A most interviewed year
I hate interviews, hate interviewing people and hate being interviewed by other people so it's a little mysterious how I managed to be interviewed so much in the one year. I like mysteries so to balance out things out I will now solve the mystery of the interviews.*
Interview 1 - Cleo Magazine
At the time I agreed to this interview it seemed too ridiculous to be true. I am not a fan of this kind of magazine, broader cultural harms and that sort of thing, but in this instance I knew the journalist to be a good one, a woman of integrity with genuine journalistic intent and also the topic was about being independent and happy despite being terribly old. Too weird a chance to pass up, almost like being an anti-girl-mag topic. Take them down from the inside. I think it was the April one, can't really remember.
Interviews 2 - 5 million - Newspapers, Blogs, Websites & Radio
These interviews were all about PAN magazine. It is a truth universally acknowledged that a magazine editor will subject themselves to multiple interviews for the good of the magazine.
It did feel a tad awkward when I had to interview myself but fortunately my friend Spencer came over and pretended to be me, the interviewer me, so that I could answer myself. None of us, not me, Spencer, Spencer pretending to me or the other way around uttered the words 'Willy Wonka' but they did somehow end up being in the title of the interview. You can read it here if you can be bothered...
Interview 5 million and 1 - ABC Radio National
I am terribly fond of the Olympia Milkbar on Parramatta Rd but that alone is insufficient to convince me to go on the radio. I am petrified of going on the radio. Every single time I go slightly odd with fear on the walk there and nearly get run over or walk into large objects like buildings and public sculptures.
There are two reasons I recently agreed to risk being run over and head down to the ABC. The first was the radio man informing me that the 'V' in the middle of his email address was for his middle name, Vince. The second reason was that he sounded kind and slightly amused rather than annoyed by my phone call demanding to know if this was in fact a strange prank.
I had planned to say all sorts of things about the importance of the geography of sound, my larger project of map making through public memory and the texture of this city. Instead I blurted my usual mixture of incomprehensible prattle interspersed with statements surprising to both the interviewer and myself which is one of the reasons I have decided to become sophisticated next year but more of that later.
The very best part of the interview was when Radio Man Middle Name of Vince first sat me down in one of those tiny rooms full of strange electrical equipment. He produced several pieces of paper on which he had written responses to my ponderings about why he wanted to interview me. I can now reliably inform you that he is not secretly in love with Vanessa Berry, he does not want to yell in my face, bring back the dinosaurs and is not the illegitimate love child of Milkbar Man. Nor had he heard about my imaginary submarine but he does now want to blow it up with imaginary battle ships.
It is a great shame that he does not live in Newtown. I have the feeling that if he was walking down King St I would not only nod hello but also raise a hand and wave. It is probably best if I did not attempt to speak with him because who the hell knows what is likely to come out of my mouth, it could be anything from 'Happy Christmas' to 'Your shoes are peculiar why are you wearing them?' or even worse, of course it wouldn't be on purpose but not everybody understands that.
Despite my input I will encourage everybody to listen to the Radio National documentary about the Olympia Milkbar when it goes to air next year. You never know, they might edit me out entirely.
* I am only solving the mystery of why I was interviewed and not the mystery of why I interviewed other people. It is safe to assume I interviewed people when an editor told me to and not for any other reason, except maybe the Quaoub interview. I think I had a small urge to try and share his good music with the world. I've done my part, the rest is up to him really. Can't make people listen to a record that doesn't exist yet.
Interview 1 - Cleo Magazine
At the time I agreed to this interview it seemed too ridiculous to be true. I am not a fan of this kind of magazine, broader cultural harms and that sort of thing, but in this instance I knew the journalist to be a good one, a woman of integrity with genuine journalistic intent and also the topic was about being independent and happy despite being terribly old. Too weird a chance to pass up, almost like being an anti-girl-mag topic. Take them down from the inside. I think it was the April one, can't really remember.
Interviews 2 - 5 million - Newspapers, Blogs, Websites & Radio
These interviews were all about PAN magazine. It is a truth universally acknowledged that a magazine editor will subject themselves to multiple interviews for the good of the magazine.
It did feel a tad awkward when I had to interview myself but fortunately my friend Spencer came over and pretended to be me, the interviewer me, so that I could answer myself. None of us, not me, Spencer, Spencer pretending to me or the other way around uttered the words 'Willy Wonka' but they did somehow end up being in the title of the interview. You can read it here if you can be bothered...
