The literature on not fucking sleeping advises me to write down whatever is in my head instead of lying in bed and thinking. So here is the unabridged contents of my head at 2am. I am quite sure that it will be very boring.
Motor skills greatly inhibited. Walking sideways easier than forward yet sleep still further away than if not yet invented. Have double checked bathroom and seems that either I did take the tablets or they vanished. The swallowing of them seems more likely, this theory greatly enhanced by smeared gormless drugged look on face when I looked in the mirror. Let it be known that valerian is for losers and never did anyone any good, not even the poor copywriter paid a pittance to write the boring and vague claims on the side of the jar. That is why I have embarked on my bold experiment.
Spencer advised me not to drink wine and take codeine as a remedy for sleeplessness, that and to take a bus or a taxi home so that he didn't find me three hours later dead on a road somewhere. Spencer is usually right about things but not this time, oh no. I walked home to aid the wearying process. I drank the wine. I swallowed the codeine but see Spencer I am not dead. Nowhere near it.
Heartbeat possibly irregular. More likely that my counting skills have become irregular. What I wouldn't give for Creamboy's stethoscope about now, just to hear the strange pulse that animates my body. Nothing is happening on the internet. Reading now impossible due to slight bleariness of vision. The cat is nowhere to be seen, suspect sleeping under low piece of furniture like the dirty hairy sausage thief that she is.
If Sherlock Holmes were here I would wrestle the morphine from his strangely strong hands and take it myself. If Sherlock were here he would not be able to identify my profession due to the invention of computers although it is true that my fingers are generally ink stained from my habit of writing with ink and nib. I do this by candlelight because of the nature of my desk. It is old, so old that there are three generations worth of stationery locked safe in its ornate drawers. If Sherlock were here I would kiss him just to see what he would do. I suspect he would jump backwards and declare "Madam! Come to your senses" or some such tripe.
If I was Sherlock I would kiss Watson. Clearly there is no other person meant for the detestable Mr Holmes, he does not seem to desire the company of a lady. I suspect it is the gentlemen he prefers. If I was Watson I would run away with Lestrade and open a bed and breakfast near Cornwall. Lestrade would mange the B&B and I would claim a lofty room overlooking the ocean and sit at my desk and write. If I was Lestrade I would declare my undying love for the other police detective, whatever his name is. We would run away to Paris and eat tiny beautiful cakes together every morning for breakfast.
I will now examine the gentle art of writing about saucepans. I have just spilled my cigarette filters all over the floor. Taking this as an indication that the drugs are working. Why is the word 'internet' considered a proper noun? Why? Chair is not a proper noun nor is car or father, unless referring specifically to one's own father as a name. What in the hell is going on? Who decides what is and what is not a proper noun? And just how did Simon know my full name. Sure I have sat with him on more than one occasion but never had I had call to myself anything other than my first name and why did he shout my whole name in farewell as I walked out of the pub this early evening? Something odd is afoot. I will ask Spencer. He will know.
I will invent tobacco that is good for you. Smoking must in some way be good for you. I am sure of this. My hair is tangled and standing upright in ridiculous giant curls. There is no point to that thought. The Spatula is intolerable if she has been drinking beer. This fact should be in the encyclopedia. Grizelda's bedroom is extremely untidy, this also should be in an encyclopedia. Why oh why does Gemma live in Melbourne. Sure The Hive is grand and her friends excellent but it so far away. I can't walk there for coffee. Too far.
This line this line. It used to be the palest green. Why am I not delirious with drugs and alcohol? I have done my best. What is going on? Oh lord my brain has become impervious to mind altering substances. How can this be? I generally drink pink lemonade not alcoholic drinks. My drug taking days ended some years ago with the last flush of my stupid youth. It is not as though I could have worked up an immunity.
I keep thinking of the tall and strong man who pushed my right shoulder into the cold brick wall and smeared tenderly at my red lipstick with his broad rough thumb. His face was a question mark. My answer was no but now I'm not sure why. There is nothing better than a rugged man. with the exception of a nice cup of tea and little sit down followed by adding words to my manuscript. That is better than a rugged man. That is better than all things ever invented.
Why can't some people write? Sure they have mastered the alphabet but even this boring and stupid blog post is better than their rancid inaqequate scrawlings. Writing should be the first purpose of everyone. Then everything would be grand all over the world. Perhaps I should go on a murder spree? I will start with the writers of bad fan fiction then move on to bad fantasy authors, stupid old hacks who wouldn't know news if it latched on to their testicles and then ordinary members of the general public. If the drugs were working this might seem like a good idea but I can still tell that it is a bad idea to be going on murder sprees.
There was this guy called Tom Roberts who trained horses. He once mounted a horse that would not go forwards, to demonstrate how to overcome this obstacle he sat on the horse and gave a lecture to his students for some two hours. During this time the horse became anxious to move forwards but Captain Roberts would not permit it. By the time he was finished lecturing his work on the horse was done. He asked the students to observe, calmly signalled to the horse to move forwards in a walk, then trot and canter. The horse obliged most willingly. There is a lesson in there somewhere.
My riding students used to object when I prevented them from using anything other than an ordinary snaffle bit such as an eggbutt snaffle which is kind and soft on the horses mouth. Some students used to always want a pelham bit and did not appreciate when I pointed out that a pelham whilst customary for polo was a sign of inadequate riding skills for schooling and flatwork. Of course I used a double bridle for advanced work, generally only after good lateral work was established such as shoulder-in and renvers, a nice counter-canter and so forth. There are no horses in Newtown.
I miss the horse. I dream regularly of his final collapsing moments each time waking myself with heaving sobs. It has now been almost a decade since the horse. I thought that time would help but it appears not. This might be my one irreversible tragedy.
2:28 am. Nothing of consequence in head. Usual background hum of sentences for manuscript, ideas for articles but nothing else. No great stress or new tragedy. No pining for an absent lover, no regreat over recent misdeeds, no nothing of interest at all. No music, no poetry, no urgent desires. This has been a grand waste of time.
Come to think of it something strange did occur last night. I put my glass of water down on a road case in front of the sound desk. When I next picked it up to take a sip the water tasted like beer. That is very odd.
Showing posts with label Creamboy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Creamboy. Show all posts
Digital Mystery
Who is diehard3?
The following people have, at one point or another, been suspected;
Superman
Creamboy
Artboy
Chris Brimstone
Elliot
Spencer
Dale Slamma (this one is ridiculous, I am clearly not diehard3)
If you will not confess then will you lead a merry chase?
I demand a clue.
The following people have, at one point or another, been suspected;
Superman
Creamboy
Artboy
Chris Brimstone
Elliot
Spencer
Dale Slamma (this one is ridiculous, I am clearly not diehard3)
If you will not confess then will you lead a merry chase?
I demand a clue.
Fed, watered and chaperoned
I wasn't expecting to be sucked into a glass bottle and stoppered as I sat sipping at my soy latte with vanilla. Sitting in my usual island cafe at my usual table I might expect nothing more than to sit and sip my coffee and stare at Creamboy as he talked. It wasn't that I couldn't think of anything to say its just that I'd been sucked into a glass bottle and stoppered, Newtown has a way of turning on me when I least expect it.
Isolation does that, it swirls somewhere merrily above while I walk below, happy in my own way, then it tires and comes to rest round my shoulders. Creamboy was talking about Bathurst but my mind was in Mudgee. I left something in Mudgee once but he was talking about Bathurst. Creamboy's going to Bathurst for a few months, its a doctor thing, he was saying I should come and visit him but I was thinking about Mudgee.
I was thinking about the last time I saw Mudgee, I drove over the mountains in my old roofless 70's jeep to stay with a friend of mine who'd kicked the city one last time before buying fifty acres, a tall pair of wellies and a herd of cows. The contents of her house were there all there in Mudgee flashing city lights across the dusk in her front paddock. She was taller and thinner and had hair like a stranger. She lost things in the city, her lymph nodes and her younger brother. I left something in Mudgee once, something important, something reflective.
