It was curious but I found myself to be nervous. At first I was unsure as to why I was covered in a light sheen of sweat, had a heightened awareness of sound and a general inability to finish my piece of banana bread but it soon became clear that I was nervous.
I harbor no real desire to become a train driver, my motivation for undertaking this lengthy and trying process is more complex and unreasonable than the jurisprudence of equity, and I think you might find that equity has more to do with reasons for taking train driver tests than you first thought.
I was surprised, though I shouldn't have been, to find myself standing in a crowd of men dressed in their smart casual best. Their hideous hair was tied back, gelled down or spike upwards. They all wore pale button up shirts,ill fitting trousers and awful shoes. Somebody else had ironed their shirts. There were about 170 of us, we were herded, inspected, marked off on lists. I was not uncomfortable, not once the pencils came out and we were sat down at desks.
Train driver exams are tremendously enjoyable. It must be a hangover from law school but sitting silently amongst row upon row of people concentrating furiously felt like home. This disturbs me greatly.
The first exam was a knockout round, anybody failing to meet the required and undisclosed score was asked to leave. At first I was pleased to pass test after test but then I heard some of the men talking amongst themselves near a lift shaft. These men have not taken exams, unless it was part of learning a trade. They do not read for pleasure, do puzzles in newspapers or think in unfurling abstract strands. I thought I could be one of them, trying my best with the provided pencils, but something more than a lack of penis in my underpants separated me from the herd and I felt nothing but shame.
Recently I have begun to think that university was a waste of my time. I feel nothing but a sense of awkward regret when I look over those five difficult years. My new and thankfully temporary boss said that I was wasted in my present position, that I would be much better off somewhere else though she still begged to keep me. I am tired of trying to find interesting, challenging and meaningful work. I am exhausted from towing around all this knowledge, the heavy memories of contorting myself to accommodate everything academic. I knew what I wanted to say when I was the shower but it has now become unclear, this is a product of my exhaustion.
I am shedding people faster than dead skin cells, Superman wasn't the first and he certainly wasn't the last. I am exhausted by the mantle of my learning, I am exhausted by people who do not think and require me to do all the thinking. I am exhausted by people who think they are thinking but they are not, they are not even close to the idea of reason. I am tired of people who live in the suburbs and pour judgement across my way of life. I want to sit here, in this city, and type. I am confused about meanings, motivations and just why I dedicated myself to so much learning with no beneficial outcomes.
I want to cry out the maxims of equity, hold up my clean hands and beg for restitution. I want to unlearn all this learning and find myself suddenly just another face in a crowd. I want to gel down hideous hair and laugh with the others at the idea of thinking. I want to wear uniforms kindly provided and view my roster no more than two weeks in advance. I want to tell people at parties I'm just a train driver, I know nothing of anything but signals and patience and the popular easy to read novel tucked into my ugly bag.
Last night I dreamt I was flesh made into a totem pole. I stood three metres high in the middle of a park, sturdy, cylindrical and ancient. I was not carved but constructed, my sides panelled with cassette decks. Every time I thought of anything at all the cassette doors flew open and the force of my will ejected tapes like rockets all around me. All night I ejected tapes faster than the speed of light, across the park and into the stratosphere. I still feel like this, ejecting and rejecting with frightening speed and precision. I don't know what I'm doing but it feels necessary. I might wake up tomorrow and laugh at my train driving exam adventure or I might wake up, call in sick and spend the day writing lists of things I do not like. The future is unclear.
Toot toot
Tomorrow I take my train driver's exam. I have no idea what the exam will entail. I am supposed to bring my reading glasses and ensure that I arrive on time, there must be some room for error with respect to the arriving on time part of the proceedings. It wouldn't do to start hiring very prompt people to drive trains now would it?
Finally a practical alternative application of the term 'the troops went over the top'
I just misheard the radio. I thought the newsreader said "Eurovision is still refusing to send more troops to Afghanistan".
I thought 'more troops! I didn't know Eurovision had troops', but then my brain kicked in and my beautiful imagined beglittered lycra jumpsuit high hair army vanished. I do not know how I will bear the disappointment.
I thought 'more troops! I didn't know Eurovision had troops', but then my brain kicked in and my beautiful imagined beglittered lycra jumpsuit high hair army vanished. I do not know how I will bear the disappointment.
Books not burning?
If your books are not on fire then you might like to consider donating some books to Borders. Borders will use the books to restock libraries in fire affected areas. You can also purchase new books to donate at Borders. Click here for more information.
I don't think it counts as bookshop infidelity to go to Borders just this once.
I don't think it counts as bookshop infidelity to go to Borders just this once.
Compass
I imagined her in the wrong direction. I always thought of her as north east of where I sat but it turned out to be north west. I still admire her implied pearl necklace and Lauren Bacall wardrobe but I am mourning the loss of intangible tea on the terrace by the harbour, it was a comfort to think of her there.
My exhaustion is rigid
But I'm smiling. I've got plans, not pipe dream plans of wistful kookishness but actual plans with turning wheels, flow charts and a compass. I've surfaced my submarine to have a good look around and lo, I was pleased.
My next reviewing assignment is Gary Numan, I am as we speak scheduling an urgent milkshake meeting with Madam Squeeze for research purposes. It is important to note that if the good Madam is available it will be her having the milkshake and not me. I never take milkshakes myself.
My plans are not limited to penning the occasional questionable review, they loom larger than that. In fact I declare them to be of icebergian proportions. I am also learning shorthand, I wear stockings when I practice, stockings, glasses and a pearl necklace, I am sure that it helps.
My next reviewing assignment is Gary Numan, I am as we speak scheduling an urgent milkshake meeting with Madam Squeeze for research purposes. It is important to note that if the good Madam is available it will be her having the milkshake and not me. I never take milkshakes myself.
My plans are not limited to penning the occasional questionable review, they loom larger than that. In fact I declare them to be of icebergian proportions. I am also learning shorthand, I wear stockings when I practice, stockings, glasses and a pearl necklace, I am sure that it helps.
I recently was ordained as the pope or I blew up a chicken man last night (I'm not yet sure what that really means)
I went to a night of erotic fan fiction readings, I didn't know what to expect but it certainly wasn't the odd privilege of standing near an open window watching the pouring rain from a darkened room while Aidan sang me Bruce Springsteen's Altantic City. He didn't hesitate for a second, it was such a small thing, the demonstrating of a song to see if I knew it, but this is exactly the kind of thing musicians are prone to doing. They just stand there pouring out music like its nothing special while I listen in silent wonder. It doesn't seem fair.
We'd been talking about Bruce because I have just bought my first ever Bruce Springsteen record. It's a cd actually, and not an album but a three disc set called The Essential Bruce or Bruce Songs You Must Have or Best Bits of Bruce or similar. Aidan asked me if I knew Atalantic City, I wasn't sure which song that is becuase I've only just started on my Epic Bruce Journey (EBJ). I'm fairly certain that me EBJ is going to be one hell of a ride.
At some point in the evening I became extraordinarily jealous of Marieke Hardy's stockings, this was after she read her piece on attempting to shag the animated dog from Family Guy but before someone's piece about being the pope, Jessica Alba, Jack Nicholson and Scarlett Johansson's dislocating jaw. I can't remember if the stockings were blue or red, I suspect red but that's not the point. There was something particularly undefineably awesome about those stockings. It is a great shame, for Australia, that I don't ordinarily wear stockings because if I did then I might be better able to describe these blue or possibly red stockings.
The erotic fan fiction was more filthy and hilarious than it was erotic. When I first arrived I thought I might not be able to get in. They had scrawled 'sold out' on the wall in chalk. I thought how could Paquita and Mona's house be sold out? The question was soon answered after I climbed the stairs and found the stadium sized front room full to the brim with people sitting on the floor and laughing hysterically. There must have been a hundred people in there, that's how Paquita and Mona's house can be sold out.
We'd been talking about Bruce because I have just bought my first ever Bruce Springsteen record. It's a cd actually, and not an album but a three disc set called The Essential Bruce or Bruce Songs You Must Have or Best Bits of Bruce or similar. Aidan asked me if I knew Atalantic City, I wasn't sure which song that is becuase I've only just started on my Epic Bruce Journey (EBJ). I'm fairly certain that me EBJ is going to be one hell of a ride.
At some point in the evening I became extraordinarily jealous of Marieke Hardy's stockings, this was after she read her piece on attempting to shag the animated dog from Family Guy but before someone's piece about being the pope, Jessica Alba, Jack Nicholson and Scarlett Johansson's dislocating jaw. I can't remember if the stockings were blue or red, I suspect red but that's not the point. There was something particularly undefineably awesome about those stockings. It is a great shame, for Australia, that I don't ordinarily wear stockings because if I did then I might be better able to describe these blue or possibly red stockings.
The erotic fan fiction was more filthy and hilarious than it was erotic. When I first arrived I thought I might not be able to get in. They had scrawled 'sold out' on the wall in chalk. I thought how could Paquita and Mona's house be sold out? The question was soon answered after I climbed the stairs and found the stadium sized front room full to the brim with people sitting on the floor and laughing hysterically. There must have been a hundred people in there, that's how Paquita and Mona's house can be sold out.
Impersonate me at my funeral, I'll thank you for it
When Spencer phoned out of the blue to say did I need a lift to Oxford St I didn't hesitate. I pressed pause on the DVD, applied red lipstick, tied something or other around my rain styled hair and put on my shoes but as it turns out sometimes a movie is better than bands.
