Wrong again Dear Penguins
You'd be incorrect in thinking that I am having a snoring time of it here in Slammatown just because this blog has been prodigiously boring for the past few weeks. The trouble is working out where to start, I will ponder this while I potter about in my pyjamas and take a much needed nice cup of tea and little sit down.
Moth equals protein
If I was Gandalf I would have eaten the big moth that came to visit him on top of Saruman's tower, I suppose that might have altered the plot just a little.
Big black boxes, cheap hotels and an ordinary job
By Spencer (Rock Laureate of Slammatown)
Part I
There are certain clichés that go along with being an indie rock star. Drugs, groupies, money, big shiny cars...
The truth of the matter is that only the very few get to live such lifestyles, while the rest of this strange breed of person have to be contented with being a rock star at the weekend while working a day job the rest of the week. Even on these special rock star days, the indie rock star has to deal with an array of disgruntled promoters, hung over sound technicians, irritable owners and managers of the seedy corner pubs in which the indie rock star is going to do his or her 'art'. Even the seemingly simple taste of getting one's friends 'on the door list' becomes a tiresome task for the indie rock star – they all expect to get their 'cut' of the door and ticket sales - the door list becomes a monument to lost profits (a read of Stuart Coupe's book 'The Promoters' tells more of their story). However there is definitely a positive side to getting into such a ridiculous game such as this. Andy Moore, drum maestro from Melbourne based bands Kamikaze Trio and Digger And The Pussycats, said "I wouldn't trade playing in a band for the world, but it's not all private jets and sex with groupies. Touring usually means endless hours stuffed into a van full of equipment, constant sleep depravation, losing money and generally pushing your body to the upper limits of self-abuse. It’s great."
The struggle for an aspiring indie rock star to create original art and then get that art accepted by venue bookers is immense. The major problem is that of the unknown - hiring a covers band (one that only plays other people's material - generally the certified 'hits') or DJ (one that plays the original recordings of other people's 'hits') for the night is more likely to draw the 'common people' crowd, where an original band or artist is going to be unpredictable – they might bring friends and a regular following but might also perform something that is different or weird and who wants that while sinking a few beers?
In time, the indie rock star's weird factor can turn into an indie rock star's 'Thing'. Suddenly the unknown becomes known, and the indie rock star is allowed to do their Thing in more public places (as long as they keep to their Thing and don't change that Thing). The small crowd they drew at the start are the people who 'saw them back in the day' and an indie rock star becomes a successful indie rock star. They may then have the opportunity to haul their belongings up and down the Hume Highway or fly between Melbourne, Sydney and Brisbane, with the occasional trip to Adelaide, and if particularly keen, Perth. The more remote and rural areas are generally left to former indie rock stars that have hit the big time and are now keen to 'get back to their roots'. Others just move to European countries.
So who are some of these Indie Rock Stars? Find out in Part II
Part II
The institution known as Nick Cave, a Melbourne raised private school lad, made his appearance as one of The Boys Next Door, attracted attention in The Birthday Party and then made a solo career as Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds. The common threads that run through Cave's work are the usage of traditions of American blues and
folk musics that are altered through a blending with large doses of the more extreme work of Captain Beefheart, Leonard Cohen and Elvis Presley. What comes out the other side is a dark yet humorous style that ranges from the monstrous demented and twisted experiments of The Birthday Party to the quiet beauty of songs such as "Sad Waters" and "Into My Arms".
Ed Kuepper began his journey as the guitarist and songwriter of The Saints. He was there from 1974 until 1978 for their 'classic period' that gave the world the "(I'm) Stranded" single and album plus many other early Australian punk rock classics. From 1979 to 1984 he was the head of the messed up jazz rock thing that was The Laughing Clowns. From 1985 to now he has existed as a solo artist.
The Saints first single "(I'm) Stranded" was released on their own record label because no other Australian label would release it, something many an Indie
musician would be familiar with. Much of Kuepper's later solo work is in the singer/songwriter tradition, similarly with Nick Cave. At the end of the madness,
it is still the song that wins.
Just as some Indie stars reach the mainstream, many mainstream stars go on to find their place in the Indie world. Don Walker, the guy that wrote "Khe Sanh" and
played in Oz pub rock superstars Cold Chisel, has spent time since the band broke up pursuing a solo career, his current focus being on the Tex, Don & Charlie project.
