Last night Spencer was telling me about the lyrics to How do you sleep? * by John Lennon, we agreed that sometimes John Lennon was a small man while we drank tea and ate cup cakes fresh from the oven. Last night there was nothing above us save bats, stars and darkness but today I discovered how easy it is to be small, how anger writes my emails for me while my head thinks calmly of washing dishes. I'm listening to McCartney's Fireman album Electric Arguments online as punishment.
I prefer the false intimacy of madness to those plodding people, backyards planted thick with Sunday afternoons, this as always has been my downfall.
I had a terrible time when I went to Queensland with Superman. Early on in the trip Superman ceased all the usual modes of expressing friendship, such as acknowledging my presence or consenting to conversation and abandoned me almost entirely to his beige ** and ever present relatives who eyed me suspiciously and talked quietly about the way Superman was not talking to me. The house itself had some potential but was decorated so hideously and situated so firmly in that particular kind of Queensland suburban isolation that the building itself bred oppression. The people were not unkind but I drifted through days bored, ignored, isolated and trapped. Having lost my wallet and broken my phone I was unable to plan any kind of independent escape. I watched the heavy hours pass, unwilling or unable to talk to Superman and risk his unreasonable anger in response.
When I returned to The Peach, after twelve stretched days of extreme politeness and a constant biting of my tongue, I determined to irrevocably terminate my friendship with Superman. My friends dissuaded me, counseled me with caution, begged me to take some time to think it over, the lovely Rita being a watchful guardian against impulsive action. So I did and I was until Superman messaged me out of the blue about Bill Callahan tickets and I replied in my sleep. If I had been fully conscious I would not have gone. I sat on the train opposite Superman thinking well I might as well see what kind of a time I have, and in the end it was not bad so I invited him to my birthday dinner, eventually, as instructed by friends.
I invited him to my birthday dinner but received no reply, not even Grizelda who was in charge of booking the table received a reply to her kind text message. I received no reply until almost the night itself, I did not expect him to attend but attend he did. He attended without so much as a scrawled message of happy birthday on the back of an envelope but with a battery of narkiness, a determination not to enter into conversation with me or anybody except a baffled Grizelda and then he left, straight after dinner, leaving me shrugging my shoulders on a street corner.
I thought I might try and talk to Superman about this business and to ask him to return some albums he had borrowed, but he would not take my calls, I sent an email asking if it was me he was avoiding or just people in general, thinking I would approach the issue with an enquiry instead of an assumption. Most often I have avoided writing anything of consequence about Superman, to avoid having one of his great and petulant misunderstandings, but right about now I don't really give a damn, I am quite certain that no matter what I do or say he will alter every meaning of every syllable until it sounds like the ringing in his head and he ticks off another box on his list of always being right.
A week passed before I received any reply but such a reply I most certainly did not expect to receive. I am shocked at his arrogance, petulance, selfishness and general ability to shove his head so far up his own arse whilst still uttering audible insults. I am shocked despite my knowledge of his character and temperament, I am shocked despite all of my past tongue bitings during his interminable lectures on How Superman Sees The World And Why He Is Correct And Also Why You Would Be Stupid If You Disagreed (or dared to believe in love). I once again find myself more angry than you can imagine, or at least I was until I felt embarrassed and humiliated for allowing myself to imagine that Superman and I were friends. I feel embarrassed and humiliated for all my bendings to his will, for my silences when I disagreed, for my defence of his character to all and sundry, for holding off the official Superman Is A Prick ceremony that some others attempted to invoke some time ago and for batting away my idle wonderings that such a good man has so paltry a circle of friends, that he hardly ever has any contact with.
Hold the phone I just received an email reply, the single word "fine". So fine it is, here ends the brief but eventful friendship of Dale Slamma and Superman, during which Dale Slamma lost her job, her car, her wallet, her phone, her confidence and for a short time, her backbone. Pass me my hatchet I've some work to do.
* How do you sleep?
by John Lennon - about Paul McCartney
So Sgt. Pepper took you by surprise
You better see right through that mother's eyes
Those freaks was right when they said you was dead
The one mistake you made was in your head
Ah, how do you sleep?
Ah, how do you sleep at night?
You live with straights who tell you you was king
Jump when your momma tell you anything
The only thing you done was yesterday
And since you're gone you're just another day
Ah, how do you sleep?
Ah, how do you sleep at night?
Ah, how do you sleep?
Ah, how do you sleep at night?
A pretty face may last a year or two
But pretty soon they'll see what you can do
The sound you make is muzak to my ears
You must have learned something in all those years
Ah, how do you sleep?
Ah, how do you sleep at night?
** Superman's sister Ol' Mon Mon is not a beige person, she is an ideal person.
Showing posts with label Ron. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ron. Show all posts
One more post and then its closing time
I returned from the wedding triumphant. That had a lot to do with Spencer, Grizelda, my family and a few more friends like Ron and Robert and Mr X, and the usual list of suspects.
You see, about a year ago my brother decided to get married. Some time after that he decided to get married in a park, the same park where I was attacked by a man some years ago. The park is located in the town where I used to live with Artboy.
I haven't really been back there, not since I came crawling into The Peach.
I wanted to attend the wedding I just didn't want to go back to that town or that park or that region. I didn't even want to think about it. Spencer and Grizelda both received invitations so we stuffed ourselves into Grizelda's tiny red car and drove and drove and drove.
