Better run through the jungle
Today the idea of him has the hit and stick of napalm but tomorrow I plan on wearing a fireproof suit.
A blanket pinned up across a window will come down in a heavy grey fold if you let slip just one of those pins
I suppose I was seven or eight years old when he told he was a blackberry. I was confused but pleased that he was playing one of his silly jokes with me. I laughed at him and said 'don't be silly you can't be a blackberry because you are a person'. I don't remember how old I was when I found out that he had said Black Beret and not blackberry.
He died last Wednesday, curled up and snuffed out but it wasn't entirely unexpected. I didn't see him crawling towards the long night like some of the others did but I heard the change in the light some years ago. Everybody supposed that she would nurse him down gently until the breathing stopped. Everybody supposed she would pack a small suitcase and be driven across the horizon to the farm but she stayed where she was with that salt wind at her place where she watches the kangaroos graze by the sea. She said she never sees them hop on the sand, they stay clear of the sand like she does.
On Monday there'll be three of them standing hot on the inland blustering dust at the side of his open grave. They'll wear black and swat flies with their funeral programs. The middle child will sob the hardest, shaking her shoulders and frightening her children. The oldest son will be the star of the speeches and the youngest will evoke sympathy with the silent grit-tooth bowing of his head. Three hours north of where she'll be sitting by her sea I'll be swallowed in a building and thinking of her.
He died last Wednesday, curled up and snuffed out but it wasn't entirely unexpected. I didn't see him crawling towards the long night like some of the others did but I heard the change in the light some years ago. Everybody supposed that she would nurse him down gently until the breathing stopped. Everybody supposed she would pack a small suitcase and be driven across the horizon to the farm but she stayed where she was with that salt wind at her place where she watches the kangaroos graze by the sea. She said she never sees them hop on the sand, they stay clear of the sand like she does.
On Monday there'll be three of them standing hot on the inland blustering dust at the side of his open grave. They'll wear black and swat flies with their funeral programs. The middle child will sob the hardest, shaking her shoulders and frightening her children. The oldest son will be the star of the speeches and the youngest will evoke sympathy with the silent grit-tooth bowing of his head. Three hours north of where she'll be sitting by her sea I'll be swallowed in a building and thinking of her.
Ye gods and far out I was sitting next to a former Rolling Stones tour manager
I was having a relatively normal conversation with the excellent Mr Fenton when I noticed that his shoes were quite shiny. I had a scope around and confirmed that his were the shiniest shoes in the outside area at The Annandale so I asked him if he shined his shoes. You should have seen the look Spencer gave me. Mr Fenton was drinking a beer and looking at me in that quiet and quizzical way he has then gently shook his head. He'd just come offstage after playing a Billy Thorpe tribute for a book launch* where I was plagued by ghosts from the literary set but soothed, after a fashion, by live music. Mr Fenton said his shoes were shiny from use, beer swill and dropped cigarette ash. When I think about it that is the most rock'n'roll way to shine your shoes.
*"Billy Thorpe's Time On Earth" by Jason Walker
*"Billy Thorpe's Time On Earth" by Jason Walker
Change your own light bulb
It is clear to me that he desires very strongly to live. The way he watched people dancing is enough to fold you to the floor but people don't seem to watch him properly. Their eyes slide over him slowly taking measurements for memory.
I suppose he is my polar opposite. I am plagued with rude health and stubborn life yet I feel I would throw off the shackles of this life if I could, just shrug out of it like an unwanted cardigan. A situation like this is enough to make me want to change my own light bulb.
I suppose he is my polar opposite. I am plagued with rude health and stubborn life yet I feel I would throw off the shackles of this life if I could, just shrug out of it like an unwanted cardigan. A situation like this is enough to make me want to change my own light bulb.
Bogans love You Am I
I suppose I am quite lucky that the first time I ever laid eyes on Tim Rogers was upstairs in the band room at The Annandale. He was walking around doing vocal warm up exercises then unexpectedly broke into a fair rendition of I Will Always Love You. I was sitting on one of those Fender stools that allow you to rotate all the way around quite rapidly. Spencer was standing behind the bar fishing beer out of the ice bucket. I don't know why they have to put beer in an ice bucket when there is a perfectly good fridge. Tim Rogers is taller than me, I always thought he was a very short man but as it turns out he is not. Also his guitar tech smells like coconut and his tour manager has a tendency towards rudeness but then offers copious apologies after the rudeness has occurred. I believe she would benefit from swallowing the Little Book of Calm.
The Annandale is a bit shit really, the floor is never not sticky, the back stairs up to the band room are strange and I always run my arm across the exposed hot water pipe and jump at the shock. The sound tonight was, in places, shocking. I'm going to recommend they stop enticing the Sydney Morning Herald to write stupid articles about their fight with local council and start worrying about being a good venue again.
The Annandale is a bit shit really, the floor is never not sticky, the back stairs up to the band room are strange and I always run my arm across the exposed hot water pipe and jump at the shock. The sound tonight was, in places, shocking. I'm going to recommend they stop enticing the Sydney Morning Herald to write stupid articles about their fight with local council and start worrying about being a good venue again.
Confess now old friend, you were standing in a magazine shop imagining your cat playing drums while the ghosts of soliders screamed past the window
So I did forget to remember them. It's fine, they're all dead anyway.