Rob Hirst, drummer for Midnight Oil, has led a similar existence. In recent times his work, aside from playing in The Backsliders, has been with Ghostwriters, a band created in order to play Hirst's songs that don't make the Oils' final cut.
The Scientists made the trip from Perth to Sydney, taking with them their sound of buzzing guitars that played Elvis Presley and Link Wray riffs in unusual
time signatures (they liked to count to five instead of four).
The Johnnys stayed in Sydney to play a beer-fuelled country music that took a wrong turn into loud rock music. Their shows featured duel on-stage bar fridges and hay bails that were thrown over the audience.
The Sunnyboys, who also resided in Sydney, mixed the pop sensibilities of The Beatles, The Kinks, and many other 1960s pop pioneers with the ideals and power of
the artists of the new wave such as Elvis Costello & The Attractions and The Clash.
Indie rock icons sometimes move in tribes. Others congregate in darkened bar rooms. Perhaps the Australian Indie scene's Travelling Wilburys, the monster that is known as The Beasts Of Bourbon is a collaboration of a number of Indie icons, principle
players being maestro Tex Perkins (the Cruel Sea guy, or Greg as his mum calls him), Spencer P. Jones (lead Johnny of The Johnnys), Kim Salmon (head Scientist), and Brian Hooper (he plays with everyone, now is working on his solo career). When Salmon went upstream, his replacement was and has been Charlie Owens (a later member of The Divinyls, also as Charlie of Tex, Don & Charlie, the Australian Indie version of CSN&Y). What The Beasts deliver captures a lot of what the whole rock thing is about - loudness, obnoxious couldn't-care-less attitudes, and well-written songs at the base of it all.
Crow are an obvious candidate. Based around Peter Fenton's songs (and later some from Peter Archer), the band existed from 1988 until 1998, producing a rock style that saw the songs shift from one focus to another in a gloriously ugly fashion that created its own beauty.
The Perth Indie scene in 1988 saw the birth of The Gutterville Splendour Six, a band heard by few but lauded by those who did - the late English radio personality John Peel was in the 'those that did' category. What made the band was the sense that every
word and noise was essential in expressing an urgency and desperation. The music is loud, messy and sludge-like because there is no other choice - an
emotional response. The story goes that the band ceased when some of its members left Perth for Sydney (a common thread in the Australian Indie rock story).
What is left are the products of the various members of the band, the main ones being The Drones, Lowdorados, and The Kill Devil Hills. The urgency was passed along to The Drones. They have a similar fundamental sound. This music is uncomfortable the
first few times around but becomes vital once properly digested.
But what happened next? Find out in Part III
Part III
AFTERTHOUGHT
I wrote this article in 2005 and never really finished it. It is now 2009 and not much has changed except perhaps for the following:
-Digger And The Pussycats played their last show, Andy moved to Germany. Game off. Then he moved back to Australia. Game back on.
-Nick Cave grew a moustache, started a band called Grinderman, did more shows with the Bad Seeds then Mick Harvey left the Bad Seeds.
-Ed Kuepper regrouped The Saints and Laughing Clowns and is now Mick Harvey's replacement in The Bad Seeds.
-Scientists, The Johnnys, Crow and The Beasts Of Bourbon continue to reform and break up and reform and break up and reform.
-Tex Perkins released an intentionally awful covers album. It sold poorly, Dale bought a copy.
-Kill Devil Hills and The Drones continue their rise to greatness. The Drones have new albums and sold out shows in abundance.
The current state of affairs is there is a new band born every other week, a new gang of people looking to do their "thing", those needing and willing to do the hard yards stick it out, others fall by the wayside.
David Thomas of Pere Ubu said it best
"Rock music is about moving big black boxes from one side of town to the other in the back of your car."
If this is true, in the words of Neil Young
"Long may you run".
Or perhaps I should end with the words of an Australian? Or at least a New Zealander who has been in Australia long enough to be considered Australian…
I checked into a cheap motel
I liked the look, I liked the smell
It was like a dive and bell from inside
I had a gig that day I guess
I never had the time to rest
Caught 5 minutes more or less before the show
Suddenly i see success
Success is dead, long live the rest
I'm lucky to be living through
whatever I say, whatever I do
from memory, Spencer P. Jones said that, or something quite like it.
Part I
There are certain clichés that go along with being an indie rock star. Drugs, groupies, money, big shiny cars...
