I've been walking after midnight on my way home from drinking with a friend. I rose up unexpectedly from the comfort of my chair and walked out into the night. I met him at the cafe but we wound up high above King St playing records and sharing a longneck bought with the last loose change we had. He was ripping the filters off his cigarettes and showing me the evidence of something that should be an irrational continent-spanning love but he said it was only a couple of good songs and a photograph of a painting. I would have said write something new and post it south but he'll probably think of that on Thursday and stay up all night to catch the morning post. That will have, I hope, a transforming effect. I walked the back way home ducking under the railway line through Piss Alley. I don't think I've ever seen the streets so empty, nothing but one tourist at a bus stop in an electric-yellow dress and a small crowd mopping floors at Istanbul. I was photographing public garbage bins and private doorways.
It was somewhere between King and Wilson, on one of those big-tree streets that I stooped to snap a pelargonium stem. I carried it home and pushed it into the dirt with the other snapped and stolen plants struggling to grow roots where my arms and its arms have been. I will water the way to remember this night.
I have a small book that goes to New York without me then comes back again
Most cities hum. NY throbs. The Subway is the circulatory system for this place, the life force. Cars are here for show, most people walk, take the subway or bus, that's why the cars have to make so much noise, to be noticed.
Dear Robert Tuckwell I have decided that seeing as I do not know you it would be imprudent to fall in love or Extract from a letter to Robert Tuckwell
An art museum made out of pink, white and yellow paper run through with shadows cast by a miniature artificial sun. I walked the walls and ceilings until I understood the gravity of the imagined. If I mapped and reduced the trails I leave as I cross and cross this city their bleached and condensed shape might resemble the museum as seen from above. I have maps that will answer your questions. I am not known for my ability to imagine architects or the possibility of confining and redefining matter into space. You have forced mastery over things such as bricks, sand and sunlight. I understand this is something they teach in universities. My desk lies in artificial shadow, light blocked by a drawing and the direction to lay bricks, uproot trees and lock panes of glass in channels made of wood. I might once have thought the word homemaker was something of an insult or a self-remedy for failure. This has revealed more than it should.
Smackdown
Won't somebody scry for Baudrillard? He's plotting a notion to take away my Antarctica. I am loading the torpedo bays with minatures.
I run with scissors so that I may cut flowers from gardens if they please me
The house on the corner of Alma Avenue is set square and terrifying, the drop from the rooftop enough to reconfigure your idea of broken bones. A vase in the front window displaying a bunch of artificial hydrangeas in white. No furniture is immediately visible from street level. Through one of two narrow side windows, found before a heavily secured door and situated several metres down Alma Avenue, a print of Wheelflower by Margaret Preston can be seen if you stand on your toes. It is an ordinary print and not grand in size or frame. All lights on the upper levels burn bright. Rendered in wedding cake cream and sculpted with plaster replicas of I know not what plants a decorative bas relief spreads above the large front window. The window itself draped with a perfectly white sweep of evenly parted curtains. The function of this house remains unclear.
On the corner of Phillip and Charles streets, as ordinary as ice cream, stands a single-story miniature of the monolothic sculpted cream and coffee terrace. This house appears to be lived in.
On the corner of Phillip and Charles streets, as ordinary as ice cream, stands a single-story miniature of the monolothic sculpted cream and coffee terrace. This house appears to be lived in.
Sign, signifier, signified.
I've been reading without my reading glasses, this is because I am hardcore. I am considering this my hard-fought triumph over Sassaure.
Terminals
I own this slow version of Newtown, the one with a slight limp. Everyone is missing so I'm picking up the $1 glasses and holding them to the light in shop after shop to see if any of them will please me. Spencer and the band have gone to play at some damned festival somewhere across the world. I had the idea of writing little notes to be left in people's green rooms,
Dear Placebo,
I hate you.
Dear Tricky,
What are you doing?
Dear Frente,
No really, what are you doing?
Dear Chicks on Speed,
I love you.
Spencer said he'd hide them there for me but in the end I was too drunk when he dropped me at my door and drove away.
Dear Placebo,
I hate you.
Dear Tricky,
What are you doing?
Dear Frente,
No really, what are you doing?
Dear Chicks on Speed,
I love you.
Spencer said he'd hide them there for me but in the end I was too drunk when he dropped me at my door and drove away.
That penguin plays rough or welcome to the zetabet
She said she was twenty-one and I could see that this was half of her problem. She asked me if I was a good writer so I said yes, might as well say yes as no, it was all the same to her. I think she was wearing shorts, with tights, the way I used to wear shorts with tights when I was at high school but she was also sporting one of those haircuts, those Gwyneth Paltrow in Sliding Doors haircuts but without the combing, smoothing down and tucking behind the ears. She was dancing with a Greaser girl, Newtown's full of them at the moment. I can't get behind this Greaser girl fashion movement, the men seem to make it work better, they incorporate heavy but short leather jackets into their outfits while the girls have gone mad for white singlets and red high heels while they turn shades of blue and purple in the mid-winter night. If I was going to be a Greaser then I would be a Greaser boy with boots and and socks and a jacket.
The dancing Greaser girl thought too much of herself, even the usually non-judgmental Madam Squeeze admitted this quite freely. They were dancing where the crowd sat not ten minutes before, the young one and the Greaser girl trying their hardest to make sure that every remaining set of eyes turned towards them. I don't care if people dance but it annoyed me that the young one had determinedly sat at the top of the stairs away at the other end of the hall while the writers' read their work. She only appeared in the big room once the crowd had dispersed. She told me that all this writing, sweeping her hand from one side of the room to the other while her cigarette ash fell on the floor, was too self-contained or all wrapped up on itself. She said the ends all finish. I scrawled the letter 'y' on the back of my hand with a piece of white chalk. I nodded at her but I was thinking what kind of idiot doesn't allow a work to be self-contained. I imagined individual letters running loose and wild down King St. Z stabbed A through the heart in a bid to reorder the alphabet.
She snuck down the long hall to listen to a little of Josephine Rowe's final reading of the night, she heard two lines then stomped back down the hallway saying 'AWFUL" in a stage mutter. This is the part where I disagree with her. Josephine Rowe is a fine writer and an astonishing performer. I guess that's why close to a hundred people sat spellbound, leaning forward in the hope of being the one to catch her next word. The twenty-one year old smoked three cigarettes, grabbed her housemate by the arm and marched down the stairs yelling "I'm going to google you!". It sounded more like a threat than a promise. I breathed out only as the top of her head disappeared from view and she stomped out into the street.