I packed brandy for the journey. Brandy and painkillers for my broken foot. By the time we narrowed in our trajectory we were one sheet to the wind. Arriving at the park, grass by a lagoon really, the first thing I noticed was the exact spot I crawled away in the mud, undercover of darkness, when I made my getaway all those years ago. The second thing I noticed was the white cat fur on my black dress left there surreptitiously by Oscar the kitten. I decided to focus on the dress.
I saw my brother arrive in a car full of men wearing tuxedos. A familiar sight thanks to his years of playing in big bands. And then my parents and then the ceremony and then nothing but acres of goodwill.
Spencer and I were drunk and chatty with relatives and friends alike. My parents kept ageing and beaming then tearing up and doing it all over again. I performed one good deed. There was the bridal waltz, and her parents walking up to join in, and my father with his wife and there over at a table sat my mother by herself. Her partner nowhere to be seen, I think she was photographing something. I stood a little uncertainly because of the wine and my broken foot but I made to over to her table and held out my hand. I lead my mother to the dance floor. She said "I'm not sure how to do this". "It doesn't matter", I replied. And so we waltzed on that roomy floor in between the tuxedo-clad big band and the hundreds of pair of eyes.
Afterwards my aunts and uncles came surreptitiously one by one to tell me what a good thing I had done asking my mother to dance. I did not disagree with them but I looked at them a little beadily. Its been some time since a relative thought highly of me. I thought for a moment of my dead grandfather and wondered.
After my brother took his new wife away in a car Spencer and I stole all the wine we could and started drinking while Grizelda worked at driving the car. The turn off to my old house came up ahead of us. I felt uneasy but shouted at the very last second 'turn here I want to see the house'.
Grizelda found the old house easily and brought her small car to a stop across the road from it. The new people had ripped out the old weeping cherry tree and chopped down the jacaranda. There was a white metal letterbox in place of the crazy old wooden one my father bought from a man who carved things with a chainsaw.
I remembered the last time I was there. Half mad and convinced I was being followed by a cube of sorrow. This time I was not alone. We got out of the car and crossed the road. Spencer and Grizelda held back but I walked on my broken foot, all dressed up and drunk. I walked right up the driveway smoking a cigarette and taking huge swigs from a stolen bottle of wine.
Memories that house seemed like a huge shadow falling over everything I do. I stared at the front door and waited for something to hit me until something did. I don't need this anymore. I ground out my cigarette on the red brick driveway, shrugged at the idea of Artboy and walked on back to the car.
Half way home Spencer said "You did good tonight". And I thought yeah, I did.
We sang and drank and laughed our way back towards the city. The street lights started growing on every corner and maybe a plane roared overhead or if it didn't it could have. People were walking everywhere on the streets and there was life more than darkness and the big solid feeling of coming home.
Thanks for listening.
That's a full lid.
You see, about a year ago my brother decided to get married. Some time after that he decided to get married in a park, the same park where I was attacked by a man some years ago. The park is located in the town where I used to live with Artboy.
I haven't really been back there, not since I came crawling into The Peach.
I wanted to attend the wedding I just didn't want to go back to that town or that park or that region. I didn't even want to think about it. Spencer and Grizelda both received invitations so we stuffed ourselves into Grizelda's tiny red car and drove and drove and drove.
I packed brandy for the journey. Brandy and painkillers for my broken foot. By the time we narrowed in our trajectory we were one sheet to the wind. Arriving at the park, grass by a lagoon really, the first thing I noticed was the exact spot I crawled away in the mud, undercover of darkness, when I made my getaway all those years ago. The second thing I noticed was the white cat fur on my black dress left there surreptitiously by Oscar the kitten. I decided to focus on the dress.
I saw my brother arrive in a car full of men wearing tuxedos. A familiar sight thanks to his years of playing in big bands. And then my parents and then the ceremony and then nothing but acres of goodwill.
Spencer and I were drunk and chatty with relatives and friends alike. My parents kept ageing and beaming then tearing up and doing it all over again. I performed one good deed. There was the bridal waltz, and her parents walking up to join in, and my father with his wife and there over at a table sat my mother by herself. Her partner nowhere to be seen, I think she was photographing something. I stood a little uncertainly because of the wine and my broken foot but I made to over to her table and held out my hand. I lead my mother to the dance floor. She said "I'm not sure how to do this". "It doesn't matter", I replied. And so we waltzed on that roomy floor in between the tuxedo-clad big band and the hundreds of pair of eyes.
Afterwards my aunts and uncles came surreptitiously one by one to tell me what a good thing I had done asking my mother to dance. I did not disagree with them but I looked at them a little beadily. Its been some time since a relative thought highly of me. I thought for a moment of my dead grandfather and wondered.
After my brother took his new wife away in a car Spencer and I stole all the wine we could and started drinking while Grizelda worked at driving the car. The turn off to my old house came up ahead of us. I felt uneasy but shouted at the very last second 'turn here I want to see the house'.
Grizelda found the old house easily and brought her small car to a stop across the road from it. The new people had ripped out the old weeping cherry tree and chopped down the jacaranda. There was a white metal letterbox in place of the crazy old wooden one my father bought from a man who carved things with a chainsaw.
I remembered the last time I was there. Half mad and convinced I was being followed by a cube of sorrow. This time I was not alone. We got out of the car and crossed the road. Spencer and Grizelda held back but I walked on my broken foot, all dressed up and drunk. I walked right up the driveway smoking a cigarette and taking huge swigs from a stolen bottle of wine.
Memories that house seemed like a huge shadow falling over everything I do. I stared at the front door and waited for something to hit me until something did. I don't need this anymore. I ground out my cigarette on the red brick driveway, shrugged at the idea of Artboy and walked on back to the car.
Half way home Spencer said "You did good tonight". And I thought yeah, I did.
