I'll fill my shoes with powdered glass, that's all part of the deal. I'll walk you bloody as though I was always a typewriter. Spencer gave me Spencer P Jones on a flat disc with track listing handwritten on a white paper sleeve. He gave me a reason to glance sideways at the glass panel on the upstairs French doors in the cafe on Glebe Point Rd. I glanced at the glass panel fighting the urge to lurch my head through it. It wasn't cause Spencer's landed some astonishing people to record a spot or two on his new album.
Jagged teeth are tearing at my tongue, this is all part of my aphasia program, verb, transition. Tug Dumbly stood backlit like a monument but the microphone was shithouse and I lost inflections through electricity and trees. He was standing there holding his opaque decades like a frame but I'll sit through it. I'll sit through his time-frozen-yesterday's-decade Sydney vision humour to feel the molecular necessity of his breathing Yahweh poem and witness the tipping point of his verb, transition. He's a man on the edge of brilliance, if he dares.
I was sitting in the cafe fighting the urge to crash my head through the glass panel on a French door sucking down cigarettes and cradling coffee. Spencer keeps opening his mouth and the words are falling out. His words, other's words, its the way he arranges them, a stone fountain spitting out the absurd, the profound and the necessary. He's the most like a typewriter out of any man I know. Spencer said something and I was struck like a bell by my own lack of genius. I leaned back in my cafe chair blowing out cigarette smoke and cradling coffee, fighting the urge to lurch my head through the glass panel and pushing down the wordstorm.
I've wrapped myself in scarves and all the draping things I can find. I'm walking the hallway and eating mandarins. I'm washing dishes and changing the order of words in my head. I'm making piles of dirty clothes, talking at the cat, I'm putting on another pair of socks. I'm wondering at the order of things in my cupboards and counting newspapers in a pile. I'm cooking and eating eggs and toast, I'm putting pieces of broken glass in the bin. I'm wandering this house like a museum and calling it busy but what I'm really doing is investigating to see if I'm in a state of grace.
Jagged teeth are tearing at my tongue, this is all part of my aphasia program, verb, transition. Tug Dumbly stood backlit like a monument but the microphone was shithouse and I lost inflections through electricity and trees. He was standing there holding his opaque decades like a frame but I'll sit through it. I'll sit through his time-frozen-yesterday's-decade Sydney vision humour to feel the molecular necessity of his breathing Yahweh poem and witness the tipping point of his verb, transition. He's a man on the edge of brilliance, if he dares.
I was sitting in the cafe fighting the urge to crash my head through the glass panel on a French door sucking down cigarettes and cradling coffee. Spencer keeps opening his mouth and the words are falling out. His words, other's words, its the way he arranges them, a stone fountain spitting out the absurd, the profound and the necessary. He's the most like a typewriter out of any man I know. Spencer said something and I was struck like a bell by my own lack of genius. I leaned back in my cafe chair blowing out cigarette smoke and cradling coffee, fighting the urge to lurch my head through the glass panel and pushing down the wordstorm.
I've wrapped myself in scarves and all the draping things I can find. I'm walking the hallway and eating mandarins. I'm washing dishes and changing the order of words in my head. I'm making piles of dirty clothes, talking at the cat, I'm putting on another pair of socks. I'm wondering at the order of things in my cupboards and counting newspapers in a pile. I'm cooking and eating eggs and toast, I'm putting pieces of broken glass in the bin. I'm wandering this house like a museum and calling it busy but what I'm really doing is investigating to see if I'm in a state of grace.
Comments
Dale,
This post is shit and I object very strongly to one or more of the words you have used. It is clear to me that everything you have said is wrong and I aim to make a stupid point about this. You have no talent for the arranging of words and after seven or so years I went mental, I probably never loved you, this is probably your fault. Also, science.
Artboy (diehard3)
That is brilliant.
Nice to see you're still haunting that hallway as usual. In empathy I shall now eat a mandarin.
"Understanding is all very well. I am happy to understand people with quiet beliefs. For them, I even have a sort of compassion.
People with loud beliefs who seek to reinforce the idea that loud belief is the status quo, who amass wealth and influence, they make me very angry. For them, no understanding whatsoever."
This is despite leaving a trail of loud beliefs on several blogs. Seems that as well as having no soul, "I" also have no concept of hipocrisy.
Accuracy in spelling reflects accuracy of thought.
You must be incredibly insecure about your level of intelligence to be commenting like this. Such criticism is easy and reactionary.
Thus far you certainly haven't impressed me with your brains, and I doubt you have impressed anybody else.
Dale tells me you actually are an intelligent person. Start acting like it.
Why are you trying to pick a fight, anyway?
(alter ego)
I'm picking a fight because I'm hardcore. I'm picking a fight, not with anyone in particular, I'm the guy who picks a fight with the whole damn world for its lack of standards in manufacturing, distribution and support.
I'm definitely picking a fight with the marketing department. Cardboard at ten paces, we'll see who's fucking clever.
And thank you for deigning to show us plebs the way.