I regret the departure of incandescent light bulbs
Having always preferred interiors it seems stupid to me now to have pushed one hand outside, palm up and asking.
Prudent pruning or Damo Suzuki came out of Can, not a can but the Can
A sample of things I did not write in my review of Damo Suzuki with The Holy Soul at The Hopetoun:
Damo Suzuki came out of Can, not a can but the Can.
My friend used to live with Jim Conway from the Backsliders! I didn't know that's who his housemate was at the time. At Woodford I was sitting in the crowd listening to him play thinking this guy is awesome, I wonder who he is. I am a doofus, a big doofus.
I got licked by Belle Phoenix. She walked up to me, smiled and then licked my arm like a puppy.
The floorboard I was standing on was less springy than other floorboards at The Hopetoun, I was disappointed and shuffled sideways in the crowd until I was standing on a springier one.
Damo dances like a one-sided Axl Rose, he only ever goes right, or stage left, or maybe it is stage right, never mind, it was only one side and not the other.
The band constructed two joints. A real one for Damo and a fake one for the band. I was informed of this some time before the smoking took place so that I had ample time to ponder on the hilarity of such a scheme. When I witnessed the smoking of the stunt joint it was all I could do not to fall over laughing.
Mick Turner, atmospheric but unengaging, also I do not like his trousers.
Damo Suzuki told me he was scared of sharks and could not swim but thanked me none the less for the invitation to go for a swim right now, after midnight, in the ocean, where there is much water and many sharks.
There were seven of us standing on a cliff top after swimming in the ocean as an antidote to standing in The Hopetoun. We stood there in silence for a moment until someone declared that we were arrayed as though we were cast members from a tv show about share houses, confusion and being young but not too young. We then had a lively discussion as to whether or not there would be doctors and lawyers in the tv show or not. I declared that I did not want to be a lawyer in the show but would rather be a bricklayer.
Damo Suzuki came out of Can, not a can but the Can.
My friend used to live with Jim Conway from the Backsliders! I didn't know that's who his housemate was at the time. At Woodford I was sitting in the crowd listening to him play thinking this guy is awesome, I wonder who he is. I am a doofus, a big doofus.
I got licked by Belle Phoenix. She walked up to me, smiled and then licked my arm like a puppy.
The floorboard I was standing on was less springy than other floorboards at The Hopetoun, I was disappointed and shuffled sideways in the crowd until I was standing on a springier one.
Damo dances like a one-sided Axl Rose, he only ever goes right, or stage left, or maybe it is stage right, never mind, it was only one side and not the other.
The band constructed two joints. A real one for Damo and a fake one for the band. I was informed of this some time before the smoking took place so that I had ample time to ponder on the hilarity of such a scheme. When I witnessed the smoking of the stunt joint it was all I could do not to fall over laughing.
Mick Turner, atmospheric but unengaging, also I do not like his trousers.
Damo Suzuki told me he was scared of sharks and could not swim but thanked me none the less for the invitation to go for a swim right now, after midnight, in the ocean, where there is much water and many sharks.
There were seven of us standing on a cliff top after swimming in the ocean as an antidote to standing in The Hopetoun. We stood there in silence for a moment until someone declared that we were arrayed as though we were cast members from a tv show about share houses, confusion and being young but not too young. We then had a lively discussion as to whether or not there would be doctors and lawyers in the tv show or not. I declared that I did not want to be a lawyer in the show but would rather be a bricklayer.
Pass me my hatchet
Last night Spencer was telling me about the lyrics to How do you sleep? * by John Lennon, we agreed that sometimes John Lennon was a small man while we drank tea and ate cup cakes fresh from the oven. Last night there was nothing above us save bats, stars and darkness but today I discovered how easy it is to be small, how anger writes my emails for me while my head thinks calmly of washing dishes. I'm listening to McCartney's Fireman album Electric Arguments online as punishment.
I prefer the false intimacy of madness to those plodding people, backyards planted thick with Sunday afternoons, this as always has been my downfall.