We sang and drank and laughed our way back towards the city. The street lights started growing on every corner and maybe a plane roared overhead or if it didn't it could have. People were walking everywhere on the streets and there was life more than darkness and the big solid feeling of coming home.
Thanks for listening.
That's a full lid.
Dredge
I've been slow this weekend, moving my limbs in test patterns to make sure I'm still broadcasting. I haven't been getting up in the mornings, I can't pretend there's a reason where there are no reasons. The sun seems further from the earth, more shadows and length and stillness.
I've been frightened lately, of walking alone at night, of waking with strangers and of all of my friendships turning out to be as needlessly treacherous as my ill fated friendship with Superman. I was floating in Clovelly Bay by starlight, flipping my flippers one long stroke at a time when it occurred to me that all my regrets fall into the same category. I regret not speaking my mind, too often I swallow opinions and words to avoid someone else's unreasonable reactions.
There was a time when I was a walking tempest but it seems more impossible than the formation of ice to speak my mind now, or it did until this morning when I answered an email with something close to the truth. I have been furious with Superman since late last year. One morning he simply got up and decided that he no longer needed to go through any of the normal motions of friendship such as acknowledging my existence or consenting to even the most basic of conversations. I decided somewhere north of Brisbane to terminate the friendship just as soon as I got back to the safety of The Peach. I was dissuaded by friends* who counseled caution, the lovely Rita acting as a constant guard against impulsive action.
This morning when I received the most arrogant of emails from Superman I finally let rip, in a moderate way. I spent the rest of the day pondering why I had waited so long to do what I most wanted to be done. I am tired of being the calm and sane one. I am tired of all my empathy, sympathy and being the opposite of revolution. Tomorrow is going to be a good day.
* There was not a general consensus, some people suggested performing an official ceremony during which Superman would be declared an official prick, others voted for the word arsehole.
I've been frightened lately, of walking alone at night, of waking with strangers and of all of my friendships turning out to be as needlessly treacherous as my ill fated friendship with Superman. I was floating in Clovelly Bay by starlight, flipping my flippers one long stroke at a time when it occurred to me that all my regrets fall into the same category. I regret not speaking my mind, too often I swallow opinions and words to avoid someone else's unreasonable reactions.
There was a time when I was a walking tempest but it seems more impossible than the formation of ice to speak my mind now, or it did until this morning when I answered an email with something close to the truth. I have been furious with Superman since late last year. One morning he simply got up and decided that he no longer needed to go through any of the normal motions of friendship such as acknowledging my existence or consenting to even the most basic of conversations. I decided somewhere north of Brisbane to terminate the friendship just as soon as I got back to the safety of The Peach. I was dissuaded by friends* who counseled caution, the lovely Rita acting as a constant guard against impulsive action.
This morning when I received the most arrogant of emails from Superman I finally let rip, in a moderate way. I spent the rest of the day pondering why I had waited so long to do what I most wanted to be done. I am tired of being the calm and sane one. I am tired of all my empathy, sympathy and being the opposite of revolution. Tomorrow is going to be a good day.
* There was not a general consensus, some people suggested performing an official ceremony during which Superman would be declared an official prick, others voted for the word arsehole.
This might cause me to protest
I am finding it hard to comprehend that the large corporation Gunns is now suing protesters for protesting. I might think of something intelligent to say but in the meantime I am walking around saying words like abhorrent and unconscionable.
Here is the correct link.
Here is the correct link.
Traumax, dress death, incredible happenings and the superness of Superman
One moment I was sitting in the Zammercarship happy after seeing The Maple Trail play at the Hopetoun and going to the gallery Serial Space, hungry for the late late dinner Superman and I were planning on having on the way back to The Peach. The next moment I was lying in an ambulance confused and hurting so profoundly that I did not know where exactly the hurt was coming from. At one point I heard a voice and said, "Oh, is Superman here too?". The ambulance lady told me yes he was but I forgot again and again and was surprised when he appeared by my side in my very own personal trauma room in the emergency part of RPA. I was sure that they were pretending, I could not remember being in a crash, they kept asking me how I opened the broken car door. I did not know that Superman had flung it open, not until he told me the next day.
Small notes of gratitude are scrolling through my still fuzzy and unattractively swollen head for:
Superman who was exceptional, even at 3am sitting in a plastic hospital chair at my side. He went out of his way to be extraordinary. For doing everything possible including making me go in the ambulance and stay in the hospital when I did not want to. For going to great lengths to print and post my manuscript that had to be posted, for wiping the terrible mascara trails from my face when I could not do it myself, for sitting in the hospital forever. For conjuring doctors to come and explain just what the hell was going on. For miraculously fetching hot hospital blankets fresh out of the drier when I was shaking with cold. For his powers of invincibility and not being horribly injured, for talking to everyone from police to parents and friends. For his concern for the occupants of the other car and his gratitude for everyone that helped. For holding amusing things in my field of vision when I could not move my head and could not stand staring at the one roof tile any longer. You're alright Superman.
The woman who lived on the corner where we crashed who came out with her dog, comfort and glasses of water while I sat on a wall and wondered what was happening.
The ambulance lady who was commanding and kind. She held me in a calm centre while police and people and firetrucks made chaos. She did not leave my side, sat by me and put a warm hand on mine every time I started to cry, even while she went about poking me and flashing lights in my eyes. In an amazing display of competence she took my arm softly and cannulated me while the ambulance was moving. She was stern and thorough and wonderful.
