One of seven possible reasons and the dandelion shadow of El Alamein
Possible Reason One. Somebody snipped the lightning rod in two. It used to be there buzzing and smelling and burning cracks through other ties. It was a sure fire thing. A reliably electric connection of eyes, ears, memories and the transmission to fingers. Today I think of it in cloud form free-floating and gone but it used to rub at my ankles like irons.
I traversed this goddamn city from one end to the other and it was beautiful. I found James Joyce scuffed in a pamphlet under the dandelion shadow of El Alamein. I paid two dollars to hold it in my hands and my handbag. It sat next to the two plates of fish and chips we shared between the three of us. I was tempted to smear grease on it to lessen the unbearable sense of having unearthed a treasure.
It has been a while since I've walked through The Cross. Been a while since my feet followed my eyes. I was searching for a way to jump off the page and stand in the streets of novels and poems. The Cross felt like a tree house. Ever present elevation and movement of air. Long shadows and a built feeling solid and enduring with a canopy of leaves. Newtown feels like a sketch now.
Rich men wear shorts on Sunday in Rushcutters Bay. I despise them for their rock hewn foundations and the combination of sandals and elderly dogs. I sat a on a sea wall in the sun. I bent my head and stared through the bottle green harbour to white sand below. This is a harbour city but I had forgotten the bouyancy of boats and the tidal pull of salt air. Things swim with purpose here.
I was ordered to take off my boots on the steps at Manly Beach. We stood in a row pulling off our boots and stuffing our socks into our pockets. It seems all three of us have now taken to the regular wearing of knee length stripy socks. Madam Squeeze frolicked in the sand, running in circles and waving her arms. I made an uncertain line for the water stepping over bluebottles and trying to remember the remedy for stings. The ocean was cold, we arrived there by accident, taking a wrong turn and crossing the bridge in Spencer's big old car.
There was more to this day, the lightning rod may have been snipped in two but I remain faithful to the idea that this is only one of seven possible reasons.
I traversed this goddamn city from one end to the other and it was beautiful. I found James Joyce scuffed in a pamphlet under the dandelion shadow of El Alamein. I paid two dollars to hold it in my hands and my handbag. It sat next to the two plates of fish and chips we shared between the three of us. I was tempted to smear grease on it to lessen the unbearable sense of having unearthed a treasure.
It has been a while since I've walked through The Cross. Been a while since my feet followed my eyes. I was searching for a way to jump off the page and stand in the streets of novels and poems. The Cross felt like a tree house. Ever present elevation and movement of air. Long shadows and a built feeling solid and enduring with a canopy of leaves. Newtown feels like a sketch now.
Rich men wear shorts on Sunday in Rushcutters Bay. I despise them for their rock hewn foundations and the combination of sandals and elderly dogs. I sat a on a sea wall in the sun. I bent my head and stared through the bottle green harbour to white sand below. This is a harbour city but I had forgotten the bouyancy of boats and the tidal pull of salt air. Things swim with purpose here.
I was ordered to take off my boots on the steps at Manly Beach. We stood in a row pulling off our boots and stuffing our socks into our pockets. It seems all three of us have now taken to the regular wearing of knee length stripy socks. Madam Squeeze frolicked in the sand, running in circles and waving her arms. I made an uncertain line for the water stepping over bluebottles and trying to remember the remedy for stings. The ocean was cold, we arrived there by accident, taking a wrong turn and crossing the bridge in Spencer's big old car.
There was more to this day, the lightning rod may have been snipped in two but I remain faithful to the idea that this is only one of seven possible reasons.
I can assure you sir that I have no profession; I am a gentleman
It is a strange thing to suddenly realise that I am in fact Mr Darcy and not, as I had earlier suspected, Elizabeth Bennett.