Flapping at my kitchen wall
I thought if this lament is unending then lord let us cry. I was curled like an old plastic chip packet heated in the oven, inelegantly wetting the front of my shirt with an unrelenting flow of tears when a crow hit The Peach windows with a powerful thud and crumpling of feathers. Some days are wet with soup, tea and tears. Some days demand you walk up and down the hallway or follow the movement of light across the floor. This day I needed nothing more than to have freedom enough to feel.
The bird flew away but I was left stunned with my hands on the kitchen sink, immobile and staring at the place where the bird collided with my glass wall. The phone rang, it was Artboy, I made a silent dash and scramble to pause The Way We Were and shake off my crow-weirdness. Hubbell stood frozen at the end of Katie's hospital bed staring at her as his wife for the last time. I don't know how she stood it. I can see why everybody was going crazy for Barbara Streisand, her hands are entirely elegant and there is something about the way she stands and delivers a line. I talked to Artboy for hours while I stared at the frozen Hubbell in his Hollywood jacket and Cobra Kai haircut. I suppose the bad man from The Karate Kid was trying to look like Robert Redford but it took until today to work that out. I've never seen The Way We Were before.
A submerged and profound grief rolled in me like a whale in a pool as I spoke to Artboy today. Talking to anyone else feels like a waste of words but then I catch myself and remember I have my own life now. I have this freedom and joy. I have a house in the city and a media pass. I have friends and a magazine and a small but respectable stack of published work. I have my cat and my desk and I can tell people at parties that I am a Rock Journalist and it is not a lie. I told Artboy nobody ever thinks of Ted Hughes, what it must have been like to live with Sylvia Plath as her illness consumed every corner of his life. I don't know how he stood it.
After Artboy and the close of one of those conversations that jump syllable to syllable like synapses I finished The Way We Were and moved on Into The Wild. It was one of those stories that Loene Carmen sums up best by saying 'trying to romanticise what a cunt you are'.* He had a kind of Superman syndrome where he took the ordinary troubles of life and wound them so tight around his heart and fists that he was punching everyone, including himself, without feeling the blows. Stopped the beat of his heart because he thought he was only one who heard the noise of it. I didn't notice this about Superman until it was too late and I was interstate and trapped inside a house with his family's Christmas leftovers.
I didn't weep for the man who fled like a child into the wild but I did weep. I wept great heaving soundless sobs while I knelt down to choose movies, I wept as I washed dishes in the sink, spread marmalade on my toast, poured tea from the pot. There was no great sorrow, my mind was on ordinary matters much as it always is. I formatted my new hard drive sitting on the lounge room floor taking care not to tip tears into the keyboard of my laptop. My need for unfettered expression was profound, solid as the foundations of the earth. I suppose it as simple as this, monsoons sometimes happen as far south as Sydney.
* From the album Rock'n'Roll Tears - listen to it.
The bird flew away but I was left stunned with my hands on the kitchen sink, immobile and staring at the place where the bird collided with my glass wall. The phone rang, it was Artboy, I made a silent dash and scramble to pause The Way We Were and shake off my crow-weirdness. Hubbell stood frozen at the end of Katie's hospital bed staring at her as his wife for the last time. I don't know how she stood it. I can see why everybody was going crazy for Barbara Streisand, her hands are entirely elegant and there is something about the way she stands and delivers a line. I talked to Artboy for hours while I stared at the frozen Hubbell in his Hollywood jacket and Cobra Kai haircut. I suppose the bad man from The Karate Kid was trying to look like Robert Redford but it took until today to work that out. I've never seen The Way We Were before.
A submerged and profound grief rolled in me like a whale in a pool as I spoke to Artboy today. Talking to anyone else feels like a waste of words but then I catch myself and remember I have my own life now. I have this freedom and joy. I have a house in the city and a media pass. I have friends and a magazine and a small but respectable stack of published work. I have my cat and my desk and I can tell people at parties that I am a Rock Journalist and it is not a lie. I told Artboy nobody ever thinks of Ted Hughes, what it must have been like to live with Sylvia Plath as her illness consumed every corner of his life. I don't know how he stood it.
After Artboy and the close of one of those conversations that jump syllable to syllable like synapses I finished The Way We Were and moved on Into The Wild. It was one of those stories that Loene Carmen sums up best by saying 'trying to romanticise what a cunt you are'.* He had a kind of Superman syndrome where he took the ordinary troubles of life and wound them so tight around his heart and fists that he was punching everyone, including himself, without feeling the blows. Stopped the beat of his heart because he thought he was only one who heard the noise of it. I didn't notice this about Superman until it was too late and I was interstate and trapped inside a house with his family's Christmas leftovers.
I didn't weep for the man who fled like a child into the wild but I did weep. I wept great heaving soundless sobs while I knelt down to choose movies, I wept as I washed dishes in the sink, spread marmalade on my toast, poured tea from the pot. There was no great sorrow, my mind was on ordinary matters much as it always is. I formatted my new hard drive sitting on the lounge room floor taking care not to tip tears into the keyboard of my laptop. My need for unfettered expression was profound, solid as the foundations of the earth. I suppose it as simple as this, monsoons sometimes happen as far south as Sydney.
* From the album Rock'n'Roll Tears - listen to it.