The dancing Greaser girl thought too much of herself, even the usually non-judgmental Madam Squeeze admitted this quite freely. They were dancing where the crowd sat not ten minutes before, the young one and the Greaser girl trying their hardest to make sure that every remaining set of eyes turned towards them. I don't care if people dance but it annoyed me that the young one had determinedly sat at the top of the stairs away at the other end of the hall while the writers' read their work. She only appeared in the big room once the crowd had dispersed. She told me that all this writing, sweeping her hand from one side of the room to the other while her cigarette ash fell on the floor, was too self-contained or all wrapped up on itself. She said the ends all finish. I scrawled the letter 'y' on the back of my hand with a piece of white chalk. I nodded at her but I was thinking what kind of idiot doesn't allow a work to be self-contained. I imagined individual letters running loose and wild down King St. Z stabbed A through the heart in a bid to reorder the alphabet.
She snuck down the long hall to listen to a little of Josephine Rowe's final reading of the night, she heard two lines then stomped back down the hallway saying 'AWFUL" in a stage mutter. This is the part where I disagree with her. Josephine Rowe is a fine writer and an astonishing performer. I guess that's why close to a hundred people sat spellbound, leaning forward in the hope of being the one to catch her next word. The twenty-one year old smoked three cigarettes, grabbed her housemate by the arm and marched down the stairs yelling "I'm going to google you!". It sounded more like a threat than a promise. I breathed out only as the top of her head disappeared from view and she stomped out into the street.
Safe as houses
Don't worry about me, safe as a house with no smoke over here. The worst thing that has happened is this; I drank a tall glass of water immediately after I brushed my teeth. I dislike the slide of cold water over the remnants of mint.
I am working on a new project. I have decided to take portraits of houses, with words. I will post the portraits on Safe as Houses, this will be a slow process.
Farewell Phoenix, I hope you can rise again
I watched a train wreck headed straight for Berlin in the dim red glow of The Supper Club. She was staggering on nine inch heels at the very edge of the stage until she fell to her knees with her hair hanging down in an unconscious imitation of shame. The Love Shark cranked at his guitar, he was wearing a striped sweatshirt and some old pair of jeans. I watched her slide off the crash, down the side of the bass drum, with her legs crossed - mock elegant- and hit the floor all the while hitting all the notes she wasn't supposed to. That's when it hit me; she was beautiful. I ceased watching from the outside when she dragged my gaze, with her knees, across the floor.
Spencer snuck forwards to grab his guitar and we made a break for the door. He'd played a solo set, one of those viscous ones casually grabbing at time. The man sitting next to me was gobsmacked. I told him everybody reacts like that the first time they see a song grow legs and stand. He turned towards me to see if I would say anything else so I quoted Martha Wainwright and told him Spencer was stamping his feet to a different beat, like those guys with guitars I've been watching in bars. He nodded like I was an oracle and offered to buy me a bottle of wine. I told him I was pregnant and patted fondly at my non-existent baby, just to ensure that he would go away, and he did.
I walked directly to the bar and bought myself a drink. The barman gave it to me for free, he said "that's your friend on stage now isn't it?", when I nodded he pushed my money across the bar towards my purse muttering keep it. It's the first time I've been recognised and rewarded for being somebody's friend but it was just one of those nights, people walking past me and yelling "Slamma! Hey Slamma!" while I ignored them and Ms Phoenix threw back another apple martini. I was sitting at a table with the bass player from The Walk On By, Ms Phoenix and some creepy man who turned out to be The Love Shark, it was a strange place to be.
She didn't seem drunk until she tried to drink the candle wax, mistaking it for a shot glass. Then she stood and I saw her reel like the world was tipping. Maybe that's how people move continents, they pour wine like water until hemispheres turn supple and a slide down the fat curve of a bass drum lets you wake up in Berlin. Spencer and I snuck sideways to the door as the black-clad security goons descended while they plunged the stage into darkness. That Space Cowboys woman popped up out of nowhere, star-spangled and headed for the stage. She was talking up the band and hollering like a crazed actress as Spencer and I burst out the door and started laughing into the rain.
We were laughing but rattled, I haven't seen someone that reckless drunk since Elliot went to rehab. I witnessed something. It should be simple, a lovely woman and songwriter got drunk but it felt like rock'n'roll got cancelled and instead we all turned Humbert Humbert and watched a dark little Lolita on stage.
Spencer snuck forwards to grab his guitar and we made a break for the door. He'd played a solo set, one of those viscous ones casually grabbing at time. The man sitting next to me was gobsmacked. I told him everybody reacts like that the first time they see a song grow legs and stand. He turned towards me to see if I would say anything else so I quoted Martha Wainwright and told him Spencer was stamping his feet to a different beat, like those guys with guitars I've been watching in bars. He nodded like I was an oracle and offered to buy me a bottle of wine. I told him I was pregnant and patted fondly at my non-existent baby, just to ensure that he would go away, and he did.
I walked directly to the bar and bought myself a drink. The barman gave it to me for free, he said "that's your friend on stage now isn't it?", when I nodded he pushed my money across the bar towards my purse muttering keep it. It's the first time I've been recognised and rewarded for being somebody's friend but it was just one of those nights, people walking past me and yelling "Slamma! Hey Slamma!" while I ignored them and Ms Phoenix threw back another apple martini. I was sitting at a table with the bass player from The Walk On By, Ms Phoenix and some creepy man who turned out to be The Love Shark, it was a strange place to be.
She didn't seem drunk until she tried to drink the candle wax, mistaking it for a shot glass. Then she stood and I saw her reel like the world was tipping. Maybe that's how people move continents, they pour wine like water until hemispheres turn supple and a slide down the fat curve of a bass drum lets you wake up in Berlin. Spencer and I snuck sideways to the door as the black-clad security goons descended while they plunged the stage into darkness. That Space Cowboys woman popped up out of nowhere, star-spangled and headed for the stage. She was talking up the band and hollering like a crazed actress as Spencer and I burst out the door and started laughing into the rain.
We were laughing but rattled, I haven't seen someone that reckless drunk since Elliot went to rehab. I witnessed something. It should be simple, a lovely woman and songwriter got drunk but it felt like rock'n'roll got cancelled and instead we all turned Humbert Humbert and watched a dark little Lolita on stage.