Thinking but not clearly
I can't work out which way is inside out. It's not a walking through doors phenomenon but more like a clicking in and out of society. The other day I was walking home from having coffee with Spencer. I was hungry and sorely tempted to indulge in a little phantom food as I cruised by my favourite Turkish restaurant. Phantom food is, for the uninitiated, food left on plates by wasteful diners. There was half a pide and a whole bowl of dip sitting on the outside corner table. I thought it would be so easy, just so easy to stoop a little and score myself a free and delicious dinner without breaking stride but I didn't do it because it would have been one of those inside out moments where I cross and uncross lines by stealing bin-bound food then taking it home to heat it in the microwave and eat it off a nice clean plate.
I had a strange job interview on Monday. I chatted with the lovely woman for half an hour then was given a red plastic crate full of things and an hour and a half to write convincing and creative copy about each item in the box. I hopped off the bus somewhere in the middle of the city on my way home, bought a coffee and sat a while watching people hurry past until the hurry got into my bones and I started walking down the street as fast as I could for no reason at all. A man in a suit smiled at me and I was shocked. Men in suits ordinarily look right through me, it took me a moment to remember that I was dressed like an office person with a suit jacket buttoned neatly over my ironed dress.
Gigs, parties and the business of the creative effort - it's a time thing.
I had a strange job interview on Monday. I chatted with the lovely woman for half an hour then was given a red plastic crate full of things and an hour and a half to write convincing and creative copy about each item in the box. I hopped off the bus somewhere in the middle of the city on my way home, bought a coffee and sat a while watching people hurry past until the hurry got into my bones and I started walking down the street as fast as I could for no reason at all. A man in a suit smiled at me and I was shocked. Men in suits ordinarily look right through me, it took me a moment to remember that I was dressed like an office person with a suit jacket buttoned neatly over my ironed dress.
Gigs, parties and the business of the creative effort - it's a time thing.
Wild things
It would be fair to say that I have a high quality crush on Liam Linley's electric blue snakeskin boots. I determined this at 4am in an alley behind Radio Man's house. Liam kissed me chastely on the cheek then ran down the road carrying his guitar case above his head and prancing like a pony.
Liam appears to be wearing white shoes in this video but I live in hope that soon there will be a video of the blue ones.
Oh yes, the reason I spent the entire weekend drooling after Liam's boots is because the Bowerbirds were in Sydney to launch their split 7" with The Holy Soul. It's a pretty little record with cover art by Rui Pereira (formerly of The Drones but that's a whole other story) I highly recommend buying one.
Liam appears to be wearing white shoes in this video but I live in hope that soon there will be a video of the blue ones.
Oh yes, the reason I spent the entire weekend drooling after Liam's boots is because the Bowerbirds were in Sydney to launch their split 7" with The Holy Soul. It's a pretty little record with cover art by Rui Pereira (formerly of The Drones but that's a whole other story) I highly recommend buying one.
Further doings after red wine and codeine
The literature on not fucking sleeping advises me to write down whatever is in my head instead of lying in bed and thinking. So here is the unabridged contents of my head at 2am. I am quite sure that it will be very boring.
Motor skills greatly inhibited. Walking sideways easier than forward yet sleep still further away than if not yet invented. Have double checked bathroom and seems that either I did take the tablets or they vanished. The swallowing of them seems more likely, this theory greatly enhanced by smeared gormless drugged look on face when I looked in the mirror. Let it be known that valerian is for losers and never did anyone any good, not even the poor copywriter paid a pittance to write the boring and vague claims on the side of the jar. That is why I have embarked on my bold experiment.
Spencer advised me not to drink wine and take codeine as a remedy for sleeplessness, that and to take a bus or a taxi home so that he didn't find me three hours later dead on a road somewhere. Spencer is usually right about things but not this time, oh no. I walked home to aid the wearying process. I drank the wine. I swallowed the codeine but see Spencer I am not dead. Nowhere near it.
Heartbeat possibly irregular. More likely that my counting skills have become irregular. What I wouldn't give for Creamboy's stethoscope about now, just to hear the strange pulse that animates my body. Nothing is happening on the internet. Reading now impossible due to slight bleariness of vision. The cat is nowhere to be seen, suspect sleeping under low piece of furniture like the dirty hairy sausage thief that she is.
