This is terrible. I have been awake for about an hour, I am reporting to you from Superman's house. Its nearly ten am on Saturday morning and Superman is nowhere to be found. He got up in the middle of the night and did not return. I was awake enough to know that someone was making the sound of footsteps on a mattress then I rolled over and made attempt number five hundred and twelve to become comfortable.
It took me some time to work up the courage to leave the blankets and find the toilet. I wasn't sure just how cold this floor was going to feel under my feet. I knew where the toilet was so I set about navigating there. I'm staying in a room that opens directly off the kitchen, odd place for a bedroom. The kitchen here at Emu is almost supernaturally clean, in fact the whole house, hang on, I'm going to go and run my fingers along some furniture. No dust! The insides of the kitchen cupboards are organised with military precision, if tupperware ladies were the military, that would explain quite a few things I think.
I spent half an hour searching for coffee this morning. I found tea and green tea which is nice but its not fucking coffee. I have no idea where the nearest cafe would be. I had a look out the front and am sorry to report that I am surrounded, houses, cars, front lawns, children riding bikes with sunshine on their fucking shoulders, not one of these things produces coffee.
My next mission is to investigate as to whether I will be able to leave the house and then let myself back in. There is no sign of Superman's keys, his car is here but not his keys, his stuff is all here, in fact I am looking at this wallet. I might try and sneak out into the backyard for a cigarette.
There's a door that opens directly from the bedroom to the backyard. There is no grass in the backyard, its a paved paradise with three separate seating areas, a swimming pool and a bbq all surrounded by immaculate tropical gardens. I found the macadamia tree but not having a hammer nor a pocket oven ate no macadamia nuts. A cat named Casserole bailed me up by the clothes line where I was sucking down a cigarette in the sunlight. The sun always shines stronger out at Emu.
There are three doors from the backyard into the house, the cat showed me which one was unlocked and contained both cat bowl and cat food. I fed the cat but he did not produce any coffee. There are six doors from the room with the kitchen in it. I went through all six but still did not find any coffee. There are a series of closed doors at the end of a hallway but I'm not game to go through them, the cat looked at me wisely when I informed him of my decision. It is possible that Superman is behind one of the doors but that's only a possibility.
I'm considering going next door with a mug and begging for a spoonful of instant coffee. I'm considering changing out of my pyjamas and Superman's old man slippers but I'm not sure that would make it any more likely for the unknown neighbour to produce a spoonful of coffee. I tried phoning Rita for advice on where to look for coffee. Rita did not answer the phone. I was pretty sure that Ronita has them up at the crack of dawn each day but just maybe she's old enough to have figured out Saturdays.
I'm thinking about going home. This here is a no good situation. There is no fucking coffee in here, the toliet wall does not reach all the way to the ceiling and I have no idea where to look for a clean towel just in case I wanted to shower. The food is unidentifiable in its military containers. I'm cold, hungry, my back hurts from the strange bed and Superman is nowhere to be found. Here are my coordinates, organise a sky hook.
Embargoed - things that definitely did not happen
You can tell when I'm carrying a secret, I've got that square television under my jumper shape going on and I'm stepping like my shoes are tied together so I'll frame it like this. My friend did not come over with two new as yet unreleased albums. I'll slip on one them and say he rhymes with Mex Terkins because mentioning the other album would lead to certain death, my certain death for a start with a domino back through journalism.
My friend sipped at his tea then pointed his pointy finger at me saying "You better not write about this on that blog of yours Slamma". He put his cup down then crossed his legs, I turned up the volume, just a little, while I wondered about how to get away with writing about it.
I'm sitting here with the cat looking at me disapprovingly, I'm counting out the wasted hours of my life while the calculator goes mad and I'm adding up to nothing. Its lucky I'm no fucking accountant, I'm not quite ready to take my place in the crowd.
My friend sipped at his tea then pointed his pointy finger at me saying "You better not write about this on that blog of yours Slamma". He put his cup down then crossed his legs, I turned up the volume, just a little, while I wondered about how to get away with writing about it.
I'm sitting here with the cat looking at me disapprovingly, I'm counting out the wasted hours of my life while the calculator goes mad and I'm adding up to nothing. Its lucky I'm no fucking accountant, I'm not quite ready to take my place in the crowd.
He wasn't all that but he took everything he could steal
Yeah I'm reeling but sometimes the best way to tell if you are drunk is to wee. If you find you are leaning against the cubicle wall while you are weeing then you are probably drunk, either that or you're Elvis.
My head's hurting like a freight train so I'm shutting this shit down with its arctic glare, its glowing eye and forward thrust of elbows and arms. I'm shutting this shit down and rolling into oblivion while Spencer walks down the street with his single red rose and his dashboard Jesus. If it was up to me I'd be shutting all the shit down.
My head's hurting like a freight train so I'm shutting this shit down with its arctic glare, its glowing eye and forward thrust of elbows and arms. I'm shutting this shit down and rolling into oblivion while Spencer walks down the street with his single red rose and his dashboard Jesus. If it was up to me I'd be shutting all the shit down.
People on streets or telephones
Sunday night I found myself seated in a house surrounded by strangers. I was drinking wine and rolling cigarettes, I was eavesdropping, eating vegetables and wishing the music was different.
I was at Foto's house with its mad Escher staircases and forbidden pianos. Foto was wrapping his wounds with his friends and keeping his walking sticks invisible. Foto wears a deliberate charm like its mascara but I don't mind, its not like he's masked in false lashes. He's hard to sit next to cause he's radiating heartbreak and the instructions clearly say duck and cover but I'm always trying to be a brick in other people's walls.
Foto is Superman's friend and I felt at first obvious and invasive, the way the women sat in a row across the room from me and the men wandered around arranging food and pouring wine. A skirted woman scoffed while Foto played his trumpet and Superman played the guitar.
I infiltrated a conversation about lipstick, I have a lipstick. I have a red lipstick in a metal tube. I tacked myself onto the end of the Grand Tour and played a single note on a forbidden piano. I told flat and irrelevant stories about nobody. I talked about guitars and nobody cared enough to ask me about anything like myself or the reason I was tap dancing alone.
By the end of the night I was drinking Superman's port out of his glass because I'd finished my own. I was trying hard not to sway to Tom Waits and I was reminded that there are people out there, people on streets or telephones.
I was at Foto's house with its mad Escher staircases and forbidden pianos. Foto was wrapping his wounds with his friends and keeping his walking sticks invisible. Foto wears a deliberate charm like its mascara but I don't mind, its not like he's masked in false lashes. He's hard to sit next to cause he's radiating heartbreak and the instructions clearly say duck and cover but I'm always trying to be a brick in other people's walls.
Foto is Superman's friend and I felt at first obvious and invasive, the way the women sat in a row across the room from me and the men wandered around arranging food and pouring wine. A skirted woman scoffed while Foto played his trumpet and Superman played the guitar.
I infiltrated a conversation about lipstick, I have a lipstick. I have a red lipstick in a metal tube. I tacked myself onto the end of the Grand Tour and played a single note on a forbidden piano. I told flat and irrelevant stories about nobody. I talked about guitars and nobody cared enough to ask me about anything like myself or the reason I was tap dancing alone.
By the end of the night I was drinking Superman's port out of his glass because I'd finished my own. I was trying hard not to sway to Tom Waits and I was reminded that there are people out there, people on streets or telephones.
Hey Creamboy! The verb is implied, this has nothing to do with this post.
I didn't steal the gloves so much as forget to remind Superman that he had left them out the front of The Peach, on my hands. I was at first skeptical about the goodness of fingerless gloves that come in a packet from Big W. When Superman told me over the phone that he was deriving great pleasure from making a fist wearing the gloves then looking at the fist I thought I might like to have a go at that until I heard his mother say in the background "they look like something an eight year old girl might wear". Superman's mother gives me lemons from her tree, I wonder if she has any plastic combs. Last weekend I discovered plastic combs.
Plastic combs can come in a packet containing many combs. Combs can be left on The Peach Deck for a week then admirably comb your hair in the same way they did when you took the comb outside to show everybody at Pie Day your new plastic comb. Plastic combs are not very expensive. I bought five plastic combs, one of them tortoiseshell look, for less than three dollars. It is interesting to note that Superman does not wish to hang a picture of himself on the spare picture hook in Janet's pie shop in Newtown, this has nothing to do with plastic combs.