I'll take mine with salt & vinegar
I think Jill Jones has highlighted just one of the problems with the recent recommendation from the Productivity Commission to lift restrictions on parallel importation of books into Australia.
Even Alf Wight was chastised or periodic escape from the Inner West can prevent trench foot
My final frontier is the mid-inner west of Sydney. It's all the same to me, Ashfield, Strathfield, Lidcombe just slide on by, a physical explanation for time between the city and the mountains, a reason for the rhythmic click of trains.
I wandered there yesterday, on purpose. Boli lives in one of these mythical places now, where his rent money buys more space than I remembered to imagine. His house feels new, though it is not, all houses feel new after three years of walking through the ghost haze and sinking crooked facade of the Inner West. He has a basement storage room almost as large as The Peach, he has a tiled laundry, neat and accessible through a full-sized door in an internal hallway. He and Yolde have strung nets from the ceiling in anticipation of a baby.
I wandered there yesterday, on purpose. Boli lives in one of these mythical places now, where his rent money buys more space than I remembered to imagine. His house feels new, though it is not, all houses feel new after three years of walking through the ghost haze and sinking crooked facade of the Inner West. He has a basement storage room almost as large as The Peach, he has a tiled laundry, neat and accessible through a full-sized door in an internal hallway. He and Yolde have strung nets from the ceiling in anticipation of a baby.
And her coat's a second hand one
I like the open hole of possibility, the gap tooth in a terrace row showing horizon where yesterday stood only billboards. She said make a ritual, knock thrice upon something to tell yourself that you're going to bed. I told her I wasn't having any trouble sleeping. I am fond of the unexpected. She advised sleep hygiene nonetheless, leaning forwards and offering templates of ritual, blueprints of oblivion. Her chair swivels smoothly to the right but creaks and offers sudden variations in height when turned to the left. She asked what I did in the final moments of light and movement before the voluntary defeat against darkness. I answered with the destruction of architecture and the raising of eyes through places where buildings should be.
Rarely everage
I've been sleeping with a poster of Barry Humphries. It has big pink letters that read "Rarely Everage". I recently told Spencer about the poster, he just raised an eyebrow and continued to drink his milkshake.
Panhandling public bath canoe sex
I don't like the word 'panhandling'. I feel, very strongly, that it should mean something else, something grand like: inventing something wonderful. I might write a letter to the dictionary.
I overslept this morning, by two hours. I lay dreaming of small overnight fetes and meeting an eligible man in a public bathtub (public the way toilets are with one per cubicle) only to find out that he had been sent there, by Potato who had told him that I was within the normal height range. I told the man that I thought he was a little intellectually dull for anything serious to take place so perhaps he had better hop out of my bath. I don't agree with people who only read romance novels. He said you may not agree with me but you should have sex with me at least once because I am as good as Jeff Goldblum.
I then discovered that I was in Melbourne, had been the whole time, so I hopped on a tram to visit Gemma. I was wearing my pyjamas so I yelled at The Spatula and Grizelda. What had possessed them to not inform me that I was in Melbourne, on a tram and wearing pyjamas? Fortunately I woke up soon after that, after I tripped merrily through pig circuses accessible only by speedboat, almost had sex in a canoe with bath man but was interrupted by his mother who approved of me, galloping down dried out canal beds on a horse in order to save the ocean faring circus pigs. The horse was wearing my old school jumper.
The dream was fast, one of those whirligig visions where I jump morph from scene to scene with full physical sensation. I woke feeling unsure as to whether or not I was on a tram. I have decided to deduct ten points from the part of my brain responsible for that dream.
I overslept this morning, by two hours. I lay dreaming of small overnight fetes and meeting an eligible man in a public bathtub (public the way toilets are with one per cubicle) only to find out that he had been sent there, by Potato who had told him that I was within the normal height range. I told the man that I thought he was a little intellectually dull for anything serious to take place so perhaps he had better hop out of my bath. I don't agree with people who only read romance novels. He said you may not agree with me but you should have sex with me at least once because I am as good as Jeff Goldblum.
I then discovered that I was in Melbourne, had been the whole time, so I hopped on a tram to visit Gemma. I was wearing my pyjamas so I yelled at The Spatula and Grizelda. What had possessed them to not inform me that I was in Melbourne, on a tram and wearing pyjamas? Fortunately I woke up soon after that, after I tripped merrily through pig circuses accessible only by speedboat, almost had sex in a canoe with bath man but was interrupted by his mother who approved of me, galloping down dried out canal beds on a horse in order to save the ocean faring circus pigs. The horse was wearing my old school jumper.
The dream was fast, one of those whirligig visions where I jump morph from scene to scene with full physical sensation. I woke feeling unsure as to whether or not I was on a tram. I have decided to deduct ten points from the part of my brain responsible for that dream.
Give me back my notebook please or I really like it when the haridresser shoves their towel-covered fingers into my ears after washing my hair
I am tired of mysteries. I have no idea if Julia Romeo is a real person/object/monument/pet canary/cigar or if some anonymous person has decided to leave false clues, for kicks. I guess it beats the usual death threats or notes encouraging me to top myself. By the way, have I ever stopped to thank those kind individuals before? I don't think that I have so thank you for taking the time to write me death threats and notes encouraging me to kill myself. It is a very special gesture to take the time to sit down and write somebody a little note but I'll just make one request. Please draw a picture of a pony on the next one. I like ponies.
Spencer said that all artists have a great lost album and that maybe I should consider this mine. That's a fine theory but the contents of that fairly new notebook are most certainly not great. The last time I held my notebook in my hands was at The Townie where I made some vague and drunken notes about how a friend of mine was wishing she could invade men, physically, the way that they invade her, I think. It was hilarious at the time, she was miming actions and thrusting imaginary appendages while Adam Ant sang about Prince Charming on the jukebox and Madam Squeeze and I held our hands above heads in the gesture known universally as 'awkward house'.
Spencer recently beat the world record for distance covered whilst dancing the Adam Ant Prince Charming dance. I believe he made it nearly all the way from The Sando to my second birthday party of the day which was a fair distance indeed. He deserves either a large trophy or a swift slap to the side of the head, I can not decide which would be the better course of action. The second birthday party of the day was held in a secret enclave in the land of square mansions. This wonderland of largeness in architecture is a mere two blocks from The Peach. I sat in an astonishingly comfortable mid-century armchair high on a balcony, with my green pony dress spread greenly across the seat, and stared contentedly at the giant houses whilst sipping on my glass of Jameson.
