this on that blog of yours Slamma". He put his cup down then crossed his legs, I turned up the volume, just a little, while I wondered about how to get away with writing about it.
I'm sitting here with the cat looking at me disapprovingly, I'm counting out the wasted hours of my life while the calculator goes mad and I'm adding up to nothing. Its lucky I'm no fucking accountant, I'm not quite ready to take my place in the crowd.
My friend sipped at his tea then pointed his pointy finger at me saying "You better not write about this on that blog of yours Slamma". He put his cup down then crossed his legs, I turned up the volume, just a little, while I wondered about how to get away with writing about it.
I'm sitting here with the cat looking at me disapprovingly, I'm counting out the wasted hours of my life while the calculator goes mad and I'm adding up to nothing. Its lucky I'm no fucking accountant, I'm not quite ready to take my place in the crowd.
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