The Oxford Art Factory wishes it was a dive but it isn't. It's a concrete bunker with a glass box for bad art and the kind of sound that makes you wish you were born deaf. I partially attended Exquisite Corpse, some kind of night featuring unknown Sydney bands. I say partially because I was picky about which bands I descended the rubber coated stairs in the mirror lined stairwell to see. The sound tech is clearly in the wrong job, he is better suited to being The Captain of Unreasonable Tortures, fortunately Madam Squeeze agreed.
We crossed the street to sit in a civilised cafe. We drank soy decafs and took great delight in the clatter of tea spoons stirring sugar into hot coffee. The saucers matched the sugar bowls and the ashtrays, white with a slim silver band at the lip, they played records, the good warm kind recorded when stereo was new and everybody thought album cover art could save their lives. We sat at a small round table watching rain, people and talking over particulars and nothings.
Spencer met us half way back across the street, turned on his snaked skin heel and fell in step with us, he too had climbed the rubber stairs in the mirrored stairwell. You see we'd all been hoping the bands would be better, the sound at least listenable and that the rain to ease just a little.
We had missed Whores, driving around and around looking for somewhere to park Spencer's car, a car being almost necesary to traverse to the other side of this damn city. Public transport ought to be ashamed of itself. I was disappointed to miss Whores, last time I saw them, in a real dive, I thought they were extraordinary. Damnbuilders are quite something, I'm not sure what but that first song is worth mentioning, the rest of the set suffered not because of either of the band members but because The Captain of Unreasonable Tortures failed to understand the need to balance the two pieces in a two piece band. Ben is a magnificent drummer, everybody knows that, any band would be lucky to have the likes of him but The Captain of Unreasonable Tortures was clearly in love with him and failed to allow the guitar or vocals to intrude on the drums for even a milisecond.
Diamondbackrattler failed to make us stay. We were looking forward to their set, one of our party has a high school strength crush on a member of the band but not even a crush could hold us in that non-dive for a moment longer. The drummer seemed excellent, lot of good drummers kicking round Sydney at the moment but The Captain of Unreasonable Tortures joined forces with the bad performance artists in the bad art glass box and who were we to stand up against such powerful forces? The Atrocities and The Disbelievers weren't due to play until something like 4am so we walked through the rain, past the man wearing his ex-girlfriend's jeans, past the goths in giant hats, the women with the power of wearing towering heels on wet footpaths and the regular detritus flowing down the hill from Kings Cross. We laughed on the way home, getting almost lost. I was thinking fondly of my newly rearranged room inside the warmth of The Peach. I'm glad I ventured out despite the rain, that I discovered The Falconer Cafe, that I spent a long moment or two talking with good people like Halcyon and Raid but as I lay sleeping I was thinking of something else entirely.
Lying in bed submerging and emerging from sleep I could hear the calendar clicking through pages, at first backwards but then steadily forwards spinning out year shapes and squared days and the constant presence of friends. I don't know what I'd do without my friends, not even Spencer who has promised to officially impersonate me poorly at my funeral and then remind everybody of what an idiot I could be, sometimes.
The Oxford Art Factory wishes it was a dive but it isn't. It's a concrete bunker with a glass box for bad art and the kind of sound that makes you wish you were born deaf. I partially attended Exquisite Corpse, some kind of night featuring unknown Sydney bands. I say partially because I was picky about which bands I descended the rubber coated stairs in the mirror lined stairwell to see. The sound tech is clearly in the wrong job, he is better suited to being The Captain of Unreasonable Tortures, fortunately Madam Squeeze agreed.
We crossed the street to sit in a civilised cafe. We drank soy decafs and took great delight in the clatter of tea spoons stirring sugar into hot coffee. The saucers matched the sugar bowls and the ashtrays, white with a slim silver band at the lip, they played records, the good warm kind recorded when stereo was new and everybody thought album cover art could save their lives. We sat at a small round table watching rain, people and talking over particulars and nothings.
Spencer met us half way back across the street, turned on his snaked skin heel and fell in step with us, he too had climbed the rubber stairs in the mirrored stairwell. You see we'd all been hoping the bands would be better, the sound at least listenable and that the rain to ease just a little.
We had missed Whores, driving around and around looking for somewhere to park Spencer's car, a car being almost necesary to traverse to the other side of this damn city. Public transport ought to be ashamed of itself. I was disappointed to miss Whores, last time I saw them, in a real dive, I thought they were extraordinary. Damnbuilders are quite something, I'm not sure what but that first song is worth mentioning, the rest of the set suffered not because of either of the band members but because The Captain of Unreasonable Tortures failed to understand the need to balance the two pieces in a two piece band. Ben is a magnificent drummer, everybody knows that, any band would be lucky to have the likes of him but The Captain of Unreasonable Tortures was clearly in love with him and failed to allow the guitar or vocals to intrude on the drums for even a milisecond.
Diamondbackrattler failed to make us stay. We were looking forward to their set, one of our party has a high school strength crush on a member of the band but not even a crush could hold us in that non-dive for a moment longer. The drummer seemed excellent, lot of good drummers kicking round Sydney at the moment but The Captain of Unreasonable Tortures joined forces with the bad performance artists in the bad art glass box and who were we to stand up against such powerful forces? The Atrocities and The Disbelievers weren't due to play until something like 4am so we walked through the rain, past the man wearing his ex-girlfriend's jeans, past the goths in giant hats, the women with the power of wearing towering heels on wet footpaths and the regular detritus flowing down the hill from Kings Cross. We laughed on the way home, getting almost lost. I was thinking fondly of my newly rearranged room inside the warmth of The Peach. I'm glad I ventured out despite the rain, that I discovered The Falconer Cafe, that I spent a long moment or two talking with good people like Halcyon and Raid but as I lay sleeping I was thinking of something else entirely.
Lying in bed submerging and emerging from sleep I could hear the calendar clicking through pages, at first backwards but then steadily forwards spinning out year shapes and squared days and the constant presence of friends. I don't know what I'd do without my friends, not even Spencer who has promised to officially impersonate me poorly at my funeral and then remind everybody of what an idiot I could be, sometimes.
Rocket science: true or false?
An engineer thanked me profusely for doing something simple on a computer today, I said "Its not rocket science".
I spent the afternoon staring at maps and reading letters, as I was supposed to, but I couldn't help thinking about rocket science. Do rocket scientists divide their daily tasks into rocket science and not rocket science? I have an urgent need to find out.
I spent the afternoon staring at maps and reading letters, as I was supposed to, but I couldn't help thinking about rocket science. Do rocket scientists divide their daily tasks into rocket science and not rocket science? I have an urgent need to find out.
Next time I will remember this important information before I turn my head into a sculpture
Do not put dettol on me. I forgot that I am not supposed to put dettol on me. The skin is falling off my face. The whole right side of my face swelled and went red, this is not from the cat scratches, they are healing nicely, it is from dettol.
The people in my new office look at me strangely. My face is red, scratched and the bruises from the force of the cat landing on my head are going horrible colours. Not one person has asked me what happened which is a great shame. I have concocted a story about being a par time swashbuckler. I was going to tell them that I live on a pirate ship. It saddens me that I did not get to tell this tale.
The people in my new office look at me strangely. My face is red, scratched and the bruises from the force of the cat landing on my head are going horrible colours. Not one person has asked me what happened which is a great shame. I have concocted a story about being a par time swashbuckler. I was going to tell them that I live on a pirate ship. It saddens me that I did not get to tell this tale.
I require tap dancers, with roller skates
I've been watching some dance show on telly and I'm disappointed to report that there was no category for spaz dancing and there doesn't appear to be any tap dancers. I have decided to conduct my own auditions.
Calling all tap dancers, with roller skates. Come and see if there's room for you in my top twenty.
Calling all tap dancers, with roller skates. Come and see if there's room for you in my top twenty.
Books are burning
It has just occurred to me that the people who lost their homes in bushfires would have lost their books. I have spare books. I wish to post books. I will send some emails about this.
I go bump in the night
Something heavy landed on my head in the middle of the night. I lay there for a while thinking, ow, that hurts, it did not occur to me to wonder what it was. I woke up again when my eye and my ear filled with blood. I think the cat must have misjudged and landed on my head, either that or it was aliens.
This isn't what I had in mind when I got my very own PO Box
I keep getting invitations to an event called New York Sex Worker Literati. I'm not sure how this happened, that's not the kind of Slamming that I usually get up to, especially not in New York.
Three jobs, one woman, five kinds of toilet, a brief note on the goodness of Gemma and waiting for a bus
This week I have started three new jobs. They say that starting a new job is one of the most stressful things a person can endure, that and death and divorce and moving house. I have caught buses without being sure of just where exactly to press the dinger button and alight. I have risen earlier and earlier each day to drag combs through my hair and locate something respectable to wear. I have argued with my digestive system to avoid doing strange things in strange toilets. This week is wearing me down, erasing my sketch marks and shading to leave only the vaguest indicators of my own personal shape but I'm beginning to think of it as a kind of inevitable fated voayge. Call me Ishmael and locate Ahab, I need to have a word with him.
Job one was a job for one day and one day only, it was planned that way. I sat with my back to the ocean until I realised that the ocean was not just at my back but all around me. Jelly fish floated beneath my feet. If it was not the world's most inconvenient office to travel to I might have wished to work there like a lighthouse for a day or two longer. I performed a single task over and over until even my thoughts were stilled. I turned off my ipod and experienced the absence of sound, thought and reason.