The truth of the matter is that only the very few get to live such lifestyles, while the rest of this strange breed of person have to be contented with being a rock star at the weekend while working a day job the rest of the week. Even on these special rock star days, the indie rock star has to deal with an array of disgruntled promoters, hung over sound technicians, irritable owners and managers of the seedy corner pubs in which the indie rock star is going to do his or her 'art'. Even the seemingly simple taste of getting one's friends 'on the door list' becomes a tiresome task for the indie rock star – they all expect to get their 'cut' of the door and ticket sales - the door list becomes a monument to lost profits (a read of Stuart Coupe's book 'The Promoters' tells more of their story). However there is definitely a positive side to getting into such a ridiculous game such as this. Andy Moore, drum maestro from Melbourne based bands Kamikaze Trio and Digger And The Pussycats, said "I wouldn't trade playing in a band for the world, but it's not all private jets and sex with groupies. Touring usually means endless hours stuffed into a van full of equipment, constant sleep depravation, losing money and generally pushing your body to the upper limits of self-abuse. It’s great."
The struggle for an aspiring indie rock star to create original art and then get that art accepted by venue bookers is immense. The major problem is that of the unknown - hiring a covers band (one that only plays other people's material - generally the certified 'hits') or DJ (one that plays the original recordings of other people's 'hits') for the night is more likely to draw the 'common people' crowd, where an original band or artist is going to be unpredictable – they might bring friends and a regular following but might also perform something that is different or weird and who wants that while sinking a few beers?
In time, the indie rock star's weird factor can turn into an indie rock star's 'Thing'. Suddenly the unknown becomes known, and the indie rock star is allowed to do their Thing in more public places (as long as they keep to their Thing and don't change that Thing). The small crowd they drew at the start are the people who 'saw them back in the day' and an indie rock star becomes a successful indie rock star. They may then have the opportunity to haul their belongings up and down the Hume Highway or fly between Melbourne, Sydney and Brisbane, with the occasional trip to Adelaide, and if particularly keen, Perth. The more remote and rural areas are generally left to former indie rock stars that have hit the big time and are now keen to 'get back to their roots'. Others just move to European countries.
So who are some of these Indie Rock Stars? Find out in Part II
Part II
The institution known as Nick Cave, a Melbourne raised private school lad, made his appearance as one of The Boys Next Door, attracted attention in The Birthday Party and then made a solo career as Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds. The common threads that run through Cave's work are the usage of traditions of American blues and
folk musics that are altered through a blending with large doses of the more extreme work of Captain Beefheart, Leonard Cohen and Elvis Presley. What comes out the other side is a dark yet humorous style that ranges from the monstrous demented and twisted experiments of The Birthday Party to the quiet beauty of songs such as "Sad Waters" and "Into My Arms".
Ed Kuepper began his journey as the guitarist and songwriter of The Saints. He was there from 1974 until 1978 for their 'classic period' that gave the world the "(I'm) Stranded" single and album plus many other early Australian punk rock classics. From 1979 to 1984 he was the head of the messed up jazz rock thing that was The Laughing Clowns. From 1985 to now he has existed as a solo artist.
The Saints first single "(I'm) Stranded" was released on their own record label because no other Australian label would release it, something many an Indie
musician would be familiar with. Much of Kuepper's later solo work is in the singer/songwriter tradition, similarly with Nick Cave. At the end of the madness,
it is still the song that wins.
Just as some Indie stars reach the mainstream, many mainstream stars go on to find their place in the Indie world. Don Walker, the guy that wrote "Khe Sanh" and
played in Oz pub rock superstars Cold Chisel, has spent time since the band broke up pursuing a solo career, his current focus being on the Tex, Don & Charlie project.
Rob Hirst, drummer for Midnight Oil, has led a similar existence. In recent times his work, aside from playing in The Backsliders, has been with Ghostwriters, a band created in order to play Hirst's songs that don't make the Oils' final cut.
The Scientists made the trip from Perth to Sydney, taking with them their sound of buzzing guitars that played Elvis Presley and Link Wray riffs in unusual
time signatures (they liked to count to five instead of four).
The Johnnys stayed in Sydney to play a beer-fuelled country music that took a wrong turn into loud rock music. Their shows featured duel on-stage bar fridges and hay bails that were thrown over the audience.
The Sunnyboys, who also resided in Sydney, mixed the pop sensibilities of The Beatles, The Kinks, and many other 1960s pop pioneers with the ideals and power of
the artists of the new wave such as Elvis Costello & The Attractions and The Clash.