I noted that at one point all the people on the balcony, except me (of course), are in extremely excellent bands. In fact one of the men I was talking to flashed a tiny flash of annoyance across his face when I asked his name. I could have been imagining it but I suspect it has been some time since somebody asked him what his name was at a party. In this instance the annoyance was probably justified seeing as the balcony I was standing on was attached to the bedroom of his fellow frontman and if I was in that room then I probably should have known what his name was. I suppose I could have told him that I am hopeless at recognising people* but I didn't hence his, possibly imagined, flash of annoyance.
I wandered in to the bedroom occasionally to stare at the unusually blue walls and neat shelves of books, record and cds. The bedroom was close to ideal and for a mad minute I had a strange murdering fantasy where I became the new owner of the ideal bedroom. I dismissed this thought as uncharitable and set about wondering how I could paint The Peach blue. I don't know if that will be possible but one thing is for sure, everything would be easier if I had my notebook back.
* List of people I would definitely recognise if I saw them on the street.
Mum
Dad
Brother
The horse
The Spatula
Spencer
Madam Squeeze
Gemma
Tex Perkins
Santa Claus
P of London
Artboy
Spencer said that all artists have a great lost album and that maybe I should consider this mine. That's a fine theory but the contents of that fairly new notebook are most certainly not great. The last time I held my notebook in my hands was at The Townie where I made some vague and drunken notes about how a friend of mine was wishing she could invade men, physically, the way that they invade her, I think. It was hilarious at the time, she was miming actions and thrusting imaginary appendages while Adam Ant sang about Prince Charming on the jukebox and Madam Squeeze and I held our hands above heads in the gesture known universally as 'awkward house'.
Spencer recently beat the world record for distance covered whilst dancing the Adam Ant Prince Charming dance. I believe he made it nearly all the way from The Sando to my second birthday party of the day which was a fair distance indeed. He deserves either a large trophy or a swift slap to the side of the head, I can not decide which would be the better course of action. The second birthday party of the day was held in a secret enclave in the land of square mansions. This wonderland of largeness in architecture is a mere two blocks from The Peach. I sat in an astonishingly comfortable mid-century armchair high on a balcony, with my green pony dress spread greenly across the seat, and stared contentedly at the giant houses whilst sipping on my glass of Jameson.
I noted that at one point all the people on the balcony, except me (of course), are in extremely excellent bands. In fact one of the men I was talking to flashed a tiny flash of annoyance across his face when I asked his name. I could have been imagining it but I suspect it has been some time since somebody asked him what his name was at a party. In this instance the annoyance was probably justified seeing as the balcony I was standing on was attached to the bedroom of his fellow frontman and if I was in that room then I probably should have known what his name was. I suppose I could have told him that I am hopeless at recognising people* but I didn't hence his, possibly imagined, flash of annoyance.
I wandered in to the bedroom occasionally to stare at the unusually blue walls and neat shelves of books, record and cds. The bedroom was close to ideal and for a mad minute I had a strange murdering fantasy where I became the new owner of the ideal bedroom. I dismissed this thought as uncharitable and set about wondering how I could paint The Peach blue. I don't know if that will be possible but one thing is for sure, everything would be easier if I had my notebook back.
* List of people I would definitely recognise if I saw them on the street.
Mum
Dad
Brother
The horse
The Spatula
Spencer
Madam Squeeze
Gemma
Tex Perkins
Santa Claus
P of London
Artboy
But where are the words?
I keep looking at this blog to see if there is anything new on here and then I remembered that I am the one who writes the posts. Stupid of me really, to forget something like that.
Pause
I was planning on heading out to the mass moonwalk today just because it sounds too ridiculous to be true but some days in doonas are better than others.
Bloody hell
Spencer P Jones, fresh coconut (sugar with a wood aftertaste), Dave Graney, brass birds, giant cakes. So far, so good.
Double celebrity death day 2006
I was mildly saddened at the demise of Michael Jackson but then I was angry that people were saying that his death upstaged the death of Farrah Fawcett. It is a strange idea, that even your death will be a ratings competition, then I remembered the last Double Celebrity Death Day, 4th September 2006. This is the day that Colin Thiele died and also Steve Irwin. You should go and read Colin Thiele's excellent books despite his death losing the ratings race. If you don't know who the hell I am talking about then start with Storm Boy.
Actually turns out a whole lot of people died today. Sky Saxon and the guy Spencer P Jones said no one was allowed to say anything about because he was too sad.
Actually turns out a whole lot of people died today. Sky Saxon and the guy Spencer P Jones said no one was allowed to say anything about because he was too sad.
Mild haunting
I had a thought when I was in the bath but the water washed it away. That's what I call a mild haunting.
She sleeps while I type, I don't remember agreeing to this arrangement
She said that she was pleased that I was home but then she put on a Rolling Stones record and fell asleep on the bed with a paw across her face. I guess she didn't feel like talking.
Return to Newtown
Any type of happiness will do, even the synthetic kind caused by Mexican stairwells and an old white car. The drum kit was a surprise. I'll admit it was the last thing I was expecting to see as the door opened and the light switched on but there it sat tom upon tom like it had always been purple and covered in polka dots.
I watched diners sip at wine while I emptied my bladder, I suppose they could have seen me, if they had looked up. This is only one of the hazards of Spencer's wonderful labyrinthine house.
Spencer was waiting for me on a public chair one whole block before the cafe where we had agreed to meet. He was giving me a heads up. Said there was an unfriendly patrolling the streets, that he tried to say hello to the unfriendly but that it hadn't really worked. That must be why everyone has taken to calling him the unfriendly.
We sat in the cafe anyway, to prove that we didn't care, drinking tea and hot chocolate. We read through a review of Spencer's latest gig. I took out my pen and gave the review a double tick. Well done Paul Smith from Drum Media, you got it just about right. I was thinking about St Kilda and my discomfort on discovering how easily I slipped into feeling at home. It frightened me to think that home could be where I decide it is and not here where I have always been, give or take a 100km or so.