Crowds surged round the cafe and I remembered why I call it the island cafe, Superman won't sit there and I know why, he told me once with a forkful of cake halfway to his face and a magnetic chess piece in his left hand. Creamboy downed his hot chocolate in three mouthfuls and set the glass on the table with a careful thump and a wry smile. There is always a strange temptation to ask him to heal me somehow as though I could lay down and by naming the parts of me that whirr with universal noise he would quiet the human condition but I think that about a lot of people, not just doctors.
Creamboy was talking about Mudgee and saying it was in the middle of nowhere, not like Bathurst, that's not quite so nowhere as Mudgee. He was talking about the separate pockets of his life, how his friends sit in quiet opposition to each other and he floats between them unconnected. He was saying I must know what that's like, when everyone is separate but I was shaking my head and sipping at my coffee. Newtown was waist deep and sinking. I sipped at my coffee ever grateful for my island, shaking my head and rattling my invisible boat shuttles and bobbins. I was thinking its a weaving thing, my existence, I weave people through each other tight as I can. I dance through the gaps with my drawstrings and cupcakes pulling invisible threads until everybody knows everybody and you could pull focus on them one at a time and we'd all be there. Its a matter of existence. Its about glass bottles and frames of reference and knowing that I'm not enough.
Isolation does that, it swirls somewhere merrily above while I walk below, happy in my own way, then it tires and comes to rest round my shoulders. Creamboy was talking about Bathurst but my mind was in Mudgee. I left something in Mudgee once but he was talking about Bathurst. Creamboy's going to Bathurst for a few months, its a doctor thing, he was saying I should come and visit him but I was thinking about Mudgee.
I was thinking about the last time I saw Mudgee, I drove over the mountains in my old roofless 70's jeep to stay with a friend of mine who'd kicked the city one last time before buying fifty acres, a tall pair of wellies and a herd of cows. The contents of her house were there all there in Mudgee flashing city lights across the dusk in her front paddock. She was taller and thinner and had hair like a stranger. She lost things in the city, her lymph nodes and her younger brother. I left something in Mudgee once, something important, something reflective.
Crowds surged round the cafe and I remembered why I call it the island cafe, Superman won't sit there and I know why, he told me once with a forkful of cake halfway to his face and a magnetic chess piece in his left hand. Creamboy downed his hot chocolate in three mouthfuls and set the glass on the table with a careful thump and a wry smile. There is always a strange temptation to ask him to heal me somehow as though I could lay down and by naming the parts of me that whirr with universal noise he would quiet the human condition but I think that about a lot of people, not just doctors.
Creamboy was talking about Mudgee and saying it was in the middle of nowhere, not like Bathurst, that's not quite so nowhere as Mudgee. He was talking about the separate pockets of his life, how his friends sit in quiet opposition to each other and he floats between them unconnected. He was saying I must know what that's like, when everyone is separate but I was shaking my head and sipping at my coffee. Newtown was waist deep and sinking. I sipped at my coffee ever grateful for my island, shaking my head and rattling my invisible boat shuttles and bobbins. I was thinking its a weaving thing, my existence, I weave people through each other tight as I can. I dance through the gaps with my drawstrings and cupcakes pulling invisible threads until everybody knows everybody and you could pull focus on them one at a time and we'd all be there. Its a matter of existence. Its about glass bottles and frames of reference and knowing that I'm not enough.
In the morning
Two days ago I went to an exhibition called "Black in fashion: From mourning to night". I wandered freely around the space wishing for shawls and mantles tut tutting myself for packing only stupid floppy clothes and my red clown shoes to wear for the whole holiday.
Tonight I am laying out my own black things in careful layers from socks to scarf. People say I don't need to wear black to a funeral, just wear something clean and tidy, like a wild throwback to the days of children in school uniforms at official functions but I like the ritual. I can do without the weddings and the christenings, I rolled up my prayer mat years ago and lord knows my hair is not a covenant between me and anything but I like the ritual of grief and the standing of us all in rows.
I can't remember the order of funerals I have attended. I remember the ones I was absent from. I remember the man before Artboy that attempted suicide again and again before he finally got it right but I wasn't there in the end. I wasn't standing in my place in that row. I was sitting on the floor conjuring silken memories of golden skin and his impossible height, remembering how I used to lay on top of him and my feet would reach the middle of his shins.
I remember the strange swelling of the Estonian choir at my Grandmother's funeral, the hard ball of centuries coming right in across from that frozen ocean. I remember the old men standing guard for my Grandfather's coffin, their sword hands faltering and the one who fell to his knees in the aisle. I remember my brother staring up at me tear stained and ragged, his eyes wide with the shock of his own grief and my Mother. My Mother sitting at a table with a plate full of tiny sandwiches whispering to herself under her breath and the whole time her face hard and soft and alien.
I remember the ones who should have died but didn't. I remember taking blow after blow with the car keys firmly in my right fist. I should have let him drive. I should have held them out in sacred silence and let Artboy open the portal to my own ritual of grief. Instead I stood like a column with my purpling swelling face under the manic blows of a madman's fist until he ran screaming into the night and the car sat silent in the driveway.
Tomorrow I am an extra. A demonstration of the importance the main players hold in my glass jar. My memories of the man are small and new. He played the piano while I waltzed in his lounge room. We sat side by side on the lounge eating cakes. We shared a cup of tea and a laugh while the cricket droned and he watched and I watched his wife watching him with her glass of juice half way between the kitchen bench and her mouth, then she smiled. He was dying and watching cricket and she was smiling into her juice. She was beautiful standing in her kitchen fixing memories in her head nodding a quiet nod and mending her courage.
I'll take my place in the row tomorrow in my black pressed clothes. I'll drive the distance and sit in silence, I'll curb my rambling mind and leave my clown shoes in the cupboard. This is something that matters.
Tonight I am laying out my own black things in careful layers from socks to scarf. People say I don't need to wear black to a funeral, just wear something clean and tidy, like a wild throwback to the days of children in school uniforms at official functions but I like the ritual. I can do without the weddings and the christenings, I rolled up my prayer mat years ago and lord knows my hair is not a covenant between me and anything but I like the ritual of grief and the standing of us all in rows.
I can't remember the order of funerals I have attended. I remember the ones I was absent from. I remember the man before Artboy that attempted suicide again and again before he finally got it right but I wasn't there in the end. I wasn't standing in my place in that row. I was sitting on the floor conjuring silken memories of golden skin and his impossible height, remembering how I used to lay on top of him and my feet would reach the middle of his shins.
I remember the strange swelling of the Estonian choir at my Grandmother's funeral, the hard ball of centuries coming right in across from that frozen ocean. I remember the old men standing guard for my Grandfather's coffin, their sword hands faltering and the one who fell to his knees in the aisle. I remember my brother staring up at me tear stained and ragged, his eyes wide with the shock of his own grief and my Mother. My Mother sitting at a table with a plate full of tiny sandwiches whispering to herself under her breath and the whole time her face hard and soft and alien.
I remember the ones who should have died but didn't. I remember taking blow after blow with the car keys firmly in my right fist. I should have let him drive. I should have held them out in sacred silence and let Artboy open the portal to my own ritual of grief. Instead I stood like a column with my purpling swelling face under the manic blows of a madman's fist until he ran screaming into the night and the car sat silent in the driveway.
Tomorrow I am an extra. A demonstration of the importance the main players hold in my glass jar. My memories of the man are small and new. He played the piano while I waltzed in his lounge room. We sat side by side on the lounge eating cakes. We shared a cup of tea and a laugh while the cricket droned and he watched and I watched his wife watching him with her glass of juice half way between the kitchen bench and her mouth, then she smiled. He was dying and watching cricket and she was smiling into her juice. She was beautiful standing in her kitchen fixing memories in her head nodding a quiet nod and mending her courage.
I'll take my place in the row tomorrow in my black pressed clothes. I'll drive the distance and sit in silence, I'll curb my rambling mind and leave my clown shoes in the cupboard. This is something that matters.
Fuckwits? I rather think not
Creamboy was the initial winner of my dinner competition, the judges declared it so, I would have picked a different entry myself. I phoned Creamboy and after some discussion he decided that he would graciously allow the runner up to attend the dinner because Creamboy is a vegan and the menu did not cater for vegans. I had (and still have) no problem with this.