Soundcheck City
Everyone was checking sound this afternoon as I walked home to The Peach. Notes, the Greek restaurant with surprising concrete walls and the unnaturally shiny counter, were broadcasting broken horn lines and and an arrhythmic sequential tapping of drums. Buskers were unfolding themselves from hardcases, tuning up their old guitars and getting ready for the public disappearance of self into the appearance of sound. The Enmore emitted the classic 'one two tchoo two tchoo' and lost another battle in it's fifty year war to reach the number three.
I was laughing about the preparation of noise as I collected my drumsticks and began another assault on rhythm coordination and purpose. I was thinking of Spencer and how he can make music without notice, music enough to kickstart your heart or bend your neck in rememberance of something you haven't lived through yet. I was laughing at preparation with my joyful anarchic heart until I decided to water the front garden and the door knob came off in my hand. I am trapped in The Peach.
The Peachettes are out of town this weekend. Spencer has gone on tour and just about everybody I know is somewhere else today. I thought about panicking but instead I attended an interstate party at The Hive by telephone. I was passed around the guests like a favour and I believe that I had a grand old time. Gemma was lamenting her yesterdays' drinking as she cooked for the party tonight. Retro was feeling drunk and generous and the whole thing sounded all right.
I was tempted to panic but instead I persisted in telephoning Madam Squeeze. Luckily for me Madam Squeeze decided to sit this leg of the tour out and I knew if I kept calling that I'd eventually catch her between songs in her busking set on King St tonight. She's on her way now to rescue me and I suppose this fact has put one more fear to rest. It seems that when I am locked and alone in my house I will not die and be eaten very slowly by the cat but attend interstate parties by telephone and make pots of peppermint tea.
I was laughing about the preparation of noise as I collected my drumsticks and began another assault on rhythm coordination and purpose. I was thinking of Spencer and how he can make music without notice, music enough to kickstart your heart or bend your neck in rememberance of something you haven't lived through yet. I was laughing at preparation with my joyful anarchic heart until I decided to water the front garden and the door knob came off in my hand. I am trapped in The Peach.
The Peachettes are out of town this weekend. Spencer has gone on tour and just about everybody I know is somewhere else today. I thought about panicking but instead I attended an interstate party at The Hive by telephone. I was passed around the guests like a favour and I believe that I had a grand old time. Gemma was lamenting her yesterdays' drinking as she cooked for the party tonight. Retro was feeling drunk and generous and the whole thing sounded all right.
I was tempted to panic but instead I persisted in telephoning Madam Squeeze. Luckily for me Madam Squeeze decided to sit this leg of the tour out and I knew if I kept calling that I'd eventually catch her between songs in her busking set on King St tonight. She's on her way now to rescue me and I suppose this fact has put one more fear to rest. It seems that when I am locked and alone in my house I will not die and be eaten very slowly by the cat but attend interstate parties by telephone and make pots of peppermint tea.
Screw you German Idealist architecture
I've just washed the last of the dull silver and gold smears from the end of my fingers. I was talking to a person or two while I ran my fingers along the circuit lines. Anne Finnegan grinned at me as my left ring finger made enough noise to pause a gallery's worth of conversation. I don't know how Joyce Hinterding did it but her drawings were circuit boards that made sound when you touched them.
I've been largely avoiding galleries smaller than the MCA for the last few years. I think it's time the stupid art world got ready for me to make a come back.
I've been largely avoiding galleries smaller than the MCA for the last few years. I think it's time the stupid art world got ready for me to make a come back.
Aleksandr Hearst is an interesting young man
I happen to agree with him on this issue though of course I might word it a little differently. I've said it before and I'll say it again:
'This country's planted thick with laws from coast to coast and if you cut them down d'you really think you could stand upright in the winds that would blow then?'
Yes Robert Bolt said it first. I am aware of that.
'This country's planted thick with laws from coast to coast and if you cut them down d'you really think you could stand upright in the winds that would blow then?'
Yes Robert Bolt said it first. I am aware of that.
Oh honey last night I saw you at Wu-Tang
I love prints. I can afford prints. I will be very happy with my print. I will frame it and hang it on the wall here in The Peach where I will make The Peachettes stand and admire it with teacups in their hands.
In other news last night Wu-Tang Clan performed live at the end of my street. Three underage drinkers were arrested approximately 20cm from my face. One man tried to kiss me and another man said he was going to punch me in the face but then the crowd went inside, Spencer arrived and everything was fine. Wu-Tang Clan aint nothing to fuck with.
We Buy Your Kids
I ran into Sonny Day on my way home from Mag Nation, I'm visiting that place daily until the new issue of Apartamento comes in. Sonny was opening a taxi door then closing it again after his friend climbed inside, makes sense when you stop to consider the basic physics of doors, Australia and taxis.
I've been talking to Sonny on the phone lately, sent the odd email or two, it was good to run into him and reconfirm that he is a real person and not a distinct set of telephone broadcast tones or a particular arrangement of the alphabet displayed in my inbox. Sonny is in fact kind of sunny despite the beard that can only be described as biker.
I've been talking to Sonny and Biddy about logos* for PAN magazine. They had said they were keen but needed to consider their schedule, which is unbelievably full. I anticipated a lovely but negative answer to the question of making me a logo but as it turns out I was wrong. You could have knocked me over with a dumbo feather as the taxi drove away and Sonny was standing on the street telling me yes, yes We Buy Your Kids would love to work with PAN magazine.