I've been staying at The Hive where Gemma lives with her books and vegetables and dog. We drank and slept and wandered along the beach. I was in company with writers and the feeling was strange. Up here I operate solo like an undercover agent in a land of musicians. Gemma said it doesn't have to be like that, I can move to Melbourne and find myself surrounded by people who carry small books and many pens. We ate lunch in a laneway and drank cocktails by the river. I stood on one side of the tram stop watching Gemma on the opposite platfrom. I was headed for the airport, she was headed for home. I don't like those moments where loved ones slide in the oposite direction. I am not powerful enough to overcome the mechanical will of a tram. I'll find consolation in aeroplanes, email and three small photographs of Gemma wearing pink washing up gloves safe and happy in the heart of The Hive.
I watched diners sip at wine while I emptied my bladder, I suppose they could have seen me, if they had looked up. This is only one of the hazards of Spencer's wonderful labyrinthine house.
Spencer was waiting for me on a public chair one whole block before the cafe where we had agreed to meet. He was giving me a heads up. Said there was an unfriendly patrolling the streets, that he tried to say hello to the unfriendly but that it hadn't really worked. That must be why everyone has taken to calling him the unfriendly.
We sat in the cafe anyway, to prove that we didn't care, drinking tea and hot chocolate. We read through a review of Spencer's latest gig. I took out my pen and gave the review a double tick. Well done Paul Smith from Drum Media, you got it just about right. I was thinking about St Kilda and my discomfort on discovering how easily I slipped into feeling at home. It frightened me to think that home could be where I decide it is and not here where I have always been, give or take a 100km or so.
I've been staying at The Hive where Gemma lives with her books and vegetables and dog. We drank and slept and wandered along the beach. I was in company with writers and the feeling was strange. Up here I operate solo like an undercover agent in a land of musicians. Gemma said it doesn't have to be like that, I can move to Melbourne and find myself surrounded by people who carry small books and many pens. We ate lunch in a laneway and drank cocktails by the river. I stood on one side of the tram stop watching Gemma on the opposite platfrom. I was headed for the airport, she was headed for home. I don't like those moments where loved ones slide in the oposite direction. I am not powerful enough to overcome the mechanical will of a tram. I'll find consolation in aeroplanes, email and three small photographs of Gemma wearing pink washing up gloves safe and happy in the heart of The Hive.
Elemental mendicant
I thought about using a nautical themed fabric for the trim but Madam Squeeze wisely pointed out that the rest of the dress is grass green and covered in pictures of horses, she thought the lighthouse trim might be just that little bit too much. I spent hours thinking the phrase 'elemental mendicant'. I am pleased with how the words sound in my head. I am afraid, quite afraid, that the words might end up being edited out of manuscript. That would be a damn shame.
This might not be entirely accurate but it is lovely
I live in a fancy apartment
Off the Boulevard of St. Michel
Where I keep my Rolling Stones records
And a friend of Sacha Distel
Off the Boulevard of St. Michel
Where I keep my Rolling Stones records
And a friend of Sacha Distel
Travelogue II
The demons have changed their wigs and somebody changed the camera angle but if you look closely you can see that it's the same old village.
Obfuscation
Madam Squeeze said I must have lime juice still stuck in my nose from when I tried to clean my fingers with a piece of lime and it went squirtily wrong but Spencer agreed with me, the mysterious fog descending like a dropped cloth over King St most definitely smelled of lemons. The fog appeared suddenly, as if a switch had been flicked and the whole world went soft focus. It wasn't there when I tripped out of Kelly's after drinking snake bites with the people I call the Psychonannies but it was everywhere when we emerged half an hour later with bellies full of hot soup. At first we were confused, thinking it must be steam from a street cleaner or that somewhere a raging bushfire was being doused with lemon juice.
Spencer swore at the fog in amazement, then he bowed and explained how boy scouts shake hands. We bobbed around like corks in the sea suddenly overjoyed at finding ourselves in a new landscape. I've never seen King St shrouded before. It always snakes the same clear path. I've hung meaning on every lamp post but tonight I was in new territory and I couldn't be happier.
I took the back streets home, losing my way momentarily, every brick, tile and street corner felt vague and unfamiliar. I came across Spike's brother dancing in the middle of the road, his unbuttoned coat billowing like a cloak. He was pretending to be Jack The Ripper but he looked more like that singing chimney sweep from Mary Poppins. He stopped dancing to talk to me but he was hopping from foot to foot. Periodically a happy noise would escape his lips and he'd start dancing all over again. When I walked away he started running down the road yelling joyful words, arms held out like an aeroplane.
I can hear the hollow calling of boats in one of those harbours. The Peach rocks blind and steady on top of this hill. It is warm inside and soft with furnishings but I'd much rather be out there, in the new landscape navigating the footpath like a submariner.
Spencer swore at the fog in amazement, then he bowed and explained how boy scouts shake hands. We bobbed around like corks in the sea suddenly overjoyed at finding ourselves in a new landscape. I've never seen King St shrouded before. It always snakes the same clear path. I've hung meaning on every lamp post but tonight I was in new territory and I couldn't be happier.
I took the back streets home, losing my way momentarily, every brick, tile and street corner felt vague and unfamiliar. I came across Spike's brother dancing in the middle of the road, his unbuttoned coat billowing like a cloak. He was pretending to be Jack The Ripper but he looked more like that singing chimney sweep from Mary Poppins. He stopped dancing to talk to me but he was hopping from foot to foot. Periodically a happy noise would escape his lips and he'd start dancing all over again. When I walked away he started running down the road yelling joyful words, arms held out like an aeroplane.
I can hear the hollow calling of boats in one of those harbours. The Peach rocks blind and steady on top of this hill. It is warm inside and soft with furnishings but I'd much rather be out there, in the new landscape navigating the footpath like a submariner.
Sometimes I'll shoot like the farmers do
A little bird told me that you love me. I told that little bird that I don't really care.
Reviewinator gets reviewed - surprise!
Ocarina #2 is now available at my online shop.
The zine includes a morse code decoding chart and illustrations by The Spatula.
Here's what Vanessa Berry had to say about Ocarina #2.
The zine includes a morse code decoding chart and illustrations by The Spatula.
Here's what Vanessa Berry had to say about Ocarina #2.
It’s important to pay attention while reading this zine, because the words twist this way and that. The stories are heavily visual and interior, thick like thoughts, shooting off in many directions at once. There are constellations to absorb.
Read all of Vanessa's comments here.
Oh and if you'd prefer to trade for a copy of Ocarina #2 send your zine, letter or tiny present to me at PO Box 1003 Newtown NSW 2042.
Read all of Vanessa's comments here.