I left this information out of the announcement because I am The Captain of My Blog, sorry, I just like saying that. Several people commented and it seems that Creamboy has taken these comments as personal criticism which in my opinion is ridiculous for several reasons:
I left this information out of the announcement because I am The Captain of My Blog, sorry, I just like saying that. Several people commented and it seems that Creamboy has taken these comments as personal criticism which in my opinion is ridiculous for several reasons:
- People did not know who they were commenting about,
- People did not know exactly why the offer of dinner was declined,
- I was clearly not angry or in any way discombobulated about it.
Stingoes
Creamboy is about to receive his first pay cheque as a doctor. Well done Creamboy. I of course offer my heartfelt congratulations on this milestone however it is not without a sting. Its moments like these that the measuring rods slide out of their invisible holsters. Creamboy's current specialty is vascular surgery, mine is disappointing people.
No. No that is not true. Mine is to be unfathomable and to take unexpected directions for unrevealed reasons. I am not powerless in this situation. I chose not to practice law. I chose to work for shit pay in the arts sector. I chose to turn in circles while my classmates from university walked straight down the line. I have real and complex ethical and artistic issues with the Australian law and how it impacts on the lives of ordinary people. I have thought this through drawing on all of my skills for abstract and higher reasoning. I have that law degree sitting in the bottom of my giant cupboard for a reason.
I wish that I could have buttoned up a grey suit and marched out the door every morning satisfied that I was doing the best that I could but I couldn't. Now. I might be ready now to begin reconsidering the law as a career path. Now, but not then.
I am going to take that darn degree out of the cupboard and prop it against the wall, just for a little while to see what happens.
No. No that is not true. Mine is to be unfathomable and to take unexpected directions for unrevealed reasons. I am not powerless in this situation. I chose not to practice law. I chose to work for shit pay in the arts sector. I chose to turn in circles while my classmates from university walked straight down the line. I have real and complex ethical and artistic issues with the Australian law and how it impacts on the lives of ordinary people. I have thought this through drawing on all of my skills for abstract and higher reasoning. I have that law degree sitting in the bottom of my giant cupboard for a reason.
I wish that I could have buttoned up a grey suit and marched out the door every morning satisfied that I was doing the best that I could but I couldn't. Now. I might be ready now to begin reconsidering the law as a career path. Now, but not then.
I am going to take that darn degree out of the cupboard and prop it against the wall, just for a little while to see what happens.
Definitive
Special request. A definitions list for the cast of characters in Slammatown. Easy. This I can do. Much simpler than trying to define just how exactly that snorkeling makes me happy or why today when I sat on the edge of this continent with the lemon light behind me and nothing, oh nothing but that ocean, that I felt stitches pull tighter and empty places pop and vanish. I used to be scared of the edge of this land.
Not in any order.
Foto: Superman's friend. I like him, he lives near me, he seems kind and the verge of something, I'm not sure what but I'll stick around to find out.
Gemma:
Author of Gempires, owner of Cooper the small poodle. Gemma lives in Melbourne and visits Sydney occasionally. Gemma is super in all possible ways. Gemma is an honourary Peachette.
The Peachettes:
The Peachettes are residents or ex-residents of The Peach (my house).
The Spatula:
My friend for almost twenty years and a current Peachette. She is small. We met on the first day of high school. The Spatula sings, paints, massages and designs my zine "Ocarina". The Spatula is a necessary part of my context.
Leurf:
Cousin to The Spatula Leurf abandoned The Peach (she is still a Peachette) to pursue her studies in Perth which is a fucking long way away. Leurf is unpredictable, fantastic and stunning inside and out.
Grizelda:
Younger sister (8 years younger) of The Spatula and a current Peachette. Grizelda is an excellent chef but does not like to have hobbies. Grizelda is rapidly becoming a good friend.
Ron:
I like Ron, he's pretty tops.
My brother:
No explanation necessary. He is tall plays trombone professionally and has an unnatural love for all things flamingo.
Spencer:
Spencer is the walking talking home of rock. He fronts the band The Holy Soul. He sometimes wears a cowboy hat. Spencer went to university with my brother and Boli. His main squeeze is Madam Squeeze.
Madam Squeeze:
Madam Squeeze can often be found busking with her accordion on King St. She is a source of light.
Robert:
He is a poet. He often eats toast during the day, he has a plant on his desk called Sylvester the Abject Plant. He is quite excellent.
Boli:
I shared a house with Boli at university. He is a music therapist. He plays all the instruments to an excellent standard. He likes hats is recently married and is the man I phone to ask if I am being a spaz or not. He always tells me if I am being a spaz.
Mr X:
A friend of Elliot's. I don't see him very often. Sometimes I see him on King St, he does not appear to like me very much.
The Cowboy:
Lives next door. He sometimes sits out the back in a cowboy hat playing cowboy songs on his guitar.
Creamboy:
Author of More Boring Rants from Anonymous Eccentrics. Creamboy is Superman's brother.
Superman:
This is what I used to think about Superman: I high three Superman, he is excellent. He has a way of not letting me panic, the best way to describe is that he makes me stand on a platform which is higher than where I normally stand and I can see more, further forward, further back and with some clarity. He is immensely silly and quite possibly the most stubborn person I have ever met. When he makes a decision you can hear the clang of an iron gate dropping somewhere in the distance. We wrote a song. Superman is Creamboy's brother.
Now I don't think about Superman at all, I do sometimes think about Superman movies but that is not the same thing.
Elliot:
I once thought I loved Elliot. I fucked him more than once with little sexual success. He used to be an excellent friend. I haven't heard from him since I told him I wouldn't see him if he's drunk. He's back in rehab.
Artboy:
The ex. After seven odd years of living together he developed a major mental illness. He had a manic episode and literally went screaming out into the night. He did not come back. This is how our relationship ended. This is how my heart fractured. I sank to the floor and it took me a while to stand back up.
Benito Di Fonzo:
A man that I can not talk to because every time I see him my head empties of all words and I stand there like a fucktard. Once I went to a party with him and set my hair on fire in the bathroom. This was not on purpose. Benito is the author of Benito Di Fonzo Jr & The Loneliness of the Long Distance Writer.
Slammas:
My family.
Mum, her partner (I don't have a name for her on this blog), my brother, Dad, his wife (I don't have a name for her on this blog). Various relatives occasionally pop up, very occasionally.
Sylvia:
Gemma reminded me that I have not written a definition for her. Initially I did not use the cat's name in order to protect her privacy however I have since realised that this is ridiculous. The cat does not have any friends with the internet. Sylvia is a Norwegian Forest Cat, she is four years old.
Zissou:
I met him at a party, at my house on new year's eve, he stayed the night. We met for drinks, he stayed the night. He said "are we going to do this again?" I said "call me sometime" he said "I will". He called, we met another two times. He is a good man. He moved interstate for work, this made me sad.
The Beautiful Boys:
A bunch of beautiful boys of a literary bent. I admire them greatly for their verve, intellect, joy and youth.
Failed Ant Farmers:
Members are Superman, Spencer and Madam Squeeze and me.
There is more but really today I cannot be bothered.
I think this is all. I should make links but oh I am lazy, so lazy. I am tired from swimming in Clovelly Bay for hours on end. The ocean is battering this continent so a sheltered beach was necessary but still, it was the edge of things.
Not in any order.
Foto: Superman's friend. I like him, he lives near me, he seems kind and the verge of something, I'm not sure what but I'll stick around to find out.
Gemma:
Author of Gempires, owner of Cooper the small poodle. Gemma lives in Melbourne and visits Sydney occasionally. Gemma is super in all possible ways. Gemma is an honourary Peachette.
The Peachettes:
The Peachettes are residents or ex-residents of The Peach (my house).
The Spatula:
My friend for almost twenty years and a current Peachette. She is small. We met on the first day of high school. The Spatula sings, paints, massages and designs my zine "Ocarina". The Spatula is a necessary part of my context.
Leurf:
Cousin to The Spatula Leurf abandoned The Peach (she is still a Peachette) to pursue her studies in Perth which is a fucking long way away. Leurf is unpredictable, fantastic and stunning inside and out.
Grizelda:
Younger sister (8 years younger) of The Spatula and a current Peachette. Grizelda is an excellent chef but does not like to have hobbies. Grizelda is rapidly becoming a good friend.