Job two requires me to stand outside the Olympia Milkbar to catch a bus every morning, this is the one and only highlight of the job. The toilet is on the other side of the wall from my supervisor, I have learned the art of silent weeing. Cigarette breaks are not permitted, there is no soy milk for tea of coffee, the company mugs are made of plastic and the walls are all painted grey. I have to ask for work every three minutes. I am given a small and simple task, complete it half an hour before they expect me to then ask for something else to do. I am not convinced that they need me.
Job Three is not technically a job though I do have a deadline, an editor and a publishing date. It is an intermittent sort of thing where I email the editor something I might like to write about and then he goes through a mysterious process of deciding and organising. Ordinarily this is something I might imagine, like opening the wardrobe to find it suddenly a thriving fish tank or walking out the front door and ponies, tea pots and cup cakes instead of cars.
What I really want to talk about today is Gemma. If was The Captain of Giving Out Gold Stars then I would award 53 to Gemma. Gemma is the most articulate person I have ever met and I am strangely blessed with articulate friends. I could stay up til fifty three a.m. writing about Gemma and still not be able to explain her goodness, but still another day I might attempt it.
When this week is over, when I have pressed send late Sunday afternoon and my review is vanishing and reappearing somewhere else entirely, I will have time to sit and ponder with a tea cup or two. I will have time to sit on my chair on The Peach Deck under the mulberry tree and count silently along with my breathing while the cat sleeps curled as a question mark.
Job one was a job for one day and one day only, it was planned that way. I sat with my back to the ocean until I realised that the ocean was not just at my back but all around me. Jelly fish floated beneath my feet. If it was not the world's most inconvenient office to travel to I might have wished to work there like a lighthouse for a day or two longer. I performed a single task over and over until even my thoughts were stilled. I turned off my ipod and experienced the absence of sound, thought and reason.
Job two requires me to stand outside the Olympia Milkbar to catch a bus every morning, this is the one and only highlight of the job. The toilet is on the other side of the wall from my supervisor, I have learned the art of silent weeing. Cigarette breaks are not permitted, there is no soy milk for tea of coffee, the company mugs are made of plastic and the walls are all painted grey. I have to ask for work every three minutes. I am given a small and simple task, complete it half an hour before they expect me to then ask for something else to do. I am not convinced that they need me.
Job Three is not technically a job though I do have a deadline, an editor and a publishing date. It is an intermittent sort of thing where I email the editor something I might like to write about and then he goes through a mysterious process of deciding and organising. Ordinarily this is something I might imagine, like opening the wardrobe to find it suddenly a thriving fish tank or walking out the front door and ponies, tea pots and cup cakes instead of cars.
What I really want to talk about today is Gemma. If was The Captain of Giving Out Gold Stars then I would award 53 to Gemma. Gemma is the most articulate person I have ever met and I am strangely blessed with articulate friends. I could stay up til fifty three a.m. writing about Gemma and still not be able to explain her goodness, but still another day I might attempt it.
When this week is over, when I have pressed send late Sunday afternoon and my review is vanishing and reappearing somewhere else entirely, I will have time to sit and ponder with a tea cup or two. I will have time to sit on my chair on The Peach Deck under the mulberry tree and count silently along with my breathing while the cat sleeps curled as a question mark.
Why not write a letter complaining to the council?
Christ alive have I got some stories to tell. My new and thankfully temporary place of employment requires me to be exhausted by the end of every day. I have tied ropes to my arms, there are teams of robots operating the ropes thus enabling me to type.
I am temporarily, thank goodness, working for a local government office, not my local government. I have no real idea of what is that I am supposed to be doing. My work seems to involve a combination of storm water drains, garbage collection schedules, lamp shades, parks and something called the umbrella of infrastructure. On the plus side I get to read all the letters that people write to their council, this has confirmed many of my long held suspicions.
Travel to my new and temporary office includes spending ten minutes each morning standing outside the legendary Olympia Milk Bar, I only wish that it was open in the mornings so that I could test my luck by attempting to purchase things. Once I asked the man for a can of lemonade and he said "No, you can't have a drink today".
I am temporarily, thank goodness, working for a local government office, not my local government. I have no real idea of what is that I am supposed to be doing. My work seems to involve a combination of storm water drains, garbage collection schedules, lamp shades, parks and something called the umbrella of infrastructure. On the plus side I get to read all the letters that people write to their council, this has confirmed many of my long held suspicions.
Travel to my new and temporary office includes spending ten minutes each morning standing outside the legendary Olympia Milk Bar, I only wish that it was open in the mornings so that I could test my luck by attempting to purchase things. Once I asked the man for a can of lemonade and he said "No, you can't have a drink today".
Ahoy there
Dale Slamma would like to take this opportunity to share a few short messages:
I am The Captain of this blog.
I might soon be a train driver.
If my cat had a goldfish she would name it Miaow.
Too many cupcakes can make a person feel ill so it is better to eat only one, or at the most two, per day.
I am pleased to report that I have eaten one cupcake and do not feel at all ill.
I am The Captain of this blog.
I might soon be a train driver.
If my cat had a goldfish she would name it Miaow.
Too many cupcakes can make a person feel ill so it is better to eat only one, or at the most two, per day.
I am pleased to report that I have eaten one cupcake and do not feel at all ill.
Dredge
I've been slow this weekend, moving my limbs in test patterns to make sure I'm still broadcasting. I haven't been getting up in the mornings, I can't pretend there's a reason where there are no reasons. The sun seems further from the earth, more shadows and length and stillness.
I've been frightened lately, of walking alone at night, of waking with strangers and of all of my friendships turning out to be as needlessly treacherous as my ill fated friendship with Superman. I was floating in Clovelly Bay by starlight, flipping my flippers one long stroke at a time when it occurred to me that all my regrets fall into the same category. I regret not speaking my mind, too often I swallow opinions and words to avoid someone else's unreasonable reactions.
There was a time when I was a walking tempest but it seems more impossible than the formation of ice to speak my mind now, or it did until this morning when I answered an email with something close to the truth. I have been furious with Superman since late last year. One morning he simply got up and decided that he no longer needed to go through any of the normal motions of friendship such as acknowledging my existence or consenting to even the most basic of conversations. I decided somewhere north of Brisbane to terminate the friendship just as soon as I got back to the safety of The Peach. I was dissuaded by friends* who counseled caution, the lovely Rita acting as a constant guard against impulsive action.
This morning when I received the most arrogant of emails from Superman I finally let rip, in a moderate way. I spent the rest of the day pondering why I had waited so long to do what I most wanted to be done. I am tired of being the calm and sane one. I am tired of all my empathy, sympathy and being the opposite of revolution. Tomorrow is going to be a good day.
* There was not a general consensus, some people suggested performing an official ceremony during which Superman would be declared an official prick, others voted for the word arsehole.
I've been frightened lately, of walking alone at night, of waking with strangers and of all of my friendships turning out to be as needlessly treacherous as my ill fated friendship with Superman. I was floating in Clovelly Bay by starlight, flipping my flippers one long stroke at a time when it occurred to me that all my regrets fall into the same category. I regret not speaking my mind, too often I swallow opinions and words to avoid someone else's unreasonable reactions.
There was a time when I was a walking tempest but it seems more impossible than the formation of ice to speak my mind now, or it did until this morning when I answered an email with something close to the truth. I have been furious with Superman since late last year. One morning he simply got up and decided that he no longer needed to go through any of the normal motions of friendship such as acknowledging my existence or consenting to even the most basic of conversations. I decided somewhere north of Brisbane to terminate the friendship just as soon as I got back to the safety of The Peach. I was dissuaded by friends* who counseled caution, the lovely Rita acting as a constant guard against impulsive action.
This morning when I received the most arrogant of emails from Superman I finally let rip, in a moderate way. I spent the rest of the day pondering why I had waited so long to do what I most wanted to be done. I am tired of being the calm and sane one. I am tired of all my empathy, sympathy and being the opposite of revolution. Tomorrow is going to be a good day.
* There was not a general consensus, some people suggested performing an official ceremony during which Superman would be declared an official prick, others voted for the word arsehole.
Detective Slamma once again solves the great unsolvable mysteries of the universe
I would like to blame science for most everything. Science does indeed have a lot to answer for but maybe this time the blame lies not with science but with superstition. A certain friend of mine or a person I formerly introduced as friend- the actions and intentions of friendship now seemingly over, is refusing to return phone calls or emails. This sudden shunning of The Slamma arises from no reason that I can fathom, for once in my adult life I have done nothing wrong, spoken no harsh and hasty words, performed no deed of betrayal or excessive mockery, indeed I am exceedingly puzzled.
This sudden and complete banning of all communication coincided with a small project of mine. Those of you attached the umbilical of Fspazbook may be aware of my attempt to develop a crush on Billy Ray Cyrus (so far with no success) but you might not be aware of my endeavour to become superstitious. At the dawn of the new year somewhere in Queensland completely surrounded by hippies I decided that what I most needed was to ward off the evil eye, that and a nice holiday, so I purchased a bracelet, a keyring and a wall hanging all sporting the nifty blue guaranteed to work anti-evil-eye blue bead or nazar boncugu, first devised somewhere near the Aegean thousands of years ago.
When I arrived home from my northern adventure I set to the work of believing and this is when said friend decided that I was no longer a person worth communicating with thus leaving me with the conclusion that perhaps they are evil and have been trying to return my calls but the power of superstition diverts the call to a local pizza house leaving them with no choice but to order pizza. Their entire house is now completely surrounded by pizza boxes and they are unable to leave the house. This is indeed testament to the power of not-science or perhaps I am mistaken there is a perfectly reasonable reason but surely common courtesy demands that they would at least send me a text message telling me to fuck off and outlining the reason as to why?