Combs can sometimes get stuck in your hair if your hair is tangly, this is why there are several combs in one packet. If a comb becomes stuck in your hair simply pick up a different comb and comb another part of your head, the stuck comb will eventually fall out, if the stuck comb falls into a toilet in the cafe you can retrieve the comb then wash both hands and comb using something a bit germ killy. It is best to do this before returning to your banana bread and coffee.
I like plastic combs. A plastic comb can fit in your wallet for handy storage. A plastic comb can be used to comb both your hair and your cat. Ah now, I was talking about fingerless gloves. I was skeptical about them until Superman demonstrated the usefulness of them. Superman can eat food, brush his teeth, roll a cigarette, play the guitar, comb his hair, make a nice cup of tea, pat the cat, play a game with zombies in it, toast an english muffin, tell me to stop being stupid, buy a tube of pawpaw ointment, look at pies, watch a band, chase a rat, dance in a dangerous fashion, wear my glasses, pose for a photo and type emails whilst wearing fingerless gloves. It was a fantastic demonstration of the goodness of gloves. Unfortunately for Superman I am now wearing his gloves. I like to wear them while I stash my plastic combs in handy locations around the house. Superman does not like plastic combs.
Plastic combs can come in a packet containing many combs. Combs can be left on The Peach Deck for a week then admirably comb your hair in the same way they did when you took the comb outside to show everybody at Pie Day your new plastic comb. Plastic combs are not very expensive. I bought five plastic combs, one of them tortoiseshell look, for less than three dollars. It is interesting to note that Superman does not wish to hang a picture of himself on the spare picture hook in Janet's pie shop in Newtown, this has nothing to do with plastic combs.
Combs can sometimes get stuck in your hair if your hair is tangly, this is why there are several combs in one packet. If a comb becomes stuck in your hair simply pick up a different comb and comb another part of your head, the stuck comb will eventually fall out, if the stuck comb falls into a toilet in the cafe you can retrieve the comb then wash both hands and comb using something a bit germ killy. It is best to do this before returning to your banana bread and coffee.
I like plastic combs. A plastic comb can fit in your wallet for handy storage. A plastic comb can be used to comb both your hair and your cat. Ah now, I was talking about fingerless gloves. I was skeptical about them until Superman demonstrated the usefulness of them. Superman can eat food, brush his teeth, roll a cigarette, play the guitar, comb his hair, make a nice cup of tea, pat the cat, play a game with zombies in it, toast an english muffin, tell me to stop being stupid, buy a tube of pawpaw ointment, look at pies, watch a band, chase a rat, dance in a dangerous fashion, wear my glasses, pose for a photo and type emails whilst wearing fingerless gloves. It was a fantastic demonstration of the goodness of gloves. Unfortunately for Superman I am now wearing his gloves. I like to wear them while I stash my plastic combs in handy locations around the house. Superman does not like plastic combs.
Dirty Echo Spark
I took down all the clocks. Nobody had a fucking clock in there. I wanted to rub my face across a man's moustache but my photographer was accused of gyrating on the floor. I swallowed two mouthfuls of vodka then told them he was just dedicated while he slid on his back across the floor in front of the crowd, in front of the band.
Aidan Roberts has no arse and the accordion player needs a dancectomy. Pip Smith later told me she thought the crowd was lovely. Pip wraps her youth around her as a mantle but that's not important. The crowd was just making each day of the year while I swallowed mouthfuls of vodka and filled my dress pockets with slithers of lime rind. Somebody called out "Judas!" over the clicking alignment of my spine. It was a joke about electric guitars and they laughed but I glanced down to where the top pocket of my denim jacket would usually be. I can't explain why I wasn't wearing it, I'm sure you wouldn't believe me if I told you Bob Dylan lives in there.
Someone called Judas over the clicking alignment of my spine and it didn't feel wrong, this has nothing to do with anything but slow motion moments, sometimes music is a substitute for tears. Listening to their album feels like a swing. Implausible apex pausing of time.
I ended up chasing a rat down the street past The Hollywood at three in the morning. I saw it running in the gutter, I told Superman I was going to chase it then I ran but Superman soon overtook me and the rat, in a bold move, crossed the road. Rats and Superman can both run faster than me, this doesn't change the sound of The Maple Trail which is excellent. In case I wasn't being clear go and buy the album Dirty Echo Spark.
Aidan Roberts has no arse and the accordion player needs a dancectomy. Pip Smith later told me she thought the crowd was lovely. Pip wraps her youth around her as a mantle but that's not important. The crowd was just making each day of the year while I swallowed mouthfuls of vodka and filled my dress pockets with slithers of lime rind. Somebody called out "Judas!" over the clicking alignment of my spine. It was a joke about electric guitars and they laughed but I glanced down to where the top pocket of my denim jacket would usually be. I can't explain why I wasn't wearing it, I'm sure you wouldn't believe me if I told you Bob Dylan lives in there.
Someone called Judas over the clicking alignment of my spine and it didn't feel wrong, this has nothing to do with anything but slow motion moments, sometimes music is a substitute for tears. Listening to their album feels like a swing. Implausible apex pausing of time.
I ended up chasing a rat down the street past The Hollywood at three in the morning. I saw it running in the gutter, I told Superman I was going to chase it then I ran but Superman soon overtook me and the rat, in a bold move, crossed the road. Rats and Superman can both run faster than me, this doesn't change the sound of The Maple Trail which is excellent. In case I wasn't being clear go and buy the album Dirty Echo Spark.
A free man feels afraid
I recognise myself only in old men or men that were once young. I have poured myself into the remnants of them one syllable at a time. Words escape me or rather I have escaped them. I was walking under that mobile sentence cloud thinking I know what it is to be a dairy cow. Its like letting down milk when the words funnel through from cloud to fingers. Its impossible to be your own farmer opening gates and burying yourself in soil so I became someone else.
I'm Neil Young live at Massey Hall in 1971, I'm Bob Dylan in London, I'm Keith Richards on the floor, I'm my own personal Judas staring down sound and burning books to keep the cat warm. Words have escaped me so I'll plug your headphones in. This is the reverse miracle osmosis of music.
I'm Neil Young live at Massey Hall in 1971, I'm Bob Dylan in London, I'm Keith Richards on the floor, I'm my own personal Judas staring down sound and burning books to keep the cat warm. Words have escaped me so I'll plug your headphones in. This is the reverse miracle osmosis of music.
Intercepted
Dale Slamma has discovered five new kinds of science, her submarine is trapped underneath the world's biggest iceberg. Dale is melting ice core samples and making them into cups of tea, this is one of the new kinds of science.
Call for the Captain ashore
I'm navigating now. Periscope, peninsula, parallelogram. I see the fish in my belly squalling into a rolling silver flash, bottomless blue visible between them, nothing can obscure that. I want them to leap for words but they roll past the glass clockwise, liquid herded plunging.
I have maps and model ships, there are miniature metal men on metal horses. Engines drone as my red arrow drags from latitude to latitude.
I have maps and model ships, there are miniature metal men on metal horses. Engines drone as my red arrow drags from latitude to latitude.
.... .- -. --. / --- -. / - --- / -- . / .--. . --- .--. .-.. . --..-- / .-- . .----. .-. . / --. --- .. -. .----. / -.. --- .-- -.
-.. --- .-- -. / .- -- --- -. --. / - .... . / ..-. .. ... .... . ... / .. -. / .- -. / .- -... ... . -. -.-. . / --- ..-. / ... --- ..- -. -.. .-.-.- / - .... .- - / ... --- -. .- .-. / .--. .. -. --. / .... ..- -- ... / .-.. --- .-- / .- -.-. .-. --- ... ... / -- -.-- / ... --- ..- -. -.. ... -.-. .- .--. . .-.-.- / .. .----. -- / ... - . . .-. .. -. --. / - .... .-. --- ..- --. .... / .. -.-. . -.. / .. -. . .-. - .. .- / .-- .. - .... --- ..- - / .- -. -.-- / --- ..-. / - .... --- ... . / -.. .- -. -.-. .. -. --. / --- -... .--- . -.-. - ... .-.-.- / - .... . / ... ..- -... -- .- .-. .. -. . / -... .-.. . . -.. ... / .- ... / - .... --- ..- --. .... / .. - / .- -.-. .... . ... .-.-.- / ... --- / ..-. .- .-. / -... . .-.. --- .-- .-.-.-
There goes a mariner
I am breaking radio silence from my antarctic submarine, risking the lives of my crew, to bring you this essential communication. Its not yet 8am and I am awake, my hair is mysteriously tidy. Something is happening here but I don't know what it is.