The emergency staff at RPA were mostly excellent, except for when six of them suddenly stopped doing all the odd things they were doing to me, all at once, rolled me on my side, cut off my clothes with scissors and let some doctor stick a finger in my bum. That was not excellent. It was also unexcellent when they held open my jaw for x-rays or when they bound my hands to my feet and pulled the ropes tight making my bones scream, or when the nurse pushed pain killers down my throat or when they insisted that the neck brace stay on. What was excellent was being voted favourite patient in emergency.
Grizelda stayed with me all day in the hospital and remedied my cracked lips with ointments, held things up into my limited field of vision for my amusement. For making tea and fetching pillows and telephoning my brother.
The Spatula for coming to the hospital and then missing her appointment to help Superman post my manuscript that had to be posted. For feeding the cat and marching to the shops to fetch me things.
My parents who miraculously appeared from far away. My Dad for waiting in the hospital and in my house, for talking with Superman and saying reassuring things. My Mum and her partner for coming armed with a teapot, two kinds of tea, a bottle of arnica and a fresh apple cake and talking to Superman and saying reassuring things.
Spencer for appearing with a pink shiny beruffled umbrella with whistle attached then sitting in The Peach listening to Superman and I tell and retell the same stories in a blurry fashion whilst high on painkillers.
Ron & Rita who telephoned me from a different hospital where they sit with Ronita and their brand new one day old baby which is so far named Untitled 2008. I am very upset that I did not get to see him this weekend, this tiny brand new person. Being smashed in a car is nothing compared to what just happened to Rita.
Sputnik and Boli for their messages of concern.
My dress, that served me well, I was wearing it the first time I met Superman, I had forgotten this until he pointed it out. My dress that went to parties, galleries, gigs, supermarkets and hospitals. I was going to have it altered next week because it has become too big. The first dress I ever bought for myself, I loved you so. RIP green jungle print 1950's party dress.
My painkillers for making typing and just plain being possible.
My spine for defying all things and not being broken despite the incredible concern of medical people. My left arm for coming out of the piece of car it was momentarily stuck in, this I remember.
I have this picture in my head of a smashed and shaken Superman coming back to the dark Peach alone in the early hours of the morning. How he walked alone and could not find a taxi for such a long time, opening the door to The Peach with my unfamiliar keys and feeling his way down the dark hallway then not going to bed but staying up and printing my manuscript. How he said he was shaking for hours. I would not like to have been him, I would not like to watch him flat and prone surrounded by doctors and lying forever in horrible pain. It is cold, uncomfortable and exhausting to wait in a hospital.
I do not remember the crash. Everything hurts except my right hand and left foot. My jaw is swollen down to my shoulder, I have no neck right now, none at all. My whole face retains a cartilage feeling that comes with a blow to the nose. My teeth, all of my teeth ache and ache and ache. I feel terrible, crushed, smashed, confused, unable to concentrate even on a movie. There is simple sadness and a base need for constant comfort. I cry unexpectedly, sleep unexpectedly, I have no desire to write these words but I type in an attempt to usher in some sense of normalcy and cast out determined surreality in this small window where the painkillers begin to work but have not yet rendered me unconscious.
I sail
It rains. The chimney catches air like a phantasm or a ship. I have this idea of weighing anchor and steaming south through wind and rain. I will drop anchor in the vacant block of land next door to The Hive. I am sure they have built something terrible on it by now but when I last walked out of Gemma's front door and crossed the road in search of cake there was nothing but a hole in the ground, three workers sitting on eskys and poorly erected cyclone fencing.
There is room there for The Peach, her deck, a garden and all who sail in her. Spencer will carry his things in boxes and sail onboard The Peach wearing his hat and a guitar. He will then establish himself in a flat in The Hive. My brother will lash ropes round his townhouse and be towed as Ron & Rita row down from the mountains. The Cowboy has attached twin diesel engines to his flat. Robert's house shimmers and slips coordinates with grace at warp speed. Superman will know where to come, he sees all from the Fortress of Solitude.
We are all here. A great fleet pushing south through haunted rain. I am standing on the bow of The Peach, eyes closed against the fierce salt spray.
There is room there for The Peach, her deck, a garden and all who sail in her. Spencer will carry his things in boxes and sail onboard The Peach wearing his hat and a guitar. He will then establish himself in a flat in The Hive. My brother will lash ropes round his townhouse and be towed as Ron & Rita row down from the mountains. The Cowboy has attached twin diesel engines to his flat. Robert's house shimmers and slips coordinates with grace at warp speed. Superman will know where to come, he sees all from the Fortress of Solitude.
We are all here. A great fleet pushing south through haunted rain. I am standing on the bow of The Peach, eyes closed against the fierce salt spray.
Insensible
Superman was walking up and down the hallway with a raw egg in a small white bowl first thing this morning. He said "I've got this egg. Do you sometimes wish your surname was Wow?", I do so I nodded and turned left into the bathroom, Superman continued on his way down the hall, this is unrelated to my party.
At one point late on Saturday night I feared for the lives of everybody. Superman and Spencer had linked arms and were dancing in circles at an alarming velocity, jumping over furniture and narrowly missing Robert and his snare drum. Robert, Madam Squeeze and Boli were cranking out some kind of Freylekh on drum, accordion and clarinet. The Peach Deck was in danger of crashing to the ground killing everybody at once or at least horribly maiming people with large splintery bits of wood that poking right through their middles, that would teach them not to stamp their feet enthusiastically to Gypsy music whilst seated drunkenly on The Peach Deck. The stamping was repeated, the music ranged from the bizarre to the sublime but the deck and I survived.