Did I mention that I am exceedingly puzzled?
Update: I was right! I will now advertise my services as a detective.
Harpooneer
I'm walking down the road trying to loosen my load, I've got seven things on my mind, four that want to make me, two that want to break me and one said he's a friend of mine, but I think that must be untrue.
I've half a mind to harpoon things. I'm already balancing like Qeequeg on the bow of all of my ships. I'm smoking tomahawks and setting wooden gods atop my very own head but people counsel caution saying there must be other things afoot. Perhaps there are but I know not what besides rabbit holes and everybody knows I am determined to steer clear of those.
I've half a mind to harpoon things. I'm already balancing like Qeequeg on the bow of all of my ships. I'm smoking tomahawks and setting wooden gods atop my very own head but people counsel caution saying there must be other things afoot. Perhaps there are but I know not what besides rabbit holes and everybody knows I am determined to steer clear of those.
Water and meditation are wedded forever
I was quite certain that rearranging the furniture will drastically improve everything, so I started with the tea cups.
I demand the right to walk safe at night
I want to come at this from a position of strength but that's hard with my windows locked and a hammer standing by on the floor.
I was rolling down Liberty St pleased with everything, the chilli stuck in my back teeth fresh from Spencer's garden, my hair, the walkman rolling tape in my left hand, the way my jeans were folded up nearly to my knees, even the curve of the earth seemed to be at the right angle but then I noticed the car, again.
The first time I saw the car I was walking out of the service station stuffing some cat food into my handbag, its important to note that I paid for the cat food. I noticed the car pulling in becuase I'm like that, I look both ways before crossing a road, so I looked both ways, saw the car and kept walking. I waited at the lights, turned the tape over in my walkman, cranked the volume and just as soon as the flashing man went green sauntered on across the road.
Turning down Liberty St I saw the car go past me, pull over and turn around, I thought they must be lost when they drove past me again not one minute later, this time they went on down to the round-a-bout, turned all the way around and drove back past me, very slowly indeed.
He was driving past so slowly and so often that I could see it was a man, a man in a car by himself. He matched my pace and started talking to me with one arm hanging out the window. He said "Get in the car. Come on, you and me, get in the car now." I thought maybe I know this guy so I swivelled my head to take a look but it was no one I've ever seen before. I said "No. I dont' know you. I'm not getting in your car", but he kept on following me.
I was three houses from home and telling him no on infinite repeat when he accelerated away. My relief was extreme, for four and a half seconds. He stopped the car outside The Peach and jumped out, leaving the door open and the engine running. He was coming straight at me when I made it through the gate and up the front steps. This seems a simple enough story, me pounding on the front door while The Spatula finds something to wrap herself in and walks down the hall. I had my keys somewhere in my bag underneath cigarettes, red lipsticks, tampons and a small wind up Mexican American on a horse but using the fast calculating powers of my brain I decided that pounding on the door was the best option. There ain't nothing like a pair of Peachettes to confront all known kinds of danger.
We locked doors and windows, drew curtains and turned those adjusting rods on blinds, I thought fondly of tea cups and fresh breezes, The Spatula counselled me to telephone the police. The policeman called me "Hon" but I told him my story anyway.
It wasn't a kind of panic, I was thinking of options, plans and tactics under the steady drone of flashbacks and memory, you see something quite like this has happened before. I was walking around the outskirts of my old town in red tracksuit pants and an inside out t-shirt when a man in a car pulled up next to me and opened his car door but that time the story wasn't so simple. There weren't any doors to pound on, nothing but starlight, sleeping ducks, cows and a partially obscured church steeple. It almost ended with me talking the man out of raping me, twisting words and perspectives, telling him everything was alright then prising his hands off my right arm where they were holding my hand on his erect and naked penis but he came at me again and again. I got away, dashed away in darkness, crawled through mud, under bushes and hid until I was sure he'd given up and driven off. I walked the whole way home with my bruised right arm held as far away from the rest of me as possible thinking I'd had a lucky escape until I woke up without my sense of safety.
I'm angrier than you can imagine, I'm not holding this hammer for decorating purposes, I'm not rocking in my one chair to soothe myself to sleep. Excavate my eyeballs and youl'll only find steel. I demand the right to walk safe at night.
I demand the right to walk safe at night. I demand the right to walk safe at night and I'll keep on demanding. I demand the right to live without fear of men. I demand the right to visit a friend without requiring an escort home. I demand the right to wake up every morning unafraid. I demand the right to look at men like they're ordinary people and not vessels carrying nothing but harm. I demand the right to safely navigate across town finding rhythms for words with footsteps, playing tapes on my walkman and thinking fondly of the undulating earth, the fresh chilli stuck in my back teeth and the importance of friends. I demand the right to walk safe at night and I'll keep on demanding, perhaps you'd care to join me?
I was rolling down Liberty St pleased with everything, the chilli stuck in my back teeth fresh from Spencer's garden, my hair, the walkman rolling tape in my left hand, the way my jeans were folded up nearly to my knees, even the curve of the earth seemed to be at the right angle but then I noticed the car, again.
The first time I saw the car I was walking out of the service station stuffing some cat food into my handbag, its important to note that I paid for the cat food. I noticed the car pulling in becuase I'm like that, I look both ways before crossing a road, so I looked both ways, saw the car and kept walking. I waited at the lights, turned the tape over in my walkman, cranked the volume and just as soon as the flashing man went green sauntered on across the road.
Turning down Liberty St I saw the car go past me, pull over and turn around, I thought they must be lost when they drove past me again not one minute later, this time they went on down to the round-a-bout, turned all the way around and drove back past me, very slowly indeed.
He was driving past so slowly and so often that I could see it was a man, a man in a car by himself. He matched my pace and started talking to me with one arm hanging out the window. He said "Get in the car. Come on, you and me, get in the car now." I thought maybe I know this guy so I swivelled my head to take a look but it was no one I've ever seen before. I said "No. I dont' know you. I'm not getting in your car", but he kept on following me.
I was three houses from home and telling him no on infinite repeat when he accelerated away. My relief was extreme, for four and a half seconds. He stopped the car outside The Peach and jumped out, leaving the door open and the engine running. He was coming straight at me when I made it through the gate and up the front steps. This seems a simple enough story, me pounding on the front door while The Spatula finds something to wrap herself in and walks down the hall. I had my keys somewhere in my bag underneath cigarettes, red lipsticks, tampons and a small wind up Mexican American on a horse but using the fast calculating powers of my brain I decided that pounding on the door was the best option. There ain't nothing like a pair of Peachettes to confront all known kinds of danger.
We locked doors and windows, drew curtains and turned those adjusting rods on blinds, I thought fondly of tea cups and fresh breezes, The Spatula counselled me to telephone the police. The policeman called me "Hon" but I told him my story anyway.
It wasn't a kind of panic, I was thinking of options, plans and tactics under the steady drone of flashbacks and memory, you see something quite like this has happened before. I was walking around the outskirts of my old town in red tracksuit pants and an inside out t-shirt when a man in a car pulled up next to me and opened his car door but that time the story wasn't so simple. There weren't any doors to pound on, nothing but starlight, sleeping ducks, cows and a partially obscured church steeple. It almost ended with me talking the man out of raping me, twisting words and perspectives, telling him everything was alright then prising his hands off my right arm where they were holding my hand on his erect and naked penis but he came at me again and again. I got away, dashed away in darkness, crawled through mud, under bushes and hid until I was sure he'd given up and driven off. I walked the whole way home with my bruised right arm held as far away from the rest of me as possible thinking I'd had a lucky escape until I woke up without my sense of safety.
I'm angrier than you can imagine, I'm not holding this hammer for decorating purposes, I'm not rocking in my one chair to soothe myself to sleep. Excavate my eyeballs and youl'll only find steel. I demand the right to walk safe at night.
I demand the right to walk safe at night. I demand the right to walk safe at night and I'll keep on demanding. I demand the right to live without fear of men. I demand the right to visit a friend without requiring an escort home. I demand the right to wake up every morning unafraid. I demand the right to look at men like they're ordinary people and not vessels carrying nothing but harm. I demand the right to safely navigate across town finding rhythms for words with footsteps, playing tapes on my walkman and thinking fondly of the undulating earth, the fresh chilli stuck in my back teeth and the importance of friends. I demand the right to walk safe at night and I'll keep on demanding, perhaps you'd care to join me?
What am I made of sugar?
I am inside The Peach, melting like cheap chocolate left on a car dashboard in the sun. It seems improbable that I will ever be capable of anything but small considered movements performed in the direct blast of the electric fan.
Captain James Cook
The Pacific Ocean
Aboard the Endeavour
19th April, 1770
Dear Captain Cook,
This is an inhospitable environment for those of European descent. I was not designed for this. I am aware that one of my grandfathers is from three generations of people living in India, it also hot in India, but he is long dead and so I believe are his punkah-wallahs, although according to my calculations some of them would now be elderly people hopefully enjoying a peaceful and dignified retirement, but I digress.