You think its cold now do you Sunboy?
Dale Slamma left this morning on a secret mission to The Australian Antarctic Division. Dale wishes to advise you that she packed warm socks, a harpoon and three muesli bars. Dale will return in time to make pies for Pie Day.
Ave Slamma
I've got my god pills in my left hand. Pilgrims can't stop me. I'll swallow this miracle opposite of creation.
Tell me why
I keep doing that. Then tell me how to stop. You might also want to bring me something to eat, something salty.
I like pie
Superman's mother gave me a bag of lemons from her tree, I stuck my head all the way inside the bag because of the smell.
Empowered by a muesli bar I made lemon meringue pie and lemonade. I didn't make the muesli bar, it seems important to point that out.
Empowered by a muesli bar I made lemon meringue pie and lemonade. I didn't make the muesli bar, it seems important to point that out.
I don't want your money (Danish-waisted-mid-century burden)
Honey I need to be portable and new like shoes or a small bag capable of carrying a notebook, some money and a muesli bar.
I've been fucked into an eBay state of mind.
There used to be a safe place; sleep instead of typewriters. I can't be more than I can carry or drag or push with the soles of my feet. I've lost impulse control along with flat chested motivation. I was left holding up one end of a pink tallboy with green cut glass handles. I filled everywhere with trinkets and pamphlets and word molecules until I was squirrel-handed and fatigued.
Now I find I've been fucked into an eBay state of mind.
I've been fucked into an eBay state of mind.
There used to be a safe place; sleep instead of typewriters. I can't be more than I can carry or drag or push with the soles of my feet. I've lost impulse control along with flat chested motivation. I was left holding up one end of a pink tallboy with green cut glass handles. I filled everywhere with trinkets and pamphlets and word molecules until I was squirrel-handed and fatigued.
Now I find I've been fucked into an eBay state of mind.
Big heavy stuff(ed) sofa
The urge overtook me suddenly. I woke from a dream straight into a level ten urge for home improvement. I measured things then set out for the hardware shop but I didn't get far. Outside The Peach was a sofa, its old, faded and overstuffed and precisely the kind of thing I have been dreaming of. I knocked on The Cowboy's door and asked if he had a moment to help me carry it inside. I was worse than useless at handling the logistics of the operation so in the end Grizelda and The Cowboy were the ones cursing, puffing and sweating their way down the hall and into the library.
The Cowboy said he was playing at The Annandale tonight and ordinarily I would have gone but I'm resting my bruised and stupid self this evening on my new sofa in the library. I think its best if I stay in for the foreseeable future. I've decided I can't be trusted outside, in the real world, except for hardware shops, they seem to be ok.
Yeah that photo is a bit shit but do I look like I care?
The Cowboy said he was playing at The Annandale tonight and ordinarily I would have gone but I'm resting my bruised and stupid self this evening on my new sofa in the library. I think its best if I stay in for the foreseeable future. I've decided I can't be trusted outside, in the real world, except for hardware shops, they seem to be ok.
Yeah that photo is a bit shit but do I look like I care?
Jon Wah - the funeral, the bruises, the discovery of us
I'm half way through this arduous organisation. It won't wash off. I'm trailing the stink of it behind me. It fills this room despite all the scented candles I could muster, the all day open windows and the arduous organisation. I'm swinging between the urge to vomit and an uncontrolled alphabetisation of all that I own. In a pause I phoned Superman but I couldn't bring myself to say it out loud, this thing that I've done. I told him I was bruised but I didn't tell him about the skin missing off my red raw face or that my teeth feel like they're swinging loose inside my head.
I'm swaddled in high necked long legged pants to hide the twenty separate bruises, my face is caked in Grizelda's makeup to hide my tomato red face. The lip that I thought was split has melded itself back together and the taste of blood is not continuous anymore.
It was ordinary enough, the day, the long drive out to Emu but then Superman emerged in his funeral blacks and I looked down and noticed my own. The drive was ridiculous, I had no idea how most to operate most of the controls on the mercedes dashboard. Superman managed to simultaneously lay his seat down flat and jam open a back window while I wound through clouds and the necessary tangible breath of cigarettes. By the time we arrived at the funeral it was raining and the Chapel was full so we stood outside blowing out frosted breaths and shivering in the mountain air.
It was ordinary enough, the music, the poetry, the crack split in talking voices until the service was over and we stood like cattle in a cloud. Collective grief pushed my head down and all I saw was shoes. I couldn't look at their faces. They stood uneasy as plastic flamingos around the spectacle of parents and grandparents folding their years around new grief while I stared at shoes and was grateful for the bottom of Superman's long coat hanging into my field of vision.
I walked from person to person looking at their shoes and catching glimpses of how we might all look set in stone with our long jaws shut tight and our shivering arms hung about one another unconsciously touching the people we don't ordinarily dare to touch. It felt serpentine and incorrect like an undone sum.
Spencer's shut mouth plumbed open and he rolled out the word 'us', making a low sweep across everybody with his left hand. I was caught in the movement, sibilant 's' ringing in my ears. Marcus Westbury would have ushered forward his recording mind cause I was standing thick in the undergrowth of this city. Not all of us have mastered our craft but I was shoulder to shoulder with artists, musicians and writers, we've hatched out of our university caves. It came clear to me then, it might not be grand and most of us will pass unnoticed, ashes, I'm not claiming we're all the best of friends but that small word 'us' should have scorched a mark across the sky.
I'm swaddled in high necked long legged pants to hide the twenty separate bruises, my face is caked in Grizelda's makeup to hide my tomato red face. The lip that I thought was split has melded itself back together and the taste of blood is not continuous anymore.
It was ordinary enough, the day, the long drive out to Emu but then Superman emerged in his funeral blacks and I looked down and noticed my own. The drive was ridiculous, I had no idea how most to operate most of the controls on the mercedes dashboard. Superman managed to simultaneously lay his seat down flat and jam open a back window while I wound through clouds and the necessary tangible breath of cigarettes. By the time we arrived at the funeral it was raining and the Chapel was full so we stood outside blowing out frosted breaths and shivering in the mountain air.
It was ordinary enough, the music, the poetry, the crack split in talking voices until the service was over and we stood like cattle in a cloud. Collective grief pushed my head down and all I saw was shoes. I couldn't look at their faces. They stood uneasy as plastic flamingos around the spectacle of parents and grandparents folding their years around new grief while I stared at shoes and was grateful for the bottom of Superman's long coat hanging into my field of vision.
I walked from person to person looking at their shoes and catching glimpses of how we might all look set in stone with our long jaws shut tight and our shivering arms hung about one another unconsciously touching the people we don't ordinarily dare to touch. It felt serpentine and incorrect like an undone sum.
Spencer's shut mouth plumbed open and he rolled out the word 'us', making a low sweep across everybody with his left hand. I was caught in the movement, sibilant 's' ringing in my ears. Marcus Westbury would have ushered forward his recording mind cause I was standing thick in the undergrowth of this city. Not all of us have mastered our craft but I was shoulder to shoulder with artists, musicians and writers, we've hatched out of our university caves. It came clear to me then, it might not be grand and most of us will pass unnoticed, ashes, I'm not claiming we're all the best of friends but that small word 'us' should have scorched a mark across the sky.
Sperm in the gutter, love in the sink
The worst thing I could think of, that's what I did last night.
In my teeth
I've lost depth or altitude or both. I issued myself a compass but it only ever points to the bath, true magnetic north submerged. I've been thinking that my head sloshes as it tips. Grey water. I have become desperate for clean sheets on a broad bed in a clean room. My thirst for surfaces would be unstoppable if it didn't require motion.
There are too many metal surfaces in this room. I can feel them in my teeth. This should be a reason to go home. I need to feel sunlight through my windows. The Peach has become a cave. I leave in lemon weak early light and return first to the dark hall. I move from switch to switch. I am switch restricted, only able to be in a room with a source of light and heat. I can throw words out across the world but I'm bound by light and heat as though at the radiant edges nothing exists.
Winter used to be only blessed relief from Western Sydney's oven daze summer but in the city its a cave switch ritual holding my arms across my chest. I can feel these metal surfaces in my teeth. It is a strange currency. I trade you this day for the right to carry vegetables or the reliable turning of the hot tap in my shower. I trade you endurance of the metal feeling in my teeth for a night sleeping in clean sheets.