I have never thrown a party by myself before, there has always been someone, a brother, a housemate or a partner. I anticipated that nobody would come, not just for me. I had planned in my mind how I would walk slowly from one end of The Peach Deck to the other packing away chairs and taking lanterns down from the trees. I would put away the clean glasses and plates and lock the front door. I would shower and turn on my electric blanket. I would wake in the morning diminished. I did not anticipate that every single person would turn up with a bottle under their arm and a smile on their face. I did not anticipate that sitting on a cushion on a milk crate under the curved branch of a mulberry tree I could look in any direction and see someone that I loved.
A party is a wondrous thing where it is appropriate to laugh or sing or dance or jump around for no reason and instead of staring at you weirdly people join in. I drew sharks and aeroplanes on the fridge with Ronita, I danced like pirate with Madam Squeeze, I offered round warm things that were thoughtfully provided by Rita, I showed everyone my library, my bedside table and my brand new chair, I talked and laughed and ran around waving my arms with glee.
I wanted to draw bricks in the gaps between the shoulders of my friends until I was fortress. I wanted to spin slowly in the centre of the deck until everyone I love blurred into lines of colour and it was all I could see. I didn't manage any spinning but I'm not sure that I needed to.
At one point late on Saturday night I feared for the lives of everybody. Superman and Spencer had linked arms and were dancing in circles at an alarming velocity, jumping over furniture and narrowly missing Robert and his snare drum. Robert, Madam Squeeze and Boli were cranking out some kind of Freylekh on drum, accordion and clarinet. The Peach Deck was in danger of crashing to the ground killing everybody at once or at least horribly maiming people with large splintery bits of wood that poking right through their middles, that would teach them not to stamp their feet enthusiastically to Gypsy music whilst seated drunkenly on The Peach Deck. The stamping was repeated, the music ranged from the bizarre to the sublime but the deck and I survived.
I have never thrown a party by myself before, there has always been someone, a brother, a housemate or a partner. I anticipated that nobody would come, not just for me. I had planned in my mind how I would walk slowly from one end of The Peach Deck to the other packing away chairs and taking lanterns down from the trees. I would put away the clean glasses and plates and lock the front door. I would shower and turn on my electric blanket. I would wake in the morning diminished. I did not anticipate that every single person would turn up with a bottle under their arm and a smile on their face. I did not anticipate that sitting on a cushion on a milk crate under the curved branch of a mulberry tree I could look in any direction and see someone that I loved.
A party is a wondrous thing where it is appropriate to laugh or sing or dance or jump around for no reason and instead of staring at you weirdly people join in. I drew sharks and aeroplanes on the fridge with Ronita, I danced like pirate with Madam Squeeze, I offered round warm things that were thoughtfully provided by Rita, I showed everyone my library, my bedside table and my brand new chair, I talked and laughed and ran around waving my arms with glee.
I wanted to draw bricks in the gaps between the shoulders of my friends until I was fortress. I wanted to spin slowly in the centre of the deck until everyone I love blurred into lines of colour and it was all I could see. I didn't manage any spinning but I'm not sure that I needed to.
Ahh horrible!
I have just vomited nine times. The salad I made for dinner came back out undigested but transformed into a foul tasting salad soup. I can not convey the depth of my horror, this feels like the worst thing that has ever happened. I was utterly helpless bent over the toilet bowl spraying high volume high speed disgusting vomit into the refulgent toilet bowl. My whole body fell victim to the convulsions.
It is a thorough action, vomiting, everything from my feet to my scalp unwillingly unified in performing the action. Rita, with her morning sickness, is my newest world hero. I am curled in my chair shaking, white and in fear that it will happen again. I feel terrible (dreadful, causing fear and alarm - just in case you needed reminding of the definition).
It is a thorough action, vomiting, everything from my feet to my scalp unwillingly unified in performing the action. Rita, with her morning sickness, is my newest world hero. I am curled in my chair shaking, white and in fear that it will happen again. I feel terrible (dreadful, causing fear and alarm - just in case you needed reminding of the definition).
Churchill was on to something, thanks Ron
Never, in the field of biscuit bakery, has so much, been owed by Dale Slamma, to Tim T.
Exaltation is not the word I'm looking for but I sure like the sound of it
I'm fairly certain that Keith Richards lives inside his guitar. Music is always there, he's just pointing out the obvious with particular movements of his hands like a child holding up an arm to a sky and a rainbow.
Superman caught me in the act of playing Mouse Trap by the fire. I was smoking cigarettes, eating Dale Biscuits and listening to The Rolling Stones bent as Atlas over the old board game trying my hardest to assemble the bright plastic pieces into something but there's nothing more confusing than a box full of bathtubs, ball bearings, plastic diving men and cardboard cheese.
I wanted to wash off my my red lipstick before we left for the cinema cause I've come to believe its the lipstick of doom but I didn't have time to explain with Superman standing in the doorway asking "Of all the things on our list of things we have to do before going is that really a priority?". I guess not, lipstick of doom is not a priority when the doom is imagined. I offered to drive in my shitbox of a car and I wasn't surprised when Superman said no, what was surprising was the song playing on the stereo in Superman's car. I liked it, I said that sounds happy but then the vocals started and I punched Superman right in the arm even though he was driving, such was the level of my surprise.
Superman told me he was making me a surprise but I wasn't expecting that, he recorded the song that we wrote and you know what, it sounds good. At the cinema Superman put massive headphones on me so I could listen to the song, I had a grand old time walking and dancing around right through the foyer and the cinema until I became confused by ads for stupid things and had to take the headphones off. Shine A Light was a privileged shifting of context and perspective. Its not every day you get to be on stage feeling every small electric zap of communication shooting between people who've been living inside each other's songs for so long that I don't remember myself without their music. The Rolling Stones don't sound how you think they sound.