* Please note that We Buy Your Kids will be designing a logo very late this year, they are not responsible for any of the plain things that are up on the PAN website at the moment.
I've been talking to Sonny on the phone lately, sent the odd email or two, it was good to run into him and reconfirm that he is a real person and not a distinct set of telephone broadcast tones or a particular arrangement of the alphabet displayed in my inbox. Sonny is in fact kind of sunny despite the beard that can only be described as biker.
I've been talking to Sonny and Biddy about logos* for PAN magazine. They had said they were keen but needed to consider their schedule, which is unbelievably full. I anticipated a lovely but negative answer to the question of making me a logo but as it turns out I was wrong. You could have knocked me over with a dumbo feather as the taxi drove away and Sonny was standing on the street telling me yes, yes We Buy Your Kids would love to work with PAN magazine.
* Please note that We Buy Your Kids will be designing a logo very late this year, they are not responsible for any of the plain things that are up on the PAN website at the moment.
Amazeballs
Today Slammaland intersected with PANland when I met Raging Yoghurt for the first time. She ordered the chocolate soup, I had two identical biscuits. If I wasn't so tired I'd tell you all about how smart, stylish and charming she is. I suppose that kind of information will have to wait for another day.
She thought she was chained up, she wasn't chained up but she was definitely dying
I thought well this is just about the worst situation a person can witness so I got out my sketchbook and made a picture.
Sometimes being alive for 100 days is reason enough to celebrate
Since she was born I drew a picture of a teapot and paid somebody to tattoo it on my shoulder in white ink. My life has turned on a sixpence and sped directly into the unknown realms of overwhelming joy, fulfillment and optimism. I'm not saying it's because of her, not even because of the teapot but something is markedly different around here. I have a new and lovely regret founded in the discovery of the 352 bus.
Official capacity
I like surprises that are good. I like editing magazines and writing sentences like "I am putting my fingers in all your pies". I also like being approached by a ski company to write their tweets for them. In the meeting I had to repress the urge to yell about snow and also that I find twitter quite annoying.
The idea of snow excites me. I've seen snow twice now, once I saw a little patch by the side of a road and one cold day it snowed at my Mum's house in Katoomba. It looked like floaty rain or evidence of a malfunction in my brain. I had no idea what was happening and for several long seconds stood at the window unable to comprehend what I was seeing. I think I said to my mother 'there is something wrong with outside, better come and have a look'. We stood in silence for a moment then Mum told me it was snow. I don't suppose that is the kind of thing that a ski company should know about. A person being paid to write for a ski company should have the ability to comprehend snow.
The idea of snow excites me. I've seen snow twice now, once I saw a little patch by the side of a road and one cold day it snowed at my Mum's house in Katoomba. It looked like floaty rain or evidence of a malfunction in my brain. I had no idea what was happening and for several long seconds stood at the window unable to comprehend what I was seeing. I think I said to my mother 'there is something wrong with outside, better come and have a look'. We stood in silence for a moment then Mum told me it was snow. I don't suppose that is the kind of thing that a ski company should know about. A person being paid to write for a ski company should have the ability to comprehend snow.
More surprising than propelling high speed air into your naked armpit
I walked into yet another promising looking boutique in my neverending search to source clothes for PAN magazine's first ever editorial fashion shoot. The woman behind the counter informed me that their lending policy was 'We don't lend', but then she hesitated and asked which magazine I was from. I told her PAN magazine expecting a blank look but she smiled and asked me what PAN stood for. I said "ponies are necessary but nobody is supposed to know about that". She said "I know about it and I love it". Seems that word is beginning to spread.
Oh and she might be changing her mind about the lending policy. We'll find out tomorrow.
Oh and she might be changing her mind about the lending policy. We'll find out tomorrow.
Deodorant that makes you smell
I went to Penguin and was pointed at by Pip Smith which was nice. I was going to talk about PAN magazine but what seems more important right now is my deodorant. I have not always been a fan of the spray-on kind of deodorant, I found propelling air into my armpits too much of a shocking experience and ended up jumping around like a lunatic. I still jump around but there has been a fundamental shift in my thinking. My new and experimental tin of spray-on deodorant increases my naturally occurring body odour in the same way that an amplifier transmits the sound of a guitar. And I like it. I am going to spray again tomorrow and become one of those people that smells just precisely like themselves.
Fine then let's make a deal - I'll give you ten for your eleven
Tomorrow we might talk about the magazine and just why it is called PAN.
Generally my preferred Elvis is Costello not Presley
Well Elvis is something else. He was wearing an expensive suit two sizes too large. He was shambolic yet dapper and he occasionally danced across the stage. Elvis likes stepping away from his microphone, not afraid to strum his guitar and just sing, really let rip like they used to before somebody stuck a cord into a black box and discovered amplification. Once or twice he got a little experimental and made some art noise with his loop machine and pedals. I feel like I'm being haunted by loops at the moment. Everybody wants to stand on stage with a loop machine and make a band of themselves. I think its because we've forgotten how to go solo, almost everyone's plugged into someone else all the time. I suppose it's only natural that they take this to the stage where traditionally it has been lonely or it was until somebody figured out how to multiply one person into the sound of many.