There are too many metal surfaces in this room. I can feel them in my teeth. This should be a reason to go home. I need to feel sunlight through my windows. The Peach has become a cave. I leave in lemon weak early light and return first to the dark hall. I move from switch to switch. I am switch restricted, only able to be in a room with a source of light and heat. I can throw words out across the world but I'm bound by light and heat as though at the radiant edges nothing exists.
Winter used to be only blessed relief from Western Sydney's oven daze summer but in the city its a cave switch ritual holding my arms across my chest. I can feel these metal surfaces in my teeth. It is a strange currency. I trade you this day for the right to carry vegetables or the reliable turning of the hot tap in my shower. I trade you endurance of the metal feeling in my teeth for a night sleeping in clean sheets.
Epiphenomena #1
It pushes the world forward in a somersault motion cresting in roller coaster abandonment but by the end I'm clawing through earth and that's why I'm playing it on repeat. I used to be able to think or feel or think but I felt harder then, when music stopped time instead of rolling it underneath me.
Bulldozers!
Management apologises for this post but she needs to have things in simple order right now
I have pondered to a standstill. It is a gentle way to be, pondered to a standstill, there is no cause for alarm.
- Jon Wah died. Artboy phoned me when I was standing in the supermarket looking at soup to tell me.
- I telephoned Superman because I found I was standing in the middle of the kitchen and didn't know what else to do. He said he would come over, I told him not to because it was too far but he said he was coming anyway. I asked him to bring a teabag from his cupboard.
- Grizelda made me dinner, then she made me eat it.
- There was a knock at the door. Superman and Artboy arrived at precisely the same moment.
- Superman went to the shops for teabags.
- Artboy took my hand and told me that he loved me.
- Superman returned with teabags, timtams and marshmallows.
- Artboy talked about marketing, sneakers and the worst song in the world.
- Artboy left.
- Superman lit a fire, made hot chocolate then made up a song about life being flopsy and not making sense.
- I made Superman look at all the photos on my computer. I could not stop myself. I don't know why I did that.
- I toasted some marshmallows over the fire by stabbing them with really big matchsticks and holding them close enough to toast but not close enough to burn my hands. I used the non-match end of the big match sticks.
- Superman showed me bad photos of himself. I thought he looked fine, he disagreed.
- Drying myself after a shower I noticed that my feet were pink from being in the hot water.
- Climbing underneath my excellent doona Superman announced that he was downloading the entire Rolling Stones discography and that in the morning he would put it on my computer.
- I said "That is the best thing that has ever happened, ever". He said "I thought you'd like that".
- I woke late, people in my office were kind when I said I would not be in this morning.
- Superman, Spencer and I sat in the Island Cafe all morning talking and taking turns to give the idiot from the music channel death stares as she sat at a neighbouring table blabbering gabble at the camera.
- We ate pies in the pie shop. I stood nine hot chips up in my pie before eating them, they were tall chips. There were only ever three chips at a time in my pie.
- Spencer went to work, I phoned my office and once again they were very kind when I said I would not be in this afternoon.
- Superman and I went to the movies. We saw Mongol, I wanted a pony, I ate maltesers, Superman ate some too.
- Back in The Peach there was tea, Superman decided to trim his beard. I don't know what he used to trim his beard. I do not have any beard trimming devices. Perhaps he brought his own beard trimming thing but why would he do that? It is true that he sometimes has muesli in his bag. I wonder what else he has in his bag.
- Superman left to go to his yoga class. He came all the way from Emu to The Peach because Jon Wah died and I was standing in my kitchen not knowing what to do. I was standing two steps away from the bench, two steps away from the pantry and two steps from the metal border thing that divides the lounge room from the kitchen. I like Superman.
Yesterday Jon Wah overdosed and died, there's no elegant way to say that
He was entirely reprehensible in almost every way.
It was generally acknowledged that he was a bit of a cunt.
His art was abject and difficult to see most of the time.
He had a band called The Bloody Cunts that was so terrible no one could listen to them.
Jon Wah, you reprehensible bastard, I wish you hadn't died.
I'm not metamorphic
I can't remember myself so I'm listening to Bob Dylan. I'm turning it up because I like it. I'm climbing inside it because I like it, here on my own. I can't tell you how it feels, you always asked me that question - how does it feel? There are ways of conquest, we all know that, but I have become impenetrable.
I'm not metamorphic.
I'm not metamorphic.
Tree like an elevator
Fragile as a cracked but whole egg, I'm sitting in this construction. Superman's blues guitar raising and lowering outer walls, I'm catching cross-legged glimpses of the gradated horizon. I don't mind that his blues doesn't yet build the whole house. I like this meccano raising and lowering revealing trees, sunsets and neighbours.
I should feel his superimposed rhythm as intrusion but this is basic, the rhythm has always been blue. Last night Superman and I sat upstairs at The Hopetoun eating nachos, with Artboy. I'm waiting for a telegram on how I feel, it'll say Western Union at the bottom and To Dale, at the top.
I should feel his superimposed rhythm as intrusion but this is basic, the rhythm has always been blue. Last night Superman and I sat upstairs at The Hopetoun eating nachos, with Artboy. I'm waiting for a telegram on how I feel, it'll say Western Union at the bottom and To Dale, at the top.
Head head purple
If I was a man I would have spectacular testicles. I am certain of this. I am drunk, this is good. I was so excited by the colours in my discarded clothes on the bathroom floor that I ran dripping wet and naked into the hallway to tell anybody I could find to come and look at my clothes on the floor. I didn't find anybody except the cat and she was interested.
I was wearing an orange shirt, a blue tie and a purple jumper but revealed on the floor was my underneath things, my tomato red singlet and royal purple underwear. It was a marvellous puddle of colour. I am very glad that Superman was already on his way home, it would have been one of those unfortunate incidents. Particularly unfortunate. Tomorrow night when Superman comes back I will remain clothed at all times, either that or I will wear only boringly coloured things to ensure no unfortunate incident occurs.
I was wearing an orange shirt, a blue tie and a purple jumper but revealed on the floor was my underneath things, my tomato red singlet and royal purple underwear. It was a marvellous puddle of colour. I am very glad that Superman was already on his way home, it would have been one of those unfortunate incidents. Particularly unfortunate. Tomorrow night when Superman comes back I will remain clothed at all times, either that or I will wear only boringly coloured things to ensure no unfortunate incident occurs.
I'm sick of myself when I look at you
I'll fill my shoes with powdered glass, that's all part of the deal. I'll walk you bloody as though I was always a typewriter. Spencer gave me Spencer P Jones on a flat disc with track listing handwritten on a white paper sleeve. He gave me a reason to glance sideways at the glass panel on the upstairs French doors in the cafe on Glebe Point Rd. I glanced at the glass panel fighting the urge to lurch my head through it. It wasn't cause Spencer's landed some astonishing people to record a spot or two on his new album.
Jagged teeth are tearing at my tongue, this is all part of my aphasia program, verb, transition. Tug Dumbly stood backlit like a monument but the microphone was shithouse and I lost inflections through electricity and trees. He was standing there holding his opaque decades like a frame but I'll sit through it. I'll sit through his time-frozen-yesterday's-decade Sydney vision humour to feel the molecular necessity of his breathing Yahweh poem and witness the tipping point of his verb, transition. He's a man on the edge of brilliance, if he dares.
I was sitting in the cafe fighting the urge to crash my head through the glass panel on a French door sucking down cigarettes and cradling coffee. Spencer keeps opening his mouth and the words are falling out. His words, other's words, its the way he arranges them, a stone fountain spitting out the absurd, the profound and the necessary. He's the most like a typewriter out of any man I know. Spencer said something and I was struck like a bell by my own lack of genius. I leaned back in my cafe chair blowing out cigarette smoke and cradling coffee, fighting the urge to lurch my head through the glass panel and pushing down the wordstorm.
I've wrapped myself in scarves and all the draping things I can find. I'm walking the hallway and eating mandarins. I'm washing dishes and changing the order of words in my head. I'm making piles of dirty clothes, talking at the cat, I'm putting on another pair of socks. I'm wondering at the order of things in my cupboards and counting newspapers in a pile. I'm cooking and eating eggs and toast, I'm putting pieces of broken glass in the bin. I'm wandering this house like a museum and calling it busy but what I'm really doing is investigating to see if I'm in a state of grace.
Jagged teeth are tearing at my tongue, this is all part of my aphasia program, verb, transition. Tug Dumbly stood backlit like a monument but the microphone was shithouse and I lost inflections through electricity and trees. He was standing there holding his opaque decades like a frame but I'll sit through it. I'll sit through his time-frozen-yesterday's-decade Sydney vision humour to feel the molecular necessity of his breathing Yahweh poem and witness the tipping point of his verb, transition. He's a man on the edge of brilliance, if he dares.
