Madam Squeeze said I must have lime juice still stuck in my nose from when I tried to clean my fingers with a piece of lime and it went squirtily wrong but Spencer agreed with me, the mysterious fog descending like a dropped cloth over King St most definitely smelled of lemons. The fog appeared suddenly, as if a switch had been flicked and the whole world went soft focus. It wasn't there when I tripped out of Kelly's after drinking snake bites with the people I call the Psychonannies but it was everywhere when we emerged half an hour later with bellies full of hot soup. At first we were confused, thinking it must be steam from a street cleaner or that somewhere a raging bushfire was being doused with lemon juice.
Spencer swore at the fog in amazement, then he bowed and explained how boy scouts shake hands. We bobbed around like corks in the sea suddenly overjoyed at finding ourselves in a new landscape. I've never seen King St shrouded before. It always snakes the same clear path. I've hung meaning on every lamp post but tonight I was in new territory and I couldn't be happier.
I took the back streets home, losing my way momentarily, every brick, tile and street corner felt vague and unfamiliar. I came across Spike's brother dancing in the middle of the road, his unbuttoned coat billowing like a cloak. He was pretending to be Jack The Ripper but he looked more like that singing chimney sweep from Mary Poppins. He stopped dancing to talk to me but he was hopping from foot to foot. Periodically a happy noise would escape his lips and he'd start dancing all over again. When I walked away he started running down the road yelling joyful words, arms held out like an aeroplane.
I can hear the hollow calling of boats in one of those harbours. The Peach rocks blind and steady on top of this hill. It is warm inside and soft with furnishings but I'd much rather be out there, in the new landscape navigating the footpath like a submariner.
Sometimes I'll shoot like the farmers do
A little bird told me that you love me. I told that little bird that I don't really care.
Reviewinator gets reviewed - surprise!
Ocarina #2 is now available at my online shop.
The zine includes a morse code decoding chart and illustrations by The Spatula.
Here's what Vanessa Berry had to say about Ocarina #2.
The zine includes a morse code decoding chart and illustrations by The Spatula.
Here's what Vanessa Berry had to say about Ocarina #2.
It’s important to pay attention while reading this zine, because the words twist this way and that. The stories are heavily visual and interior, thick like thoughts, shooting off in many directions at once. There are constellations to absorb.
Read all of Vanessa's comments here.
Oh and if you'd prefer to trade for a copy of Ocarina #2 send your zine, letter or tiny present to me at PO Box 1003 Newtown NSW 2042.
Read all of Vanessa's comments here.
Oh and if you'd prefer to trade for a copy of Ocarina #2 send your zine, letter or tiny present to me at PO Box 1003 Newtown NSW 2042.
I write better when you're not here
She spat out 'That's not a very nice thing to say' like it hurt her mouth to have the words form on her soft tongue. She was bristling like a cat and trying to play the wounded card all at once like a confused echidna playing possum. I just stared at her in disbelief. She kept repeating herself as though it would change my mind or render my words obsolete. I stared at her in disbelief hoping that she would become bored and walk away but she was bristling and puffing and demanding an answer.
She was dissatisfied with my explanation that it was a statement of fact and not a judgment on her person. She started yelling 'That's bullshit'. It was here that I stopped her and enquired as to just when was the last time she wrote a work of fiction. She then tried talking kindly to me, trying to coax out what was wrong enough to make me so hurtful. I thought hell no lady, if you think if it was hurtful to say that I write better when you're not here you're going to pop an artery when I tell you that I am trying to ignore you because I am sounding out a sentence for my manuscript in my head to see if the words fit in a way that sounds right to me.
Eventually she went away but now I'm thinking about it on repeat. Why on earth would someone be offended by the idea that I write better when they're not here. It seems so obvious to me. So obvious that it didn't require uttering to be brought to anyone's attention. So obvious and natural that it is impossible to be offensive. Had she secretly hoped to be the one exception to the ordinary rule? It is all very strange.
She was dissatisfied with my explanation that it was a statement of fact and not a judgment on her person. She started yelling 'That's bullshit'. It was here that I stopped her and enquired as to just when was the last time she wrote a work of fiction. She then tried talking kindly to me, trying to coax out what was wrong enough to make me so hurtful. I thought hell no lady, if you think if it was hurtful to say that I write better when you're not here you're going to pop an artery when I tell you that I am trying to ignore you because I am sounding out a sentence for my manuscript in my head to see if the words fit in a way that sounds right to me.