The fire ate time again and nobody went to sleep before 4am. I slept fitfully, acutely aware in each waking state that everyone else was deep in slumber, Superman and the cat curling around each other like the world was a cardboard box. There were crepes, bananas, dizzy spells and supermarkets in the grey morning. I walked slowly in a dream shuffle pushing back spinning black balls of illness trying to infiltrate my equilibrium while the sky sat squat and monolithic, even in Newtown.
The rest of the day passed quietly, the Dr Who television marathon painting atmosphere while I paced and sat and stared and pushed my writing forwards one word at a time. Superman read away at his own work until Grizelda produced food for us all. Unfortunately we went and saw the Sex and The City movie, everyone cried, except me. I was furious and someone let the beast out of its memory box. Nothing ever turns out the way I expect it to. A shiny movie rammed with shoes and a girl who wears pearls with pyjamas is not supposed to hook down the sky and drape it over your head but that's exactly what it did, for a short while.
Artboy wants to meet me for coffee and I haven't been talking about it to anyone, except Ron, in a short and misguided online chat. The problem with Superman is that he listens, responds and generally makes more sense out of things than three of me strapped together holding out books of science. I am more used to walking around banging into things until I find my own way but don't misunderstand me, I'm not complaining about the lack of bumps on my head. A nice cup of tea, a little sit down, a chauffeured trip for tobacco later and I was lying on the lounge thinking this is alright.
Superman turned off the lights, lit a candle, put Sigur Ros on the stereo at top volume then laid himself down on the floor. I was the tiniest bit skeptical at first, needing as I did to reassemble things into shapes that made sense but nothing turns out the way I expect it to. Don't tell me sound can't be pixels cause I watched them last night through the pink of my eyelids stacking one on top of another in wave forms and human shapes and the good blue bricks of focus until everything was back where its supposed to be. I need to thank Superman for popping into my life and rearranging things, I'm not sure how but one of these days I'll manage it.
Superman caught me in the act of playing Mouse Trap by the fire. I was smoking cigarettes, eating Dale Biscuits and listening to The Rolling Stones bent as Atlas over the old board game trying my hardest to assemble the bright plastic pieces into something but there's nothing more confusing than a box full of bathtubs, ball bearings, plastic diving men and cardboard cheese.
I wanted to wash off my my red lipstick before we left for the cinema cause I've come to believe its the lipstick of doom but I didn't have time to explain with Superman standing in the doorway asking "Of all the things on our list of things we have to do before going is that really a priority?". I guess not, lipstick of doom is not a priority when the doom is imagined. I offered to drive in my shitbox of a car and I wasn't surprised when Superman said no, what was surprising was the song playing on the stereo in Superman's car. I liked it, I said that sounds happy but then the vocals started and I punched Superman right in the arm even though he was driving, such was the level of my surprise.
Superman told me he was making me a surprise but I wasn't expecting that, he recorded the song that we wrote and you know what, it sounds good. At the cinema Superman put massive headphones on me so I could listen to the song, I had a grand old time walking and dancing around right through the foyer and the cinema until I became confused by ads for stupid things and had to take the headphones off. Shine A Light was a privileged shifting of context and perspective. Its not every day you get to be on stage feeling every small electric zap of communication shooting between people who've been living inside each other's songs for so long that I don't remember myself without their music. The Rolling Stones don't sound how you think they sound.
The fire ate time again and nobody went to sleep before 4am. I slept fitfully, acutely aware in each waking state that everyone else was deep in slumber, Superman and the cat curling around each other like the world was a cardboard box. There were crepes, bananas, dizzy spells and supermarkets in the grey morning. I walked slowly in a dream shuffle pushing back spinning black balls of illness trying to infiltrate my equilibrium while the sky sat squat and monolithic, even in Newtown.
The rest of the day passed quietly, the Dr Who television marathon painting atmosphere while I paced and sat and stared and pushed my writing forwards one word at a time. Superman read away at his own work until Grizelda produced food for us all. Unfortunately we went and saw the Sex and The City movie, everyone cried, except me. I was furious and someone let the beast out of its memory box. Nothing ever turns out the way I expect it to. A shiny movie rammed with shoes and a girl who wears pearls with pyjamas is not supposed to hook down the sky and drape it over your head but that's exactly what it did, for a short while.
Artboy wants to meet me for coffee and I haven't been talking about it to anyone, except Ron, in a short and misguided online chat. The problem with Superman is that he listens, responds and generally makes more sense out of things than three of me strapped together holding out books of science. I am more used to walking around banging into things until I find my own way but don't misunderstand me, I'm not complaining about the lack of bumps on my head. A nice cup of tea, a little sit down, a chauffeured trip for tobacco later and I was lying on the lounge thinking this is alright.
Superman turned off the lights, lit a candle, put Sigur Ros on the stereo at top volume then laid himself down on the floor. I was the tiniest bit skeptical at first, needing as I did to reassemble things into shapes that made sense but nothing turns out the way I expect it to. Don't tell me sound can't be pixels cause I watched them last night through the pink of my eyelids stacking one on top of another in wave forms and human shapes and the good blue bricks of focus until everything was back where its supposed to be. I need to thank Superman for popping into my life and rearranging things, I'm not sure how but one of these days I'll manage it.