I was sitting in the cafe fighting the urge to crash my head through the glass panel on a French door sucking down cigarettes and cradling coffee. Spencer keeps opening his mouth and the words are falling out. His words, other's words, its the way he arranges them, a stone fountain spitting out the absurd, the profound and the necessary. He's the most like a typewriter out of any man I know. Spencer said something and I was struck like a bell by my own lack of genius. I leaned back in my cafe chair blowing out cigarette smoke and cradling coffee, fighting the urge to lurch my head through the glass panel and pushing down the wordstorm.
I've wrapped myself in scarves and all the draping things I can find. I'm walking the hallway and eating mandarins. I'm washing dishes and changing the order of words in my head. I'm making piles of dirty clothes, talking at the cat, I'm putting on another pair of socks. I'm wondering at the order of things in my cupboards and counting newspapers in a pile. I'm cooking and eating eggs and toast, I'm putting pieces of broken glass in the bin. I'm wandering this house like a museum and calling it busy but what I'm really doing is investigating to see if I'm in a state of grace.
My direction home
Much less than lightning like a pencil to the ocean but whole as a pie. Superman slapped me across the face, twice, in a forwards backwards both sides of my face tennis swing motion. It was violently shocking and swift though not violent beyond playful in intent. I suddenly noticed his height and the size of his hands, roughly twice the size of mine. I pushed my hand into my bag and pulled out a pair of red leather gloves. I held the gloves aloft, he skittered backwards a step or two but I lowered my arm a little and stood there in the freezing night, drunk, shocked and motionless outside the Enmore Theatre. This is the moment I keep coming back to, the literal slap in the face. It reminded me of something, something like how the illusion of control and safety can slip when you least expect it. I wasn't afraid of Superman, there was no need for fear, he was grinning his ridiculous grin, hopping about with his jeans rolled up to show off his pink stripy socks (a birthday present from me) with his long coat flapping in the wind. He looked like a cartoon pirate. My face didn't sting, it was a swift but gentle slap, I stood on Enmore Rd yelling insults with my arm held high noting the small silent compartment frozen in the centre of me.
Today has been a series of slaps in the face. Artboy is diehard3. He confessed via email this morning. His confession included this "There is a desire to remain some small part of your world. I'm sorry that this manifested itself as horrible trolling. I do not think I am a troll at heart."
Artboy is ten thousand things, each one of them the opposite of a troll. It is true that I wished him dead or more accurately - "I hope he feels like shit. I hope he curls into a ball of Heathcliff and beats himself over the head with a walking stick. I hope he crashes his jet into the Grose Valley and drowns under boulders with broken legs." Maybe I do still wish he was dead. It would be easier to live the rest of my life wondering what might have happened if he had not died instead of knowing what I know. It hits me like a slap in the face, not every day, not every week but often enough to have permanently rearranged my architecture.
I've been slapped before. Artboy slapped me across the face in his attempt to wrench the car keys out my hand the night that he went mad two years ago. He was screaming, then he slapped me and clawed at my hands. I wouldn't let him drive. He'd gone mad and I wouldn't let him drive. He started throwing punches but I stood silent and still as stone while he raged and hit me like a punching bag but we all know this story, the story of Artboy gone mad and Dale Slamma realising that no matter what she will never be enough.
My Dad slapped me once. He took three long steps, hit me across the face and told me to get in the car. I was ten and he was driving me to school, he had hurried me to be ready then made me wait while he gathered his things for the day. I told him he shouldn't have hurried me if he wasn't ready to go, that's when he took three long steps and hit me across the face. When I got to school I traced around the red swollen mark on my face with a purple texta. The teacher made me wash it off. I had forgotten about that, forgotten about Artboy's slap and the time my Dad hit me in the face until Superman flashed out his long playful arm and I stood motionless on Enmore Rd with a pair of red leather gloves in my right hand.
Today has been a series of slaps in the face. Artboy is diehard3. He confessed via email this morning. His confession included this "There is a desire to remain some small part of your world. I'm sorry that this manifested itself as horrible trolling. I do not think I am a troll at heart."
Artboy is ten thousand things, each one of them the opposite of a troll. It is true that I wished him dead or more accurately - "I hope he feels like shit. I hope he curls into a ball of Heathcliff and beats himself over the head with a walking stick. I hope he crashes his jet into the Grose Valley and drowns under boulders with broken legs." Maybe I do still wish he was dead. It would be easier to live the rest of my life wondering what might have happened if he had not died instead of knowing what I know. It hits me like a slap in the face, not every day, not every week but often enough to have permanently rearranged my architecture.
I've been slapped before. Artboy slapped me across the face in his attempt to wrench the car keys out my hand the night that he went mad two years ago. He was screaming, then he slapped me and clawed at my hands. I wouldn't let him drive. He'd gone mad and I wouldn't let him drive. He started throwing punches but I stood silent and still as stone while he raged and hit me like a punching bag but we all know this story, the story of Artboy gone mad and Dale Slamma realising that no matter what she will never be enough.
My Dad slapped me once. He took three long steps, hit me across the face and told me to get in the car. I was ten and he was driving me to school, he had hurried me to be ready then made me wait while he gathered his things for the day. I told him he shouldn't have hurried me if he wasn't ready to go, that's when he took three long steps and hit me across the face. When I got to school I traced around the red swollen mark on my face with a purple texta. The teacher made me wash it off. I had forgotten about that, forgotten about Artboy's slap and the time my Dad hit me in the face until Superman flashed out his long playful arm and I stood motionless on Enmore Rd with a pair of red leather gloves in my right hand.
Digital Mystery
Who is diehard3?
The following people have, at one point or another, been suspected;
Superman
Creamboy
Artboy
Chris Brimstone
Elliot
Spencer
Dale Slamma (this one is ridiculous, I am clearly not diehard3)
If you will not confess then will you lead a merry chase?
I demand a clue.
The following people have, at one point or another, been suspected;
Superman
Creamboy
Artboy
Chris Brimstone
Elliot
Spencer
Dale Slamma (this one is ridiculous, I am clearly not diehard3)
If you will not confess then will you lead a merry chase?
I demand a clue.
Womb
This is what I'm doing with my surround soul people and curlicue thoughts gravitroned out to make new walls. Kimya Dawson was key in this invocation made tangible. I sank to the floor .... oh someone is at my door.
This is not finished. I am not finishing it now. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe not. I have no idea.
This is not finished. I am not finishing it now. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe not. I have no idea.
Exploding tampon dinosaur shopping, breathe with me
I followed a man in a black tuxedo jacket around for about half an hour, he looked interesting and had a very organised way of walking about the supermarket. He bought ten litres of juice, one stick of french bread, a bag of apples and three kinds of soft cheese. He stopped and winked at me in the cheese aisle so I ran away, to the biscuit aisle, where it is safe.
Shopping is an excellent time to practice reciting poems, or so I thought until people started to look at me oddly. Today I was attempting to perfect Tug Dumbly's method of saying Yahweh. The "Yah" is pronounced as you breathe in and the "Weh" as you breathe out. It is meant to be soft and just audible above the sound of the breath. It might in future be prudent to take into account the possible religious beliefs of shoppers inside the Marrickville Metro on a Thursday evening before walking around declaring "God is unpronouncable" [breathe in] Y...H [breathe out] W...H" with a trolley full of boxes of matches.
The checkout chap raised an eyebrow as he scanned four large boxes of tampons, three large packages of boxed matches, one Vogue Living , several kinds of icing and a bag of plastic dinosaurs. I attempted to explain that I required the matches to explode the dinosaurs but I'm not sure that he understood.
I am about perform some test explosions with dinosaurs in the fireplace. I want to be careful to not explode Superman's head tomorrow, or my own for that matter. It would be difficult to enjoy cake with an exploded head.
Shopping is an excellent time to practice reciting poems, or so I thought until people started to look at me oddly. Today I was attempting to perfect Tug Dumbly's method of saying Yahweh. The "Yah" is pronounced as you breathe in and the "Weh" as you breathe out. It is meant to be soft and just audible above the sound of the breath. It might in future be prudent to take into account the possible religious beliefs of shoppers inside the Marrickville Metro on a Thursday evening before walking around declaring "God is unpronouncable" [breathe in] Y...H [breathe out] W...H" with a trolley full of boxes of matches.