Ron:
I like Ron, he's pretty tops.
My brother:
No explanation necessary. He is tall plays trombone professionally and has an unnatural love for all things flamingo.
Spencer:
Spencer is the walking talking home of rock. He fronts the band The Holy Soul. He sometimes wears a cowboy hat. Spencer went to university with my brother and Boli. His main squeeze is Madam Squeeze.
Madam Squeeze:
Madam Squeeze can often be found busking with her accordion on King St. She is a source of light.
Robert:
He is a poet. He often eats toast during the day, he has a plant on his desk called Sylvester the Abject Plant. He is quite excellent.
Boli:
I shared a house with Boli at university. He is a music therapist. He plays all the instruments to an excellent standard. He likes hats is recently married and is the man I phone to ask if I am being a spaz or not. He always tells me if I am being a spaz.
Mr X:
A friend of Elliot's. I don't see him very often. Sometimes I see him on King St, he does not appear to like me very much.
The Cowboy:
Lives next door. He sometimes sits out the back in a cowboy hat playing cowboy songs on his guitar.
Creamboy:
Author of More Boring Rants from Anonymous Eccentrics. Creamboy is Superman's brother.
Superman:
This is what I used to think about Superman: I high three Superman, he is excellent. He has a way of not letting me panic, the best way to describe is that he makes me stand on a platform which is higher than where I normally stand and I can see more, further forward, further back and with some clarity. He is immensely silly and quite possibly the most stubborn person I have ever met. When he makes a decision you can hear the clang of an iron gate dropping somewhere in the distance. We wrote a song. Superman is Creamboy's brother.
Now I don't think about Superman at all, I do sometimes think about Superman movies but that is not the same thing.
Elliot:
I once thought I loved Elliot. I fucked him more than once with little sexual success. He used to be an excellent friend. I haven't heard from him since I told him I wouldn't see him if he's drunk. He's back in rehab.
Artboy:
The ex. After seven odd years of living together he developed a major mental illness. He had a manic episode and literally went screaming out into the night. He did not come back. This is how our relationship ended. This is how my heart fractured. I sank to the floor and it took me a while to stand back up.
Benito Di Fonzo:
A man that I can not talk to because every time I see him my head empties of all words and I stand there like a fucktard. Once I went to a party with him and set my hair on fire in the bathroom. This was not on purpose. Benito is the author of Benito Di Fonzo Jr & The Loneliness of the Long Distance Writer.
Slammas:
My family.
Mum, her partner (I don't have a name for her on this blog), my brother, Dad, his wife (I don't have a name for her on this blog). Various relatives occasionally pop up, very occasionally.
Sylvia:
Gemma reminded me that I have not written a definition for her. Initially I did not use the cat's name in order to protect her privacy however I have since realised that this is ridiculous. The cat does not have any friends with the internet. Sylvia is a Norwegian Forest Cat, she is four years old.
Zissou:
I met him at a party, at my house on new year's eve, he stayed the night. We met for drinks, he stayed the night. He said "are we going to do this again?" I said "call me sometime" he said "I will". He called, we met another two times. He is a good man. He moved interstate for work, this made me sad.
The Beautiful Boys:
A bunch of beautiful boys of a literary bent. I admire them greatly for their verve, intellect, joy and youth.
Failed Ant Farmers:
Members are Superman, Spencer and Madam Squeeze and me.
There is more but really today I cannot be bothered.
I think this is all. I should make links but oh I am lazy, so lazy. I am tired from swimming in Clovelly Bay for hours on end. The ocean is battering this continent so a sheltered beach was necessary but still, it was the edge of things.
Remarkable
My brother required an emergency colour consultation after setting off to buy jade green paint for his laundry and downstairs toilet only to return with a very large tin of lavender low sheen. In the end we decided that it was a clean sort of colour and started painting the laundry anyway. He had the idea of painting the lounge room light olive green on one wall and wood panelling the other wall, thankfully I think he has gone off that idea.
After staring at walls and small cardboard squares of colour we collected Creamboy from his house and went to Penrith RSL. Yes, Penrith RSL. What an odd place that is. We went to see Ed Wilson's trombone quartet. I will just type that again in case anyone's mind is boggling. I went to Penrith RSL to see a trombone quartet. They had a sax, rhythm and keys as well as a wall of trombones. They were rather good really. It might be helpful to point out that my brother is a trombone player.
All day I have been thinking that tomorrow is NYE but fortunately I miscalculated. The Peach is looking disheveled in a holiday sort of way and most of my clothes are dirty. Gemma is coming to spend new year's eve with me and I glad to have an extra day to undertake some tidying.
There was some difficulty in obtaining access to Penrith RSL. I was wearing my "These are me bitches" shirt with arrows that point to my breasts and a zebra print bandanna. The bandanna turned out to be the issue, disrespectful apparently. The man then took my licence and scanned it, I objected to this and yelled fuck but soon settled down when both Creamboy and my brother gave me stern looks.
After an excellent cup of tea at Creamboy's house I went further West and slightly elevated until I wound up at Ron & Rita's mountain abode. We played an excellent new board game and ate christmas cake. I did not yell very much which is nice. I think I need to have my very own board game, the same one as Ron & Rita. I am addicted and was sitting staring at them saying please just one more game when they had clearly had enough and just wanted to go to bed.
All in all I had a fairly good day, I was only moderately distracted by the Benito Effect problem, I did forget to have dinner but handily the christmas cake I ate was eaten out of a bowl with a fork so can happily count as dinner.
I am rambling but I don't really mind. The Spatula has new hair so we are sitting in The Peach smoking a celebratory funny cigarette and listening to Nina Simone. We are planning a bbq for The Spatula's 31st birthday party. She is very old, almost three weeks older than me. I will have three whole weeks in which to tease her before I turn 31. This is possibly behaviour unbecoming someone about to turn 31. Never mind, I'll just pop my disrespectful zebra print headwear back on and dance a little dance while Nina Simone tunnels underneath me until I lift, ever so slightly, then throw my head back and smile.
After staring at walls and small cardboard squares of colour we collected Creamboy from his house and went to Penrith RSL. Yes, Penrith RSL. What an odd place that is. We went to see Ed Wilson's trombone quartet. I will just type that again in case anyone's mind is boggling. I went to Penrith RSL to see a trombone quartet. They had a sax, rhythm and keys as well as a wall of trombones. They were rather good really. It might be helpful to point out that my brother is a trombone player.
All day I have been thinking that tomorrow is NYE but fortunately I miscalculated. The Peach is looking disheveled in a holiday sort of way and most of my clothes are dirty. Gemma is coming to spend new year's eve with me and I glad to have an extra day to undertake some tidying.
There was some difficulty in obtaining access to Penrith RSL. I was wearing my "These are me bitches" shirt with arrows that point to my breasts and a zebra print bandanna. The bandanna turned out to be the issue, disrespectful apparently. The man then took my licence and scanned it, I objected to this and yelled fuck but soon settled down when both Creamboy and my brother gave me stern looks.
After an excellent cup of tea at Creamboy's house I went further West and slightly elevated until I wound up at Ron & Rita's mountain abode. We played an excellent new board game and ate christmas cake. I did not yell very much which is nice. I think I need to have my very own board game, the same one as Ron & Rita. I am addicted and was sitting staring at them saying please just one more game when they had clearly had enough and just wanted to go to bed.
All in all I had a fairly good day, I was only moderately distracted by the Benito Effect problem, I did forget to have dinner but handily the christmas cake I ate was eaten out of a bowl with a fork so can happily count as dinner.
I am rambling but I don't really mind. The Spatula has new hair so we are sitting in The Peach smoking a celebratory funny cigarette and listening to Nina Simone. We are planning a bbq for The Spatula's 31st birthday party. She is very old, almost three weeks older than me. I will have three whole weeks in which to tease her before I turn 31. This is possibly behaviour unbecoming someone about to turn 31. Never mind, I'll just pop my disrespectful zebra print headwear back on and dance a little dance while Nina Simone tunnels underneath me until I lift, ever so slightly, then throw my head back and smile.