Oh dear, I strike again, sorry about that Rita
I need to be microwaved, urgently. My ions or the tiny spaces inside my atoms need exciting into action. I blame Superman, a roll of gaffertape and my opera cape, these three things should never under any circumstances be combined. I am under strict instructions to not publish this photo of Superman but due to the gaffer tape opera cape incident I'm too tired to follow instructions.
Last night Superman and I headed to Rita's surprise birthday dinner. I wore an opera cape and red leather gloves, Superman wore my black pashmina as a scarf, he does that from time to time. I don't mind but I was slightly alarmed when I wrapped myself in it five minutes and ago and found it smelled like man instead of perfume dust and good dresses.
I spent a considerable amount of time and effort going person to person in an attempt to organise a spot of waltzing after dinner. I thought surely I could not fail to succeed, Superman bet my $1.12 that I would indeed fail. The tables were grey melamine, there were pink napkins stuffed into wine glasses, the middle of the tables had a raised rotating section, I was sure that all of this was in my favour. In the end when I gave the signal nothing at all happened so I waltzed around on the miniature dance floor in front of two mountain men playing country versions of Jimi Hendrix songs with tiny Ronita who yelled "Guitar! 8 9 10!" at odd intervals until she tired of being danced about on my hip and insisted on being taken to see the fish tank.
After the giant platter of stacked balls of deep fried ice cream arrived with a lone sparkler sticking out of the top we sang happy birthday and I was struck by the irresistible urge to give an impromptu speech. I said to Superman "I must make a speech!" I stood up in my green jungle print 1950's party dress and stared them down, those thirty people in their jeans and t-shirts. I insisted they all listen to me and one by one they did. Unfortunately I said "I just have a few things to say, oh wait I don't have anything to say", recovery was difficult from that point, sorry about that Rita.
I sat in my puddle of weariness and odd shame all the long way home to the city. I cheered myself up somewhere around Parramatta Rd by singing the names of all the shops into one long song. Superman begged me to stop. There are a lot of shops on Parramatta Rd.
Reinstalled at The Peach where I can generally stay out of trouble (let us not remember Zissou) we lit a fire in the library and talked, at length, about nothing in particular until suddenly it was after 3am and we were watching Laurie Anderson videos on you tube. This is where gaffer tape, a lamp and Superman prevented my gentle fall into comfortable slumber until sometime after 4am.
Spencer came by in the morning wearing a cowboy shirt and some shoes sharper than shark shit. He pulled a plastic case out of his leather satchel and waved it around, holding it by the tips of his long fingers, the one that can reach all the way to the bottom of a jar of pringles, it was a rough mix from his new album so I climbed up the bookshelf to play a cd (the stereo is very high). Things got very Rock in The Peach today with Spencer sprawling his long legs and sharp shoes out the end of an armchair and Superman sitting in the opposite corner and the rough mix playing on repeat. We filled that room with cigarette smoke, conversation and the fuck off undeniable evidence of just exactly why we lock ourselves away in rooms undertaking our own private necessary tortures.
I don't write songs, that's not my brand of necessary torture, but sometimes, if you stop kicking and screaming at life you'll find someone delivers a reason why, right through your front door and I think this is what I wanted to say last night in that grey melemine restaurant holding a pink napkin and standing like a fool in party dress and an opera cape. It might sound simple, like a table full of friends eating fried ice cream or two men sitting in The Peach with the stereo on but what it means is something so complex I can't find a way of staring at it.
Last night Superman and I headed to Rita's surprise birthday dinner. I wore an opera cape and red leather gloves, Superman wore my black pashmina as a scarf, he does that from time to time. I don't mind but I was slightly alarmed when I wrapped myself in it five minutes and ago and found it smelled like man instead of perfume dust and good dresses.
I spent a considerable amount of time and effort going person to person in an attempt to organise a spot of waltzing after dinner. I thought surely I could not fail to succeed, Superman bet my $1.12 that I would indeed fail. The tables were grey melamine, there were pink napkins stuffed into wine glasses, the middle of the tables had a raised rotating section, I was sure that all of this was in my favour. In the end when I gave the signal nothing at all happened so I waltzed around on the miniature dance floor in front of two mountain men playing country versions of Jimi Hendrix songs with tiny Ronita who yelled "Guitar! 8 9 10!" at odd intervals until she tired of being danced about on my hip and insisted on being taken to see the fish tank.
After the giant platter of stacked balls of deep fried ice cream arrived with a lone sparkler sticking out of the top we sang happy birthday and I was struck by the irresistible urge to give an impromptu speech. I said to Superman "I must make a speech!" I stood up in my green jungle print 1950's party dress and stared them down, those thirty people in their jeans and t-shirts. I insisted they all listen to me and one by one they did. Unfortunately I said "I just have a few things to say, oh wait I don't have anything to say", recovery was difficult from that point, sorry about that Rita.
I sat in my puddle of weariness and odd shame all the long way home to the city. I cheered myself up somewhere around Parramatta Rd by singing the names of all the shops into one long song. Superman begged me to stop. There are a lot of shops on Parramatta Rd.
Reinstalled at The Peach where I can generally stay out of trouble (let us not remember Zissou) we lit a fire in the library and talked, at length, about nothing in particular until suddenly it was after 3am and we were watching Laurie Anderson videos on you tube. This is where gaffer tape, a lamp and Superman prevented my gentle fall into comfortable slumber until sometime after 4am.