I had a terrible time when I went to Queensland with Superman. Early on in the trip Superman ceased all the usual modes of expressing friendship, such as acknowledging my presence or consenting to conversation and abandoned me almost entirely to his beige ** and ever present relatives who eyed me suspiciously and talked quietly about the way Superman was not talking to me. The house itself had some potential but was decorated so hideously and situated so firmly in that particular kind of Queensland suburban isolation that the building itself bred oppression. The people were not unkind but I drifted through days bored, ignored, isolated and trapped. Having lost my wallet and broken my phone I was unable to plan any kind of independent escape. I watched the heavy hours pass, unwilling or unable to talk to Superman and risk his unreasonable anger in response.
When I returned to The Peach, after twelve stretched days of extreme politeness and a constant biting of my tongue, I determined to irrevocably terminate my friendship with Superman. My friends dissuaded me, counseled me with caution, begged me to take some time to think it over, the lovely Rita being a watchful guardian against impulsive action. So I did and I was until Superman messaged me out of the blue about Bill Callahan tickets and I replied in my sleep. If I had been fully conscious I would not have gone. I sat on the train opposite Superman thinking well I might as well see what kind of a time I have, and in the end it was not bad so I invited him to my birthday dinner, eventually, as instructed by friends.
I invited him to my birthday dinner but received no reply, not even Grizelda who was in charge of booking the table received a reply to her kind text message. I received no reply until almost the night itself, I did not expect him to attend but attend he did. He attended without so much as a scrawled message of happy birthday on the back of an envelope but with a battery of narkiness, a determination not to enter into conversation with me or anybody except a baffled Grizelda and then he left, straight after dinner, leaving me shrugging my shoulders on a street corner.
I thought I might try and talk to Superman about this business and to ask him to return some albums he had borrowed, but he would not take my calls, I sent an email asking if it was me he was avoiding or just people in general, thinking I would approach the issue with an enquiry instead of an assumption. Most often I have avoided writing anything of consequence about Superman, to avoid having one of his great and petulant misunderstandings, but right about now I don't really give a damn, I am quite certain that no matter what I do or say he will alter every meaning of every syllable until it sounds like the ringing in his head and he ticks off another box on his list of always being right.
A week passed before I received any reply but such a reply I most certainly did not expect to receive. I am shocked at his arrogance, petulance, selfishness and general ability to shove his head so far up his own arse whilst still uttering audible insults. I am shocked despite my knowledge of his character and temperament, I am shocked despite all of my past tongue bitings during his interminable lectures on How Superman Sees The World And Why He Is Correct And Also Why You Would Be Stupid If You Disagreed (or dared to believe in love). I once again find myself more angry than you can imagine, or at least I was until I felt embarrassed and humiliated for allowing myself to imagine that Superman and I were friends. I feel embarrassed and humiliated for all my bendings to his will, for my silences when I disagreed, for my defence of his character to all and sundry, for holding off the official Superman Is A Prick ceremony that some others attempted to invoke some time ago and for batting away my idle wonderings that such a good man has so paltry a circle of friends, that he hardly ever has any contact with.
Hold the phone I just received an email reply, the single word "fine". So fine it is, here ends the brief but eventful friendship of Dale Slamma and Superman, during which Dale Slamma lost her job, her car, her wallet, her phone, her confidence and for a short time, her backbone. Pass me my hatchet I've some work to do.
* How do you sleep?
by John Lennon - about Paul McCartney
So Sgt. Pepper took you by surprise
You better see right through that mother's eyes
Those freaks was right when they said you was dead
The one mistake you made was in your head
Ah, how do you sleep?
Ah, how do you sleep at night?
You live with straights who tell you you was king
Jump when your momma tell you anything
The only thing you done was yesterday
And since you're gone you're just another day
Ah, how do you sleep?
Ah, how do you sleep at night?
Ah, how do you sleep?
Ah, how do you sleep at night?
A pretty face may last a year or two
But pretty soon they'll see what you can do
The sound you make is muzak to my ears
You must have learned something in all those years
Ah, how do you sleep?
Ah, how do you sleep at night?