Cherry poppin' Superman
Superman is popping my scrabulous cherry. My one secret shame is my very small vocabulary so my chances of smashing him in a stunning victory are, well, small.
I met Superman at Creamboy's "I'm a doctor" bbq on Saturday. If I recall correctly I nearly spiked Superman in the head with my large black umbrella, I was attempting to use it as a parasol, while he was cooking large prawns on the bbq and trying not to cringe as their eyes caved in. Fortunately I did not spike Superman in the head although maybe I should have.
It was wall to wall doctors in there and I have to admit that all day I was half hoping for a spectacular medical emergency to take place so that I could see them in action. Preferably an emergency that involved spurting blood, stethoscopes and a lot of words, long medical words, being shouted followed by a period of slow motion and spooky music. Alas the thing went off without a hitch and the only emergency to be had was that someone splashed pool water into my shoes and I had to borrow a pair socks from Creamboy.
I'm having a kind of emergency now, smeg does not appear to be a real word, no matter how many times I have wished that it was.
I met Superman at Creamboy's "I'm a doctor" bbq on Saturday. If I recall correctly I nearly spiked Superman in the head with my large black umbrella, I was attempting to use it as a parasol, while he was cooking large prawns on the bbq and trying not to cringe as their eyes caved in. Fortunately I did not spike Superman in the head although maybe I should have.
It was wall to wall doctors in there and I have to admit that all day I was half hoping for a spectacular medical emergency to take place so that I could see them in action. Preferably an emergency that involved spurting blood, stethoscopes and a lot of words, long medical words, being shouted followed by a period of slow motion and spooky music. Alas the thing went off without a hitch and the only emergency to be had was that someone splashed pool water into my shoes and I had to borrow a pair socks from Creamboy.
I'm having a kind of emergency now, smeg does not appear to be a real word, no matter how many times I have wished that it was.
I went to a marvelous party, I should have bought red lipstick years ago, are there two 'l's in marvellous or one?
I ran into The Cowboy at The Hopetoun standing against the bar listening to Spencer's band. Andy Depressant was gumshoe dancing out all of my emotions with his rubber limbs and solo abandon while Spencer prowled on stage in his knitted tie and big black hat. The Hopetoun was a cauldron tonight and if it wasn't for the ringing of the excellent 'You're Never Too Tired To Rock Dale" show tune that three doctors improvised on Creamboy's front lawn earlier this afternoon I would have laid my head down on the cold tiles of the toilet floor and dreamed of a life aquatic.
This morning my mother phoned as I was zipping up my 50's style jungle print party dress to say that she would pick me up in an hour. "For what?" I said. It seems I had double booked myself, I had a moment of doubt where I thought I would ditch Creamboy's bbq for a family Christmas gathering but then I thought better of it and I donned my big hat and red shoes and packed my bag for West.
I had a filthy hangover so I downed two glasses of water and applied red lipstick and ran out the door. Driving on the highway I could feel the lack of fuel in body, I inadvertently skipped the last three meals, so I concentrated on staying in my lane and urged my body to use the stored fat, like a bear.
Creamboy's bbq was marvelous. I swanned around in my hat drinking pink lemonade and eating vegan cheesecake. I spent a while or two chatting with Creamboy's excellent brother Superman who is very interesting and rather tall. I wandered into conversation with a flock of doctors and silently vowed to stop all my doctor hating immediately. I found myself sitting happily in a circle of clear-eyed intellect. They had straight backs and open minds.
In the diminishing hour Creamboy played the piano while a doctor sang, yet another doctor taught me to waltz and I found myself mirrored into the opposite of last night where I sat in a backyard drinking and singing with my feet in the dirt while the guitars called out for bohemia. This changing of hats and dresses and voices, this peopled crowding of being, this is a reason why.
I didn't make to the end of Crow's set at the Hopetoun tonight. I tried fanning myself with Spencer's big black hat but the heat, oh Sydney your heat, pushed me out into the night where I sat and leaned my back against the pulsing windows. I jumped into a taxi with The Cowboy and we wound up at the Iron Duke where The Cowboy's friend drooped into a lament and The Cowboy spoke of his life. The Cowboy is a sketch from a different book.
Walking home I told The Cowboy that he seemed to have a tendency to fall in love. The Cowboy said " Oh I'll tell you what I'm like, you got to listen to what Steve Earle said:
Now when I was young I took me a wife
But she never took to the high country life
So now I'm alone and I don't really mind
But her name echoes down from the canyon sometimes"
This morning my mother phoned as I was zipping up my 50's style jungle print party dress to say that she would pick me up in an hour. "For what?" I said. It seems I had double booked myself, I had a moment of doubt where I thought I would ditch Creamboy's bbq for a family Christmas gathering but then I thought better of it and I donned my big hat and red shoes and packed my bag for West.
I had a filthy hangover so I downed two glasses of water and applied red lipstick and ran out the door. Driving on the highway I could feel the lack of fuel in body, I inadvertently skipped the last three meals, so I concentrated on staying in my lane and urged my body to use the stored fat, like a bear.
Creamboy's bbq was marvelous. I swanned around in my hat drinking pink lemonade and eating vegan cheesecake. I spent a while or two chatting with Creamboy's excellent brother Superman who is very interesting and rather tall. I wandered into conversation with a flock of doctors and silently vowed to stop all my doctor hating immediately. I found myself sitting happily in a circle of clear-eyed intellect. They had straight backs and open minds.
In the diminishing hour Creamboy played the piano while a doctor sang, yet another doctor taught me to waltz and I found myself mirrored into the opposite of last night where I sat in a backyard drinking and singing with my feet in the dirt while the guitars called out for bohemia. This changing of hats and dresses and voices, this peopled crowding of being, this is a reason why.
I didn't make to the end of Crow's set at the Hopetoun tonight. I tried fanning myself with Spencer's big black hat but the heat, oh Sydney your heat, pushed me out into the night where I sat and leaned my back against the pulsing windows. I jumped into a taxi with The Cowboy and we wound up at the Iron Duke where The Cowboy's friend drooped into a lament and The Cowboy spoke of his life. The Cowboy is a sketch from a different book.
Walking home I told The Cowboy that he seemed to have a tendency to fall in love. The Cowboy said " Oh I'll tell you what I'm like, you got to listen to what Steve Earle said:
Now when I was young I took me a wife
But she never took to the high country life
So now I'm alone and I don't really mind
But her name echoes down from the canyon sometimes"
When I think about you
If you came to The Peach for a cup of tea and some vegan cupcakes you might not expect to end up stoned and surprised inside the Enmore watching the Divinyls but this is exactly what happened to Creamboy. A man in a suit smoking a cigarette saw us peering through the door of The Enmore waiting for them to come back out for an encore. He said do you want to go in?
Murmur
Transporting the cat to the vet was easier than I expected, she happily walked straight into her travel cage, turned around and then waited for me to lock her in. There was a moment when I put the cat's cage down on the floor and I saw in one picture the cat cage, my wallet, the good break on my black trousers and the square toes of my red shoes. I felt sure and capable and like a memory of my mother.
The vet was short, intense, all elbows, angles and deft hands. The cat has a heart murmur in addition to fleas. I wanted to grab the stethoscope and listen for myself but it would be wrong to doubt so publicly.
The vet is not very concerned about the cat, she says it could be the stress of being at the vet's in the first place that caused the cat's little heart to race and rattle out the wrong noises. I could not remember how old the cat is, I did not change her microchip information when I moved to the city, I can not convince the cat to eat chicken necks no matter how hard I try. The vet pulled her chin up to look at me and asked which brand of cat biscuits do I buy? The silver one I said, not remembering the name. She asked why I did not change the cat's microchip information, I forgot, I said because I could tell her the real reason. The real reason was my own heart and its murmurs, the vomiting, the ice hard metallic cage that shot out of the ground and pushed me into a new space.
I felt ashamed of my lack of responsible cat ownership. I do try and do the right things but she will not eat the chicken necks no matter what. Once I had a four day stand off with the cat. Twice a day I presented her with chicken necks, twice a day she rejected them, this went on for four days and I had taken to following the cat around to see if she was going to die of starvation.
The vet said that the amazing all in one back of the neck worm, flea everything treatment does not do tapeworms, she looked very stern then shoved a tapeworm tablet down the cat's throat. The cat raised a paw in protest but said nothing, I looked down at my red shoes.