Indie rock icons sometimes move in tribes. Others congregate in darkened bar rooms. Perhaps the Australian Indie scene's Travelling Wilburys, the monster that is known as The Beasts Of Bourbon is a collaboration of a number of Indie icons, principle
players being maestro Tex Perkins (the Cruel Sea guy, or Greg as his mum calls him), Spencer P. Jones (lead Johnny of The Johnnys), Kim Salmon (head Scientist), and Brian Hooper (he plays with everyone, now is working on his solo career). When Salmon went upstream, his replacement was and has been Charlie Owens (a later member of The Divinyls, also as Charlie of Tex, Don & Charlie, the Australian Indie version of CSN&Y). What The Beasts deliver captures a lot of what the whole rock thing is about - loudness, obnoxious couldn't-care-less attitudes, and well-written songs at the base of it all.
Crow are an obvious candidate. Based around Peter Fenton's songs (and later some from Peter Archer), the band existed from 1988 until 1998, producing a rock style that saw the songs shift from one focus to another in a gloriously ugly fashion that created its own beauty.
The Perth Indie scene in 1988 saw the birth of The Gutterville Splendour Six, a band heard by few but lauded by those who did - the late English radio personality John Peel was in the 'those that did' category. What made the band was the sense that every
word and noise was essential in expressing an urgency and desperation. The music is loud, messy and sludge-like because there is no other choice - an
emotional response. The story goes that the band ceased when some of its members left Perth for Sydney (a common thread in the Australian Indie rock story).
What is left are the products of the various members of the band, the main ones being The Drones, Lowdorados, and The Kill Devil Hills. The urgency was passed along to The Drones. They have a similar fundamental sound. This music is uncomfortable the
first few times around but becomes vital once properly digested.
But what happened next? Find out in Part III
Part III
AFTERTHOUGHT
I wrote this article in 2005 and never really finished it. It is now 2009 and not much has changed except perhaps for the following:
-Digger And The Pussycats played their last show, Andy moved to Germany. Game off. Then he moved back to Australia. Game back on.
-Nick Cave grew a moustache, started a band called Grinderman, did more shows with the Bad Seeds then Mick Harvey left the Bad Seeds.
-Ed Kuepper regrouped The Saints and Laughing Clowns and is now Mick Harvey's replacement in The Bad Seeds.
-Scientists, The Johnnys, Crow and The Beasts Of Bourbon continue to reform and break up and reform and break up and reform.
-Tex Perkins released an intentionally awful covers album. It sold poorly, Dale bought a copy.
-Kill Devil Hills and The Drones continue their rise to greatness. The Drones have new albums and sold out shows in abundance.
The current state of affairs is there is a new band born every other week, a new gang of people looking to do their "thing", those needing and willing to do the hard yards stick it out, others fall by the wayside.
David Thomas of Pere Ubu said it best
"Rock music is about moving big black boxes from one side of town to the other in the back of your car."
If this is true, in the words of Neil Young
"Long may you run".
Or perhaps I should end with the words of an Australian? Or at least a New Zealander who has been in Australia long enough to be considered Australian…
I checked into a cheap motel
I liked the look, I liked the smell
It was like a dive and bell from inside
I had a gig that day I guess
I never had the time to rest
Caught 5 minutes more or less before the show
Suddenly i see success
Success is dead, long live the rest
I'm lucky to be living through
whatever I say, whatever I do
from memory, Spencer P. Jones said that, or something quite like it.
Tiny Spark
I've been hiding in your room! Well not really, that's the opening line on my favourite song on my new hot off the press EP by Caitlin Harnett. Its fair to say that I am enormously biased when it comes to Caitlin's music. The first time I heard her sing was during the break at weekly pub trivia about four or five years ago. Caitlin was very small, the microphone stand had to be lowered to its lowest height and her left arm could barely reach the end of the fretboard on her big old guitar. I think she must have been thirteen or fourteen at the time. Her parents were members of my trivia team, a fine team that won every single week much to the disgust of the other regular teams but you know that's how it goes, not my fault if you're not good enough to beat us.
That first night Caitlin played a few covers and one or two original songs. Her voice was extraordinary, I unconsciously held my pink lemonade half way to my mouth for about ten minutes and then her set was over. My first thought was 'Holy shit' I turned to look at my brother and he said 'Holy shit!', it is not often that our thoughts are thus united. Her cover version of a Paul McCartney still haunts my thoughts these many years later.