** Superman's sister Ol' Mon Mon is not a beige person, she is an ideal person.
I prefer the false intimacy of madness to those plodding people, backyards planted thick with Sunday afternoons, this as always has been my downfall.
I had a terrible time when I went to Queensland with Superman. Early on in the trip Superman ceased all the usual modes of expressing friendship, such as acknowledging my presence or consenting to conversation and abandoned me almost entirely to his beige ** and ever present relatives who eyed me suspiciously and talked quietly about the way Superman was not talking to me. The house itself had some potential but was decorated so hideously and situated so firmly in that particular kind of Queensland suburban isolation that the building itself bred oppression. The people were not unkind but I drifted through days bored, ignored, isolated and trapped. Having lost my wallet and broken my phone I was unable to plan any kind of independent escape. I watched the heavy hours pass, unwilling or unable to talk to Superman and risk his unreasonable anger in response.
When I returned to The Peach, after twelve stretched days of extreme politeness and a constant biting of my tongue, I determined to irrevocably terminate my friendship with Superman. My friends dissuaded me, counseled me with caution, begged me to take some time to think it over, the lovely Rita being a watchful guardian against impulsive action. So I did and I was until Superman messaged me out of the blue about Bill Callahan tickets and I replied in my sleep. If I had been fully conscious I would not have gone. I sat on the train opposite Superman thinking well I might as well see what kind of a time I have, and in the end it was not bad so I invited him to my birthday dinner, eventually, as instructed by friends.
I invited him to my birthday dinner but received no reply, not even Grizelda who was in charge of booking the table received a reply to her kind text message. I received no reply until almost the night itself, I did not expect him to attend but attend he did. He attended without so much as a scrawled message of happy birthday on the back of an envelope but with a battery of narkiness, a determination not to enter into conversation with me or anybody except a baffled Grizelda and then he left, straight after dinner, leaving me shrugging my shoulders on a street corner.
I thought I might try and talk to Superman about this business and to ask him to return some albums he had borrowed, but he would not take my calls, I sent an email asking if it was me he was avoiding or just people in general, thinking I would approach the issue with an enquiry instead of an assumption. Most often I have avoided writing anything of consequence about Superman, to avoid having one of his great and petulant misunderstandings, but right about now I don't really give a damn, I am quite certain that no matter what I do or say he will alter every meaning of every syllable until it sounds like the ringing in his head and he ticks off another box on his list of always being right.
A week passed before I received any reply but such a reply I most certainly did not expect to receive. I am shocked at his arrogance, petulance, selfishness and general ability to shove his head so far up his own arse whilst still uttering audible insults. I am shocked despite my knowledge of his character and temperament, I am shocked despite all of my past tongue bitings during his interminable lectures on How Superman Sees The World And Why He Is Correct And Also Why You Would Be Stupid If You Disagreed (or dared to believe in love). I once again find myself more angry than you can imagine, or at least I was until I felt embarrassed and humiliated for allowing myself to imagine that Superman and I were friends. I feel embarrassed and humiliated for all my bendings to his will, for my silences when I disagreed, for my defence of his character to all and sundry, for holding off the official Superman Is A Prick ceremony that some others attempted to invoke some time ago and for batting away my idle wonderings that such a good man has so paltry a circle of friends, that he hardly ever has any contact with.
Hold the phone I just received an email reply, the single word "fine". So fine it is, here ends the brief but eventful friendship of Dale Slamma and Superman, during which Dale Slamma lost her job, her car, her wallet, her phone, her confidence and for a short time, her backbone. Pass me my hatchet I've some work to do.
* How do you sleep?
by John Lennon - about Paul McCartney
So Sgt. Pepper took you by surprise
You better see right through that mother's eyes
Those freaks was right when they said you was dead
The one mistake you made was in your head
Ah, how do you sleep?
Ah, how do you sleep at night?
You live with straights who tell you you was king
Jump when your momma tell you anything
The only thing you done was yesterday
And since you're gone you're just another day
Ah, how do you sleep?
Ah, how do you sleep at night?
Ah, how do you sleep?
Ah, how do you sleep at night?