Interview 5 million and 1 - ABC Radio National
I am terribly fond of the Olympia Milkbar on Parramatta Rd but that alone is insufficient to convince me to go on the radio. I am petrified of going on the radio. Every single time I go slightly odd with fear on the walk there and nearly get run over or walk into large objects like buildings and public sculptures.
There are two reasons I recently agreed to risk being run over and head down to the ABC. The first was the radio man informing me that the 'V' in the middle of his email address was for his middle name, Vince. The second reason was that he sounded kind and slightly amused rather than annoyed by my phone call demanding to know if this was in fact a strange prank.
I had planned to say all sorts of things about the importance of the geography of sound, my larger project of map making through public memory and the texture of this city. Instead I blurted my usual mixture of incomprehensible prattle interspersed with statements surprising to both the interviewer and myself which is one of the reasons I have decided to become sophisticated next year but more of that later.
The very best part of the interview was when Radio Man Middle Name of Vince first sat me down in one of those tiny rooms full of strange electrical equipment. He produced several pieces of paper on which he had written responses to my ponderings about why he wanted to interview me. I can now reliably inform you that he is not secretly in love with Vanessa Berry, he does not want to yell in my face, bring back the dinosaurs and is not the illegitimate love child of Milkbar Man. Nor had he heard about my imaginary submarine but he does now want to blow it up with imaginary battle ships.
It is a great shame that he does not live in Newtown. I have the feeling that if he was walking down King St I would not only nod hello but also raise a hand and wave. It is probably best if I did not attempt to speak with him because who the hell knows what is likely to come out of my mouth, it could be anything from 'Happy Christmas' to 'Your shoes are peculiar why are you wearing them?' or even worse, of course it wouldn't be on purpose but not everybody understands that.
Despite my input I will encourage everybody to listen to the Radio National documentary about the Olympia Milkbar when it goes to air next year. You never know, they might edit me out entirely.
* I am only solving the mystery of why I was interviewed and not the mystery of why I interviewed other people. It is safe to assume I interviewed people when an editor told me to and not for any other reason, except maybe the Quaoub interview. I think I had a small urge to try and share his good music with the world. I've done my part, the rest is up to him really. Can't make people listen to a record that doesn't exist yet.
SLAMMATOWN - Up your charts
There’s a new man soaring up my Tex Perkins chart. His name isBen Corbett from Gentle Ben and His Sensitive Side and the infamous Six Ft Hick. Watch out Tex Perkins Gentle Ben is coming up fast but just to be clear I’m not sure there’s anything gentle about this man at all.
Continue reading on RHUM...
I knew it
I knew this blog would come in handy one day. I am currently researching myself or more specifically things I have thought about the Olympia Milkbar using the handy dandy search function. My thoughts about the Olympia Milkbar have been wildly inadequate but at least I can read them.
Tomorrow I have to go to the ABC to be interviewed about the Olympia. I am wondering why the ABC man wants to interview me of all people. I suppose it is because I have mentioned it a few times and maybe not everybody does, either that or one of these possible reasons;
- he wants to bring back the dinosaurs and has heard about my plan to do it first so he has concocted an elaborate story in order to meet and murder me,
- he does not like my writing and wants to yell that at my face,
- he is secretly in love with Vanessa Berry and is hoping I can perform the necessary introductions,
- he is the illegitimate love child of Olympia Milkbar Man and wants to talk to people who have met his father,
- he has heard about my imaginary submarine and wants to have a go at sinking it with his imaginary fleet of battleships.
Any one of the above reasons could be the mysterious truth. Only time will tell.
Tomorrow I have to go to the ABC to be interviewed about the Olympia. I am wondering why the ABC man wants to interview me of all people. I suppose it is because I have mentioned it a few times and maybe not everybody does, either that or one of these possible reasons;
- he wants to bring back the dinosaurs and has heard about my plan to do it first so he has concocted an elaborate story in order to meet and murder me,
- he does not like my writing and wants to yell that at my face,
- he is secretly in love with Vanessa Berry and is hoping I can perform the necessary introductions,
- he is the illegitimate love child of Olympia Milkbar Man and wants to talk to people who have met his father,
- he has heard about my imaginary submarine and wants to have a go at sinking it with his imaginary fleet of battleships.
Any one of the above reasons could be the mysterious truth. Only time will tell.
SLAMMATOWN - So you want to be a temporary contemporary bohemian?