Eventually she went away but now I'm thinking about it on repeat. Why on earth would someone be offended by the idea that I write better when they're not here. It seems so obvious to me. So obvious that it didn't require uttering to be brought to anyone's attention. So obvious and natural that it is impossible to be offensive. Had she secretly hoped to be the one exception to the ordinary rule? It is all very strange.
Purple reign
He was wearing a unitard in ideal purple and I couldn't stop staring. Ever since listerine started advertising their new pruple listerine I have wanted nothing more than be the precise same shade of purple. Standing next to purple unitard man was a woman wearing a dress made out of playing cards but the next woman over, white unitard and swimming cap, was talking to Paul Mac. I stepped carefully down off the wooden pontoon and walked away. Paul Mac was the most famous in the room and if the past is anything to go by then he was in horrible danger of being mildly injured in an unlikely incident caused by me. He wasn't even wearing anything remotely interesting, except for sunglasses, at night. I walked carefully over to Spencer and Madam Squeeze, matching cowboy outfits, and watched the purple unitard man through the small gap in between their giant cowboy hats.
I once performed an awkward intellectual swan dive into purple, covering every spare space in daubed patches of mixed pigments trying to create the perfect purple. I interviewed everyone from colour consultants and historians to church curates in an attempt to understand the historical significance of the colour. Years later I sat spellbound while Tony Robinson smashed molluscs and watched it ferment into a stinking dye. He had a more difficult time than I did with my pots of blue and red pigments sitting precious as gemstones in neat rows on my studio floor. I had forgotten about that strange and experimental month until I found myself greedily eyeing advertisements for listerine. Tony Robison came closer than listerine did to my long forgotten ideal hue but it seems my personal ideal purple is subject to change.
Trotting home from the shops with my new bottle of ideal purple made me indescribably happy. The bottle was sitting on top of my other shopping (underpants and plums) inside a purple shopping bag. It took me two days to break the seal on the bottle. On the third day I scrubbed myself clean, washed my hair, brushed my teeth, climbed into my new purple underpants then ripped off the plastic seal and measured out the correct amount in a medicine glass. As I swished the strange burning but pleasantly minty liquid around my mouth I experienced the incredible sensation that if this is as good as it gets then I couldn't be happier.
I once performed an awkward intellectual swan dive into purple, covering every spare space in daubed patches of mixed pigments trying to create the perfect purple. I interviewed everyone from colour consultants and historians to church curates in an attempt to understand the historical significance of the colour. Years later I sat spellbound while Tony Robinson smashed molluscs and watched it ferment into a stinking dye. He had a more difficult time than I did with my pots of blue and red pigments sitting precious as gemstones in neat rows on my studio floor. I had forgotten about that strange and experimental month until I found myself greedily eyeing advertisements for listerine. Tony Robison came closer than listerine did to my long forgotten ideal hue but it seems my personal ideal purple is subject to change.
Trotting home from the shops with my new bottle of ideal purple made me indescribably happy. The bottle was sitting on top of my other shopping (underpants and plums) inside a purple shopping bag. It took me two days to break the seal on the bottle. On the third day I scrubbed myself clean, washed my hair, brushed my teeth, climbed into my new purple underpants then ripped off the plastic seal and measured out the correct amount in a medicine glass. As I swished the strange burning but pleasantly minty liquid around my mouth I experienced the incredible sensation that if this is as good as it gets then I couldn't be happier.
Batten down the hatches
Spencer said I should lay low for a while. At first I thought laying low meant shutting things off, crawling back into confined spaces but I was wrong. Laying low means long afternoons writing longhand, drinking coffee and milkshakes with the people who mean the most. It means chipping at walls to find calm spaces. I'm subsiding into a lit room lined with books and one uncluttered desk. There is space in here for everything that matters like new words scrawled on lined paper and tea and sandwiches on a tray. Laying low means shutting out the bullshit and digging foundations for the things that are good. It seems strange that I didn't notice how all of this was already here in The Peach.