I have asked Creamboy to bring his stethoscope with him tomorrow so that I can have a go at listening to the cat's heart. I need to listen, she is just a cat but she is my cat and I am fond of her.
I keep remembering the horse. The horse died of a broken heart or he would have if I had not signed the paper to let the vet do his terrible kindly deed. I stood holding the end of the rope while the vet injected him.
The horse would have let anything happen to him if I'd been there at the end of a rope. I'd had him more years than seemed possible, I used to lie on his back with a lazy hand over my eyes while he grazed in the valley or sit underneath him if caught in a sudden shower of rain. The horse kindly obliged me with all my mad Dale from Snowy River fantasies and bravely galloped down any hillside I pointed him at. He drank orange juice out of poppers by piercing the package with his teeth then holding his head up vertically while the juice ran down his throat and I jumped about trying to get my juice back. He did not object when I tied ribbons in his tail and galloped around yelling about green knights in my bad Middle English. He was huge and strong, he'd jump anything at top speed and the only thing he was ever frightened of was a camel unlike the pony who was petrified of wheely bins and nearly chucked me under a truck on the way to pony club.
But on the last day the horse staggered and lurched, his legs curled under him and he fell, first onto his chest then settling onto his haunches while his eyes rolled white in his huge head. If anything is the opposite of hallelujah its the sight of a dying horse collapsing inwards with spidered legs. The vet took the rope out of my hands then he knelt and unbuckled the headstall and eased it out from under the horse's head, he coiled the rope slowly hand over practiced hand and laid it at at my feet, I don't remember him driving away.
The vet was short, intense, all elbows, angles and deft hands. The cat has a heart murmur in addition to fleas. I wanted to grab the stethoscope and listen for myself but it would be wrong to doubt so publicly.
The vet is not very concerned about the cat, she says it could be the stress of being at the vet's in the first place that caused the cat's little heart to race and rattle out the wrong noises. I could not remember how old the cat is, I did not change her microchip information when I moved to the city, I can not convince the cat to eat chicken necks no matter how hard I try. The vet pulled her chin up to look at me and asked which brand of cat biscuits do I buy? The silver one I said, not remembering the name. She asked why I did not change the cat's microchip information, I forgot, I said because I could tell her the real reason. The real reason was my own heart and its murmurs, the vomiting, the ice hard metallic cage that shot out of the ground and pushed me into a new space.
I felt ashamed of my lack of responsible cat ownership. I do try and do the right things but she will not eat the chicken necks no matter what. Once I had a four day stand off with the cat. Twice a day I presented her with chicken necks, twice a day she rejected them, this went on for four days and I had taken to following the cat around to see if she was going to die of starvation.
The vet said that the amazing all in one back of the neck worm, flea everything treatment does not do tapeworms, she looked very stern then shoved a tapeworm tablet down the cat's throat. The cat raised a paw in protest but said nothing, I looked down at my red shoes.
I have asked Creamboy to bring his stethoscope with him tomorrow so that I can have a go at listening to the cat's heart. I need to listen, she is just a cat but she is my cat and I am fond of her.
I keep remembering the horse. The horse died of a broken heart or he would have if I had not signed the paper to let the vet do his terrible kindly deed. I stood holding the end of the rope while the vet injected him.
The horse would have let anything happen to him if I'd been there at the end of a rope. I'd had him more years than seemed possible, I used to lie on his back with a lazy hand over my eyes while he grazed in the valley or sit underneath him if caught in a sudden shower of rain. The horse kindly obliged me with all my mad Dale from Snowy River fantasies and bravely galloped down any hillside I pointed him at. He drank orange juice out of poppers by piercing the package with his teeth then holding his head up vertically while the juice ran down his throat and I jumped about trying to get my juice back. He did not object when I tied ribbons in his tail and galloped around yelling about green knights in my bad Middle English. He was huge and strong, he'd jump anything at top speed and the only thing he was ever frightened of was a camel unlike the pony who was petrified of wheely bins and nearly chucked me under a truck on the way to pony club.
But on the last day the horse staggered and lurched, his legs curled under him and he fell, first onto his chest then settling onto his haunches while his eyes rolled white in his huge head. If anything is the opposite of hallelujah its the sight of a dying horse collapsing inwards with spidered legs. The vet took the rope out of my hands then he knelt and unbuckled the headstall and eased it out from under the horse's head, he coiled the rope slowly hand over practiced hand and laid it at at my feet, I don't remember him driving away.
Good lord that was odd
Instead of dressing then walking I fell asleep and slept for almost three hours. It seems I would rather dream in the afternoon than sleep all night at the moment. I had a dream that Creamboy was a cowboy, he had a cowboy hat and many horses, he smoked cigarettes and yelled at other cowboys to go and do their cowboy work, it was very odd.
Self-soothe
Well. I am not well and now its official. I was delighted when the doctor did not think I was crazy when I showed her my hand and said and I am sick, the skin is falling off my fingertips because I am sick. She held my hand and carefully inspected each finger "Yes, the skin is coming off your fingertips because you have had a fever for some time now. You are dehydrated from having a fever, this is why the skin is coming off your fingertips". I wanted to jump up and high five the woman. It might be important to point out that I am slightly delirious.
I feel drugged. I feel drunk. I feel like I've got my own personal invisible supply of happy gas, that might be the fever talking. I can't walk two blocks without nearly passing out, the lump in my neck is painful, my face is swollen, my fingers are shredding themselves, I am unable to digest food in a sensible way, there is only brown liquid yucky not normal poo and yet I feel wonderful. The doctor recommended that I stay in bed for the rest of the week so I've bribed myself with Vogue Living, a bag of books and a packet of biscuits, which I will eat if I get hungry.
I don't want to sit still I want to walk up King St and enjoy my new psychedelic vision. Everything is beautiful, buildings come in and out of focus, roads snake down and away in slow motion and I am sure that every passing bus is the magic bus.
I'm not too fussed about what is actually wrong with me, I'm just going to enjoy the ride. The doctor said something about lymph nodes and white cell counts or some shit. I just nodded and thought ooh that's a great chart on the wall over there. I have to stay in bed for the rest of the week and visit the doctor again on Friday. She will most likely poke her pointy doctor fingers painfully into me once more. They must teach this at doctor school, every doctor does it, even Creamboy once poke the back of my skull with his pointy doctor fingers and left a big old bruise. It was sore for a week so well done there Creamboy, your doctor training must be coming along nicely. The doctor said something with the word significant in it, I have a significant something, I wish I could remember what though. I might have to have some kind of scans or something on Friday. Until then I will sit in my bed castle and enjoy being vague.
I feel drugged. I feel drunk. I feel like I've got my own personal invisible supply of happy gas, that might be the fever talking. I can't walk two blocks without nearly passing out, the lump in my neck is painful, my face is swollen, my fingers are shredding themselves, I am unable to digest food in a sensible way, there is only brown liquid yucky not normal poo and yet I feel wonderful. The doctor recommended that I stay in bed for the rest of the week so I've bribed myself with Vogue Living, a bag of books and a packet of biscuits, which I will eat if I get hungry.
I don't want to sit still I want to walk up King St and enjoy my new psychedelic vision. Everything is beautiful, buildings come in and out of focus, roads snake down and away in slow motion and I am sure that every passing bus is the magic bus.
I'm not too fussed about what is actually wrong with me, I'm just going to enjoy the ride. The doctor said something about lymph nodes and white cell counts or some shit. I just nodded and thought ooh that's a great chart on the wall over there. I have to stay in bed for the rest of the week and visit the doctor again on Friday. She will most likely poke her pointy doctor fingers painfully into me once more. They must teach this at doctor school, every doctor does it, even Creamboy once poke the back of my skull with his pointy doctor fingers and left a big old bruise. It was sore for a week so well done there Creamboy, your doctor training must be coming along nicely. The doctor said something with the word significant in it, I have a significant something, I wish I could remember what though. I might have to have some kind of scans or something on Friday. Until then I will sit in my bed castle and enjoy being vague.