Dr Karl says that a person consists of many things, including the molecules of ancestors breathed on different continents. It is my personal hypothesis that my ancestral Indian and Estonian molecules have canceled each other out, permitting me to live happily only in the most temperate of climates. Australia, as it will come to be called, does not possess a mild and temperate climate. It would also be excellent to note that this is not indeed a terra nullius, the people you see on the shoreline do in fact live here already and though they do not use the English system of Common Law do have their own system of laws. If you would take the time to learn even one of their languages and have a little chat you'll discover this and perhaps make a name for yourself as being an extraordinary forward thinker and well ahead of your time. You might like to consider penning a song called Amazing Grace to express your realisation of humanity, trust me, it'll be a hit.
This country has been called The Lucky Country and by one excellent poet The Light Continent, the poet was the more correct of the two. It is all light but it is not calm, warm and soothing. It is the blinding kind habitually used in science fiction films to depict something bad or wondrous occurring. Your English people will suffer here, they will burn, sweat, toil and become larrikins. They will play cricket and cheat on their wives, they will fail to apply adequate amounts of sunscreen and die in their thousands. They will build unsuitable buildings, be paid with rum, herd large numbers of sheep and go like lemmings to war. They will in turn cause great harm to the existing population and find themselves to be cruel, incorrect and often very stupid indeed.
Turn your ships around, I beg you, we do not belong here.
As a token of my appreciation take this hint. Hawaii, not so hot for a holiday after all.
Kind Regards
Dale R Slamma
Captain James Cook
The Pacific Ocean
Aboard the Endeavour
19th April, 1770
Dear Captain Cook,
This is an inhospitable environment for those of European descent. I was not designed for this. I am aware that one of my grandfathers is from three generations of people living in India, it also hot in India, but he is long dead and so I believe are his punkah-wallahs, although according to my calculations some of them would now be elderly people hopefully enjoying a peaceful and dignified retirement, but I digress.
Dr Karl says that a person consists of many things, including the molecules of ancestors breathed on different continents. It is my personal hypothesis that my ancestral Indian and Estonian molecules have canceled each other out, permitting me to live happily only in the most temperate of climates. Australia, as it will come to be called, does not possess a mild and temperate climate. It would also be excellent to note that this is not indeed a terra nullius, the people you see on the shoreline do in fact live here already and though they do not use the English system of Common Law do have their own system of laws. If you would take the time to learn even one of their languages and have a little chat you'll discover this and perhaps make a name for yourself as being an extraordinary forward thinker and well ahead of your time. You might like to consider penning a song called Amazing Grace to express your realisation of humanity, trust me, it'll be a hit.
This country has been called The Lucky Country and by one excellent poet The Light Continent, the poet was the more correct of the two. It is all light but it is not calm, warm and soothing. It is the blinding kind habitually used in science fiction films to depict something bad or wondrous occurring. Your English people will suffer here, they will burn, sweat, toil and become larrikins. They will play cricket and cheat on their wives, they will fail to apply adequate amounts of sunscreen and die in their thousands. They will build unsuitable buildings, be paid with rum, herd large numbers of sheep and go like lemmings to war. They will in turn cause great harm to the existing population and find themselves to be cruel, incorrect and often very stupid indeed.
Turn your ships around, I beg you, we do not belong here.
As a token of my appreciation take this hint. Hawaii, not so hot for a holiday after all.
Kind Regards
Dale R Slamma
Two minutes and counting
I have a real problem with Virginia Woolf, right now, two minutes before my 32nd birthday. This will be my first ever 32nd birthday. By way of preparing to celebrate The Peachettes rolled joints and tuned in to the late night financial news. We rode those eyebrows like roller coasters, it took my mind off Virginia for at least a little while.
Into temptation, burning and exploding now
It was one drink, served in a clay mug with tonic and a wedge of lime. I began to suspect that I had drunk more than intended when I was steering that terrible car Roland Irene around a roundabout with a new and unexpected level of difficulty. The very last thing I want to do is drive home from an ex-brothel drunk so I stopped the car, got out, locked the door and walked.
Spencer drank more gin than I thought was possible, he staggered happily around confessing to celebrity crushes, modes of dress, television watching and reading all the letters on my computer. This one stopped my heart, for three seconds, it started again like Jesus but still I needed more concentration than usual to roll a cigarette.
I'm not saying I have never ever in the history of my existence knowingly read something I shouldn't have, the backs of photographs from my parents first ever trip away together before they were married is one fine example, but generally I am the Super Guardian of People's Private Documents (SGPPD). You can leave your diary on my coffee table, I won't read it, leave your computer open on my lounge room floor, I won't do more than scroll through your music, leave your open mail at my door, I'll tidy it into a pile, confess your darkest hours and I might turn it into a short story but that's a different thing altogether.
My very first thought was "!", no words, all exclamation. Spencer blinked from the chair across the room in a drunken way. He asked "what was the book you were going to lend me?" and suddenly things seemed worse, much worse. Spencer had not only read the letters I'd sent but the letters I'd written and not sent, like the letter I'd written to him four years ago and decided not to send. He said if anything the letters made him like me more but I was still thinking "!".
I understand how something like this might happen. I loaned Spencer my old laptop Blueboy when my shiny new arctic white one made its debut appearance in The Peach. He's had Blueboy for over a year now and I don't mind at all, Blueboy is in safe hands. I understand how one idle day clicking through old files on an old computer might suddenly seem like an interesting way to spend a moment or four. I suspect most things left on Blueboy were written in a stupor, a rage or a moment where the even the vague possibility of happiness was hiding behind a large object and still Spencer invites me into his house, head and heart.
I'm still thinking "!", particulary about the ill-advised draft of a letter to Tim Winton, but I'm adding things in front of the "!" like friendship building its own forms over the years until even the idea of it is taller than me.
Spencer drank more gin than I thought was possible, he staggered happily around confessing to celebrity crushes, modes of dress, television watching and reading all the letters on my computer. This one stopped my heart, for three seconds, it started again like Jesus but still I needed more concentration than usual to roll a cigarette.
I'm not saying I have never ever in the history of my existence knowingly read something I shouldn't have, the backs of photographs from my parents first ever trip away together before they were married is one fine example, but generally I am the Super Guardian of People's Private Documents (SGPPD). You can leave your diary on my coffee table, I won't read it, leave your computer open on my lounge room floor, I won't do more than scroll through your music, leave your open mail at my door, I'll tidy it into a pile, confess your darkest hours and I might turn it into a short story but that's a different thing altogether.
My very first thought was "!", no words, all exclamation. Spencer blinked from the chair across the room in a drunken way. He asked "what was the book you were going to lend me?" and suddenly things seemed worse, much worse. Spencer had not only read the letters I'd sent but the letters I'd written and not sent, like the letter I'd written to him four years ago and decided not to send. He said if anything the letters made him like me more but I was still thinking "!".
I understand how something like this might happen. I loaned Spencer my old laptop Blueboy when my shiny new arctic white one made its debut appearance in The Peach. He's had Blueboy for over a year now and I don't mind at all, Blueboy is in safe hands. I understand how one idle day clicking through old files on an old computer might suddenly seem like an interesting way to spend a moment or four. I suspect most things left on Blueboy were written in a stupor, a rage or a moment where the even the vague possibility of happiness was hiding behind a large object and still Spencer invites me into his house, head and heart.
I'm still thinking "!", particulary about the ill-advised draft of a letter to Tim Winton, but I'm adding things in front of the "!" like friendship building its own forms over the years until even the idea of it is taller than me.
Good lord!
I found these when I was fossicking around in my cupboard. I decided at once that something had to be done, so I left them at a cafe, sorry about that cafe staff.
When I paid for my coffee I noticed the blue one on top of the coffee machine.
Not entirely a bad day
One of the wheels fell off as it overturned in the gutter, I laughed at it as it fell, I've had it in for that filing cabinet for a while now. It became my black-three-drawered nemesis. Too heavy to move by myself, too large to sit flush with other furniture, too black and metal to pass as anything I might choose to look at on purpose. Spencer picked up the severed wheel and carefully stuck it back on, I'm not sure but I think he's developing a fondness for the thing.
When Spencer moved into the lilac ceilinged ex-brothel he couldn't believe his luck. There are toilets, spa baths and guitars everywhere. The kitchen is large, cream and useful. One large room is used only as a band rehearsal space. The other residents are kind, wash their dishes and sort the recycyling but I did detect one small problem. Most of Spencer's furniture was found on the street so when he was moving he carefully carried it all downstairs and put it back on the street, much easier than figuring out how to move it to the new house. This made Spencer's move remarkably easy, as far as moving house goes, but did of course leave him with no furniture, this is where the filing cabinet comes in handy. Instead of storing manuscripts, drafts, bills and boring papers the horrid thing will now store socks, underpants and cowboy shirts, alphabetically I'm sure.
When Spencer moved into the lilac ceilinged ex-brothel he couldn't believe his luck. There are toilets, spa baths and guitars everywhere. The kitchen is large, cream and useful. One large room is used only as a band rehearsal space. The other residents are kind, wash their dishes and sort the recycyling but I did detect one small problem. Most of Spencer's furniture was found on the street so when he was moving he carefully carried it all downstairs and put it back on the street, much easier than figuring out how to move it to the new house. This made Spencer's move remarkably easy, as far as moving house goes, but did of course leave him with no furniture, this is where the filing cabinet comes in handy. Instead of storing manuscripts, drafts, bills and boring papers the horrid thing will now store socks, underpants and cowboy shirts, alphabetically I'm sure.
A sleeping cat is more still than a sleeping horse, show me the colts it'll turn my bones to glass
I typed the letters 'y.e.s.' and pressed send. Five minutes later I woke up thinking 'that was an odd dream' but the phone was clutched in my sweaty left hand. I don't remember acquiring the skill of text messaging in my sleep, in fact I'm still surprised that my unconscious self was making decisions without me.