Daisy from Bridezilla played a solo set at Oxford Arts Factory on Friday night, before Spencer's band and then The Mess Hall. I like Daisy, she's grand because she stands like she means it and just fucking sings. The Holy Soul were, as they almost always are these days, better than the audience deserved. I didn't stay to hear The Mess Hall play, I managed to not call Jed Dan and that was enough for me. Radio Man was buying me drinks, I should have thought to drink something a little more expensive than water but it didn't occur to me at the time. I'm sure I had something else to say but I've forgotten what it might have been.
I've been saving my words lately. I've been holding back all effort that doesn't further the future of PAN magazine. I'll stop doing that eventually or maybe tomorrow but right now I'm riding that first wave of excitement just as far as it can take me. I'm hiding pens and notepads under my pillows in case I think of something in the night, I'm carrying two kinds of briefcase, working on three computers and tuning my footsteps to the sounds to the triple tap of magazine. I'll kick this habit at the launch party but for right now please don't wake me from this magazine dream.
Daisy from Bridezilla played a solo set at Oxford Arts Factory on Friday night, before Spencer's band and then The Mess Hall. I like Daisy, she's grand because she stands like she means it and just fucking sings. The Holy Soul were, as they almost always are these days, better than the audience deserved. I didn't stay to hear The Mess Hall play, I managed to not call Jed Dan and that was enough for me. Radio Man was buying me drinks, I should have thought to drink something a little more expensive than water but it didn't occur to me at the time. I'm sure I had something else to say but I've forgotten what it might have been.
I've been saving my words lately. I've been holding back all effort that doesn't further the future of PAN magazine. I'll stop doing that eventually or maybe tomorrow but right now I'm riding that first wave of excitement just as far as it can take me. I'm hiding pens and notepads under my pillows in case I think of something in the night, I'm carrying two kinds of briefcase, working on three computers and tuning my footsteps to the sounds to the triple tap of magazine. I'll kick this habit at the launch party but for right now please don't wake me from this magazine dream.
In the morning it would be better if you've gone
Sometimes the very best way to spend a Saturday morning is sitting in bed with a nice cup of tea listening to Bob Dylan's Christmas album and reading Nylon magazine. It helps to make a tiny bubble to stop in for a moment, even if the bubble doesn't really make sense.
Lacquer my tunnel
In case you were wondering why the pictures of trains in the tunnel at Central are so shiny. It is because they clean then lacquer them every Monday night.
I suppose I should have suspected this
Editing a magazine is a little like herding kittens into a volcano of doom.
[disclaimer: neither the contributors nor the magazine are like a volcano of doom, the magnitude of my mission is like a volcano of doom.... sort of]
[disclaimer: neither the contributors nor the magazine are like a volcano of doom, the magnitude of my mission is like a volcano of doom.... sort of]
Salami shower (instead of two kinds of classy)
I was feeling kind of pleased with myself because I was planning on having a bubble bath with the bathroom window wide open. I was going to lie back in hot water and watch the rain. I was thinking of smoking one of those long thin cigars and pouring the smoke from my lungs out the window but then I remembered that cigars are made of tobacco and I quit smoking three months ago.
I changed plans and went with a shower in order to avoid not smoking but I must have made a pit stop at the refrigerator. It was one of those thin flat pieces of salami, the kind large enough to cover a piece of bread. I was holding it curled like a cigar in my teeth while I peeled off my clothes. It was freezing in The Peach bathroom this afternoon, cold enough to hurry me straight into the shower with less than three seconds passing from the removal of my last sock until the hot water hit my face. I turned around to let the water warm my back when I realised the rolled up slice of salami was still sitting in place like a meat cigar hanging out of the left side of my mouth. Today is the day that I ate salami in the shower and I loved it. I'm doing it again tomorrow.
I changed plans and went with a shower in order to avoid not smoking but I must have made a pit stop at the refrigerator. It was one of those thin flat pieces of salami, the kind large enough to cover a piece of bread. I was holding it curled like a cigar in my teeth while I peeled off my clothes. It was freezing in The Peach bathroom this afternoon, cold enough to hurry me straight into the shower with less than three seconds passing from the removal of my last sock until the hot water hit my face. I turned around to let the water warm my back when I realised the rolled up slice of salami was still sitting in place like a meat cigar hanging out of the left side of my mouth. Today is the day that I ate salami in the shower and I loved it. I'm doing it again tomorrow.
Kind of like a hoppy sort of sideways moonwalk combined with a running man and also some kicking?
This morning I woke up, only very moderately hungover, and decided that today is the day I learn how to do the Melbourne Shuffle. Clearly the music is horrid and the shufflers seem mostly to be men but what the hell it's about time I developed a new hobby. I briefly considered converting my black pyjama pants with yellow electrical tape and downloading horrible music but on reflection have decided to simply perform Slamma style shuffle to Talking Heads wearing my pony dress.
It seems to me like this might be the place
Yesterday of course I had twelve tantrums in the rain but everyone arrived at all of the meetings and I believe what I experienced was progress with umbrellas, boots and a magazine. Newtown will in the end deliver what you need whether it's a poetry editor, seven and a half burritos or a permission to reprint something already delivered.
I had thought to sit quietly in a bookshop and lay down one convincing argument after another but as usual I ended pretending to tap dance in the doorway of a Mexican takeaway waving my umbrella and shouting at the rain.