Sometimes it takes an outside hand to bring me to a halt. Sometimes it takes a kind voice to tell me to stop kicking. Sometimes it takes a plane crash to notice the drop in altitude. I'm just glad that this time all it took was a ham sandwich, observatory hill and a telephone booth.
Sometimes it takes an outside hand to bring me to a halt. Sometimes it takes a kind voice to tell me to stop kicking. Sometimes it takes a plane crash to notice the drop in altitude. I'm just glad that this time all it took was a ham sandwich, observatory hill and a telephone booth.
Like a good whore or a pet canary
I thought she said "You have a thylacine imbalance". I immediately imagine all the tigers crouching in my left leg. She isn't talking to me but that didn't deter the tigers.
An incomplete photographic survey of the mantlepiece in my library
The owl used to be electric blue.
Reading zines by daylight
I'm thinking this would be better with a sandwich. Egg? Cheese? Vegemite? These are my choices. I already ate the last of Grizelda's salami when she was on a wine tour. I ate it greedily, on toast, letting the grease run down my fingers. I was hungover and in the house alone but now she's back. I confessed to eating the salami but failed to buy anything new to put on a sandwich.
I have a new pile of zines, all but one written by my zine hero Vanessa Berry. The odd zine is by Maddy Phelan. It is tiny, sealed in an envelope covered in stamps. It will be a shame to break it open.
My new pile of zines is high, disordered and slippery. I carried them home in my 70's Goldenman briefcase. The briefcase lived in my mother's garage forever without anybody using it until it moved into my cupboard. The inside is an uncomfortable red.
I have shuffled the zines into chronological order and placed them in piles in my customary sitting position on the bed, facing the pillows and above them the window and the street. I feel like the whole operation would be better with a sandwich and a cup of tea. I will blow my nose, put on a cardigan and walk the length of the hall to the kitchen.
I have a new pile of zines, all but one written by my zine hero Vanessa Berry. The odd zine is by Maddy Phelan. It is tiny, sealed in an envelope covered in stamps. It will be a shame to break it open.
My new pile of zines is high, disordered and slippery. I carried them home in my 70's Goldenman briefcase. The briefcase lived in my mother's garage forever without anybody using it until it moved into my cupboard. The inside is an uncomfortable red.
I have shuffled the zines into chronological order and placed them in piles in my customary sitting position on the bed, facing the pillows and above them the window and the street. I feel like the whole operation would be better with a sandwich and a cup of tea. I will blow my nose, put on a cardigan and walk the length of the hall to the kitchen.
Basted, wasted and soaked or free things and how I got them all in one Friday night
Free wine:
The Spatula's friend Gior arrived wearing space tights from space, a fancy dress and a trench coat. She was carrying an expensive bottle of wine. I was fortunate enough to be standing in the hallway holding an empty wine glass.
Free dinner:
Torrential was the general consensus so The Spatula and Gior ordered food to be delivered. They asked me to join them but I declined for economic reasons. They ordered extra so that I could eat with them. Lovely girls.
Free joint:
The Spatula laughed as she pressed play on the stereo then passed me a lit joint. Waving smoke away from her face she said 'here have some'.
Free entry to The Holy Soul & Crow!:
Spencer sent me a text message saying 'If you can brave the rain I've put your name on the door list".
Free albums:
I arrived just as Spencer climbed up on to the stage and began one of the best sets I've ever seen him and the band play. When he finished he unplugged his guitar, held it vertically like a vase until he reached his guitar case then stashed it side of stage. He walked down the steps into the crowd and pulled a cd out of his pocket for me. David Thomas Ghost Line Diary and Leonard Cohen 92nd St Ny Feb 1966. Oh yes indeed.
Free beer:
Inside the gig I met the lovely Sonny Day from We Buy Your Kids for the first time. He said "Hey are you Dale Slamma?". I said yes so he bought me a beer.
Free tequila:
Squeezing into the crowd to watch Crow I wound up standing next to Spike. He asked me what I had been up to lately. I said nothing at all. He leant down and dragged me over to him by gently draping one of his enormous arms around my shoulder. He yelled "I don't believe you", then made me to talk properly to him and explain every little thing. He said "that deserves a shot", pointed at a chair for me to sit on then bought me tequila.
Free ride:
Spencer drove me home through the pouring rain. I was drunk, happy and at ease. We drank cups of tea, ate chocolate and talked until 3am.