SLAMMATOWN REGULATORY DEPT.
This week’s SLAMMATOWN features the style of document formatting favoured by the Baltimore Police Dept.
Ever wanted to become a temporary contemporary bohemian? Well now you can. Follow these six easy steps and just like that you're in.
1. DOUBLE BAG IT
You know what I’m talking about. Those hideously drunk yet intriguingly beautiful boys are riddled with diseases, all kinds. If they don’t ever wash their jeans then how much attention do you think they’re paying to what’s running around in their bloodstream? Double bag it ladies, double bag it.
Stick with the union?
It was interesting to note that the Australian Society of Authors was not a signatory on the recent open letter to Julia Gillard re Julian Assange.
If I'm wrong I'm happy to be corrected but if in fact the ASA was not a signatory then I want to know why the fuck not.
In the past the ASA has been the go to place for help, just like a union, but these days I'm not sure they're really doing anything at all over there apart from offering mentorships and professional development courses. This is not the fault of the hard working staff who spend their days grinding out office tasks just like most everyone else.
Click here to read the admirable open letter...
If I'm wrong I'm happy to be corrected but if in fact the ASA was not a signatory then I want to know why the fuck not.
In the past the ASA has been the go to place for help, just like a union, but these days I'm not sure they're really doing anything at all over there apart from offering mentorships and professional development courses. This is not the fault of the hard working staff who spend their days grinding out office tasks just like most everyone else.
Click here to read the admirable open letter...
After The Fall
After The Fall we all stood about in the laneway and on the street being vaguely herded about like kittens. I hate that part of things, when it's clear that there are at least a few people who want to sit down together and have a drink or two but nobody knows where to go. It was a little like that last night, until Abdullah's friend Manometer declared that he owned a bar. He said it wasn't open on a Tuesday night but he'd open up just for us.
The bar was high on a hill, at the top of a skyscraper. I suppose it was a penthouse though I am unsure if that term is strictly residential. A gaggle of us walked seven city blocks from The Metro down through China Town and towards the water. Spencer became temporarily lost after he stopped to photograph Christmas lights but in the end all of us crammed into one of those incredibly fast marble-clad lifts. I clutched the rail as we soared skywards, I don't trust those infernal stair-replacement machines. There's something not quite right about the whole idea.
Once we were inside it soon became clear that we were in for one hell of an evening. Free drinks, a cavernous empty bar, illegal indoor smoking of cigarettes and no one to enforce the wearing of shoes. If there's one thing that makes me happy it's taking off my shoes in a bar with free drinks.
Towards the end of the evening, after Spencer and I admirably demonstrated the full range of our best dance moves, I invented a new dance called The Soggy Noodle, a mystery began to develop. Unfortunately the mystery remains unsolved, much like my headache and my sincere fatigue.
In other news, there is nothing to report, unless you count the time I got my head stuck in a bucket of water for ten seconds, Insensible Pie Day on The Peach Deck, the ongoing mystery of the sunflower seed thief and my newfound desire to become a Baltimore gangsta.
The bar was high on a hill, at the top of a skyscraper. I suppose it was a penthouse though I am unsure if that term is strictly residential. A gaggle of us walked seven city blocks from The Metro down through China Town and towards the water. Spencer became temporarily lost after he stopped to photograph Christmas lights but in the end all of us crammed into one of those incredibly fast marble-clad lifts. I clutched the rail as we soared skywards, I don't trust those infernal stair-replacement machines. There's something not quite right about the whole idea.
Once we were inside it soon became clear that we were in for one hell of an evening. Free drinks, a cavernous empty bar, illegal indoor smoking of cigarettes and no one to enforce the wearing of shoes. If there's one thing that makes me happy it's taking off my shoes in a bar with free drinks.
Towards the end of the evening, after Spencer and I admirably demonstrated the full range of our best dance moves, I invented a new dance called The Soggy Noodle, a mystery began to develop. Unfortunately the mystery remains unsolved, much like my headache and my sincere fatigue.
In other news, there is nothing to report, unless you count the time I got my head stuck in a bucket of water for ten seconds, Insensible Pie Day on The Peach Deck, the ongoing mystery of the sunflower seed thief and my newfound desire to become a Baltimore gangsta.
Fall
Continue reading on RHUM...
Sings pretty good for a dead man
The Holy Soul have recorded a live album with him thanks to Repressed Records.
You should read my review on RHUM.