If Sherlock Holmes were here I would wrestle the morphine from his strangely strong hands and take it myself. If Sherlock were here he would not be able to identify my profession due to the invention of computers although it is true that my fingers are generally ink stained from my habit of writing with ink and nib. I do this by candlelight because of the nature of my desk. It is old, so old that there are three generations worth of stationery locked safe in its ornate drawers. If Sherlock were here I would kiss him just to see what he would do. I suspect he would jump backwards and declare "Madam! Come to your senses" or some such tripe.
If I was Sherlock I would kiss Watson. Clearly there is no other person meant for the detestable Mr Holmes, he does not seem to desire the company of a lady. I suspect it is the gentlemen he prefers. If I was Watson I would run away with Lestrade and open a bed and breakfast near Cornwall. Lestrade would mange the B&B and I would claim a lofty room overlooking the ocean and sit at my desk and write. If I was Lestrade I would declare my undying love for the other police detective, whatever his name is. We would run away to Paris and eat tiny beautiful cakes together every morning for breakfast.
I will now examine the gentle art of writing about saucepans. I have just spilled my cigarette filters all over the floor. Taking this as an indication that the drugs are working. Why is the word 'internet' considered a proper noun? Why? Chair is not a proper noun nor is car or father, unless referring specifically to one's own father as a name. What in the hell is going on? Who decides what is and what is not a proper noun? And just how did Simon know my full name. Sure I have sat with him on more than one occasion but never had I had call to myself anything other than my first name and why did he shout my whole name in farewell as I walked out of the pub this early evening? Something odd is afoot. I will ask Spencer. He will know.
I will invent tobacco that is good for you. Smoking must in some way be good for you. I am sure of this. My hair is tangled and standing upright in ridiculous giant curls. There is no point to that thought. The Spatula is intolerable if she has been drinking beer. This fact should be in the encyclopedia. Grizelda's bedroom is extremely untidy, this also should be in an encyclopedia. Why oh why does Gemma live in Melbourne. Sure The Hive is grand and her friends excellent but it so far away. I can't walk there for coffee. Too far.
This line this line. It used to be the palest green. Why am I not delirious with drugs and alcohol? I have done my best. What is going on? Oh lord my brain has become impervious to mind altering substances. How can this be? I generally drink pink lemonade not alcoholic drinks. My drug taking days ended some years ago with the last flush of my stupid youth. It is not as though I could have worked up an immunity.
I keep thinking of the tall and strong man who pushed my right shoulder into the cold brick wall and smeared tenderly at my red lipstick with his broad rough thumb. His face was a question mark. My answer was no but now I'm not sure why. There is nothing better than a rugged man. with the exception of a nice cup of tea and little sit down followed by adding words to my manuscript. That is better than a rugged man. That is better than all things ever invented.
Why can't some people write? Sure they have mastered the alphabet but even this boring and stupid blog post is better than their rancid inaqequate scrawlings. Writing should be the first purpose of everyone. Then everything would be grand all over the world. Perhaps I should go on a murder spree? I will start with the writers of bad fan fiction then move on to bad fantasy authors, stupid old hacks who wouldn't know news if it latched on to their testicles and then ordinary members of the general public. If the drugs were working this might seem like a good idea but I can still tell that it is a bad idea to be going on murder sprees.
There was this guy called Tom Roberts who trained horses. He once mounted a horse that would not go forwards, to demonstrate how to overcome this obstacle he sat on the horse and gave a lecture to his students for some two hours. During this time the horse became anxious to move forwards but Captain Roberts would not permit it. By the time he was finished lecturing his work on the horse was done. He asked the students to observe, calmly signalled to the horse to move forwards in a walk, then trot and canter. The horse obliged most willingly. There is a lesson in there somewhere.
My riding students used to object when I prevented them from using anything other than an ordinary snaffle bit such as an eggbutt snaffle which is kind and soft on the horses mouth. Some students used to always want a pelham bit and did not appreciate when I pointed out that a pelham whilst customary for polo was a sign of inadequate riding skills for schooling and flatwork. Of course I used a double bridle for advanced work, generally only after good lateral work was established such as shoulder-in and renvers, a nice counter-canter and so forth. There are no horses in Newtown.