Free happiness:
I dont' think it was because of the free things but I was most definitely happy. Good food, friends and music. The universe poured small kindnesses and cheer, measure for measure with the torrents of rain, upon my own small head. For this and the sight of Crow on stage I am truly grateful.
The Spatula's friend Gior arrived wearing space tights from space, a fancy dress and a trench coat. She was carrying an expensive bottle of wine. I was fortunate enough to be standing in the hallway holding an empty wine glass.
Free dinner:
Torrential was the general consensus so The Spatula and Gior ordered food to be delivered. They asked me to join them but I declined for economic reasons. They ordered extra so that I could eat with them. Lovely girls.
Free joint:
The Spatula laughed as she pressed play on the stereo then passed me a lit joint. Waving smoke away from her face she said 'here have some'.
Free entry to The Holy Soul & Crow!:
Spencer sent me a text message saying 'If you can brave the rain I've put your name on the door list".
Free albums:
I arrived just as Spencer climbed up on to the stage and began one of the best sets I've ever seen him and the band play. When he finished he unplugged his guitar, held it vertically like a vase until he reached his guitar case then stashed it side of stage. He walked down the steps into the crowd and pulled a cd out of his pocket for me. David Thomas Ghost Line Diary and Leonard Cohen 92nd St Ny Feb 1966. Oh yes indeed.
Free beer:
Inside the gig I met the lovely Sonny Day from We Buy Your Kids for the first time. He said "Hey are you Dale Slamma?". I said yes so he bought me a beer.
Free tequila:
Squeezing into the crowd to watch Crow I wound up standing next to Spike. He asked me what I had been up to lately. I said nothing at all. He leant down and dragged me over to him by gently draping one of his enormous arms around my shoulder. He yelled "I don't believe you", then made me to talk properly to him and explain every little thing. He said "that deserves a shot", pointed at a chair for me to sit on then bought me tequila.
Free ride:
Spencer drove me home through the pouring rain. I was drunk, happy and at ease. We drank cups of tea, ate chocolate and talked until 3am.
Free happiness:
I dont' think it was because of the free things but I was most definitely happy. Good food, friends and music. The universe poured small kindnesses and cheer, measure for measure with the torrents of rain, upon my own small head. For this and the sight of Crow on stage I am truly grateful.
Bubble etc
I knocked over an elderly lady. I did not stop to see if she was alright. This is because I was running through the MCA with my hands over my face. I was sure that if I took them away the unexpected and powerful tears would spray devastation across the gallery taking countless lives and smudging art. That was a chance I wasn't prepared to take.
It is possible that I have done three particularly stupid things. None of these were on purpose. One was after I dyed ten metres of bookbinding thread earsplitting purple whilst drinking a concoction of rum, vodka and lord knows what else. The Spatula concocted it. She assured me it was good and not lethal. The other stupid thing was not at all my fault. It was more that I reacted to the stupid thing by running through an art gallery full tilt than by doing something to begin with. I do not ordinarily run in art galleries. I was holding a briefcase. I was wearing a beret. I don' think those details are important.
Vanessa Berry was in the lift. I looked at her and remembered that I am an independent person. I wonder if she has this effect on everybody.
It is possible that I have done three particularly stupid things. None of these were on purpose. One was after I dyed ten metres of bookbinding thread earsplitting purple whilst drinking a concoction of rum, vodka and lord knows what else. The Spatula concocted it. She assured me it was good and not lethal. The other stupid thing was not at all my fault. It was more that I reacted to the stupid thing by running through an art gallery full tilt than by doing something to begin with. I do not ordinarily run in art galleries. I was holding a briefcase. I was wearing a beret. I don' think those details are important.
Vanessa Berry was in the lift. I looked at her and remembered that I am an independent person. I wonder if she has this effect on everybody.
It is possible to have a verbal accident
Nam Le said David Foster Wallace was unfailingly brave. "An incomparable mind lashed to a mighty heart." I don't remember where to put my punctuation I guess that means I have a comparable mind.
Drunk but it's windy outside
You think I wrote whore on a coaster but I really wrote 'I am Roget's whore' which doesn't mean anything. Two bottles of wine and the wind couldn't reach inside my coat. I'm pretending to be a writer. Don't tell anybody.
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