A pretty face may last a year or two
But pretty soon they'll see what you can do
The sound you make is muzak to my ears
You must have learned something in all those years
Ah, how do you sleep?
Ah, how do you sleep at night?
** Superman's sister Ol' Mon Mon is not a beige person, she is an ideal person.
My new red bicycle and the landlord of doom
Flying, pain, transportation.
The constantly deflating tyre.
My new red bicycle and the landlord of doom
The constantly deflating tyre.
My new red bicycle and the landlord of doom
Squares
There's something visceral about square one. A knocked out tooth wetly sitting in the palm of my hand. So I'm standing on my little square out in the open, careful not to lean too far out to the left or the right, cradling my little bloody tooth like it's the last good thing I'll ever hold. I've been here too many times, I'm familiar with the landmarks, abyss over there, blank void above and everywhere just a backlit blur with things going on behind the haze but there's something new too. The other square, the one in the middle of that lush lawn over there with the sunlight streaming down on it. The square with paths leading this way and that connected to other busy squares with their own landscapes going on.
This time I didn't parachute myself down on this square, didn't scuba up from the depths to crawl onto it I was just kind of zapped here without warning. Seriously I was skipping along all happy on a path connected to the sunlit square and kablammy here I am with a knocked out tooth and a brand new view. I suppose it's one of those vicissitudes everyone is always talking about.
This time I didn't parachute myself down on this square, didn't scuba up from the depths to crawl onto it I was just kind of zapped here without warning. Seriously I was skipping along all happy on a path connected to the sunlit square and kablammy here I am with a knocked out tooth and a brand new view. I suppose it's one of those vicissitudes everyone is always talking about.
It could have been my radioactive moment
Unlucky enough to walk underneath an egg sac at the precise moment the sac burst into scurrying life, tiny spiders repelling down their own tender lines right onto my head. Thousands of them.
I shook. How I shook. My hair, my clothes, my fear. Panic passed faster than it should have but I was relieved to find myself walking down the street, shedding tiny spiders on wires like artificial stars, only mildly closer than usual to nonplussed.
I didn't feel any bite or sting but wondered mildly if this was my radioactive moment as I dipped a tiny spider with my ticket on the bus. All through the supermarket the tiny spiders repelled from limbs and extremities to meet either cardboard cereal packets or instant death. The spiders jumped without thought appearing and appearing as though I was sweating or dreaming them into being.
People started noticing when I lifted up my arm for cat biscuits that the webs were beginning to form wings. I thought about honing my technique, shooting tiny spiders as visible lines of resentment, disappointment or anger depending on what was happening. Maybe I could store dead flies in my pocket and train them to come back again. Maybe they would behind me in the exact shape of my shadow, second to second, turning only into whatever kind of spiders they are when I make the secret signal and they swarm.
One tiny spider span a tender little line from my hair to the collar of my shirt and began to run down my arm. I pointed at an annoying person in the supermarket, willing the spider to jump in his general direction instead it turned and began to make for the slotted opening between buttons on my shirt.
I pushed down on the spider with tip of my finger. Its whole body crushed into less volume than a single drop of water, I wiped my finger on a nearby box of muesli bars. My shirt remained unstained. It was that moment I made for the pesticide section and gave myself a bit of a spray.
I shook. How I shook. My hair, my clothes, my fear. Panic passed faster than it should have but I was relieved to find myself walking down the street, shedding tiny spiders on wires like artificial stars, only mildly closer than usual to nonplussed.
I didn't feel any bite or sting but wondered mildly if this was my radioactive moment as I dipped a tiny spider with my ticket on the bus. All through the supermarket the tiny spiders repelled from limbs and extremities to meet either cardboard cereal packets or instant death. The spiders jumped without thought appearing and appearing as though I was sweating or dreaming them into being.
People started noticing when I lifted up my arm for cat biscuits that the webs were beginning to form wings. I thought about honing my technique, shooting tiny spiders as visible lines of resentment, disappointment or anger depending on what was happening. Maybe I could store dead flies in my pocket and train them to come back again. Maybe they would behind me in the exact shape of my shadow, second to second, turning only into whatever kind of spiders they are when I make the secret signal and they swarm.