I miss the horse. I dream regularly of his final collapsing moments each time waking myself with heaving sobs. It has now been almost a decade since the horse. I thought that time would help but it appears not. This might be my one irreversible tragedy.
2:28 am. Nothing of consequence in head. Usual background hum of sentences for manuscript, ideas for articles but nothing else. No great stress or new tragedy. No pining for an absent lover, no regreat over recent misdeeds, no nothing of interest at all. No music, no poetry, no urgent desires. This has been a grand waste of time.
Come to think of it something strange did occur last night. I put my glass of water down on a road case in front of the sound desk. When I next picked it up to take a sip the water tasted like beer. That is very odd.
Motor skills greatly inhibited. Walking sideways easier than forward yet sleep still further away than if not yet invented. Have double checked bathroom and seems that either I did take the tablets or they vanished. The swallowing of them seems more likely, this theory greatly enhanced by smeared gormless drugged look on face when I looked in the mirror. Let it be known that valerian is for losers and never did anyone any good, not even the poor copywriter paid a pittance to write the boring and vague claims on the side of the jar. That is why I have embarked on my bold experiment.
Spencer advised me not to drink wine and take codeine as a remedy for sleeplessness, that and to take a bus or a taxi home so that he didn't find me three hours later dead on a road somewhere. Spencer is usually right about things but not this time, oh no. I walked home to aid the wearying process. I drank the wine. I swallowed the codeine but see Spencer I am not dead. Nowhere near it.
Heartbeat possibly irregular. More likely that my counting skills have become irregular. What I wouldn't give for Creamboy's stethoscope about now, just to hear the strange pulse that animates my body. Nothing is happening on the internet. Reading now impossible due to slight bleariness of vision. The cat is nowhere to be seen, suspect sleeping under low piece of furniture like the dirty hairy sausage thief that she is.
If Sherlock Holmes were here I would wrestle the morphine from his strangely strong hands and take it myself. If Sherlock were here he would not be able to identify my profession due to the invention of computers although it is true that my fingers are generally ink stained from my habit of writing with ink and nib. I do this by candlelight because of the nature of my desk. It is old, so old that there are three generations worth of stationery locked safe in its ornate drawers. If Sherlock were here I would kiss him just to see what he would do. I suspect he would jump backwards and declare "Madam! Come to your senses" or some such tripe.
If I was Sherlock I would kiss Watson. Clearly there is no other person meant for the detestable Mr Holmes, he does not seem to desire the company of a lady. I suspect it is the gentlemen he prefers. If I was Watson I would run away with Lestrade and open a bed and breakfast near Cornwall. Lestrade would mange the B&B and I would claim a lofty room overlooking the ocean and sit at my desk and write. If I was Lestrade I would declare my undying love for the other police detective, whatever his name is. We would run away to Paris and eat tiny beautiful cakes together every morning for breakfast.
I will now examine the gentle art of writing about saucepans. I have just spilled my cigarette filters all over the floor. Taking this as an indication that the drugs are working. Why is the word 'internet' considered a proper noun? Why? Chair is not a proper noun nor is car or father, unless referring specifically to one's own father as a name. What in the hell is going on? Who decides what is and what is not a proper noun? And just how did Simon know my full name. Sure I have sat with him on more than one occasion but never had I had call to myself anything other than my first name and why did he shout my whole name in farewell as I walked out of the pub this early evening? Something odd is afoot. I will ask Spencer. He will know.
I will invent tobacco that is good for you. Smoking must in some way be good for you. I am sure of this. My hair is tangled and standing upright in ridiculous giant curls. There is no point to that thought. The Spatula is intolerable if she has been drinking beer. This fact should be in the encyclopedia. Grizelda's bedroom is extremely untidy, this also should be in an encyclopedia. Why oh why does Gemma live in Melbourne. Sure The Hive is grand and her friends excellent but it so far away. I can't walk there for coffee. Too far.
This line this line. It used to be the palest green. Why am I not delirious with drugs and alcohol? I have done my best. What is going on? Oh lord my brain has become impervious to mind altering substances. How can this be? I generally drink pink lemonade not alcoholic drinks. My drug taking days ended some years ago with the last flush of my stupid youth. It is not as though I could have worked up an immunity.