Get your hand off my imaginary box
I just had an almost argument with a colleague from RHUM, whom I've never met, on Fspazbook. He was getting all gloaty about a positive review I wrote about an album. He even put in a 'told you so'. Naturally I told him to fuck off and then he appeared to genuinely engage and try to resolve the issue, which mysteriously annoyed me further.
I'm trying to pinpoint the exact reason why I became immediately and completely infuriated with him. I think the best way to proceed might be to write a little list.
A little list:
- He did not at any point either before or during the reviewing process tell me that I would like the album.
- I did not at any point either before or during the reviewing process indicate that I did not like the album.
- I actually requested the album to review from a list of albums that desperately need reviewing due to time constraints.
- I began to suspect that the man in question had made a decision about the kinds of things I did and did not like, which is stupid and also impossible as nobody knows what I do and don't like.
- I had just walked from The Lansdowne to The Peach and was overly warm.
- My left ankle hurts.
- I began to suspect the man in question had built an imaginary box around my presumed tastes.
- I began to imagine the box was large, made of reinforced glass and visible to a large number of strangers.
- The box began to suffocate me.
- I hate the imaginary box.
- I forgot to buy cat food and will need to defrost a sausage to feed the cat something for breakfast.
- I like to say 'fuck off' to people I do not know and sometimes to people I do know, like Spencer or a distant relative.
It might be best to admit that sometimes a list is not helpful or even interesting.
The argument seems to have been resolved. The man in question apologised despite being baffled, I made a peace offering of 'I Hate You' by The Monks, because it is a good song. 'Bla Bla Bla' by Toots and the Maytals was posted on my Fspazbook wall in return. It was a strange encounter but there is a lesson to be drawn from this, I hope. Let me know if you figure out what it is.
I'm trying to pinpoint the exact reason why I became immediately and completely infuriated with him. I think the best way to proceed might be to write a little list.
A little list:
- He did not at any point either before or during the reviewing process tell me that I would like the album.
- I did not at any point either before or during the reviewing process indicate that I did not like the album.
- I actually requested the album to review from a list of albums that desperately need reviewing due to time constraints.
- I began to suspect that the man in question had made a decision about the kinds of things I did and did not like, which is stupid and also impossible as nobody knows what I do and don't like.
- I had just walked from The Lansdowne to The Peach and was overly warm.
- My left ankle hurts.
- I began to suspect the man in question had built an imaginary box around my presumed tastes.
- I began to imagine the box was large, made of reinforced glass and visible to a large number of strangers.
- The box began to suffocate me.
- I hate the imaginary box.
- I forgot to buy cat food and will need to defrost a sausage to feed the cat something for breakfast.
- I like to say 'fuck off' to people I do not know and sometimes to people I do know, like Spencer or a distant relative.
It might be best to admit that sometimes a list is not helpful or even interesting.
The argument seems to have been resolved. The man in question apologised despite being baffled, I made a peace offering of 'I Hate You' by The Monks, because it is a good song. 'Bla Bla Bla' by Toots and the Maytals was posted on my Fspazbook wall in return. It was a strange encounter but there is a lesson to be drawn from this, I hope. Let me know if you figure out what it is.
All in a golden afternoon
Her sound is earnest and wonderfully simple, like a straight answer in a sea of bullshit. It is post-dreamy and threaded through with the good elements of country. If I had to choose one reason to listen to her it would be this, when she lifts you follow.
EP available now through itunes and on Caitlin's Big Cartel.
Gilded carnival chariots, six lanes of traffic, an intimate drunken embrace and Algeria
On the bus I was momentarily overtaken by the memory a gilded carnival chariot. I was reading Camus, The American Journals. My remembered giant cart was nightly towed around the festival grounds at Woodford, by the Hari Krishnas I think. One clear memory of unfettered delight. It was a heavy thing, decorated wildly in a style from last century, towed with great braided ropes by clamorous groups heaving through the thick air. A heavy air made tolerable only by the setting of the sun. I think of it as painted shining and white, several stories high with no practical purpose. A machine built for joy.
Camus slapped me with his spare prose. Every clean sentence the tip of an iceberg. I should always return to books like these, writers' notebooks of observations and ideas, like a dancer returns to the barre.
It has been about a month since I last saw Leif. I think I call him Leif here, or Leaf or Tree or River or some such name but there he was at Central Station striding towards me to wait for the same train. His beard seems incredulously long. He wasn't staggering or ginger of stride but his immediate confession, as he fell into one of his intimate embraces, was that he was quite probably still drunk from last night and running hideously late for work.