One tiny spider span a tender little line from my hair to the collar of my shirt and began to run down my arm. I pointed at an annoying person in the supermarket, willing the spider to jump in his general direction instead it turned and began to make for the slotted opening between buttons on my shirt.
I pushed down on the spider with tip of my finger. Its whole body crushed into less volume than a single drop of water, I wiped my finger on a nearby box of muesli bars. My shirt remained unstained. It was that moment I made for the pesticide section and gave myself a bit of a spray.
Three Swords and a Bag of Oranges or Scary Neighbour Becomes Unexpectedly Naked
Self explanatory really.
I intend to become an adventure jeweller
I'm going to start by studying the only two existing adventure jewellers I can find.
Waris Ahluwalia
and Patrick Mavros...
I'm not sure how I am going to achieve a career in adventure jewellery but I am keen to start trying.
Smug vs happy
I might feel smug but I'm not sure.
Is it similar to happiness but with more self-assurance?
At any rate I'm sitting at my desk in the lounge room typing up an official article. By official I mean a pitch-accepted-will-pay-me-money article for a biggish publisher.
The sun is shining through my window while I write for money. The cat is asleep. I have a nice cup of tea. This is everything I ever wanted in just this one moment.
Maybe I feel happy?
Is it similar to happiness but with more self-assurance?
At any rate I'm sitting at my desk in the lounge room typing up an official article. By official I mean a pitch-accepted-will-pay-me-money article for a biggish publisher.
The sun is shining through my window while I write for money. The cat is asleep. I have a nice cup of tea. This is everything I ever wanted in just this one moment.
Maybe I feel happy?
My Very Own Bathroom and The Death of The Dream
Oh good lord I've lost the knack of blogging. Laziness I suppose. Or being busy. Buying a house. And killing dreams.
I don't think I killed the dream on purpose its just that my One Day I Will Have Very Own House is now the house of my daily existence. Reality has been rubbing against the dream and causing blisters. The first and most unexpected blister is Mr X, who I will now call Withnail if only because when I think of myself I say "I".
Monday morning was my first official getting out of bed early to write before work morning since I moved in (no name for flat yet). Everything began well. I woke up. I put a jumper over my pyjamas. made coffee and sat down at my newly assembled old desk. I was just about to think of a complete sentence when Withnail, banging and clamouring all the way, emerged into the living area to make his lunch for week and lace up his shoes. I don't know if this is his normal habit but he began to read his mail out loud, interjecting the text with exclamations of "Cunt!" every fifth or six word. The letter was from the strata company but welcoming us to the building and listing emergency contacts.
The dream died in other ways. It is not the incredible design den sure to strike envy into the hearts of every mortal human, the way I always assumed my very own home would be. Withnail has a tendency to leave little messes about the place, piles of receipts from his wallet, a yoghurt cup inexplicably full of water on the side of the sink, shoes under the coffee table, neatly coiled guitar leads and electrical things piled carefully on the corner of the rug. I don't understand his messes, not yet. And the furniture. Oh dear the furniture. There are more books than bookcases, the long-promised dining table has yet to make an appearance and then there is the coffee table. I can barely bring myself to describe it.
Withnail has an aunt with an eye for bulky furniture on the brink of turning back to its natural woodland state of rotting wood and falling generally into the ground. Assembled together in her large and beautiful home its quite an appealing aesthetic but as a singular coffee table in the middle of The Dream its quite another matter altogether. I find some consolation in not having to bother with coasters. I suppose.
If there is one corner of The Dream that survived its split evenly between my bedroom that I painted, wall-to-wall in a colour called Dark Harbour, and my bathroom. My very own bathroom. There is another bathroom that I assume Withnail is in raptures about calling his very own bathroom. Long have I dreamt of a shower where there are only the necessary things of one person, not a household full of shampoos and soaps and conditioners and three different brands of toothpaste and tampons, as is the way with rented share houses. Three days before settlement Grizelda patiently waited while I chose matching everything from the supermarket. The shampoo is the same brand as the handsoap as the moisturiser as the shower gel. One matching set of everything with acres of room in the shower for the pointing of elbows and bending over to wash feet. If you'd ever seen the bathroom in The Peach you'd understand...