I had thought to sit quietly in a bookshop and lay down one convincing argument after another but as usual I ended pretending to tap dance in the doorway of a Mexican takeaway waving my umbrella and shouting at the rain.
Peter, Paul and Mary seemed to have each other
Everyone knows they've been fucking but not everybody knows that he doesn't know her name. I decided to call her Mary. Last week I heard somebody say 'we lost Mary' and there's not one person in Newtown who looks more lost than her. I was clutching ten records to my chest and walking in the rain when she rolled past me on a bus staring at nothing, not even blank space. I imagine she lets her handbag sag in her lap.
There's no one taller, she's got those toothpick legs hooked on to the end of a floating bone pelvis. Black hair hanging clean and straight. I feel like setting obstacles in her path just to see exactly how much those long legs can step over with breaking their elegant stride. I suppose she looks like a model or something but when you see her in a crowd she seems planted from outer space. I've seen her almost everywhere in Newtown, on buses, street corners, bars, pubs, shops and supermarkets. She is always alone. Last month I saw her picking up teaspoons in Vinnies. She would hold one close to her face, turn it over then put it down again. I never picked her as the type to make off with the silver.
I would have assumed that I had imagined her, conjured out of the viable air space in my head but people talk about her. I'm not the only one that sees in corners and out on the street. I'm going to keep calling her Mary but I think I've decided that instead of watching stand hollow and decorative as a crystal vase I might just walk up to her and say hello.
There's no one taller, she's got those toothpick legs hooked on to the end of a floating bone pelvis. Black hair hanging clean and straight. I feel like setting obstacles in her path just to see exactly how much those long legs can step over with breaking their elegant stride. I suppose she looks like a model or something but when you see her in a crowd she seems planted from outer space. I've seen her almost everywhere in Newtown, on buses, street corners, bars, pubs, shops and supermarkets. She is always alone. Last month I saw her picking up teaspoons in Vinnies. She would hold one close to her face, turn it over then put it down again. I never picked her as the type to make off with the silver.
I would have assumed that I had imagined her, conjured out of the viable air space in my head but people talk about her. I'm not the only one that sees in corners and out on the street. I'm going to keep calling her Mary but I think I've decided that instead of watching stand hollow and decorative as a crystal vase I might just walk up to her and say hello.
I've lost that and now it's gone
Newtown can turn on you, offer one of those knife-edge shoulder blades poking out of the backs of things. I knew this but I don't think Newtown knew that I would turn on her. I saw Gemma today and she said she thought I'd been turning on Newtown for a while now, figured out the code while I slept by night.
He started out speaking words and those stupid proclamations people utter before they realise what the worst is and that it sometimes happens to you, it made more sense than I'd care to admit. He rotated a hung apple until the worm hole hit the light.
He started out speaking words and those stupid proclamations people utter before they realise what the worst is and that it sometimes happens to you, it made more sense than I'd care to admit. He rotated a hung apple until the worm hole hit the light.
Two seconds at The Hopetoun
I don't believe this is the end. There is a big grief behind this denial. I don't suppose I've talked about it before but The Hopetoun is one of the places where I suddenly looked down and found that my feet were standing just precisely where I always hoped they'd be. The other moment I don't talk about is the two seconds where one turned back birthed a god.
They come out of the crowd at The Hopetoun, the one standing next to you suddenly stops at the end of your sentence to look up at the stage. They might make a vague gesture with their head or nod at someone already scrambling onstage. There's always this moment; they breathe unaware of the accordion push of their lungs. They'll stare then at walls or the stage or their last chance to run for the green backlit EXIT. Here's the part that breaks my heart, the first step after they pivot and leave you standing in the crowd. Barely head and shoulders above us but it's enough to get a clear idea of where they're coming from and just where we're likely to send them. It's how we spread our legs and birth our gods, forty centimetres off the floor.
There is a rumour
That The Hopetoun is shutting down. It might be best to panic after I find out if it is true or not, and not before.
Ponies Are Necessary
I've had one of those ideas that feed themselves and now I have a London correspondent, a fashion editor and a sex columnist. Some days you wake up feeling slightly tired and wishing the blender worked well enough to blend a banana but by the time you go to bed you're the editor of a magazine. Weird how that works.
There will of course be more details, in the future.
There will of course be more details, in the future.
Pre-breakfast meeting sitting in underpants after all the guests have left but I am yet to moisturise, did I mention that my hair looks good?
Newtown cracked last night or it rolled over on the mattress and I saw her in clear light for the first time. I'm not blaming Spencer but he was definitely involved. There were empty houses where there was supposed to be Gypsies and somebody blamed Elvis for Kylie Minogue. I can't recommend that you do this. Don't take a clear youth with intellect and use them as your eyes. If it weren't for my imminent breakfast meeting with Madam Squeeze I would have airlifted The Peach over three bridges and into the sea. I think the red dust rose up for a reason.