I keep thinking of the tall and strong man who pushed my right shoulder into the cold brick wall and smeared tenderly at my red lipstick with his broad rough thumb. His face was a question mark. My answer was no but now I'm not sure why. There is nothing better than a rugged man. with the exception of a nice cup of tea and little sit down followed by adding words to my manuscript. That is better than a rugged man. That is better than all things ever invented.
Why can't some people write? Sure they have mastered the alphabet but even this boring and stupid blog post is better than their rancid inaqequate scrawlings. Writing should be the first purpose of everyone. Then everything would be grand all over the world. Perhaps I should go on a murder spree? I will start with the writers of bad fan fiction then move on to bad fantasy authors, stupid old hacks who wouldn't know news if it latched on to their testicles and then ordinary members of the general public. If the drugs were working this might seem like a good idea but I can still tell that it is a bad idea to be going on murder sprees.
There was this guy called Tom Roberts who trained horses. He once mounted a horse that would not go forwards, to demonstrate how to overcome this obstacle he sat on the horse and gave a lecture to his students for some two hours. During this time the horse became anxious to move forwards but Captain Roberts would not permit it. By the time he was finished lecturing his work on the horse was done. He asked the students to observe, calmly signalled to the horse to move forwards in a walk, then trot and canter. The horse obliged most willingly. There is a lesson in there somewhere.
My riding students used to object when I prevented them from using anything other than an ordinary snaffle bit such as an eggbutt snaffle which is kind and soft on the horses mouth. Some students used to always want a pelham bit and did not appreciate when I pointed out that a pelham whilst customary for polo was a sign of inadequate riding skills for schooling and flatwork. Of course I used a double bridle for advanced work, generally only after good lateral work was established such as shoulder-in and renvers, a nice counter-canter and so forth. There are no horses in Newtown.
I miss the horse. I dream regularly of his final collapsing moments each time waking myself with heaving sobs. It has now been almost a decade since the horse. I thought that time would help but it appears not. This might be my one irreversible tragedy.
2:28 am. Nothing of consequence in head. Usual background hum of sentences for manuscript, ideas for articles but nothing else. No great stress or new tragedy. No pining for an absent lover, no regreat over recent misdeeds, no nothing of interest at all. No music, no poetry, no urgent desires. This has been a grand waste of time.
Come to think of it something strange did occur last night. I put my glass of water down on a road case in front of the sound desk. When I next picked it up to take a sip the water tasted like beer. That is very odd.
Jump off a ledger
Now is the time for bold experiments. Full fathom five. I have not slept for five nights and six days. This madness will end in one hour when the codeine mixes with the red wine and I fall into a drugged stupor. It is not sensible but my sense left me three days ago at the beginning of this madness. I will take all possible drastic action that does not lead to certain death.
I attempted to talk things over with my doctor but getting an appointment with a doctor in the Inner West is like winning the lottery. There are thousands of doctors out west just waiting to treat children with sniffles or any walk in patient at all but I'd rather boil my head than travel out to the suburbs. Just what are those people thinking living in neat rows and driving everywhere in cars. It is a kind madness wanting that life. I can understand the appeal of the mountains but only then if you live in some kind of mountain splendor. My mother's house is almost ideal with its large grounds, towering trees and proximity to decorous cliffs but that hasn't got anything to do with the drastic act of sleeping.
I don't care if I don't sleep but fall into some other sort of unconscious state. I desire only the absence of wakefulness be it the green faerie or some other kind of beast. I have been researching the idea of bohemia. There is something powerful lurking under my notes and scrawlings I just need sleep to work out what it is. I've lined up my next set of interviews with frontmen from Syndey bands. They're a flighty lot these singers and songwriters. They walk the streets constantly wearing cardigans and jackets. They stand differently, walk differently, talk differently from the rest of the population. I wonder what came first, the limelight or the difference? I hope one day to find out but for now it's time to hit the shower before I turn into my own personal Elvis or hit my head on the tiles and turn The Peach into a crime scene.