I have now the urge to leave the cafe where I sit to cross the road and be tattooed with something ill-advised. This is the same urge to write. Make visible marks representing an interior feeling.
I was on my way to a job interview when I ran into Leif. He has been having difficulty securing a lease on somewhere new to live. He said he is good on paper, same good job for years and years, steady rental history. I should have remarked that he is good off-paper as well. Though he is sometimes petulant the source is always love. I often suppress the urge to build a good fence around him, not to contain him but to provide him with an impenetrable place of safety. Most people build their own borders but either he does not know how or he is so used to being invaded he has discarded any notions of sovereignty.
He was a companionable distraction on what might have been an anxious journey. I briefly became lost on the way to the office but in a fit of calm adulthood I telephoned for directions. I was violently reminded about the land of cars as I walked around the business park in North Ryde. Six lane roads and not a fellow pedestrian in sight. As I made note of the directions I was desperately hoping not to be sucked out of the poor shade a of a young eucalypt and into the screaming traffic by the jet wash of a passing truck.
I know almost nothing about Algeria. Some places I imagine dusty and hot. I am content with a vague notion of white walls and outside, in sparse shade, some scratching chickens.
The man who interviewed me was undoubtedly delectable. He shifted between consciously projecting a businesslike charm and inadvertently revealing something of his true nature. I imagine his childhood home was solid and well-furnished. The same good curtains hanging in windows for most of his life. He has a steadiness about him, whether recently constructed or an innate feature of his person I have no idea. I have developed a curiosity about him. It itches at me to be left with only the imaginary texture of his life.
Camus slapped me with his spare prose. Every clean sentence the tip of an iceberg. I should always return to books like these, writers' notebooks of observations and ideas, like a dancer returns to the barre.
It has been about a month since I last saw Leif. I think I call him Leif here, or Leaf or Tree or River or some such name but there he was at Central Station striding towards me to wait for the same train. His beard seems incredulously long. He wasn't staggering or ginger of stride but his immediate confession, as he fell into one of his intimate embraces, was that he was quite probably still drunk from last night and running hideously late for work.
I have now the urge to leave the cafe where I sit to cross the road and be tattooed with something ill-advised. This is the same urge to write. Make visible marks representing an interior feeling.
I was on my way to a job interview when I ran into Leif. He has been having difficulty securing a lease on somewhere new to live. He said he is good on paper, same good job for years and years, steady rental history. I should have remarked that he is good off-paper as well. Though he is sometimes petulant the source is always love. I often suppress the urge to build a good fence around him, not to contain him but to provide him with an impenetrable place of safety. Most people build their own borders but either he does not know how or he is so used to being invaded he has discarded any notions of sovereignty.
He was a companionable distraction on what might have been an anxious journey. I briefly became lost on the way to the office but in a fit of calm adulthood I telephoned for directions. I was violently reminded about the land of cars as I walked around the business park in North Ryde. Six lane roads and not a fellow pedestrian in sight. As I made note of the directions I was desperately hoping not to be sucked out of the poor shade a of a young eucalypt and into the screaming traffic by the jet wash of a passing truck.
I know almost nothing about Algeria. Some places I imagine dusty and hot. I am content with a vague notion of white walls and outside, in sparse shade, some scratching chickens.
The man who interviewed me was undoubtedly delectable. He shifted between consciously projecting a businesslike charm and inadvertently revealing something of his true nature. I imagine his childhood home was solid and well-furnished. The same good curtains hanging in windows for most of his life. He has a steadiness about him, whether recently constructed or an innate feature of his person I have no idea. I have developed a curiosity about him. It itches at me to be left with only the imaginary texture of his life.
Well that was unfortunately psychedelic
I had no intention of ingesting psychedelics, I only wanted to have the tiniest taste of the frozen fruit smoothie concoction they kept going on and on about. I thought surely, just one capful of the stuff won't have any effect. The average 'dose' of psychedelic mushrooms is one gram. One gram of dried mushrooms would be an enormous amount surely, like a whole heaped handful. I've measured plenty of ground spices when I'm cooking curries so I was fairly confident that if I took one tiny sip to taste the stupid drink that I would in no way be approaching the amount necessary to have a psychedelic experience.
I was wrong.
I was wrong.