Caitlin has been very busy since that night, doing things like finishing high school, turning 18 and playing gigs up and down the country from Tamworth to Port Fairy. Last night she launched her first EP Tiny Spark at The Supper Club on Oxford St and I could not be more proud of her.
Unusual proudness aside Caitlin Harnett does not play rock'n'roll, this is ordinarily something I will definitely hold against you unless you are a brass band, big band, a symphony orchestra, Hank Williams or as it turns out Caitlin Harnett.
That first night Caitlin played a few covers and one or two original songs. Her voice was extraordinary, I unconsciously held my pink lemonade half way to my mouth for about ten minutes and then her set was over. My first thought was 'Holy shit' I turned to look at my brother and he said 'Holy shit!', it is not often that our thoughts are thus united. Her cover version of a Paul McCartney still haunts my thoughts these many years later.
Caitlin has been very busy since that night, doing things like finishing high school, turning 18 and playing gigs up and down the country from Tamworth to Port Fairy. Last night she launched her first EP Tiny Spark at The Supper Club on Oxford St and I could not be more proud of her.
Unusual proudness aside Caitlin Harnett does not play rock'n'roll, this is ordinarily something I will definitely hold against you unless you are a brass band, big band, a symphony orchestra, Hank Williams or as it turns out Caitlin Harnett.
I want my URL
I don't know what's wrong with the internet but its doing my head in. I can use the unsecured wireless network that zaps through The Peach from I don't know where but it is unreliable and quite frankly stupid. At the moment the free internet is telling me that I can not log in to my blog because the authenticity of the received data could not be verified. Often it will tell me that google is error 404, facebook not a valid website and as for twitter, forget about it. The Peach net can be fixed, The Spatula has been locked in high level negotiations with Mr Oddweird and Telstra for some time now. It seems that the problem exists in Mr Oddweird's flat below The Peach, the flat that he is pretending to live in.
Mr Oddweird is unreliable at the best of times, he still has not fixed the bathroom cupboard that fell off the wall in the middle of the night over a year ago, The Peach Deck has loose boards, the back door does not have a lock (we have engineered a locking device out of metal pipes but I would much prefer something that operated with a key). Telstra requires access to Mr Oddweird's flat, this means coordinating the repair person to arrive at the designated time, this is a difficult but not impossible task, the real difficulty lies in convincing Mr Oddweird to turn up at the same time.
Two weeks ago a man arrived at The Peach, let himself in the front gate and commenced wandering about in the front garden peering under bushes. The Spatula went outside to enquire of him just what in the fuck he was doing. He said he was here to turn the water off because the bill had not been paid. I did not know that they could disconnect the water. The Spatula was furious, we had been in regular contact with Mr Oddweird about the water bills, its his responsiblity to pay the water bills. He assured several times that he had paid the bill, we would then receive yet another overdue notice addressed to 'the occupier', printed on red paper and containing all manner of threats.
The Spatula phoned Mr Oddweird and then thrust the phone into the water disconnection man's hands and issued the instruction 'talk!'. Talk they did and somehow it was worked out, The Peach remained connected to mains water supply and all was well, until the internet fucked out. The Spatual has just informed me that tomorrow morning, when all the planets are aligned and there is a small but significant rift in the space time continuum Mr Oddweird will meet the telephone repair person and the miracle of internet will invisibly and silently reinstate its little datawaves inside The Peach.
Mr Oddweird is unreliable at the best of times, he still has not fixed the bathroom cupboard that fell off the wall in the middle of the night over a year ago, The Peach Deck has loose boards, the back door does not have a lock (we have engineered a locking device out of metal pipes but I would much prefer something that operated with a key). Telstra requires access to Mr Oddweird's flat, this means coordinating the repair person to arrive at the designated time, this is a difficult but not impossible task, the real difficulty lies in convincing Mr Oddweird to turn up at the same time.
Two weeks ago a man arrived at The Peach, let himself in the front gate and commenced wandering about in the front garden peering under bushes. The Spatula went outside to enquire of him just what in the fuck he was doing. He said he was here to turn the water off because the bill had not been paid. I did not know that they could disconnect the water. The Spatula was furious, we had been in regular contact with Mr Oddweird about the water bills, its his responsiblity to pay the water bills. He assured several times that he had paid the bill, we would then receive yet another overdue notice addressed to 'the occupier', printed on red paper and containing all manner of threats.