Anti-mashwoman at The Kill Devil Hills
It's the wrong side of midnight and I have to be up at 7, I left before the band finished playing but I'm not happy about it. I started the night out as a civilian but as soon as I discovered that The Annandale has installed soap dispensers in the ladies' toilets I decided to turn my notes into a review (which will theoretically be published sometime soon). I think I'm starting to love The Annandale, I used to think it was adequate with periods of shithouse sound but tonight there was soap and a chair with wheels. I managed to suffer only one mild disgrace when talking to members of bands such as Crow and The Mess Hall. I have a feeling The Annandale has taken pity on me, spread her beer-stained legs and offered me some shelter. I had nothing to do with the poor woman who tripped and fell down the stairs and lord knows if I was going to trip over anyone it would have been a Fenton or two. I had an awkward but passable conversation with John Fenton about kitchen stools and family photographs. He is using a scanner from 2001 but his computer is fairly new. I muttered strangely at Jed Kurzel who was interrupting my note-taking, I had to stuff my pen into the pockets of my jeans to shake his hand. I have no idea what he was saying to me, I was trying to grab the tail of a sentence as it flew through my head. I didn't manage to catch that sentence and I've been mourning its loss ever since. I suppose I should console myself with the fact that both he and I were rocking the double denim but mine slightly more stylish because I had made the addition of a silk tie.
Oh yes and the bands were quite good too.
For those people that like information the bands were:
Loene Carmen (solo)
The Holy Soul
The Kill Devil Hills
Oh yes and the bands were quite good too.
For those people that like information the bands were:
Loene Carmen (solo)
The Holy Soul
The Kill Devil Hills
I have a feeling
That pine green will be making a come back in poetry book spines next year. Oh yes, it will be amazing.
PS or Ra! Accidental in-lift rudeness
Check out my "review" of the instore gig to begin the launching of Damn You, Ra. One of these days I'll sit down and write a proper review, like a grown up, just not today. In other news I have developed the exciting skill of accidental in-lift rudeness.
Dear Woman from Level 4 of that building I was in for a bit today,
I am terribly sorry. I did not mean to repeat aloud what you said when you declared 'god damn' into your mobile phone. It came out of my mouth with no warning at all, I think I was wearing a red dress. I did not mean to make the other ten people in the lift laugh with careless abandon so that their access passes bounced and clacked on their little corporate chests. I can assure you that I was secretly writing poetry while they were thinking about money. I might as well mention they were laughing at me and not at you, unknown woman from level 4. You may be consoled that I felt a kind of burning awkwardness and a little bit like an accidental arsehole as I walked across the beige tiles of your lobby. Later that afternoon Aleksandr considered my conundrum, he said that he didn't think you would take it the wrong way, if you were a person with a sense of humour. I have no idea if he will be right, I don't have that kind of information about him yet but I am slowly learning the contents of his ipod and that he likes to wear my hat. I hope this information will assist you.
DS
Dear Woman from Level 4 of that building I was in for a bit today,
I am terribly sorry. I did not mean to repeat aloud what you said when you declared 'god damn' into your mobile phone. It came out of my mouth with no warning at all, I think I was wearing a red dress. I did not mean to make the other ten people in the lift laugh with careless abandon so that their access passes bounced and clacked on their little corporate chests. I can assure you that I was secretly writing poetry while they were thinking about money. I might as well mention they were laughing at me and not at you, unknown woman from level 4. You may be consoled that I felt a kind of burning awkwardness and a little bit like an accidental arsehole as I walked across the beige tiles of your lobby. Later that afternoon Aleksandr considered my conundrum, he said that he didn't think you would take it the wrong way, if you were a person with a sense of humour. I have no idea if he will be right, I don't have that kind of information about him yet but I am slowly learning the contents of his ipod and that he likes to wear my hat. I hope this information will assist you.
DS
Holy Fucking Hell
Here's a thing not to do. Don't go running around town getting drunk on a Monday night with young Aleksandr because he might take you to a bar where a jug of snakebite is real cheap and the backpackers from upstairs come down to race crabs. I have the feeling the light shades were covered in hula skirts and most people were wearing shorts. I don't recall an occasion where I have cheered for a small crab with a number painted on its back, lifting my beer glass in chorus with a dense crowd of international men. My crab was beaten by a crab named "Tradesmen Entrance". I suspect that crab belonged to a group of men wearing bike shorts, rubber truncheons and handcuffs.
I ran away in the end, made a break for it up the stairs and back out onto the street. I was surprised to find myself on George St and close to Central Station. I was quite sure that my geography took leave at the same time as my senses and that I was located somewhere brand fucking new. I met up with Spencer on King St in one of those same old pubs where the locals are local and the sausage sandwiches are free. Spencer took his time laughing at me for running away and into the night. I guess next time I see him I'll try and explain that sometimes when I find myself somewhere new I just need to run until I stop.
I ran away in the end, made a break for it up the stairs and back out onto the street. I was surprised to find myself on George St and close to Central Station. I was quite sure that my geography took leave at the same time as my senses and that I was located somewhere brand fucking new. I met up with Spencer on King St in one of those same old pubs where the locals are local and the sausage sandwiches are free. Spencer took his time laughing at me for running away and into the night. I guess next time I see him I'll try and explain that sometimes when I find myself somewhere new I just need to run until I stop.
Damn You, Ra
I kept staring at Rusty from You Am I not for any other reason than he is a man that knows Tim Rogers. Spencer told me to stop it then I realised that Spencer is also a man that knows Tim Rogers, not as well as Rusty but still there you go. Next time I might stare at Spencer. I was jammed into Repressed Records like a sunburnt sardine with Newtown's finest unwashed. Today was the first day in Spencer's album launch juggernaut. It was an instore album launch, Spencer and Mr Hunter worked out that if they continued to sell records at the rate they sold during the instore gig then they would be earning 36 million dollars a month. I double checked their calculations, they are correct but the likelihood of this happening is just about the same as me returning to my international modeling career. If it does come true then Spencer can start paying for my coffee. To help my free coffee dreams come true go and buy the album.