SLAMMATOWN - I'm a spy
After staking out the back entrance to the caterer’s kitchen for ten minutes I discovered a regularity of flow in extremely large trolleys going in and out of the doors. All those hours of double jump with the skipping ropes in primary school finally paid off when I launched a perfectly timed jump from behind a door to the hidden side of a fast moving trolley. Crouching like a commando I ran undetected alongside the trolley until I reached the entrance to the VIP area.
Farewell to the floral stink source, I want to see my mother, we welcome you mighty Peach Deck the Second or The Arizona branch of the Taliban may be plotting to capture or kill my family
The IGA supermarket on Enmore Rd is microscopic. One person traveling at half the normal shopping speed will still be traveling too quickly to negotiate the towering and over-crowded aisles, all five of them. I was talking to my mother on the telephone when I entered the IGA. Ordinarily I might wind a conversation up so that I could devote my much-needed attention to navigating around, under, over and through shelves, baskets and people but today I kept on talking.
I want to see my mother, I don't know why but I do. It's not a feeling of obligation, more like a biological urge. I'm not sure why this need has developed but I can isolate its first appearance to precisely the moment The Peachettes and I slid the stinky floral sofa that used to be in the library down the front steps and onto the street. It is unfortunate that I won't have an opportunity to see her before she travels to the USA where she will be capture or killed by The Taliban because the central heating in her house broke and they charge a flat fee of $250 to come out and have a look, not including parts or labour.
I don't how to describe my mother. It is not that she is awful, or especially kind, she is the usual amount of annoying and tender, for a parent, I think. I can say my mother is never dull. Not for one second in all the years of her life has she ever been dull. Like all people she is contradictory and puzzling but unlike most people she will express all of these contradictions articulately. Though perhaps sometimes, like today, she is more puzzling than articulate.
A conversation between Dale and her mother on the telephone in the IGA on Enmore Rd - an excerpt:
DS: I'm just not sure I want to go to the second interview for this job.
M: You should earn more money. Money gives you choices:
DS: But it also takes them away. I don't want to wake up every morning with the urge to stab myself through the heart.
M: You should use a calculator to see if it would be more money.
DS: You are just like John Howard, always putting money first. What about my happiness?
M: I have all this money now because I worked very hard to earn it. You have time now but your choices are limited because you can't afford anything. What will happen when you retire?
DS: You worked very hard but were you happy?
M: Not for the last five years that I worked but before that I don't know. It is the mindset everybody had, work hard, be an example, provide for your family. What size of jeans do you want from America?
DS: I don't know. I 'll have to look up a size conversion chart. Did you enjoy your work?
M: I did like what I was doing. I've left you the River House in my will but I sold it.
DS: What? Why are you telling me this now?
M: My will is with my solicitor.
DS: I thought he was dead.
M: Not quite yet but soon. I also left you my super. Is it Navajo jewellery you prefer?
DS: I quite liked that necklace you got me the time before last. When are you planning on dying?
M: I'm going to visit B. in America on Monday.
DS: Are you going to drop dead in America?
M: I'm more worried about The Taliban.
DS: In Arizona?
M: Well the central heating broke this week, you never know what might happen. They charge a flat $250 for a call out fee. I have another house in the mountains you can have instead of the River House. You should rent it out to someone who has a job.
DS: I might but you have to die first. I'm no longer going to plunge to my death because Mr Oddweird repaired the Peach Deck.
M: What do you want duty free?
DS: I'm not sure, let me think.
M: Your brother sucked all my spending money into a trombone.
DS: I suppose that's not unusual. Should I buy the recycled toilet paper? I can give you money for some duty free perfume.
M: No you can't, you're too poor. The Money Fairy doesn't approve. My brother once bought the most dyed toilet paper because he doesn't like fish.
DS: Maybe the Birthday Fairy could buy the perfume, unless she has also been sucked into a trombone.
M: It is important to note that I do not plan on dropping dead in America but there is a possibility I might.
DS: Consider it noted. You should note that unlike my uncle I like fish.
M: Noted.
I want to see my mother, I don't know why but I do. It's not a feeling of obligation, more like a biological urge. I'm not sure why this need has developed but I can isolate its first appearance to precisely the moment The Peachettes and I slid the stinky floral sofa that used to be in the library down the front steps and onto the street. It is unfortunate that I won't have an opportunity to see her before she travels to the USA where she will be capture or killed by The Taliban because the central heating in her house broke and they charge a flat fee of $250 to come out and have a look, not including parts or labour.