The checkout chap raised an eyebrow as he scanned four large boxes of tampons, three large packages of boxed matches, one Vogue Living , several kinds of icing and a bag of plastic dinosaurs. I attempted to explain that I required the matches to explode the dinosaurs but I'm not sure that he understood.
I am about perform some test explosions with dinosaurs in the fireplace. I want to be careful to not explode Superman's head tomorrow, or my own for that matter. It would be difficult to enjoy cake with an exploded head.
A history of medicines
She was shorter than I remember, her head was wider and her hair more unkempt but it was her alright walking down the street towards me with three books in a plastic bag, a Katoomba jacket slung over her left arm and an expensive handbag hanging off her right. We waited an age to be served at the cafe, she was staring uneasily at the dazed wandering waiter and flinching at noises, people and cars. She said its too busy here, like New York and the people are odd, like New York, you wouldn't live here if you knew about pollution. I told her I like it here but she glanced sideways and told me there's brown cloud above this town, she sees it every time she comes down from the mountains.
I gave her her birthday card, with the promise of a present inside. She gave me three books in a plastic bag, all signed by the authors and made out to me then she told me the curse had been lifted. I didn't know there was a curse so this came as something of a shock. I did know that she obsessed with dying by the age of fifty nine years and three weeks. No woman in her family, in my family, has lived past the age of fifty nine years and three weeks. I figured I was immune to to the age limit because on my father's side they all live forever but now she's telling there was some kind of curse.
Her sister, my aunt, is now fifty nine years and three and a half weeks old, this is all the evidence she needed to declare the curse lifted. She's shorter than I remembered or maybe I'm just walking a little taller but whatever the reason I think I know why someone would curse us. It all comes down to what Gemma called my 'fuck you vulnerability', truth is its not mine, it belongs to all of us, my shorter than I remember mother, my aunt, my long dead grandmother. It makes us unbearable, to ourselves.
I gave her her birthday card, with the promise of a present inside. She gave me three books in a plastic bag, all signed by the authors and made out to me then she told me the curse had been lifted. I didn't know there was a curse so this came as something of a shock. I did know that she obsessed with dying by the age of fifty nine years and three weeks. No woman in her family, in my family, has lived past the age of fifty nine years and three weeks. I figured I was immune to to the age limit because on my father's side they all live forever but now she's telling there was some kind of curse.
Her sister, my aunt, is now fifty nine years and three and a half weeks old, this is all the evidence she needed to declare the curse lifted. She's shorter than I remembered or maybe I'm just walking a little taller but whatever the reason I think I know why someone would curse us. It all comes down to what Gemma called my 'fuck you vulnerability', truth is its not mine, it belongs to all of us, my shorter than I remember mother, my aunt, my long dead grandmother. It makes us unbearable, to ourselves.
No two people are not on fire
I need to learn something. I need to learn how to fall into words and come out smiling instead of shaking.
Circle the wagons
I am magnificently lazy with my lion sized hair thinking London happens as far South as Sydney*. I've never been one for cardinal points but its here now despite my longing for bigger windows to better picture the wild juxtaposition of rain, fire and the small round cat at my feet.
I've been pushing things into my head feeling the lock down click pointing North away from empty. If there were halos mine would be garamond narrow 3. Hunger is sudden so I am longing like the cat for Grizelda's roasting chicken. She's calling back to the timer on the oven. I'm not sure what she's using but it sounds like a spoon cousin, not to cut out your heart but to baste it.
I am need of something, a day, a sleep, a rest, tea on a tray or adrenalin straight to the heart. I am exhausted despite my epic magnificent lazing on the floor by the fire. I am exhausted and it is all my fault. Friday night Superman and I went to hear Shaun Tan in conversation at Gleebooks and in his quiet way he informed my footsteps. I stood in line to have my book signed chatting ridiculously to Superman until it was my turn, he dipped his finger in ink and fingerprinted my book and I told him I threw a mandarin, he smiled up at me as he signed his name, I said I didn't mean to throw the mandarin.
Superman drove us across town to see Holly Throsby at The Factory and in her quiet way she informed my footsteps. We drank wine by the fire until it was impossibly late and slept until midday. The icy wind of death followed us from street, to cafe to street, through two movies, one delivered dinner and a drive across perimeters to Superman's house for supplies. We sat by the fire until it was impossibly late then we slept until midday and Superman sat in stern silence over his work. I began my epic sprawling, organising my wagon circle of books, papers and thought. I usually work alone because ribbons of thought pop and unfurl, they are easily tangled by the presence of people but lately I've been writing next to Superman while he sits silent and stern over his work. My mad ribbons are exploding everywhere but float easily around him and I don't mind reading out the occasional sentence or consulting on word choice or putting down my pen or book to take up one of his papers or thoughts.
This afternoon Superman suggested a sentence, I accepted it with unusual easiness and stared as it made miraculous sense out of a struggling infant paragraph. Nobody has ever offered me words before and I'm sure that if anyone had ever asked the question I would have stomped my foot and said I would never take words from another, if anybody dared to offer them. I would have stamped and blown out quick air like a horse. I am becoming increasingly aware that I am often wrong, about myself.
*"London happens as far South as Sydney" is a line I stole from one of The Beautiful Boys, it is in one of his poems, I don't remember what it is called but it is good.
I've been pushing things into my head feeling the lock down click pointing North away from empty. If there were halos mine would be garamond narrow 3. Hunger is sudden so I am longing like the cat for Grizelda's roasting chicken. She's calling back to the timer on the oven. I'm not sure what she's using but it sounds like a spoon cousin, not to cut out your heart but to baste it.
I am need of something, a day, a sleep, a rest, tea on a tray or adrenalin straight to the heart. I am exhausted despite my epic magnificent lazing on the floor by the fire. I am exhausted and it is all my fault. Friday night Superman and I went to hear Shaun Tan in conversation at Gleebooks and in his quiet way he informed my footsteps. I stood in line to have my book signed chatting ridiculously to Superman until it was my turn, he dipped his finger in ink and fingerprinted my book and I told him I threw a mandarin, he smiled up at me as he signed his name, I said I didn't mean to throw the mandarin.
Superman drove us across town to see Holly Throsby at The Factory and in her quiet way she informed my footsteps. We drank wine by the fire until it was impossibly late and slept until midday. The icy wind of death followed us from street, to cafe to street, through two movies, one delivered dinner and a drive across perimeters to Superman's house for supplies. We sat by the fire until it was impossibly late then we slept until midday and Superman sat in stern silence over his work. I began my epic sprawling, organising my wagon circle of books, papers and thought. I usually work alone because ribbons of thought pop and unfurl, they are easily tangled by the presence of people but lately I've been writing next to Superman while he sits silent and stern over his work. My mad ribbons are exploding everywhere but float easily around him and I don't mind reading out the occasional sentence or consulting on word choice or putting down my pen or book to take up one of his papers or thoughts.
This afternoon Superman suggested a sentence, I accepted it with unusual easiness and stared as it made miraculous sense out of a struggling infant paragraph. Nobody has ever offered me words before and I'm sure that if anyone had ever asked the question I would have stomped my foot and said I would never take words from another, if anybody dared to offer them. I would have stamped and blown out quick air like a horse. I am becoming increasingly aware that I am often wrong, about myself.
*"London happens as far South as Sydney" is a line I stole from one of The Beautiful Boys, it is in one of his poems, I don't remember what it is called but it is good.
Walking with mandarins
I didn't realise I did this quite so much until Grizelda asked me to stop. I'm quite certain that walking up and down the hallway with a mandarin helps me to think clearly and I need to think clearly. I've been jamming things into my head, words, music, film and laughter. I've been jamming things into my head with full fists and a carelessness of aim so that now I walk flat like a camel lest it all clatter out onto the carpet.
It is a quiet tonight in The Peach, Grizelda lying on the couch watching telly, Superman sitting stern and silent, chipping away at his work in an armchair by the fire in the library. I am cross-legged and hunch back typing on the floor in front of the fire, me, my cat and my mandarin.
I am rewriting, reinventing and reinterpreting my first set of interview notes. So far all the sentences sound overtly constructed, like this one "She wants Sunday afternoons mixed in bowls with salad and the sprawling of fathers on outdoor furniture forming horizons out her kitchen window." I'll get there in the end but I might need a bigger bag of mandarins.