I tried to telephone and ask about the details of the plan thinking maybe I might like to think about this but he didn't answer, he sent a message saying 'get ready now', so I put my pants on and located my shoes. Next thing I knew I was sitting in a tent in Hyde Park watching Bill Callahan dance like a horse.
Bill Callahan has two dance moves, piaffe and the knee waggle, the rest of the time he's doing something akin to a hungry man singing into a refrigerator but don't let that idea stop you.
From the back the famous spiegeltent looks much like an ordinary tent, the kind hired for corporate functions when they want something round and ostensibly outdoors. From the front it looks like a movie circus prop but inside the floorboards flex under footsteps and eyes travel over velvet, mirrors and leadlight windows. I decided at once that I must live in the famous spiegeltent, and so I did, for about an hour.
Bill Callahan has a strange rhythm, like an old tree or your grandmother. It is soothing and terrifying to listen that man sing. Watch a dusk sky fill with bats. I kept wanting the light to fade, it was too light in there, too much dying light pouring in through leadlight windows. I wonder why the festival directors decided to run the night in that particular order? My other main problem was also non-musical, plastic chairs made of magic plastic that numbs the buttocks in record time. I wonder why the festival directors would spend so much money importing spiegeltents and Americans then find the worst plastic chairs in the world? I wanted to stand.
The drummer crawled rhythm, it is difficult to explain his style, loose, low and precise. He was painterly with his movement. I haven't much to say about the guitarist, he was playing guitar. The other night I sat in on a rehearsal with Belle Phoenix (much better now than is reflected in these recordings) where Spencer was playing guitar, I've a lot more to say about that guitar playing but Callahan himself is a different matter.
Callahan does what most musicians can't, he makes writing about his performance pale, pointless and callow. If you get the chance buy the ticket and take the ride. Stand if you can, in the dark forest of heads and shoulders trapping sounds and moments with small movements of your feet.
I tried to telephone and ask about the details of the plan thinking maybe I might like to think about this but he didn't answer, he sent a message saying 'get ready now', so I put my pants on and located my shoes. Next thing I knew I was sitting in a tent in Hyde Park watching Bill Callahan dance like a horse.
Bill Callahan has two dance moves, piaffe and the knee waggle, the rest of the time he's doing something akin to a hungry man singing into a refrigerator but don't let that idea stop you.
From the back the famous spiegeltent looks much like an ordinary tent, the kind hired for corporate functions when they want something round and ostensibly outdoors. From the front it looks like a movie circus prop but inside the floorboards flex under footsteps and eyes travel over velvet, mirrors and leadlight windows. I decided at once that I must live in the famous spiegeltent, and so I did, for about an hour.
Bill Callahan has a strange rhythm, like an old tree or your grandmother. It is soothing and terrifying to listen that man sing. Watch a dusk sky fill with bats. I kept wanting the light to fade, it was too light in there, too much dying light pouring in through leadlight windows. I wonder why the festival directors decided to run the night in that particular order? My other main problem was also non-musical, plastic chairs made of magic plastic that numbs the buttocks in record time. I wonder why the festival directors would spend so much money importing spiegeltents and Americans then find the worst plastic chairs in the world? I wanted to stand.
The drummer crawled rhythm, it is difficult to explain his style, loose, low and precise. He was painterly with his movement. I haven't much to say about the guitarist, he was playing guitar. The other night I sat in on a rehearsal with Belle Phoenix (much better now than is reflected in these recordings) where Spencer was playing guitar, I've a lot more to say about that guitar playing but Callahan himself is a different matter.
Callahan does what most musicians can't, he makes writing about his performance pale, pointless and callow. If you get the chance buy the ticket and take the ride. Stand if you can, in the dark forest of heads and shoulders trapping sounds and moments with small movements of your feet.
There was going to be words about something else entirely
I seem to have developed a sudden and unexpected hatred. Its my friends I'm feeling sorry for, the ones who patiently and repeatedly say things like "Axe murdering might not be the best idea. Why don't you just wait a little while and see if you still feel the same way in a week or so" or my personal favourite "Why don't you try not doing something stupid, just for now, and see how it turns out?". I'm fairly certain that my friends are not convinced about my hatred. My friends are generally correct about this sort of thing, maybe I'll hang off the axe murdering for just a little while...
I interrupt the hating for an important message about loving. Have you seen Apartamento yet?
I interrupt the hating for an important message about loving. Have you seen Apartamento yet?
I am simple to enchant
I am simple to enchant so when Grizelda told me that she'd jumped the locked gate and gone to the forbidden land of downstairs my head nearly exploded with excitement. You see The Peach looks like an ordinary Federation house from the front, this is not a photo of The Peach, but underneath lurks an entire flat, with undercover bbq area and built-in bbq and a backyard The Peachettes are forbidden from entering. We sometimes join the cat in peering over the edge of The Peach Deck to see what we can see, usually its just some long grass and The Cowboy next door hanging his cowboy jackets on the clothes line. 
Theoretically the landlord Mr Oddweird resides in the flat beneath The Peach, his plentiful mail is delivered daily to The Peach letterbox, he periodically appears at the locked gate and waves as he disappears down the side of the house but according to Grizelda the downstairs flat is empty, filthy, disused and generally unsuitable for human occupation. My simple enchantment is rapidly running to conspiracy theories.
This afternoon a man knocked at the front door, he said he had a delivery for Mr Oddweird. I pointed to the locked gate, he glanced at it but refused to move. He said that he must personally deliver the package to Mr Oddweird but he wasn't holding any package. Not only did he not have a package but he did not arrive in a van or other vehicle suitable for a courier and was not wearing a uniform. He was not clutching one of those electronic delivery thingies or even a clipboard. I becmae highly suspicious when he demanded that I produce a phone number for Mr Oddweird and questioned me as to whether Mr Oddweird was the owner of The Peach. The non-delivery man eventually went away but the question remains, why is Mr Oddweird pretending to live underneath The Peach?
Theoretically the landlord Mr Oddweird resides in the flat beneath The Peach, his plentiful mail is delivered daily to The Peach letterbox, he periodically appears at the locked gate and waves as he disappears down the side of the house but according to Grizelda the downstairs flat is empty, filthy, disused and generally unsuitable for human occupation. My simple enchantment is rapidly running to conspiracy theories.This afternoon a man knocked at the front door, he said he had a delivery for Mr Oddweird. I pointed to the locked gate, he glanced at it but refused to move. He said that he must personally deliver the package to Mr Oddweird but he wasn't holding any package. Not only did he not have a package but he did not arrive in a van or other vehicle suitable for a courier and was not wearing a uniform. He was not clutching one of those electronic delivery thingies or even a clipboard. I becmae highly suspicious when he demanded that I produce a phone number for Mr Oddweird and questioned me as to whether Mr Oddweird was the owner of The Peach. The non-delivery man eventually went away but the question remains, why is Mr Oddweird pretending to live underneath The Peach?
Wax memory
The square of cardboard attached to the Christmas present candle said that the wax will remember how long I first burn the candle. It will melt no further than the tide mark left by those first burning hours. This worries me immensely. What if my wax memory has been set and each time I burn I'll melt until I meet the edges of where I was once before?
I've spent the afternoon looking for my own personal cardboard square printed with instructions. I didn't find the square but I recall the feeling of putting a school jumper over an ice cold blue blouse while my shoes sit shining and ready on an old towel on top of the washing machine. My father used to polish all the shoes once a week, lining them neatly by colour. It was his sixtieth birthday two days ago, we dined on a roof watching ferries cross the harbour, nobody thought to take a photo.
I've spent the afternoon looking for my own personal cardboard square printed with instructions. I didn't find the square but I recall the feeling of putting a school jumper over an ice cold blue blouse while my shoes sit shining and ready on an old towel on top of the washing machine. My father used to polish all the shoes once a week, lining them neatly by colour. It was his sixtieth birthday two days ago, we dined on a roof watching ferries cross the harbour, nobody thought to take a photo.
This might cause me to protest
I am finding it hard to comprehend that the large corporation Gunns is now suing protesters for protesting. I might think of something intelligent to say but in the meantime I am walking around saying words like abhorrent and unconscionable.
Here is the correct link.
Here is the correct link.
The taco incident
Queensland didn't like me but I don't care, the place is crawling with Queenslanders and we all know about them. Tonight I snapped my toothbrush in half. I didn't snap the toothbrush because of a tooth revolution or a miracle event involving the evolution of self-cleaning teeth. I was thinking about something and it made me so angry that there was really no option but immediate and definite violence.
There was light
On the fifth day of the Woodford Festival I decided that a five day festival was too long. On the sixth day I mourned the loss of twenty concurrent stages and strange sweltering wandering in a sheen of sweat through smiling thousands with a cigarette in one hand and a joint in the other.
Rain rained itself through my mobile phone transforming all communications to steam and the miracle of static silence. I am still somewhere in Queensland deep in Superman's family nest where they all know from eyebrow to eyebrow the ways of one another. The air is more viscous than honey, thick with light and particles of water. I could convert myself to steam or the kind of warm mud clinging thickly round fetlocks in brown dams.
Water in the air does something to the light so everybody opts for beige, just to be safe, except of course for me. I'll keep notes, I'll look at these Queenslanders with their hats and singlets and everywhere lack of shoes. Three more days and I'm coming back.
Fair thee
Dear 2008,
Trifecta.