I don't how to describe my mother. It is not that she is awful, or especially kind, she is the usual amount of annoying and tender, for a parent, I think. I can say my mother is never dull. Not for one second in all the years of her life has she ever been dull. Like all people she is contradictory and puzzling but unlike most people she will express all of these contradictions articulately. Though perhaps sometimes, like today, she is more puzzling than articulate.
A conversation between Dale and her mother on the telephone in the IGA on Enmore Rd - an excerpt:
DS: I'm just not sure I want to go to the second interview for this job.
M: You should earn more money. Money gives you choices:
DS: But it also takes them away. I don't want to wake up every morning with the urge to stab myself through the heart.
M: You should use a calculator to see if it would be more money.
DS: You are just like John Howard, always putting money first. What about my happiness?
M: I have all this money now because I worked very hard to earn it. You have time now but your choices are limited because you can't afford anything. What will happen when you retire?
DS: You worked very hard but were you happy?
M: Not for the last five years that I worked but before that I don't know. It is the mindset everybody had, work hard, be an example, provide for your family. What size of jeans do you want from America?
DS: I don't know. I 'll have to look up a size conversion chart. Did you enjoy your work?
M: I did like what I was doing. I've left you the River House in my will but I sold it.
DS: What? Why are you telling me this now?
M: My will is with my solicitor.
DS: I thought he was dead.
M: Not quite yet but soon. I also left you my super. Is it Navajo jewellery you prefer?
DS: I quite liked that necklace you got me the time before last. When are you planning on dying?
M: I'm going to visit B. in America on Monday.
DS: Are you going to drop dead in America?
M: I'm more worried about The Taliban.
DS: In Arizona?
M: Well the central heating broke this week, you never know what might happen. They charge a flat $250 for a call out fee. I have another house in the mountains you can have instead of the River House. You should rent it out to someone who has a job.
DS: I might but you have to die first. I'm no longer going to plunge to my death because Mr Oddweird repaired the Peach Deck.
M: What do you want duty free?
DS: I'm not sure, let me think.
M: Your brother sucked all my spending money into a trombone.
DS: I suppose that's not unusual. Should I buy the recycled toilet paper? I can give you money for some duty free perfume.
M: No you can't, you're too poor. The Money Fairy doesn't approve. My brother once bought the most dyed toilet paper because he doesn't like fish.
DS: Maybe the Birthday Fairy could buy the perfume, unless she has also been sucked into a trombone.
M: It is important to note that I do not plan on dropping dead in America but there is a possibility I might.
DS: Consider it noted. You should note that unlike my uncle I like fish.
M: Noted.
The unending number of cat-food-mission related surprises or Going to New York
I ran into a friend of mine today as I walked down the road on a mission to buy cat food in the pouring rain. He's been smiling a lot lately, almost too much, as though he had saved all his happiness in a box under his bed and only recently thought to open it. He's written a screen play and is going to New York, to try his luck at walking streets with words in mind.
My friend's joy was overwhelming. I think he'd stuffed all his pockets with thought-propelling possibilities. I told the cat all about it, our thoughts were unusually united, this is only one surprise in the unending number of cat-food-mission related surprises.
My friend's joy was overwhelming. I think he'd stuffed all his pockets with thought-propelling possibilities. I told the cat all about it, our thoughts were unusually united, this is only one surprise in the unending number of cat-food-mission related surprises.
Terrible by accident on purpose
I locked myself in my wardrobe last night. That's more difficult than it sounds, it has sliding doors. It was, of course an accident, one in a long list of accidents. I threw a garbage bag containing a king size doona onto my head, dropped two fans on my feet and trapped the cat in the shower. I was having one of those uncoordinated days when my ordinary flesh turns into an irresistible disaster-attracting magnet but it was better than the day before when I had to fake something similar.
Spencer said he was having some friends around to have a jam in his band room. I came along to take notes for something I'm working on but ended up happily but ineffectively bashing away at the drums. Something got into Spencer's head and he kept calling out for everybody to swap instruments, which is fine for him because he can just about get away with playing anything, less good for the some of the rest of us, particularly me. I can't play guitar, not at all. I don't want to learn either. I have about as much interest in playing guitar as I do in dropping my hands into a vat of boiling oil. I made some loud electric noises of the atonal variety and didn't really mind not being able to play but then Spencer yelled for another swap and somebody handed me a bass.