The Spatula phoned Mr Oddweird and then thrust the phone into the water disconnection man's hands and issued the instruction 'talk!'. Talk they did and somehow it was worked out, The Peach remained connected to mains water supply and all was well, until the internet fucked out. The Spatual has just informed me that tomorrow morning, when all the planets are aligned and there is a small but significant rift in the space time continuum Mr Oddweird will meet the telephone repair person and the miracle of internet will invisibly and silently reinstate its little datawaves inside The Peach.
Temporarily Foiled
By a severe lack of internet. The Spatula returns tomorrow, this brings me joy as it means I will no longer have to hide under the bushes in the Cowboy's garden in an attempt to find the internet.
In the meantime why not read issue three of Bats Magazine?
In the meantime why not read issue three of Bats Magazine?
Three things better than bad coffee
It is important to have clear goals in life, this is why I spent an hour in the QVB climbing stairwells and descending in gilded cages searching for the loveliest spot. In the end I decided that hanging over the railing on the top floor staring up at the new vermilion walls towards the dome was the best spot of the day.
Pour honey into one of those squeezy red tomato sauce bottles. Take the bottle outside and peer at the honey bubbles through the narrow opening at the tip of the bottle.
Scoop the insides out of a great pie with hot chips. So this whilst sitting on your lounge and watching Father Ted videos.
Like I said its important to have clear goals in life.
Pour honey into one of those squeezy red tomato sauce bottles. Take the bottle outside and peer at the honey bubbles through the narrow opening at the tip of the bottle.
Scoop the insides out of a great pie with hot chips. So this whilst sitting on your lounge and watching Father Ted videos.
Like I said its important to have clear goals in life.
Electric illusions, sticky fingers and the ruination of the ordinary
I started with floor tiles but soon returned to the idea of a Faberge crack opening the swinging doors to my brain and pouring the fantasy onto the dance floor in a basement somewhere in Sydney. A dance floor that was wooden, raised 2.75 cm above the Spanish kitchen tiles covering the rest of the floor. We were in the back room, I spent some minutes pondering whether the room was a large small room or a medium sized room or perhaps a small large room, for this kind of venue. I gave up on my pondering when I first noticed a man with personal on-board lights carrying a round drinks tray ringed with red lights and empty, always empty.
I attempted in vain to describe, to myself, the fantastical nature of everything. I wandered in thought over inadequate ready-made descriptions, masquerade ball, opium dream, mardi gras, carnivale, Oxford secret society or Gatsbyesque but none of these descriptions fit. The men wore dresses or heels or both in a way that defied stereotypes of gay, camp or queen, more disregard for modes of being than anything else. One charming man wore tuxedo trousers, cummerbund, tuxedo shirt and a black pleated ruffle that emerged from his waist band and crawled up the centre of his torso ending in a magnificent arc behind him like a frill neck lizard. On his feet an elegant pair of what can only be described as wingtip stilettos.
People kept assuring me that the turnout was unusually low for the monthly event. I am glad there were not more people, I might not have had the opportunity to study each costume in detail. I spent a great deal of time leaning against a pole, sucking on complimentary lollipops and smiling from ear to ear. If there had been a supply of opium and a chaise longue I would have willingly sunk into a new kind of oblivion.
More happened and didn't happen than I expected, a man from The Follow followed someone (not creepily), I was invited to be in the new video for the band Regular John, I narrowly escaped an unwise snog, a man ran a beeping electronic device over my entire body and at one point I looked up to find Spencer standing in front of me licking at a palmful of cream like a cat. He has since explained how he came to be standing there with a palmful of cream but it this has not lessened, in my memory, the inital shock at the sight of him. Madam Squeeze performed an elegant galloping dance whilst juggling pieces of artificial fruit.
The unexpected nature of everything, the clarity of inidividual vision, the dedication and sophistication of the execution of detail in costumes has developed in me a distinct distate for the ordinariness of everything else. When I emerged from the venue the usual pulsating life-filled nocturnal city streets seemed nothing but plain and bleak and left me with that feeling of everything delicious being gone except for the sticky parts left on my fingers.