I attempted to talk things over with my doctor but getting an appointment with a doctor in the Inner West is like winning the lottery. There are thousands of doctors out west just waiting to treat children with sniffles or any walk in patient at all but I'd rather boil my head than travel out to the suburbs. Just what are those people thinking living in neat rows and driving everywhere in cars. It is a kind madness wanting that life. I can understand the appeal of the mountains but only then if you live in some kind of mountain splendor. My mother's house is almost ideal with its large grounds, towering trees and proximity to decorous cliffs but that hasn't got anything to do with the drastic act of sleeping.
I don't care if I don't sleep but fall into some other sort of unconscious state. I desire only the absence of wakefulness be it the green faerie or some other kind of beast. I have been researching the idea of bohemia. There is something powerful lurking under my notes and scrawlings I just need sleep to work out what it is. I've lined up my next set of interviews with frontmen from Syndey bands. They're a flighty lot these singers and songwriters. They walk the streets constantly wearing cardigans and jackets. They stand differently, walk differently, talk differently from the rest of the population. I wonder what came first, the limelight or the difference? I hope one day to find out but for now it's time to hit the shower before I turn into my own personal Elvis or hit my head on the tiles and turn The Peach into a crime scene.
I am a mashwoman
I seem to have a habit of accidentally injuring famous people. The latest installment to my List Of Embarrassing Incidents happened in a doorway at The Annandale. I wasn't watching where I was going. I was talking to Spencer over my right shoulder as we squeezed through the narrow side of stage passage to go out the back. I'm not sure what I was going to say as I was distracted by the incredible stench coming from the men's toilets. What in the hell do they do in there? My best guess is that they wee into jars then stick the jars in microwaves to heat the wee before pouring hot wee into bain maries to further encourage the stench. There might also be poo involved but if there is then it is rancid poo. See, I am still distracted by the stench. I personally smelled like cigarettes and nannas but I did this on purpose by smoking cigarettes, applying a nanna perfume called "Safari" and wearing a red lipstick that smells like lipstick.
Did I mention that I haven't slept for four days? I am sure that insomnia caused my sore feet. Well it was either insomnia or the incessant walking I am doing in a bid to tire myself out. Ah yes, the celebrity mashing. I was squishing sideways through the doorway at the same time as a tall man but I was bumped and mashed into him. It was the sort of full frontal contact that usually occurs immediately before sex or even during but in this case I had my dress on, also jeans and underpants and socks and shoes. I looked up and croaked an embarrassed 'sorry'. He looked slightly puzzled but uttered 'that's cool' and continued on his way. It took a moment but when I realised who he was I turned around to look again but found only Spencer jumping up and down with excitement and yelling "That was Peter Buck!".
Beats the hell out of the time I headbutted Paul Mac but I really should mention that I have never smelled a more fragrant man than Paul Mac. There is the exception of Tex Perkins but that's a different kind of smell altogether because in the immortal words of Helen Razer "Tex is sex" and he smells like it, in a good way.
Did I mention that I haven't slept for four days? I am sure that insomnia caused my sore feet. Well it was either insomnia or the incessant walking I am doing in a bid to tire myself out. Ah yes, the celebrity mashing. I was squishing sideways through the doorway at the same time as a tall man but I was bumped and mashed into him. It was the sort of full frontal contact that usually occurs immediately before sex or even during but in this case I had my dress on, also jeans and underpants and socks and shoes. I looked up and croaked an embarrassed 'sorry'. He looked slightly puzzled but uttered 'that's cool' and continued on his way. It took a moment but when I realised who he was I turned around to look again but found only Spencer jumping up and down with excitement and yelling "That was Peter Buck!".
Beats the hell out of the time I headbutted Paul Mac but I really should mention that I have never smelled a more fragrant man than Paul Mac. There is the exception of Tex Perkins but that's a different kind of smell altogether because in the immortal words of Helen Razer "Tex is sex" and he smells like it, in a good way.