It is a quiet tonight in The Peach, Grizelda lying on the couch watching telly, Superman sitting stern and silent, chipping away at his work in an armchair by the fire in the library. I am cross-legged and hunch back typing on the floor in front of the fire, me, my cat and my mandarin.
I am rewriting, reinventing and reinterpreting my first set of interview notes. So far all the sentences sound overtly constructed, like this one "She wants Sunday afternoons mixed in bowls with salad and the sprawling of fathers on outdoor furniture forming horizons out her kitchen window." I'll get there in the end but I might need a bigger bag of mandarins.
Emotionless Rescue
Grizelda stood over it with her hands on her face bending forward but unable to touch it. I've got nothing in me but the urge to vacuum so that at my funeral they're not all standing around saying "She was thirty-one but never mastered the art of keeping a clean house, its so sad". Grizelda was distraught so I gently probed for signs of life. Its head lolled sideways its tongue thick and lifeless but its small heart was still beating so I scooped it up and carried it to the car and covered it in my favourite purple scarf. There wasn't a mark on it but it died none the less, the vet pronounced it dead on arrival then sprayed our hands with virus killing spray. He was tall with disordered hair, he thanked us for attempting to rescue the dead kitten then walked away in his white coat and student shoes.
I've got nothing in me but the urge to vacuum and these still life images of an emotionless rescue. I watched television with my warm and live cat on my lap then pulled cheap conditioner through my hair while the bathroom filled with steam. Yeah, I've got nothing in me tonight.
I've got nothing in me but the urge to vacuum and these still life images of an emotionless rescue. I watched television with my warm and live cat on my lap then pulled cheap conditioner through my hair while the bathroom filled with steam. Yeah, I've got nothing in me tonight.
Pirates and ninjas are not natural enemies, I am sure of this, despite what Superman says
I need sleep more than words so I'm pushing back the sentences. I've got images of honey pots and my loose fist plunging. I'm asking you to call me Ishmael but I'm not sure why. Someone said 'There goes the mariner" but he was ancient and I thought ah ha, one of three, for now I'm unstoppable but of course everything is derivative. Superman bought me a tiny cake, tinier than the palm of my hand. The poet hooked metaphors on resonance but it resonated only in her mind and the names of plants walked brittle across my ears. Superman won the argument about pirates and ninjas with his research and words but I'm whistling out the opposite of a dirge.
Brilliant
I have thought this through and nothing could possibly go wrong. I will walk to Glebe and go the poetry at Sappho's as though nothing even happened. I will surprise even myself with my general good cheer, fortitude and lack of doom. I will sit at my usual table and stir my coffee in an unconcerned way. I will pull faces at Superman when the poetry is bad, I will tell The Beautiful Boy that his poem was excellent, because his poems are always excellent. I will leave early if I am tired. I will purchase a tiny chocolate cake, tinier than the palm of my small hand, I will eat it with the same tea spoon I use to stir my coffee. Superman might be late but I will not worry, I will sit happily by myself and make notes in my notebook because he always shows up in the end. When he arrives I will annoy him for five whole minutes by communicating to him my sense of empowerment using badly drawn sketches and sachets of sugar.
I will sit happily stirring my coffee and thinking how excellent it is that I have sewn this time into a useful shape because Superman is right. I am not the same person anymore and its been some time since Artboy had any power over me. I am not imagining the power slip, it is almost tangible. So you see, I've thought this through and nothing could possibly go wrong, that's why I agreed to meet Artboy for coffee. This is my year for holding up signs for other people to read and tomorrow I'm going to tell Artboy that I'm fine.
I will sit happily stirring my coffee and thinking how excellent it is that I have sewn this time into a useful shape because Superman is right. I am not the same person anymore and its been some time since Artboy had any power over me. I am not imagining the power slip, it is almost tangible. So you see, I've thought this through and nothing could possibly go wrong, that's why I agreed to meet Artboy for coffee. This is my year for holding up signs for other people to read and tomorrow I'm going to tell Artboy that I'm fine.
Science makes us pay
It saddens me to report that I am suffering increasing pressure to voluntarily remove all of my pubic hair in a violent and bloody fashion. Fortunately I have never been one to crumble under pressure, no need to make ready with the brandy and sticking plasters just yet.
Science strikes again, this time in the bathroom but I think I need to lie down for a while, I can't even attempt to explain what happened.
Science strikes again, this time in the bathroom but I think I need to lie down for a while, I can't even attempt to explain what happened.
Churchill was on to something, thanks Ron
Never, in the field of biscuit bakery, has so much, been owed by Dale Slamma, to Tim T.
Exaltation is not the word I'm looking for but I sure like the sound of it
I'm fairly certain that Keith Richards lives inside his guitar. Music is always there, he's just pointing out the obvious with particular movements of his hands like a child holding up an arm to a sky and a rainbow.
Superman caught me in the act of playing Mouse Trap by the fire. I was smoking cigarettes, eating Dale Biscuits and listening to The Rolling Stones bent as Atlas over the old board game trying my hardest to assemble the bright plastic pieces into something but there's nothing more confusing than a box full of bathtubs, ball bearings, plastic diving men and cardboard cheese.
I wanted to wash off my my red lipstick before we left for the cinema cause I've come to believe its the lipstick of doom but I didn't have time to explain with Superman standing in the doorway asking "Of all the things on our list of things we have to do before going is that really a priority?". I guess not, lipstick of doom is not a priority when the doom is imagined. I offered to drive in my shitbox of a car and I wasn't surprised when Superman said no, what was surprising was the song playing on the stereo in Superman's car. I liked it, I said that sounds happy but then the vocals started and I punched Superman right in the arm even though he was driving, such was the level of my surprise.
Superman told me he was making me a surprise but I wasn't expecting that, he recorded the song that we wrote and you know what, it sounds good. At the cinema Superman put massive headphones on me so I could listen to the song, I had a grand old time walking and dancing around right through the foyer and the cinema until I became confused by ads for stupid things and had to take the headphones off. Shine A Light was a privileged shifting of context and perspective. Its not every day you get to be on stage feeling every small electric zap of communication shooting between people who've been living inside each other's songs for so long that I don't remember myself without their music. The Rolling Stones don't sound how you think they sound.
The fire ate time again and nobody went to sleep before 4am. I slept fitfully, acutely aware in each waking state that everyone else was deep in slumber, Superman and the cat curling around each other like the world was a cardboard box. There were crepes, bananas, dizzy spells and supermarkets in the grey morning. I walked slowly in a dream shuffle pushing back spinning black balls of illness trying to infiltrate my equilibrium while the sky sat squat and monolithic, even in Newtown.
The rest of the day passed quietly, the Dr Who television marathon painting atmosphere while I paced and sat and stared and pushed my writing forwards one word at a time. Superman read away at his own work until Grizelda produced food for us all. Unfortunately we went and saw the Sex and The City movie, everyone cried, except me. I was furious and someone let the beast out of its memory box. Nothing ever turns out the way I expect it to. A shiny movie rammed with shoes and a girl who wears pearls with pyjamas is not supposed to hook down the sky and drape it over your head but that's exactly what it did, for a short while.
Artboy wants to meet me for coffee and I haven't been talking about it to anyone, except Ron, in a short and misguided online chat. The problem with Superman is that he listens, responds and generally makes more sense out of things than three of me strapped together holding out books of science. I am more used to walking around banging into things until I find my own way but don't misunderstand me, I'm not complaining about the lack of bumps on my head. A nice cup of tea, a little sit down, a chauffeured trip for tobacco later and I was lying on the lounge thinking this is alright.
Superman turned off the lights, lit a candle, put Sigur Ros on the stereo at top volume then laid himself down on the floor. I was the tiniest bit skeptical at first, needing as I did to reassemble things into shapes that made sense but nothing turns out the way I expect it to. Don't tell me sound can't be pixels cause I watched them last night through the pink of my eyelids stacking one on top of another in wave forms and human shapes and the good blue bricks of focus until everything was back where its supposed to be. I need to thank Superman for popping into my life and rearranging things, I'm not sure how but one of these days I'll manage it.
Superman caught me in the act of playing Mouse Trap by the fire. I was smoking cigarettes, eating Dale Biscuits and listening to The Rolling Stones bent as Atlas over the old board game trying my hardest to assemble the bright plastic pieces into something but there's nothing more confusing than a box full of bathtubs, ball bearings, plastic diving men and cardboard cheese.