I attempted in vain to describe, to myself, the fantastical nature of everything. I wandered in thought over inadequate ready-made descriptions, masquerade ball, opium dream, mardi gras, carnivale, Oxford secret society or Gatsbyesque but none of these descriptions fit. The men wore dresses or heels or both in a way that defied stereotypes of gay, camp or queen, more disregard for modes of being than anything else. One charming man wore tuxedo trousers, cummerbund, tuxedo shirt and a black pleated ruffle that emerged from his waist band and crawled up the centre of his torso ending in a magnificent arc behind him like a frill neck lizard. On his feet an elegant pair of what can only be described as wingtip stilettos.
People kept assuring me that the turnout was unusually low for the monthly event. I am glad there were not more people, I might not have had the opportunity to study each costume in detail. I spent a great deal of time leaning against a pole, sucking on complimentary lollipops and smiling from ear to ear. If there had been a supply of opium and a chaise longue I would have willingly sunk into a new kind of oblivion.
More happened and didn't happen than I expected, a man from The Follow followed someone (not creepily), I was invited to be in the new video for the band Regular John, I narrowly escaped an unwise snog, a man ran a beeping electronic device over my entire body and at one point I looked up to find Spencer standing in front of me licking at a palmful of cream like a cat. He has since explained how he came to be standing there with a palmful of cream but it this has not lessened, in my memory, the inital shock at the sight of him. Madam Squeeze performed an elegant galloping dance whilst juggling pieces of artificial fruit.
The unexpected nature of everything, the clarity of inidividual vision, the dedication and sophistication of the execution of detail in costumes has developed in me a distinct distate for the ordinariness of everything else. When I emerged from the venue the usual pulsating life-filled nocturnal city streets seemed nothing but plain and bleak and left me with that feeling of everything delicious being gone except for the sticky parts left on my fingers.
Listen
By Robert (Poet Laureate of Slammatown)
There’s a door by the doorstep. This seems like a Clue.
There’s a hideous temptation to rhyme with ‘poo’.
The light is quite shiny – it shines like the light.
If we didn’t have darkness, we wouldn’t have night.
If we didn’t have night then we’d all go insane.
So let’s paint all the hearing aids purple again.
There’s a door by the doorstep. This seems like a Clue.
There’s a hideous temptation to rhyme with ‘poo’.
The light is quite shiny – it shines like the light.
If we didn’t have darkness, we wouldn’t have night.
If we didn’t have night then we’d all go insane.
So let’s paint all the hearing aids purple again.
Hey kid how are you?
Today I called the Mayor 'Kid', he was so shocked that he stood like a statue in the middle of the hallway for a full thirty seconds. I walked down the hall, smiled pleasantly then shut the door to my office.
He may still be standing there.
He may still be standing there.
Salad sandwich and an orange juice
Today I was walking down the street feeling particularly pleased about the world. I had just completed the quick crossword, the sudoku and reached excellent in the target word, in my lunch break. I thought I saw David Hassellhoff but it turned out to be just an ordinary member of the public.
Brush, juice, grape, awesome
There was much discussion about unmint toothpaste last Sunday afternoon. I was sitting in my cafe with Spencer, Madam Squeeze and most of the members of Psychonanny and the Babyshakers. The singer has taken to sporting a green supermarket shopping bag as a handbag and I find myself strangely drawn to the fashion.
The non-Simon guitarist was very pleased with the idea of unmint toothpaste. He said that he once had a tube and it was a revelation. He drank orange juice every morning immediately after brushing his teeth, with no ill effects. He assured me that unmint toothpaste also allows for the immediate post-brushing consumption of grapes. I am entering a reasearch phase, I will find this toothpaste if it is the last thing I do.
The non-Simon guitarist was very pleased with the idea of unmint toothpaste. He said that he once had a tube and it was a revelation. He drank orange juice every morning immediately after brushing his teeth, with no ill effects. He assured me that unmint toothpaste also allows for the immediate post-brushing consumption of grapes. I am entering a reasearch phase, I will find this toothpaste if it is the last thing I do.
Don't leave me in charge, I'll fuck your shit up on purpose
Today I sorted through job applications. There are some people in the world who very much want the job I can not wait to stop doing, in fact ninety five people want that job.
One man declared in his application that he knew all about one of the selection criteria because the company he used to work for had a 'reputationally good reputation for being the upmost at this'. English is his first language. I put his application in the 'yes' pile.
One man declared in his application that he knew all about one of the selection criteria because the company he used to work for had a 'reputationally good reputation for being the upmost at this'. English is his first language. I put his application in the 'yes' pile.
Are trains electric?
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.
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.
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