Job.
Car.
Licence (the blame sits squarely with luxury on this one, you know what I mean stupid mercedes).
Perchance now you will be satisfied? I should bid you an unfond farewell, tomorrow I'm leaving the state, we all know the year officially ends when I am thrust with jets into the sky. There is, as always, a song spinning in my head, "I'm drunk, I'm tired and I fucked my shit up" but this time I'm not entirely sure that its all my fault.
What I am learning is to become undone, not from myself, not from the power of that internal vortex but from the larger shoving hand of something else. It is possible that I will remain and by that I mean I will walk with words in my head and pens in my hands. This isn't a great trial of me versus all things like volcanoes and canoes and omnipotent everything. I can build rhythms with footsteps. I'll laugh at the dusting off and the dusting off and the standing and falling and breathing. One day, strapped in great pain, I saw faces look down on me with something quite like love.
I have dozed now in both my parents' houses. Sat with my back against cushions, heavy lead dropped my eyelids and listened. I heard who I am with the sounds of peeling potatoes, stacking plates, kitchen chatter and clatter and the stepped in parts of other lives. I'm weaving something over here, if you look closely at only one part it is lumpen with errors but when I stretch out my arms and hold it aloft the dropped stitches let in the light. And that right there was the moment in which I allowed myself to be twee. I'm planning on dropping a lot more stitches 2008, you better brief 2009 cause there's no separating Dale from Slamma.
DS
Trifecta.
Job.
Car.
Licence (the blame sits squarely with luxury on this one, you know what I mean stupid mercedes).
Perchance now you will be satisfied? I should bid you an unfond farewell, tomorrow I'm leaving the state, we all know the year officially ends when I am thrust with jets into the sky. There is, as always, a song spinning in my head, "I'm drunk, I'm tired and I fucked my shit up" but this time I'm not entirely sure that its all my fault.
What I am learning is to become undone, not from myself, not from the power of that internal vortex but from the larger shoving hand of something else. It is possible that I will remain and by that I mean I will walk with words in my head and pens in my hands. This isn't a great trial of me versus all things like volcanoes and canoes and omnipotent everything. I can build rhythms with footsteps. I'll laugh at the dusting off and the dusting off and the standing and falling and breathing. One day, strapped in great pain, I saw faces look down on me with something quite like love.
I have dozed now in both my parents' houses. Sat with my back against cushions, heavy lead dropped my eyelids and listened. I heard who I am with the sounds of peeling potatoes, stacking plates, kitchen chatter and clatter and the stepped in parts of other lives. I'm weaving something over here, if you look closely at only one part it is lumpen with errors but when I stretch out my arms and hold it aloft the dropped stitches let in the light. And that right there was the moment in which I allowed myself to be twee. I'm planning on dropping a lot more stitches 2008, you better brief 2009 cause there's no separating Dale from Slamma.
DS
Improbable impromtu partakings
Gemma came to stay at The Peach so we made with the merry. The first night we saw Spencer play us some rock which was grand but the second night The Peach threw open its doors for an impromptu party of unreasonable excellence. Retro from The Hive made a special guest appearance for dinner which was super but perhaps the real star of The Peach was the frozen cocktail machine that was improbably produced out of thin air for our drinking pleasure. There is photographic evidence but it is inside The Spatula's camera.
At one point in the evening Gemma took an extensive photographic survey of The Peach Bathroom, this was before we sensibly decided that what Superman does in the shower, besides washing, is practice Elvis karate.
The impromptu party was wildly succesful. We took turns at singing songs using a cheese encyclopedia to supply alternative lyrics. Spencer played themes from 80's television shows on Superman's guitar, Gemma knew all the words. The police snuck down into The Cowboy's backyard and shone torches up at The Peach Deck. We weren't sure what they wanted so we just sat very still until Gemma jumped up and said hello. They wanted us to be quiet which is exciting, we've never been shut down by the police before.
This evening, reflecting on the weekend's events, I became so happy that I invented a new kind of dance.
At one point in the evening Gemma took an extensive photographic survey of The Peach Bathroom, this was before we sensibly decided that what Superman does in the shower, besides washing, is practice Elvis karate.
The impromptu party was wildly succesful. We took turns at singing songs using a cheese encyclopedia to supply alternative lyrics. Spencer played themes from 80's television shows on Superman's guitar, Gemma knew all the words. The police snuck down into The Cowboy's backyard and shone torches up at The Peach Deck. We weren't sure what they wanted so we just sat very still until Gemma jumped up and said hello. They wanted us to be quiet which is exciting, we've never been shut down by the police before.
This evening, reflecting on the weekend's events, I became so happy that I invented a new kind of dance.
Cheap regret
I regretted my decision to buy the cheapest paper towels, just as soon as the toilet paper ran out.
Don't float
I almost walked over the Harbour Bridge in the dying light. I stood at the bottom of the steps sniffing the expensive north side breeze, rubbing my arms to get the corporate stink off them. I phoned Spencer and he said he was getting drunk for free so I turned around and walked into the station.
I didn't like where I'd been. I sat in a room with fifteen other applicants listening to the managing director rant about his personal excellence and the standard of excellence he expects in everything from fruit to shoes. The recruiting assistant scanned the room and made notes every time somebody breathed, like a robot surprised to be confronted with the living. I filled in the form like I was supposed to, listened like I was supposed to, sat there in my ironed clothes with my brushed hair but I was considering throwing myself under a ferry and featuring on the late news as a floater. The harbour is more beautiful than I can imagine. I let slip every opportunity for splendid rebellion.
Spencer was drinking in the County Clare so I navigated south, using the trains, buses and the soles of my shoes. I found him jammed in a filthy courtyard sitting on an empty beer keg bouncing up and down with excitement over something or other. He only bounces when he's drunk. I rammed myself into the crowd as an antidote to everything but in the end I found I needed to walk so I left the County Clare and wandered up Broadway and City Rd sucking down the city air. I stumbled and turned my ankle on nothing at all.
I was carrying no cash, not a dollar, I sat at the bust stop while my ankle throbbed and swelled, wondering what to do until I remembered about taxis and paying for things with credit cards. Mona found me five minutes later, bought me a bus ticket then a beer. We sat in The Townie swapping sorrows and cigarettes, wondering at the usefulness of friends until Spencer started sending me text messages about how excellent a time he was having at the party, far superior to The Townie. I imagined he was drunker than even I had anticipated but then he stuck his head around the corner holding out his long arms and laughing like a loon.
Spencer spoke about the time he was working in a factory in Bowral putting books in boxes. He said they kept playing the Youth Group* song Someone Else's Dream, the lyrics go something like 'let's go see The Holy Soul in some soulless hole where the restless people go' [The Holy Soul is Spencer's band]. Spencer was bending his back and numbing his mind, stacking books in boxes from 6 in the morning, listening to the factory radio sing out the name of his band. That's when he thought he might move to the city.
Spencer walked when he moved to the city, missing the horizon, mapping out the lack of spaces but that's another story.
* You probably know this Youth Group song if not the one I'm talking about.
I didn't like where I'd been. I sat in a room with fifteen other applicants listening to the managing director rant about his personal excellence and the standard of excellence he expects in everything from fruit to shoes. The recruiting assistant scanned the room and made notes every time somebody breathed, like a robot surprised to be confronted with the living. I filled in the form like I was supposed to, listened like I was supposed to, sat there in my ironed clothes with my brushed hair but I was considering throwing myself under a ferry and featuring on the late news as a floater. The harbour is more beautiful than I can imagine. I let slip every opportunity for splendid rebellion.
Spencer was drinking in the County Clare so I navigated south, using the trains, buses and the soles of my shoes. I found him jammed in a filthy courtyard sitting on an empty beer keg bouncing up and down with excitement over something or other. He only bounces when he's drunk. I rammed myself into the crowd as an antidote to everything but in the end I found I needed to walk so I left the County Clare and wandered up Broadway and City Rd sucking down the city air. I stumbled and turned my ankle on nothing at all.
I was carrying no cash, not a dollar, I sat at the bust stop while my ankle throbbed and swelled, wondering what to do until I remembered about taxis and paying for things with credit cards. Mona found me five minutes later, bought me a bus ticket then a beer. We sat in The Townie swapping sorrows and cigarettes, wondering at the usefulness of friends until Spencer started sending me text messages about how excellent a time he was having at the party, far superior to The Townie. I imagined he was drunker than even I had anticipated but then he stuck his head around the corner holding out his long arms and laughing like a loon.
Spencer spoke about the time he was working in a factory in Bowral putting books in boxes. He said they kept playing the Youth Group* song Someone Else's Dream, the lyrics go something like 'let's go see The Holy Soul in some soulless hole where the restless people go' [The Holy Soul is Spencer's band]. Spencer was bending his back and numbing his mind, stacking books in boxes from 6 in the morning, listening to the factory radio sing out the name of his band. That's when he thought he might move to the city.
Spencer walked when he moved to the city, missing the horizon, mapping out the lack of spaces but that's another story.
* You probably know this Youth Group song if not the one I'm talking about.
Mild today isn't it
1am. First radio contact with Siberian step-mother. She is on the Trans-Siberian Railway three nights and two days out of Moscow. She said it is quite mild in Siberia, there has been no snow, yesterday I went dog sledding. Is it possible to sled without snow?
People in extreme situations, such as the Australian Antarctic Division or Siberia, display tendencies towards resourcefulness and eating things out of tins. Perhaps they have invented something. Hover sled? Sled with wheels attached? Sled on top of dogs? One continuous carpet of rolling logs or ball bearings? Digital sled simulator on hydraulic lifts?