Whores
I like Whores. They have the genuine loose roll that's missing from too much music. They're young, unsigned and play mostly in the kind of dive that makes me wish I could wee standing up. Fortunately for the relative hygiene of my arse they are supporting The Holy Soul this Friday night at The Hopetoun.
The Whores recently convinced Spencer to wear his pretty dress, smear his face with makeup and dance seductively with a scarf. Here's proof.
The Whores recently convinced Spencer to wear his pretty dress, smear his face with makeup and dance seductively with a scarf. Here's proof.
Free(lance) at last
There is a difficulty of delicacy and balance. Those who live by the sword. I have been writing words. Not the happy slap blurting of the words in this place but planned and purposed words strung together in a recipe to make my daily bread. It taxes me. It's not like the magic of fishes and loaves.
It is a stupid bravery; standing still with your insides typed out and palms up waiting for the nod and the miracle digital handshake but I would not do anything else.
My other discovery is that of wordless noise and the vision of myself as an aging rocker. Unconscious harmonic movement of limbs, sometimes. To steal a line from Spencer I "drum like I'm falling down stairs", but that works just fine for me. Sarah, the magnificent drummer from Whores, has given me ample drunken instruction on the art of drumming to allow me for one moment to forget everything I ever thought of.
I felt like a moving beast with multiple pulsing hearts. Each thrash of a semi-coordinated limb marking out time territorially, pushing back everything except wordless sound. Moment to moment I fell in and out with the guitar. I moved from general creator of cacophony to originator of rhythm then seamlessly out back into the world of general noise. I lay down my sticks for a moment and grinned at Grizelda who looked ever so slightly shocked to find herself in a velvet draped, fully equipped and smoke hazed rehearsal space. She grinned and said 'keep going you're doing it', I collected my sticks, found a hole in the guitar sound and slipped back into that wordless place. Five minutes later I shook the sweat from my hair, raised my gaze above the ride cymbal and found that my limbs were moving of their own accord. Phil the guitarist looked across at me, nodded and mouthed the word 'yes'.
It is a stupid bravery; standing still with your insides typed out and palms up waiting for the nod and the miracle digital handshake but I would not do anything else.
My other discovery is that of wordless noise and the vision of myself as an aging rocker. Unconscious harmonic movement of limbs, sometimes. To steal a line from Spencer I "drum like I'm falling down stairs", but that works just fine for me. Sarah, the magnificent drummer from Whores, has given me ample drunken instruction on the art of drumming to allow me for one moment to forget everything I ever thought of.
I felt like a moving beast with multiple pulsing hearts. Each thrash of a semi-coordinated limb marking out time territorially, pushing back everything except wordless sound. Moment to moment I fell in and out with the guitar. I moved from general creator of cacophony to originator of rhythm then seamlessly out back into the world of general noise. I lay down my sticks for a moment and grinned at Grizelda who looked ever so slightly shocked to find herself in a velvet draped, fully equipped and smoke hazed rehearsal space. She grinned and said 'keep going you're doing it', I collected my sticks, found a hole in the guitar sound and slipped back into that wordless place. Five minutes later I shook the sweat from my hair, raised my gaze above the ride cymbal and found that my limbs were moving of their own accord. Phil the guitarist looked across at me, nodded and mouthed the word 'yes'.
Vote now
I met Spencer and Madam Squeeze on the steps of a church. Spencer was wearing eyeliner and Madam Squeeze was laughing about it. I think more men should wear more eyeliner more often but I guess that's a little hypocritical of me seeing as I never wear the stuff. Spencer also had traces of lipstick in his moustache. The makeup was leftover from yesterday, Spencer explained it was proving difficult to scrub off. He'd been wearing a dress and dancing in the dark for a music video for a friend's band. The theme of the video seems to have been transvestite zombies.
The three of us set about the serious business of lounging around the coffee houses of Newtown until well after midnight talking over things trivial, important and necessary. They are the parliament houses of my life, long live the coffee houses of Newtown.
The three of us set about the serious business of lounging around the coffee houses of Newtown until well after midnight talking over things trivial, important and necessary. They are the parliament houses of my life, long live the coffee houses of Newtown.
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