Oh and if you'd prefer to trade for a copy of Ocarina #2 send your zine, letter or tiny present to me at PO Box 1003 Newtown NSW 2042.
I write better when you're not here
She spat out 'That's not a very nice thing to say' like it hurt her mouth to have the words form on her soft tongue. She was bristling like a cat and trying to play the wounded card all at once like a confused echidna playing possum. I just stared at her in disbelief. She kept repeating herself as though it would change my mind or render my words obsolete. I stared at her in disbelief hoping that she would become bored and walk away but she was bristling and puffing and demanding an answer.
She was dissatisfied with my explanation that it was a statement of fact and not a judgment on her person. She started yelling 'That's bullshit'. It was here that I stopped her and enquired as to just when was the last time she wrote a work of fiction. She then tried talking kindly to me, trying to coax out what was wrong enough to make me so hurtful. I thought hell no lady, if you think if it was hurtful to say that I write better when you're not here you're going to pop an artery when I tell you that I am trying to ignore you because I am sounding out a sentence for my manuscript in my head to see if the words fit in a way that sounds right to me.
Eventually she went away but now I'm thinking about it on repeat. Why on earth would someone be offended by the idea that I write better when they're not here. It seems so obvious to me. So obvious that it didn't require uttering to be brought to anyone's attention. So obvious and natural that it is impossible to be offensive. Had she secretly hoped to be the one exception to the ordinary rule? It is all very strange.
She was dissatisfied with my explanation that it was a statement of fact and not a judgment on her person. She started yelling 'That's bullshit'. It was here that I stopped her and enquired as to just when was the last time she wrote a work of fiction. She then tried talking kindly to me, trying to coax out what was wrong enough to make me so hurtful. I thought hell no lady, if you think if it was hurtful to say that I write better when you're not here you're going to pop an artery when I tell you that I am trying to ignore you because I am sounding out a sentence for my manuscript in my head to see if the words fit in a way that sounds right to me.
Eventually she went away but now I'm thinking about it on repeat. Why on earth would someone be offended by the idea that I write better when they're not here. It seems so obvious to me. So obvious that it didn't require uttering to be brought to anyone's attention. So obvious and natural that it is impossible to be offensive. Had she secretly hoped to be the one exception to the ordinary rule? It is all very strange.
Purple reign
He was wearing a unitard in ideal purple and I couldn't stop staring. Ever since listerine started advertising their new pruple listerine I have wanted nothing more than be the precise same shade of purple. Standing next to purple unitard man was a woman wearing a dress made out of playing cards but the next woman over, white unitard and swimming cap, was talking to Paul Mac. I stepped carefully down off the wooden pontoon and walked away. Paul Mac was the most famous in the room and if the past is anything to go by then he was in horrible danger of being mildly injured in an unlikely incident caused by me. He wasn't even wearing anything remotely interesting, except for sunglasses, at night. I walked carefully over to Spencer and Madam Squeeze, matching cowboy outfits, and watched the purple unitard man through the small gap in between their giant cowboy hats.
I once performed an awkward intellectual swan dive into purple, covering every spare space in daubed patches of mixed pigments trying to create the perfect purple. I interviewed everyone from colour consultants and historians to church curates in an attempt to understand the historical significance of the colour. Years later I sat spellbound while Tony Robinson smashed molluscs and watched it ferment into a stinking dye. He had a more difficult time than I did with my pots of blue and red pigments sitting precious as gemstones in neat rows on my studio floor. I had forgotten about that strange and experimental month until I found myself greedily eyeing advertisements for listerine. Tony Robison came closer than listerine did to my long forgotten ideal hue but it seems my personal ideal purple is subject to change.
Trotting home from the shops with my new bottle of ideal purple made me indescribably happy. The bottle was sitting on top of my other shopping (underpants and plums) inside a purple shopping bag. It took me two days to break the seal on the bottle. On the third day I scrubbed myself clean, washed my hair, brushed my teeth, climbed into my new purple underpants then ripped off the plastic seal and measured out the correct amount in a medicine glass. As I swished the strange burning but pleasantly minty liquid around my mouth I experienced the incredible sensation that if this is as good as it gets then I couldn't be happier.
I once performed an awkward intellectual swan dive into purple, covering every spare space in daubed patches of mixed pigments trying to create the perfect purple. I interviewed everyone from colour consultants and historians to church curates in an attempt to understand the historical significance of the colour. Years later I sat spellbound while Tony Robinson smashed molluscs and watched it ferment into a stinking dye. He had a more difficult time than I did with my pots of blue and red pigments sitting precious as gemstones in neat rows on my studio floor. I had forgotten about that strange and experimental month until I found myself greedily eyeing advertisements for listerine. Tony Robison came closer than listerine did to my long forgotten ideal hue but it seems my personal ideal purple is subject to change.
Trotting home from the shops with my new bottle of ideal purple made me indescribably happy. The bottle was sitting on top of my other shopping (underpants and plums) inside a purple shopping bag. It took me two days to break the seal on the bottle. On the third day I scrubbed myself clean, washed my hair, brushed my teeth, climbed into my new purple underpants then ripped off the plastic seal and measured out the correct amount in a medicine glass. As I swished the strange burning but pleasantly minty liquid around my mouth I experienced the incredible sensation that if this is as good as it gets then I couldn't be happier.
Batten down the hatches
Spencer said I should lay low for a while. At first I thought laying low meant shutting things off, crawling back into confined spaces but I was wrong. Laying low means long afternoons writing longhand, drinking coffee and milkshakes with the people who mean the most. It means chipping at walls to find calm spaces. I'm subsiding into a lit room lined with books and one uncluttered desk. There is space in here for everything that matters like new words scrawled on lined paper and tea and sandwiches on a tray. Laying low means shutting out the bullshit and digging foundations for the things that are good. It seems strange that I didn't notice how all of this was already here in The Peach.
Sometimes it takes an outside hand to bring me to a halt. Sometimes it takes a kind voice to tell me to stop kicking. Sometimes it takes a plane crash to notice the drop in altitude. I'm just glad that this time all it took was a ham sandwich, observatory hill and a telephone booth.
Sometimes it takes an outside hand to bring me to a halt. Sometimes it takes a kind voice to tell me to stop kicking. Sometimes it takes a plane crash to notice the drop in altitude. I'm just glad that this time all it took was a ham sandwich, observatory hill and a telephone booth.