I can play bass guitar, but I didn't want to. I haven't wanted to play for twenty years and even before that I wasn't really having a good time with the stupid thing. I used to plod along with one dire band or another, picking out the right notes and following the drummer through rhythm and the guitars through keys but I never liked it. I remember the precise day when I shut my old bass into its case and swore never again.
Two days ago in Spencer's band room I was stranded in the middle of a stupid jam with a damn bass strapped around my neck. Spencer was playing drums like he was falling down stairs, some others were having a go at electric guitar. I thought about it for a second, ran my left hand down the fret board and felt the strings bite at my fingertips but then something took over. I don't even remember making the decision not to play. It was easier than I thought, I half-heartedly plonked out a few tones, out of order, out of rhythm. Muscle memory was screaming at me 'you're doing it wrong, stop doing it wrong', but the more I persisted in not playing the easier it got. I tapped out some random nothings, played non-existent chords, jammed my foot down on a pedal to muddy things up even further and just sat there, making hideous non-rhythmic noises until it was time to swap again.
I can't quite remember what led to the momentous day when I declared, with god as my witness, I will never play the bass again but I do remember the feeling of uncomplicated relief. I suspect it has something to do with writing. There came a point when rehearsals, sound checks, riding stuffed like a sardine from shit town to shit town in the back of someone's borrowed car and playing to people who didn't really give a shit shifted from being kind of fun to nothing more than stolen hours. I just wanted to stay home and write. I know that music isn't my first language like it is for others. I can play some instruments, I can sight read music like a pro, thanks to never practicing enough between piano lessons and wishing to avoid getting yelled at. I can listen to music like most people can't, inhabit it, wear it right in the face, I can sit without embarrassment right in front of a rehearsing beginner or a world class concert pianist but what I can't do is build within myself an innate sense of musicality. You've either got it or you don't. I don't got it and for that I remain truly grateful. I have enough to do here with words.
Spencer said he was having some friends around to have a jam in his band room. I came along to take notes for something I'm working on but ended up happily but ineffectively bashing away at the drums. Something got into Spencer's head and he kept calling out for everybody to swap instruments, which is fine for him because he can just about get away with playing anything, less good for the some of the rest of us, particularly me. I can't play guitar, not at all. I don't want to learn either. I have about as much interest in playing guitar as I do in dropping my hands into a vat of boiling oil. I made some loud electric noises of the atonal variety and didn't really mind not being able to play but then Spencer yelled for another swap and somebody handed me a bass.
I can play bass guitar, but I didn't want to. I haven't wanted to play for twenty years and even before that I wasn't really having a good time with the stupid thing. I used to plod along with one dire band or another, picking out the right notes and following the drummer through rhythm and the guitars through keys but I never liked it. I remember the precise day when I shut my old bass into its case and swore never again.
Two days ago in Spencer's band room I was stranded in the middle of a stupid jam with a damn bass strapped around my neck. Spencer was playing drums like he was falling down stairs, some others were having a go at electric guitar. I thought about it for a second, ran my left hand down the fret board and felt the strings bite at my fingertips but then something took over. I don't even remember making the decision not to play. It was easier than I thought, I half-heartedly plonked out a few tones, out of order, out of rhythm. Muscle memory was screaming at me 'you're doing it wrong, stop doing it wrong', but the more I persisted in not playing the easier it got. I tapped out some random nothings, played non-existent chords, jammed my foot down on a pedal to muddy things up even further and just sat there, making hideous non-rhythmic noises until it was time to swap again.
I can't quite remember what led to the momentous day when I declared, with god as my witness, I will never play the bass again but I do remember the feeling of uncomplicated relief. I suspect it has something to do with writing. There came a point when rehearsals, sound checks, riding stuffed like a sardine from shit town to shit town in the back of someone's borrowed car and playing to people who didn't really give a shit shifted from being kind of fun to nothing more than stolen hours. I just wanted to stay home and write. I know that music isn't my first language like it is for others. I can play some instruments, I can sight read music like a pro, thanks to never practicing enough between piano lessons and wishing to avoid getting yelled at. I can listen to music like most people can't, inhabit it, wear it right in the face, I can sit without embarrassment right in front of a rehearsing beginner or a world class concert pianist but what I can't do is build within myself an innate sense of musicality. You've either got it or you don't. I don't got it and for that I remain truly grateful. I have enough to do here with words.
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