I suppose I could be more specific about being for the first time ever at the mercy of no one but myself and my team mate Withnail, who despite being awfully snappish and tall is quite trustworthy. For the first time ever I can lock my door and know that not one person can force my locks and return me to the streets because if you've ever been homeless, like me, you'll know that the fear of having nowhere, not one place in the world, is something that once begun does not lightly leave. Not until now when reality caused blisters on The Dream.
I don't think I killed the dream on purpose its just that my One Day I Will Have Very Own House is now the house of my daily existence. Reality has been rubbing against the dream and causing blisters. The first and most unexpected blister is Mr X, who I will now call Withnail if only because when I think of myself I say "I".
Monday morning was my first official getting out of bed early to write before work morning since I moved in (no name for flat yet). Everything began well. I woke up. I put a jumper over my pyjamas. made coffee and sat down at my newly assembled old desk. I was just about to think of a complete sentence when Withnail, banging and clamouring all the way, emerged into the living area to make his lunch for week and lace up his shoes. I don't know if this is his normal habit but he began to read his mail out loud, interjecting the text with exclamations of "Cunt!" every fifth or six word. The letter was from the strata company but welcoming us to the building and listing emergency contacts.
The dream died in other ways. It is not the incredible design den sure to strike envy into the hearts of every mortal human, the way I always assumed my very own home would be. Withnail has a tendency to leave little messes about the place, piles of receipts from his wallet, a yoghurt cup inexplicably full of water on the side of the sink, shoes under the coffee table, neatly coiled guitar leads and electrical things piled carefully on the corner of the rug. I don't understand his messes, not yet. And the furniture. Oh dear the furniture. There are more books than bookcases, the long-promised dining table has yet to make an appearance and then there is the coffee table. I can barely bring myself to describe it.
Withnail has an aunt with an eye for bulky furniture on the brink of turning back to its natural woodland state of rotting wood and falling generally into the ground. Assembled together in her large and beautiful home its quite an appealing aesthetic but as a singular coffee table in the middle of The Dream its quite another matter altogether. I find some consolation in not having to bother with coasters. I suppose.
If there is one corner of The Dream that survived its split evenly between my bedroom that I painted, wall-to-wall in a colour called Dark Harbour, and my bathroom. My very own bathroom. There is another bathroom that I assume Withnail is in raptures about calling his very own bathroom. Long have I dreamt of a shower where there are only the necessary things of one person, not a household full of shampoos and soaps and conditioners and three different brands of toothpaste and tampons, as is the way with rented share houses. Three days before settlement Grizelda patiently waited while I chose matching everything from the supermarket. The shampoo is the same brand as the handsoap as the moisturiser as the shower gel. One matching set of everything with acres of room in the shower for the pointing of elbows and bending over to wash feet. If you'd ever seen the bathroom in The Peach you'd understand...
I suppose I could be more specific about being for the first time ever at the mercy of no one but myself and my team mate Withnail, who despite being awfully snappish and tall is quite trustworthy. For the first time ever I can lock my door and know that not one person can force my locks and return me to the streets because if you've ever been homeless, like me, you'll know that the fear of having nowhere, not one place in the world, is something that once begun does not lightly leave. Not until now when reality caused blisters on The Dream.
Everyone has an analyst, don't they?
I was hoping I'd feel more like Annie Hall, or at least Woody Allen, but all I feel like is me with a new pile of psycho homework and not at all like I live in New York.
Last week I had to practice not caring about things. This week I am supposed to 'try and sit in the grey area between decisions'. Unresolved.
Last week I had to practice not caring about things. This week I am supposed to 'try and sit in the grey area between decisions'. Unresolved.
Suddenly auctions are starting to seem sensible
Oh good lord how many times can a person get gazumped before they spontaneously combust?
Maybe I'll find out.
Maybe I'll find out.
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