Like a good whore or a pet canary
I thought she said "You have a thylacine imbalance". I immediately imagine all the tigers crouching in my left leg. She isn't talking to me but that didn't deter the tigers.
An incomplete photographic survey of the mantlepiece in my library
The owl used to be electric blue.
Reading zines by daylight
I'm thinking this would be better with a sandwich. Egg? Cheese? Vegemite? These are my choices. I already ate the last of Grizelda's salami when she was on a wine tour. I ate it greedily, on toast, letting the grease run down my fingers. I was hungover and in the house alone but now she's back. I confessed to eating the salami but failed to buy anything new to put on a sandwich.
I have a new pile of zines, all but one written by my zine hero Vanessa Berry. The odd zine is by Maddy Phelan. It is tiny, sealed in an envelope covered in stamps. It will be a shame to break it open.
My new pile of zines is high, disordered and slippery. I carried them home in my 70's Goldenman briefcase. The briefcase lived in my mother's garage forever without anybody using it until it moved into my cupboard. The inside is an uncomfortable red.
I have shuffled the zines into chronological order and placed them in piles in my customary sitting position on the bed, facing the pillows and above them the window and the street. I feel like the whole operation would be better with a sandwich and a cup of tea. I will blow my nose, put on a cardigan and walk the length of the hall to the kitchen.
I have a new pile of zines, all but one written by my zine hero Vanessa Berry. The odd zine is by Maddy Phelan. It is tiny, sealed in an envelope covered in stamps. It will be a shame to break it open.
My new pile of zines is high, disordered and slippery. I carried them home in my 70's Goldenman briefcase. The briefcase lived in my mother's garage forever without anybody using it until it moved into my cupboard. The inside is an uncomfortable red.
I have shuffled the zines into chronological order and placed them in piles in my customary sitting position on the bed, facing the pillows and above them the window and the street. I feel like the whole operation would be better with a sandwich and a cup of tea. I will blow my nose, put on a cardigan and walk the length of the hall to the kitchen.
Basted, wasted and soaked or free things and how I got them all in one Friday night
Free wine:
The Spatula's friend Gior arrived wearing space tights from space, a fancy dress and a trench coat. She was carrying an expensive bottle of wine. I was fortunate enough to be standing in the hallway holding an empty wine glass.
Free dinner:
Torrential was the general consensus so The Spatula and Gior ordered food to be delivered. They asked me to join them but I declined for economic reasons. They ordered extra so that I could eat with them. Lovely girls.
Free joint:
The Spatula laughed as she pressed play on the stereo then passed me a lit joint. Waving smoke away from her face she said 'here have some'.
Free entry to The Holy Soul & Crow!:
Spencer sent me a text message saying 'If you can brave the rain I've put your name on the door list".
Free albums:
I arrived just as Spencer climbed up on to the stage and began one of the best sets I've ever seen him and the band play. When he finished he unplugged his guitar, held it vertically like a vase until he reached his guitar case then stashed it side of stage. He walked down the steps into the crowd and pulled a cd out of his pocket for me. David Thomas Ghost Line Diary and Leonard Cohen 92nd St Ny Feb 1966. Oh yes indeed.
Free beer:
Inside the gig I met the lovely Sonny Day from We Buy Your Kids for the first time. He said "Hey are you Dale Slamma?". I said yes so he bought me a beer.
Free tequila:
Squeezing into the crowd to watch Crow I wound up standing next to Spike. He asked me what I had been up to lately. I said nothing at all. He leant down and dragged me over to him by gently draping one of his enormous arms around my shoulder. He yelled "I don't believe you", then made me to talk properly to him and explain every little thing. He said "that deserves a shot", pointed at a chair for me to sit on then bought me tequila.
Free ride:
Spencer drove me home through the pouring rain. I was drunk, happy and at ease. We drank cups of tea, ate chocolate and talked until 3am.
Free happiness:
I dont' think it was because of the free things but I was most definitely happy. Good food, friends and music. The universe poured small kindnesses and cheer, measure for measure with the torrents of rain, upon my own small head. For this and the sight of Crow on stage I am truly grateful.
The Spatula's friend Gior arrived wearing space tights from space, a fancy dress and a trench coat. She was carrying an expensive bottle of wine. I was fortunate enough to be standing in the hallway holding an empty wine glass.
Free dinner:
Torrential was the general consensus so The Spatula and Gior ordered food to be delivered. They asked me to join them but I declined for economic reasons. They ordered extra so that I could eat with them. Lovely girls.
Free joint:
The Spatula laughed as she pressed play on the stereo then passed me a lit joint. Waving smoke away from her face she said 'here have some'.
Free entry to The Holy Soul & Crow!:
Spencer sent me a text message saying 'If you can brave the rain I've put your name on the door list".
Free albums:
I arrived just as Spencer climbed up on to the stage and began one of the best sets I've ever seen him and the band play. When he finished he unplugged his guitar, held it vertically like a vase until he reached his guitar case then stashed it side of stage. He walked down the steps into the crowd and pulled a cd out of his pocket for me. David Thomas Ghost Line Diary and Leonard Cohen 92nd St Ny Feb 1966. Oh yes indeed.
Free beer:
Inside the gig I met the lovely Sonny Day from We Buy Your Kids for the first time. He said "Hey are you Dale Slamma?". I said yes so he bought me a beer.
Free tequila:
Squeezing into the crowd to watch Crow I wound up standing next to Spike. He asked me what I had been up to lately. I said nothing at all. He leant down and dragged me over to him by gently draping one of his enormous arms around my shoulder. He yelled "I don't believe you", then made me to talk properly to him and explain every little thing. He said "that deserves a shot", pointed at a chair for me to sit on then bought me tequila.
Free ride:
Spencer drove me home through the pouring rain. I was drunk, happy and at ease. We drank cups of tea, ate chocolate and talked until 3am.
Free happiness:
I dont' think it was because of the free things but I was most definitely happy. Good food, friends and music. The universe poured small kindnesses and cheer, measure for measure with the torrents of rain, upon my own small head. For this and the sight of Crow on stage I am truly grateful.
Bubble etc
I knocked over an elderly lady. I did not stop to see if she was alright. This is because I was running through the MCA with my hands over my face. I was sure that if I took them away the unexpected and powerful tears would spray devastation across the gallery taking countless lives and smudging art. That was a chance I wasn't prepared to take.