Alert & alarmed
Creamboy does not know what cracker night is. How is this possible? It is the night when everyone buys firecrackers, has bonfires and lets them off at great risk to themselves and others, this is possibly why it was banned. It was the best night of the year.
There was unbelievable general merriment. Whole streets and families would join forces to try and have the biggest bonfire. There were fires everywhere, you could see them for miles. Everyone had a go at letting off crackers unless you were very small and restricted to running around with sparklers. Catherine wheels were a great favourite of mine, they made a loud whizzz screech sort of a noise and threw flames and colours alarmingly close to you no matter how quickly you ran away after lighting them. I still love sparklers, sometimes I carry a packet around in my handbag, this has come in handy on more than one occasion. Sparklers are amazing whizzy sparkly fun and should be used more often in day to day situations.
I have fond memories of racing around in paddocks trying to catch the parachute men and collecting the funny plastic shapes that were left after the cracker exploded. My brother and I used to hoard and compare the plastic shapes for weeks afterwards.
In more recent years my brother went on a trip to Canberra and bought fireworks. We set them off in the bush near our house one night when we were having a party (it was not bushfire season). To make proceedings more interesting we all dressed up in camouflage and went in single file running along bending over, to avoid being visible like roadies do at concerts, and dodging from tree to tree. One of my friends did a spectular dive roll at one point. You can imagine our great disappointment when the fireworks failed to explode.
At a different party we once lit a helicopter style of cracker, it went off with an incredible enormous bang that flexed the kitchen windows and lit up the sky, it went straight up into the air and landed in the neighbour's pool where it exploded whilst making simultaneous screeching and splashing banging noises. All the dogs everywhere went mental howling and barking, lights went on up and down the street and all of us at the party made a mad dash into the house, drew the curtains and turned the lights off. A marvelous time was had by all.
There was unbelievable general merriment. Whole streets and families would join forces to try and have the biggest bonfire. There were fires everywhere, you could see them for miles. Everyone had a go at letting off crackers unless you were very small and restricted to running around with sparklers. Catherine wheels were a great favourite of mine, they made a loud whizzz screech sort of a noise and threw flames and colours alarmingly close to you no matter how quickly you ran away after lighting them. I still love sparklers, sometimes I carry a packet around in my handbag, this has come in handy on more than one occasion. Sparklers are amazing whizzy sparkly fun and should be used more often in day to day situations.
I have fond memories of racing around in paddocks trying to catch the parachute men and collecting the funny plastic shapes that were left after the cracker exploded. My brother and I used to hoard and compare the plastic shapes for weeks afterwards.
In more recent years my brother went on a trip to Canberra and bought fireworks. We set them off in the bush near our house one night when we were having a party (it was not bushfire season). To make proceedings more interesting we all dressed up in camouflage and went in single file running along bending over, to avoid being visible like roadies do at concerts, and dodging from tree to tree. One of my friends did a spectular dive roll at one point. You can imagine our great disappointment when the fireworks failed to explode.
At a different party we once lit a helicopter style of cracker, it went off with an incredible enormous bang that flexed the kitchen windows and lit up the sky, it went straight up into the air and landed in the neighbour's pool where it exploded whilst making simultaneous screeching and splashing banging noises. All the dogs everywhere went mental howling and barking, lights went on up and down the street and all of us at the party made a mad dash into the house, drew the curtains and turned the lights off. A marvelous time was had by all.
Aim for the apple on my head
Robert suggested that in order to boost my reader statistics I should not blog for a few days in a treat them mean keep them keen sort of campaign so I didn't blog for a day and then I thought to hell with it. I don't care a fig for statistics.
Lately I have been thinking about something I call my Death List. This is a list of people that I would like someone to telephone and inform them of my death, when I die and not right now, I am not planning to do an Elvis (the other Elvis, Elvis Presley).
The first problem is who to give the Death List to. Should it be The Spatula? She would probably be one of the first people to notice that I am dead because she is my housemate and because we have been friends for nearly twenty years she knows almost everybody in my life or at least knows all about them. However The Spatula might be upset if I died and not like to be left with a big list of people to telephone, she would also be busy advertising for a new housemate.
Perhaps Boli would be a good Death List person. He is generally very calm, he is very good at talking to people about the recently deceased, an occupational hazard of his, and he is extremely personable. However he has already agreed to take The Cat in the event of my demise and I am wondering if two items of responsibility is too much to ask from one friend.
My brother has a tiny tendency to not cope with things and so he is ruled out, he would also be very busy with my mother because she has also has a tiny non-coping streak and I can imagine them both in her kitchen being made to sit down and drink cups of tea. Other people would be making the tea.
My Father would not like this task. When his mother died he woke my brother and I up and then he went and sat in front of the television and ate chocolate ice cream straight from the container, not a bowl in sight. He stayed this way for some time, he was wearing black cotton pyjamas, leather slippers and his cotton dressing gown. I can't remember where my mother was.
Ron would be ideal because he loves telephoning people and talking about things, particularly recent events. However Ron is very busy and actually, maybe Ron would be ideal. I have known Ron almost as long as I have known The Spatula, he is good friends with my brother and my even be able to make my mother and my brother sit down and drink tea. Rita would also be good at this. I will give this some thought.
The second problem is who to put on the list. I don't want to be presumptuous and assume that people would want to know if I died, that would be embarrassing. What if they didn't care at all and it was inconvenient for them to have had the conversation and quite annoying for whoever was working their way down the list. For example what about Creamboy? I don't know him very well but I am considering beginning to think about counting him as a potential friend. Would he want to know if I died? I don't think it would matter terribly to him terribly much at this point.
I'm going to need to think about this some more, perhaps the Death List should be a who's who in the life of Dale Slamma. An exclusive inner circle of people of thought, friendship and substance. I will use a large sheet of cardboard and my best metallic crayons, it will be something to behold.
Lately I have been thinking about something I call my Death List. This is a list of people that I would like someone to telephone and inform them of my death, when I die and not right now, I am not planning to do an Elvis (the other Elvis, Elvis Presley).
The first problem is who to give the Death List to. Should it be The Spatula? She would probably be one of the first people to notice that I am dead because she is my housemate and because we have been friends for nearly twenty years she knows almost everybody in my life or at least knows all about them. However The Spatula might be upset if I died and not like to be left with a big list of people to telephone, she would also be busy advertising for a new housemate.
Perhaps Boli would be a good Death List person. He is generally very calm, he is very good at talking to people about the recently deceased, an occupational hazard of his, and he is extremely personable. However he has already agreed to take The Cat in the event of my demise and I am wondering if two items of responsibility is too much to ask from one friend.
My brother has a tiny tendency to not cope with things and so he is ruled out, he would also be very busy with my mother because she has also has a tiny non-coping streak and I can imagine them both in her kitchen being made to sit down and drink cups of tea. Other people would be making the tea.
My Father would not like this task. When his mother died he woke my brother and I up and then he went and sat in front of the television and ate chocolate ice cream straight from the container, not a bowl in sight. He stayed this way for some time, he was wearing black cotton pyjamas, leather slippers and his cotton dressing gown. I can't remember where my mother was.
Ron would be ideal because he loves telephoning people and talking about things, particularly recent events. However Ron is very busy and actually, maybe Ron would be ideal. I have known Ron almost as long as I have known The Spatula, he is good friends with my brother and my even be able to make my mother and my brother sit down and drink tea. Rita would also be good at this. I will give this some thought.
The second problem is who to put on the list. I don't want to be presumptuous and assume that people would want to know if I died, that would be embarrassing. What if they didn't care at all and it was inconvenient for them to have had the conversation and quite annoying for whoever was working their way down the list. For example what about Creamboy? I don't know him very well but I am considering beginning to think about counting him as a potential friend. Would he want to know if I died? I don't think it would matter terribly to him terribly much at this point.
I'm going to need to think about this some more, perhaps the Death List should be a who's who in the life of Dale Slamma. An exclusive inner circle of people of thought, friendship and substance. I will use a large sheet of cardboard and my best metallic crayons, it will be something to behold.
Tastes like a raindrop
Lately I have been worried that I have spilled something down my shirt or my pants are undone or my head is on fire. People are looking at me and I don't know why. Its beginning to freak me out.