People in extreme situations, such as the Australian Antarctic Division or Siberia, display tendencies towards resourcefulness and eating things out of tins. Perhaps they have invented something. Hover sled? Sled with wheels attached? Sled on top of dogs? One continuous carpet of rolling logs or ball bearings? Digital sled simulator on hydraulic lifts?
I thought I saw an iceberg out there somewhere
Dale Slamma has relocated to the Australian Antarctic Division.
Dorothy Porter 1954-2008
...
fun fun fun
I'm a mono Beach Boys record
my heart breaks
like surf.
- Dorothy Porter, from 'El Dorado'
Mathematics
By Robert (Poet Laureate of Slammatown)
My legs are longer than my arms. But
my ankles are twice the diameter
of half my wrist's circumference.
How old is my father? Who
is my father? Where is my daddy?
Daddy...?
My legs are longer than my arms. But
my ankles are twice the diameter
of half my wrist's circumference.
How old is my father? Who
is my father? Where is my daddy?
Daddy...?
Dear People of The World
You bore me.
You've driven me to this.
Do something interesting.
And remember,
don't surround yourself with yourself.
You've driven me to this.
Do something interesting.
And remember,
don't surround yourself with yourself.
Held without question
I feel sick Captain. The hot chocolate made more sense than it ought. I saw a video or a film or a piece or a work. It has been following me but don't think I didn't want this to be a shorter sentence.
We sat at the bus stop in Glebe smoking cigarettes like school children and kicking our feet at catabatic things. There was never an intention to board a bus. I rolled a cigarette for Grizelda but Spencer rolled his own while he bent forwards over his crossed leg complaining that my complaining was sending him deaf. I had been slouched in a parody of drunk but that was inside where they tag you with numbers and pour sugar on plates.
Today was larger than me. It pressed on the windows. I turned my head away. After the telephoned things I had no interest in anything save for the texture of stasis in silence. An unexpected letter, with tiny beautiful gifts, could not raise so much as an eyebrow. I've had The Maple Trail** on repeat since Saturday, always preferring Radio Twilight Lost to Dirty Echo Spark.
Nothing will push back the memory of Held Without Question. Jon Wah moved on screen, hauling pixels from the grave, wrapped in the arms of his mother. Held without question. I stood in silence while the crowd moved around me. I suspended headphones with my hands while the longing formed, don't think I didn't want this sentence to be longer.
* Held Without Question (I think this is what it is called) by Jon Wah at Serial Space until 18th of December.
** More about The Maple Trail here.
We sat at the bus stop in Glebe smoking cigarettes like school children and kicking our feet at catabatic things. There was never an intention to board a bus. I rolled a cigarette for Grizelda but Spencer rolled his own while he bent forwards over his crossed leg complaining that my complaining was sending him deaf. I had been slouched in a parody of drunk but that was inside where they tag you with numbers and pour sugar on plates.
Today was larger than me. It pressed on the windows. I turned my head away. After the telephoned things I had no interest in anything save for the texture of stasis in silence. An unexpected letter, with tiny beautiful gifts, could not raise so much as an eyebrow. I've had The Maple Trail** on repeat since Saturday, always preferring Radio Twilight Lost to Dirty Echo Spark.
Nothing will push back the memory of Held Without Question. Jon Wah moved on screen, hauling pixels from the grave, wrapped in the arms of his mother. Held without question. I stood in silence while the crowd moved around me. I suspended headphones with my hands while the longing formed, don't think I didn't want this sentence to be longer.
* Held Without Question (I think this is what it is called) by Jon Wah at Serial Space until 18th of December.
** More about The Maple Trail here.
178, 190, same thing, precisely the same thing
Superman is wider than he is high, I can assure you this is entirely scientific, if you measure the span of his arms. The same is true of Spencer. Madam Squeeze and I are both taller than the span of our arms.
Now for a list of names in height order with the difference in height between the person listed and the person above in parentheses, Spencer is 199 centimetres wide from fingertip to fingertip.
Spencer
Superman (2cm)
Slamma (0cm)
Madam Squeeze (8cm)
Now for a list of names in height order with the difference in height between the person listed and the person above in parentheses, Spencer is 199 centimetres wide from fingertip to fingertip.
Spencer
Superman (2cm)
Slamma (0cm)
Madam Squeeze (8cm)
Traumax, dress death, incredible happenings and the superness of Superman
One moment I was sitting in the Zammercarship happy after seeing The Maple Trail play at the Hopetoun and going to the gallery Serial Space, hungry for the late late dinner Superman and I were planning on having on the way back to The Peach. The next moment I was lying in an ambulance confused and hurting so profoundly that I did not know where exactly the hurt was coming from. At one point I heard a voice and said, "Oh, is Superman here too?". The ambulance lady told me yes he was but I forgot again and again and was surprised when he appeared by my side in my very own personal trauma room in the emergency part of RPA. I was sure that they were pretending, I could not remember being in a crash, they kept asking me how I opened the broken car door. I did not know that Superman had flung it open, not until he told me the next day.
Small notes of gratitude are scrolling through my still fuzzy and unattractively swollen head for:
Superman who was exceptional, even at 3am sitting in a plastic hospital chair at my side. He went out of his way to be extraordinary. For doing everything possible including making me go in the ambulance and stay in the hospital when I did not want to. For going to great lengths to print and post my manuscript that had to be posted, for wiping the terrible mascara trails from my face when I could not do it myself, for sitting in the hospital forever. For conjuring doctors to come and explain just what the hell was going on. For miraculously fetching hot hospital blankets fresh out of the drier when I was shaking with cold. For his powers of invincibility and not being horribly injured, for talking to everyone from police to parents and friends. For his concern for the occupants of the other car and his gratitude for everyone that helped. For holding amusing things in my field of vision when I could not move my head and could not stand staring at the one roof tile any longer. You're alright Superman.
The woman who lived on the corner where we crashed who came out with her dog, comfort and glasses of water while I sat on a wall and wondered what was happening.
The ambulance lady who was commanding and kind. She held me in a calm centre while police and people and firetrucks made chaos. She did not leave my side, sat by me and put a warm hand on mine every time I started to cry, even while she went about poking me and flashing lights in my eyes. In an amazing display of competence she took my arm softly and cannulated me while the ambulance was moving. She was stern and thorough and wonderful.
The emergency staff at RPA were mostly excellent, except for when six of them suddenly stopped doing all the odd things they were doing to me, all at once, rolled me on my side, cut off my clothes with scissors and let some doctor stick a finger in my bum. That was not excellent. It was also unexcellent when they held open my jaw for x-rays or when they bound my hands to my feet and pulled the ropes tight making my bones scream, or when the nurse pushed pain killers down my throat or when they insisted that the neck brace stay on. What was excellent was being voted favourite patient in emergency.
Grizelda stayed with me all day in the hospital and remedied my cracked lips with ointments, held things up into my limited field of vision for my amusement. For making tea and fetching pillows and telephoning my brother.
The Spatula for coming to the hospital and then missing her appointment to help Superman post my manuscript that had to be posted. For feeding the cat and marching to the shops to fetch me things.
My parents who miraculously appeared from far away. My Dad for waiting in the hospital and in my house, for talking with Superman and saying reassuring things. My Mum and her partner for coming armed with a teapot, two kinds of tea, a bottle of arnica and a fresh apple cake and talking to Superman and saying reassuring things.
Spencer for appearing with a pink shiny beruffled umbrella with whistle attached then sitting in The Peach listening to Superman and I tell and retell the same stories in a blurry fashion whilst high on painkillers.
Ron & Rita who telephoned me from a different hospital where they sit with Ronita and their brand new one day old baby which is so far named Untitled 2008. I am very upset that I did not get to see him this weekend, this tiny brand new person. Being smashed in a car is nothing compared to what just happened to Rita.
Sputnik and Boli for their messages of concern.
My dress, that served me well, I was wearing it the first time I met Superman, I had forgotten this until he pointed it out. My dress that went to parties, galleries, gigs, supermarkets and hospitals. I was going to have it altered next week because it has become too big. The first dress I ever bought for myself, I loved you so. RIP green jungle print 1950's party dress.
My painkillers for making typing and just plain being possible.
My spine for defying all things and not being broken despite the incredible concern of medical people. My left arm for coming out of the piece of car it was momentarily stuck in, this I remember.
I have this picture in my head of a smashed and shaken Superman coming back to the dark Peach alone in the early hours of the morning. How he walked alone and could not find a taxi for such a long time, opening the door to The Peach with my unfamiliar keys and feeling his way down the dark hallway then not going to bed but staying up and printing my manuscript. How he said he was shaking for hours. I would not like to have been him, I would not like to watch him flat and prone surrounded by doctors and lying forever in horrible pain. It is cold, uncomfortable and exhausting to wait in a hospital.
I do not remember the crash. Everything hurts except my right hand and left foot. My jaw is swollen down to my shoulder, I have no neck right now, none at all. My whole face retains a cartilage feeling that comes with a blow to the nose. My teeth, all of my teeth ache and ache and ache. I feel terrible, crushed, smashed, confused, unable to concentrate even on a movie. There is simple sadness and a base need for constant comfort. I cry unexpectedly, sleep unexpectedly, I have no desire to write these words but I type in an attempt to usher in some sense of normalcy and cast out determined surreality in this small window where the painkillers begin to work but have not yet rendered me unconscious.
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