It is possible that I have done three particularly stupid things. None of these were on purpose. One was after I dyed ten metres of bookbinding thread earsplitting purple whilst drinking a concoction of rum, vodka and lord knows what else. The Spatula concocted it. She assured me it was good and not lethal. The other stupid thing was not at all my fault. It was more that I reacted to the stupid thing by running through an art gallery full tilt than by doing something to begin with. I do not ordinarily run in art galleries. I was holding a briefcase. I was wearing a beret. I don' think those details are important.
Vanessa Berry was in the lift. I looked at her and remembered that I am an independent person. I wonder if she has this effect on everybody.
It is possible that I have done three particularly stupid things. None of these were on purpose. One was after I dyed ten metres of bookbinding thread earsplitting purple whilst drinking a concoction of rum, vodka and lord knows what else. The Spatula concocted it. She assured me it was good and not lethal. The other stupid thing was not at all my fault. It was more that I reacted to the stupid thing by running through an art gallery full tilt than by doing something to begin with. I do not ordinarily run in art galleries. I was holding a briefcase. I was wearing a beret. I don' think those details are important.
Vanessa Berry was in the lift. I looked at her and remembered that I am an independent person. I wonder if she has this effect on everybody.
It is possible to have a verbal accident
Nam Le said David Foster Wallace was unfailingly brave. "An incomparable mind lashed to a mighty heart." I don't remember where to put my punctuation I guess that means I have a comparable mind.
Drunk but it's windy outside
You think I wrote whore on a coaster but I really wrote 'I am Roget's whore' which doesn't mean anything. Two bottles of wine and the wind couldn't reach inside my coat. I'm pretending to be a writer. Don't tell anybody.
Gumshoe
Yesterday I photographed a public umbrella drying machine then tried on wedding dresses and diamonds. I told the man in the shop that I invented the all-in-one cat worming tablet. He believed me.
Tissues - made from trees - a renewable sustainable resource (when managed correctly)
Walking around The Peach purposefully in ugg boots and my Grandfather's dressing gown has permanently altered my perspective on life. If it is cold I dress in warm things. I am allowed to do this. Oh yes. I will not be defeated by a combination of snot, rain and temperature.
Travelogue
I've been hauling this phrase around Australia. It describes everything. Flat, wide and blue.
Glass hammers and the pleasures and perils of time travel
Returning from 1952 I hit a touch of turbulence and made a pit stop outside Nuremberg. It was decided amongst the locals that their cheese was in all ways superior to all French cheeses. I declined to taste the cheese and was cast out of space and time, I did not know the German word for lactose. Fortunately Spencer, Madam Squeeze and I had already made plans to visit Penrith which exists outside of space and time. My brother was there in a tuxedo playing the trombone with a glass bottle of cola at his feet. The band leader, noticing they were outside of space and time, had instructed them to remove jackets and ties. It was a casual affair. Shops with literal names were visible from all windows. Spencer was momentarily relieved. Last week he walked in Thaitanic expecting a pleasant ocean cruise but came away with chilli and lime stuck between his front teeth. It is important to note that Gareth Liddiard plays an important part in this tale.
I reconfigured the flux capacitor by wiring it directly to the Eye of Harmony. We reappeared at The Annandale where Gareth Liddiard sat perched on a stool. He began strumming at an acoustic guitar. The room fell silent and the crowd tilted their heads and set back their shoulders. You need to brace for this music or you will come undone. I tilted and braced but the onslaught was thorough. We all know he works with the geography of sound but I wasn't expecting such a terrible revelation. I've been hitting things with glass hammers.
I reconfigured the flux capacitor by wiring it directly to the Eye of Harmony. We reappeared at The Annandale where Gareth Liddiard sat perched on a stool. He began strumming at an acoustic guitar. The room fell silent and the crowd tilted their heads and set back their shoulders. You need to brace for this music or you will come undone. I tilted and braced but the onslaught was thorough. We all know he works with the geography of sound but I wasn't expecting such a terrible revelation. I've been hitting things with glass hammers.
He was also wearing a paper hat on his head and one over each shoe
He said "this might be easier if I take off my gown". I paused to let him take off his gown but I wish he'd left it on. It felt like it had a really high thread count.
Drink until your gums bleed and the cake rises
I didn't think it would be a problem until the fourth long swallow hit the back of my throat in a poisonous wave. I stood frozen to the spot, bottle of gin vertical and clamped between my lips. I had a vague notion to tip myself upside down and run the clear contents back into the bottle but gravity and handstand peristalsis are in constant opposition.
I walked past a bottle of gin while I was baking a chocolate cake. I got the notion to pour it down my throat so I did, not all of it, but enough to make a difference to the appearance of my shampoo. I'd never noticed that the moment before I mash the handful of shampoo onto the top of my head is a beautiful one. My shampoo is opaque and iridescent. A melted handful of mother-of -pearl more lovely for being unexpected.
The gin still tastes like poison, after the potatoes, after the cake so I washed my sheets and washed my hair. I brushed my teeth until my gums bled like Mary but my eyes remained dry. Tomorrow I'll try something different.
I walked past a bottle of gin while I was baking a chocolate cake. I got the notion to pour it down my throat so I did, not all of it, but enough to make a difference to the appearance of my shampoo. I'd never noticed that the moment before I mash the handful of shampoo onto the top of my head is a beautiful one. My shampoo is opaque and iridescent. A melted handful of mother-of -pearl more lovely for being unexpected.
The gin still tastes like poison, after the potatoes, after the cake so I washed my sheets and washed my hair. I brushed my teeth until my gums bled like Mary but my eyes remained dry. Tomorrow I'll try something different.
Ms
I have lost all faith but this. It will hold blind corridors, scratches and evidence of fumbling and stumbles into beasts become tall and obvious, when someone turns the lights back on. It will be a small weight hauling down that folded obfuscation. In a corner to the left of my eye I will see something other than that sucking whirligig nothing. When I finish it three bricks will fall and my right arm will push through into something else. When I finish it bones and shattered things will need to be swept away.
When it is done I will pile its pages on the floor and step from them to the next thing, the weight of my step compressing it into sighing perspective. I will nail it to my wall next to the other diminishing monumental things drying like flowers upside down and curious. The second one will rise with the yeast of the first.
When it is done I will pile its pages on the floor and step from them to the next thing, the weight of my step compressing it into sighing perspective. I will nail it to my wall next to the other diminishing monumental things drying like flowers upside down and curious. The second one will rise with the yeast of the first.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)