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.
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