For those people who like information the album is called "Damn You, Ra" by The Holy Soul.
Did I mention that I am on this album?
Bill shock or confusion - They charged me to remove my right hand
Look at the knuckles on my left hand. There's bone under that skin pushing pale against my architecture. What a traitor shadow trading with child's wish for aphasia.
First draft after walking through Central at lunch time with two fans and one man
I could tunnel to America
using sharp facts I want to forget about you
Your Moses hurled me from the mountain
Rained down stones that I swallowed like lead
using sharp facts I want to forget about you
Your Moses hurled me from the mountain
Rained down stones that I swallowed like lead
There's lipstick on my microphone
Dear Australian Tax Office,
Your late processing of my tax refund has prevented me from buying a ticket to see Elvis Costello, please register my extreme disappointment and the inevitable uncomfortable listening that I will have to do outside the Enmore Theatre. Happily the theatre is extremely close to my house, unhappily this is not because of you. You will receive no credit for the proximity of my private residence from the above mentioned venue.
Regards
DS
PS
It is telling that I am frightening people on buses by grinning like a Cheshire cat despite having to stand outside to listen to Elvis Costello, whom I love and will not be persuaded otherwise, not by anybody. You will not receive any credit for my current state of general elation, sincere happiness or abiding love for Declan MacManus who is an actual songwriter and not just a man who wanders about with a guitar case full of a guitar and an empty heart clutching at three achingly average incomplete songs.
Your late processing of my tax refund has prevented me from buying a ticket to see Elvis Costello, please register my extreme disappointment and the inevitable uncomfortable listening that I will have to do outside the Enmore Theatre. Happily the theatre is extremely close to my house, unhappily this is not because of you. You will receive no credit for the proximity of my private residence from the above mentioned venue.
Regards
DS
PS
It is telling that I am frightening people on buses by grinning like a Cheshire cat despite having to stand outside to listen to Elvis Costello, whom I love and will not be persuaded otherwise, not by anybody. You will not receive any credit for my current state of general elation, sincere happiness or abiding love for Declan MacManus who is an actual songwriter and not just a man who wanders about with a guitar case full of a guitar and an empty heart clutching at three achingly average incomplete songs.
Dear Dawn Tan
Your blog handmade love makes me feel happy, every day and one day, when I have twelve more pots of money, I will buy one of your little paintings and hang it on my wall.
The opposite of thorns on a rose
I want to watch somebody die, see that flat-pack end of them. I've seen the crash, click and climb of most things, spider-legged horses breathing out the last of their tree-strength, a new woman slide out of a torn vagina but not that bitter end. You can blame science if you like, both sides now, I want to discover just why we are supposed to operate as the exact opposite of thorns on a rose.
Dear Anastasia Freeman
Your exhibition* is sophisticated and beautiful, successful on many levels but none more than the personal. I was re-enchanted, or at least I was until I walked round the corner and found myself back on Oxford St in the rain but I can't really hold you responsible for that. Thank you for meeting me in a miniature wedding cake of a building that I misremembered as being slightly blue. You slid out all the possibilities hidden within each work of art, at the going down of the sun I will remember them.
* Thaumaturgy - Kudos Gallery - 6 Napier St Paddo - until 12th September
* Thaumaturgy - Kudos Gallery - 6 Napier St Paddo - until 12th September
We have liftoff
Who would have thought it would be so difficult to explain exactly what I mean when I say I've invented a Little Richard crash helmet.
Interesting study
Curious admixture of a man, he has the correct ratio of shoulder width to visible chest hair but his nose leaves me with the impression of daintiness. He is altogether a different sort of man, one that might attend Oxford University between the wars.
To be continued...
To be continued...
Microwave is not the same as ultrasound but both will heat blue coloured goo to an acceptable temperature
He said he wanted to put things in my shoes. I was lying face down and he had a good hold of my left heel with his right hand, he massaged his fingers up my heel and across until they were as far underneath an ankle bone as fingers can be. I said "What kind of things? Roller skates, ponies, marmalade sandwiches, dynamite? It's dynamite isn't it? Dynamte!" He scoffed, "Dynamite! Why would anyone put dynamite in shoes?" then told me to lie still and cooperate. I thought about trying to leave because things had shifted from odd and uncomfortable into definitely very painful but he had smeared my left leg with several kinds of goo, first clear, then slightly yellow and finally blue and I thought I might slip over and skid into the doorframe or stain my red dress or something infinitely terrible but as yet unimagined. I tried to ask him what was with the different kinds of goo but every tiny deliberate movement of his freakishly strong arms and fingers sent a shiver of pain so pure and undiluted that I had to switch breathing from autopilot to manual. I endured for as long as I could before calling a halt to proceedings, he said he was just about to finish anyway then he held me down flat while he wiped away the goo with three towels, each one a different shade of blue.
I did not discover what he wants to put in my shoes or why he needs three separate kinds of goo but I am quite determined to find out. I am going to see him again on Thursday.
I did not discover what he wants to put in my shoes or why he needs three separate kinds of goo but I am quite determined to find out. I am going to see him again on Thursday.
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