There are too many moths. The cat is bravely attempting to capture and eat all of them. I 'm a bit worried that she will become ill. How many moths can a cat eat without ill effect? I suspect I am going to find out.
I had coffee with Spencer this evening, it seems he has also been unaccountably angry. He said " I was at this place on Oxford St and I got mad. I got real mad. So I walked home (to Marrickville)". Goodness. He must have been angry, that's a really long way.
I am tired, after ocean tired. If I lie still I might feel the swell in my blood but I don't want to go to sleep just yet. I am waiting to find out from Creamboy why he changed his Fspazbook status update thing to say "is not a revenge narrative either". Why? What does it mean? Why is he using my line? I suppose I could phone him but that wouldn't be nearly as exciting so I will wait and see what the internet delivers.
Meanwhile I will see what brain is saying about it.... maybe he is mad at me, have I done something wrong? I don't think so, certainly not on purpose. Perhaps it has nothing to do with me at all and he does not realise that line is the sub-title of my blog. Maybe I am paranoid. Oh what oh what have I done wrong this time. I am always inadvertently doing something to someone...
Oh I give up. Its late, I'm rocking in my own personal ocean and I don't want to be an odd person that stares at computers waiting for something to happen. I will go and look in my wardrobe and see if I can find a cup of water, I think there was one there yesterday.
There are too many moths. The cat is bravely attempting to capture and eat all of them. I 'm a bit worried that she will become ill. How many moths can a cat eat without ill effect? I suspect I am going to find out.
I had coffee with Spencer this evening, it seems he has also been unaccountably angry. He said " I was at this place on Oxford St and I got mad. I got real mad. So I walked home (to Marrickville)". Goodness. He must have been angry, that's a really long way.
I am tired, after ocean tired. If I lie still I might feel the swell in my blood but I don't want to go to sleep just yet. I am waiting to find out from Creamboy why he changed his Fspazbook status update thing to say "is not a revenge narrative either". Why? What does it mean? Why is he using my line? I suppose I could phone him but that wouldn't be nearly as exciting so I will wait and see what the internet delivers.
Meanwhile I will see what brain is saying about it.... maybe he is mad at me, have I done something wrong? I don't think so, certainly not on purpose. Perhaps it has nothing to do with me at all and he does not realise that line is the sub-title of my blog. Maybe I am paranoid. Oh what oh what have I done wrong this time. I am always inadvertently doing something to someone...
Oh I give up. Its late, I'm rocking in my own personal ocean and I don't want to be an odd person that stares at computers waiting for something to happen. I will go and look in my wardrobe and see if I can find a cup of water, I think there was one there yesterday.
By numbers
Statistically speaking I had a fabulous time. Seven people said I looked nice (they actually used better words than nice) some on several occasions. One person told me I looked very rock and this is the nicest thing to say to a Dale who is not sure about wearing fancy dresses. Five people complimented me on my haircut, two of them people I'd never met before. One person called me a cleavage witch but that was a specific comment about when I was wearing a giant witch's hat and I do mean giant. It was the best giant hat I have ever seen. Two people arrived from an anime convention, one of them in some sort of witch's outfit with a two metre witch's hat. I initially did not count Creamboy's compliment but in the car when I was accidentally stating out loud the overly high number of people who had said that I looked nice he asked if I had counted his and found that I hadn't.
I saw one ex with his wife and two children, spoke to seven people I have known for more than ten years, spoke to four bridal parents, one man I met in a pub once, on ex housemate of the bride, two siblings of the happy couple, one each plus their partners, five friends of the groom's parents and several strangers.
I cried once but was trying not to as I was in charge of racing inside and making the music go as soon as the vows were finished and before they started signing papers. I was astonished by the view and atmosphere on nine occasions. One pair of shoes was ruined by the terrain.
Two people had an entire conversation about my breasts but I found this disconcerting and went and fetched my wrap. I ate three pastizzi style things, dipped two carrot sticks in the chocolate fountain, twice stuck my finger in the icing of a cake and fished nine raspberries out of the fruit platter. I had four glasses of wine, half a bottle of sangria, one fizzy lemon squash, two glasses of water and most of a coke. I left the wedding clutching an unopened bottle of champagne, the groom intended I should drink this in the car on the way home but I accidentally put it in the boot. I was not the designated driver.
I got to hold the munchkin on one occasion, just before the ceremony when she nearly leapt out of her grandmother's arms when she saw me. She's quite tall now and not really a baby anymore, this is very exciting because soon she will be old enough to draw pictures with. Creamboy sang four songs in the car, one on the way to the wedding in the style of Bert & Ernie, one on the way to the Hydro Majestic in the style of Frank Sinatra and two on the way down the mountain.
I used three different toilets, one portaloo, the normal inside toilet and a toilet downstairs at the Hydro Majestic. I drove from Newtown to East Kurrajong Section 2, from EK to Emu Plains to fetch Creamboy from a different wedding where he was playing piano, from Emu Plains back to EK for the rest of the wedding. I was the passenger in a car with Creamboy driving from EK to Medlow Bath via Mt Tomah to deposit the happy couple at the Hydro Majestic, a fascinating and grand old hotel Similar to The Overlook. Creamboy then drove me to my squalid sanctuary in Penno where we had two cups of tea, one each.
I felt fabulous on twelve occasions, forlorn twice, bereft once, happy six times and wished I was somebody else twice. I went to sleep with one heart.
I saw one ex with his wife and two children, spoke to seven people I have known for more than ten years, spoke to four bridal parents, one man I met in a pub once, on ex housemate of the bride, two siblings of the happy couple, one each plus their partners, five friends of the groom's parents and several strangers.
I cried once but was trying not to as I was in charge of racing inside and making the music go as soon as the vows were finished and before they started signing papers. I was astonished by the view and atmosphere on nine occasions. One pair of shoes was ruined by the terrain.
Two people had an entire conversation about my breasts but I found this disconcerting and went and fetched my wrap. I ate three pastizzi style things, dipped two carrot sticks in the chocolate fountain, twice stuck my finger in the icing of a cake and fished nine raspberries out of the fruit platter. I had four glasses of wine, half a bottle of sangria, one fizzy lemon squash, two glasses of water and most of a coke. I left the wedding clutching an unopened bottle of champagne, the groom intended I should drink this in the car on the way home but I accidentally put it in the boot. I was not the designated driver.
I got to hold the munchkin on one occasion, just before the ceremony when she nearly leapt out of her grandmother's arms when she saw me. She's quite tall now and not really a baby anymore, this is very exciting because soon she will be old enough to draw pictures with. Creamboy sang four songs in the car, one on the way to the wedding in the style of Bert & Ernie, one on the way to the Hydro Majestic in the style of Frank Sinatra and two on the way down the mountain.
I used three different toilets, one portaloo, the normal inside toilet and a toilet downstairs at the Hydro Majestic. I drove from Newtown to East Kurrajong Section 2, from EK to Emu Plains to fetch Creamboy from a different wedding where he was playing piano, from Emu Plains back to EK for the rest of the wedding. I was the passenger in a car with Creamboy driving from EK to Medlow Bath via Mt Tomah to deposit the happy couple at the Hydro Majestic, a fascinating and grand old hotel Similar to The Overlook. Creamboy then drove me to my squalid sanctuary in Penno where we had two cups of tea, one each.
I felt fabulous on twelve occasions, forlorn twice, bereft once, happy six times and wished I was somebody else twice. I went to sleep with one heart.
Curiouser and curiouser
Well then I've been to a wedding. I've spent several hours in a car, tripped around in the Hydro Majestic with Creamboy, me in a fancy dress him in a three piece suit. Narrowly avoided locking myself in a portaloo and seen the face of the future I narrowly avoided, it was short and in pigtails.
I have some things to think about. I have some things to avoid thinking about. I wish I had something to eat.
I have some things to think about. I have some things to avoid thinking about. I wish I had something to eat.
Swing too many times and you'll have to take a walk
Benito Di Fonzo is a man that could wear eyeliner if he wanted to. There are details but I am drunk and tired. Creamboy brought a date along and I wanted to say she's lovely, Hubbell. But that would be inaccurate and unkind but still the words are sitting cross on my eyebrows. I will just go to sleep.
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