I wanted to wash off my my red lipstick before we left for the cinema cause I've come to believe its the lipstick of doom but I didn't have time to explain with Superman standing in the doorway asking "Of all the things on our list of things we have to do before going is that really a priority?". I guess not, lipstick of doom is not a priority when the doom is imagined. I offered to drive in my shitbox of a car and I wasn't surprised when Superman said no, what was surprising was the song playing on the stereo in Superman's car. I liked it, I said that sounds happy but then the vocals started and I punched Superman right in the arm even though he was driving, such was the level of my surprise.
Superman told me he was making me a surprise but I wasn't expecting that, he recorded the song that we wrote and you know what, it sounds good. At the cinema Superman put massive headphones on me so I could listen to the song, I had a grand old time walking and dancing around right through the foyer and the cinema until I became confused by ads for stupid things and had to take the headphones off. Shine A Light was a privileged shifting of context and perspective. Its not every day you get to be on stage feeling every small electric zap of communication shooting between people who've been living inside each other's songs for so long that I don't remember myself without their music. The Rolling Stones don't sound how you think they sound.
The fire ate time again and nobody went to sleep before 4am. I slept fitfully, acutely aware in each waking state that everyone else was deep in slumber, Superman and the cat curling around each other like the world was a cardboard box. There were crepes, bananas, dizzy spells and supermarkets in the grey morning. I walked slowly in a dream shuffle pushing back spinning black balls of illness trying to infiltrate my equilibrium while the sky sat squat and monolithic, even in Newtown.
The rest of the day passed quietly, the Dr Who television marathon painting atmosphere while I paced and sat and stared and pushed my writing forwards one word at a time. Superman read away at his own work until Grizelda produced food for us all. Unfortunately we went and saw the Sex and The City movie, everyone cried, except me. I was furious and someone let the beast out of its memory box. Nothing ever turns out the way I expect it to. A shiny movie rammed with shoes and a girl who wears pearls with pyjamas is not supposed to hook down the sky and drape it over your head but that's exactly what it did, for a short while.
Artboy wants to meet me for coffee and I haven't been talking about it to anyone, except Ron, in a short and misguided online chat. The problem with Superman is that he listens, responds and generally makes more sense out of things than three of me strapped together holding out books of science. I am more used to walking around banging into things until I find my own way but don't misunderstand me, I'm not complaining about the lack of bumps on my head. A nice cup of tea, a little sit down, a chauffeured trip for tobacco later and I was lying on the lounge thinking this is alright.
Superman turned off the lights, lit a candle, put Sigur Ros on the stereo at top volume then laid himself down on the floor. I was the tiniest bit skeptical at first, needing as I did to reassemble things into shapes that made sense but nothing turns out the way I expect it to. Don't tell me sound can't be pixels cause I watched them last night through the pink of my eyelids stacking one on top of another in wave forms and human shapes and the good blue bricks of focus until everything was back where its supposed to be. I need to thank Superman for popping into my life and rearranging things, I'm not sure how but one of these days I'll manage it.
Interview with a Slamma
Tomorrow morning I commence my new project, I am going to submit it for rejection from The Sleepers Almanac. I need to interview some people for my project. Interviewing is a tricky process but I find if I spend the first five to ten minutes working hard to create the right vibe then the rest is easy. Sometimes I fear I am equally cursed and blessed. People pour their hearts into mine, quite freely, like tipping milk from a great height.
I'm going to wear my shoes with soles as thin as paper because I need them to take me back in time. I'm going to walk up Glebe Point Rd with a novel and a notebook and a purse stuffed with small money. I'll order coffee black and strong and I'll cross one leg over another as I lean forward in my chair stirring the sugar in with small clicks of the tea spoon. I'll ask my questions and shorthand my notes, this is going to be interesting.
I'm going to wear my shoes with soles as thin as paper because I need them to take me back in time. I'm going to walk up Glebe Point Rd with a novel and a notebook and a purse stuffed with small money. I'll order coffee black and strong and I'll cross one leg over another as I lean forward in my chair stirring the sugar in with small clicks of the tea spoon. I'll ask my questions and shorthand my notes, this is going to be interesting.
Breaking news
This just in.
Dale Slamma said:
"I couldn't believe it. A package arrived on my desk addressed to me, nothing odd so far, except that it contained a genuine can of Dale Biscuits and a handful of excellent zines by Tim Train. The biscuits are delicious and I am quite delighted. I want to say something about Winston Churchill but I'm not sure what yet."
Needles and pins yeah
Usually it starts on my forehead, a hot prickling pins and needles, it slides down the sides of my face and my lips go numb in the centre. Sometimes its my arms, both of them, pins and needles down the backs of my upper arms then it walks in reappearing in my forehead. I've thought about doctors and their poking fingers then I think about something else like a tiny chocolate cake, tinier than the palm of my hand. I wish I had a tiny chocolate cake, tiny enough to make you draw back your lips before biting into it.
Thoughts aren't slipping out of my mind I'm just not having any. I'm concerning myself with the small and menial, remember to drink water, remember to eat food, remember to wear different clothes. I wore the same thing three days in a row. Sunday Monday Tuesday were all spent in my horrid blue house dress and I can tell you Friday's definitely on my mind. Wednesday Thursday I wore the same black skivvy and blue jeans. Ah here it is again. It is not dizziness but a slipping away of the ability to anchor myself, the hot pain and sliding numbness in my forehead and the sides of my face. I keep telling Grizelda I think I'm dying, you'd probably better take me to the hospital, she told me if I can tell that I'm dying then I'm probably not so she's not taking me anywhere. I wish I had a tiny chocolate cake, tinier than the palm of my hand.
Thoughts aren't slipping out of my mind I'm just not having any. I'm concerning myself with the small and menial, remember to drink water, remember to eat food, remember to wear different clothes. I wore the same thing three days in a row. Sunday Monday Tuesday were all spent in my horrid blue house dress and I can tell you Friday's definitely on my mind. Wednesday Thursday I wore the same black skivvy and blue jeans. Ah here it is again. It is not dizziness but a slipping away of the ability to anchor myself, the hot pain and sliding numbness in my forehead and the sides of my face. I keep telling Grizelda I think I'm dying, you'd probably better take me to the hospital, she told me if I can tell that I'm dying then I'm probably not so she's not taking me anywhere. I wish I had a tiny chocolate cake, tinier than the palm of my hand.
Strong as a helicopter
Music is trying to kill me using the television, it has been for some time now. I never know when it is safe, what channels to avoid, I can't even watch old episodes of Buffy without the cold fist of fear in my heart. At first I thought capitalism was watching me, tracing my every step, you see we haven't always had the best relationship. Two weeks ago I spent an entire Saturday afternoon waiting on the corner to take a photo of a car. I see it all the time this car, the shiny Saab with a giant home made sticker of a lemon taped to the side. I wanted to photograph the car and now television is trying to kill me.
It seemed so obvious, Saab were wreaking their revenge using television as the medium with good old capitalism calling the shots. You see television doesn't just pull a gun and try to shoot me, its using this ad. I've tried everything, I watched it over and over and over again to try and build some immunity. It didn't work and I became desperate.
I was talking to Superman on the phone, I was telling him about my immunity building advertisement watching, told him that television was trying to kill me and you know what, he was kind of super about it. Robert, who is generally the model of a modern major miracle, thinks I am mental (about this), everyone else points out the obvious overdone literal interpretation of the song or just rolls their eyes but Superman had an idea. He said, its the song, the song and her voice, its simple and you believe her.
I think he might be right but I still haven't figured out a way to stop that goddamned fist of fear or the hooks that pull me from my chair to my knees while my heart is blackhole screaming into every silent night. I might need to buy a gun. I'm gonna wear a white jumpsuit and shoot the television.
It seemed so obvious, Saab were wreaking their revenge using television as the medium with good old capitalism calling the shots. You see television doesn't just pull a gun and try to shoot me, its using this ad. I've tried everything, I watched it over and over and over again to try and build some immunity. It didn't work and I became desperate.
I was talking to Superman on the phone, I was telling him about my immunity building advertisement watching, told him that television was trying to kill me and you know what, he was kind of super about it. Robert, who is generally the model of a modern major miracle, thinks I am mental (about this), everyone else points out the obvious overdone literal interpretation of the song or just rolls their eyes but Superman had an idea. He said, its the song, the song and her voice, its simple and you believe her.
I think he might be right but I still haven't figured out a way to stop that goddamned fist of fear or the hooks that pull me from my chair to my knees while my heart is blackhole screaming into every silent night. I might need to buy a gun. I'm gonna wear a white jumpsuit and shoot the television.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)