Spencer came by in the morning wearing a cowboy shirt and some shoes sharper than shark shit. He pulled a plastic case out of his leather satchel and waved it around, holding it by the tips of his long fingers, the one that can reach all the way to the bottom of a jar of pringles, it was a rough mix from his new album so I climbed up the bookshelf to play a cd (the stereo is very high). Things got very Rock in The Peach today with Spencer sprawling his long legs and sharp shoes out the end of an armchair and Superman sitting in the opposite corner and the rough mix playing on repeat. We filled that room with cigarette smoke, conversation and the fuck off undeniable evidence of just exactly why we lock ourselves away in rooms undertaking our own private necessary tortures.
I don't write songs, that's not my brand of necessary torture, but sometimes, if you stop kicking and screaming at life you'll find someone delivers a reason why, right through your front door and I think this is what I wanted to say last night in that grey melemine restaurant holding a pink napkin and standing like a fool in party dress and an opera cape. It might sound simple, like a table full of friends eating fried ice cream or two men sitting in The Peach with the stereo on but what it means is something so complex I can't find a way of staring at it.
Callan Park is melting in the dark
Today gravity cast a wide arc and it was I standing slow and strong at the centre. Globes described in symmetry. I was neither pushed nor pulled by unexpected tides. Yesterday was different. Yesterday I hurtled up and down the Blue Mountains. I watched my mother stuff her letterbox with rosemary and Rita crunch a slow continual crunch in a bid to stop the vomit.
Last night tipped on the edge of disaster. I made it home at ten to six, a ten minutes before I was due to be collected by Superman. I was harried, hungover and discombobulated. I placed my handbag in the hall as the phone rang, it was Superman, "Arrrrrrgh" was the first thing he said. He was running late so I sat on the edge of my bed to think about which tea cup to use. It would have been sensible to walk to the kitchen, switch on the kettle, warm the pot, measure the tea and begin my ritual but I sat on the edge of the bed in yesterday's clothes.
I woke suddenly in a panic, it was pitch black and I was wearing my shoes, it was ten to seven. I'm not sure what happened but my confusion was at an all time high. It took several attempts to successfully open my bedroom door and stumble into the hall. I was babbling and incomprehensible, Grizelda seemed amused and I was further alarmed at being the one watching someone else be calm.
Superman arrived and I attempted to explain my panic and confusion but my eyes were half closed and I was distracted by his hair which was, for the first time, differently arranged. I'd been sleeping with my shoes on, this seems important to mention.
In the end there was time for noodles before the band but things were not right. Superman was folding and unfolding himself, the levels were off and the drums were falling apart. The car battery went flat, I don't think this is because I did not say goodbye to Spencer, we had to phone for roadside assistance, I do not think this was because I bought an apple pie for a dollar. We had to wait for half an hour, I do not think this is because I put the unfinished pie down on Superman's cheeseburger wrapper and then watched while he ate it.
I stared from the passenger seat of Superman's small car while a drunk man turned his wheelchair in circles.
This is tired and unmoving. This is less than a simple laying out of then and then next. Superman and I drove around for half an hour, as instructed, to recharge the car battery and it was not unpleasant. I almost bought firewood but this was after Superman drove into a dream and a conjured dinosaurs that turned out to be a serial killer. There was sandstone and waterfronts and dull lights shining for the isolated and broken. Callan Park was melting in the dark but batteries prevent things from stopping.
It would have been a disaster but there was a gentle acceptance and calm good will and in the end Superman and I had tea in our cups and cushions at our backs, we'd had dinner and seen the band. We'd sonared our way across the Inner West with the good mission or traveling time. After the shower, after Superman went home, I sat in the rare comfort of an empty head, my sheets were clean, my hair was clean and the confusion was gone. I made one good decision then wished for rain.
Last night tipped on the edge of disaster. I made it home at ten to six, a ten minutes before I was due to be collected by Superman. I was harried, hungover and discombobulated. I placed my handbag in the hall as the phone rang, it was Superman, "Arrrrrrgh" was the first thing he said. He was running late so I sat on the edge of my bed to think about which tea cup to use. It would have been sensible to walk to the kitchen, switch on the kettle, warm the pot, measure the tea and begin my ritual but I sat on the edge of the bed in yesterday's clothes.
I woke suddenly in a panic, it was pitch black and I was wearing my shoes, it was ten to seven. I'm not sure what happened but my confusion was at an all time high. It took several attempts to successfully open my bedroom door and stumble into the hall. I was babbling and incomprehensible, Grizelda seemed amused and I was further alarmed at being the one watching someone else be calm.
Superman arrived and I attempted to explain my panic and confusion but my eyes were half closed and I was distracted by his hair which was, for the first time, differently arranged. I'd been sleeping with my shoes on, this seems important to mention.
In the end there was time for noodles before the band but things were not right. Superman was folding and unfolding himself, the levels were off and the drums were falling apart. The car battery went flat, I don't think this is because I did not say goodbye to Spencer, we had to phone for roadside assistance, I do not think this was because I bought an apple pie for a dollar. We had to wait for half an hour, I do not think this is because I put the unfinished pie down on Superman's cheeseburger wrapper and then watched while he ate it.
I stared from the passenger seat of Superman's small car while a drunk man turned his wheelchair in circles.
This is tired and unmoving. This is less than a simple laying out of then and then next. Superman and I drove around for half an hour, as instructed, to recharge the car battery and it was not unpleasant. I almost bought firewood but this was after Superman drove into a dream and a conjured dinosaurs that turned out to be a serial killer. There was sandstone and waterfronts and dull lights shining for the isolated and broken. Callan Park was melting in the dark but batteries prevent things from stopping.
It would have been a disaster but there was a gentle acceptance and calm good will and in the end Superman and I had tea in our cups and cushions at our backs, we'd had dinner and seen the band. We'd sonared our way across the Inner West with the good mission or traveling time. After the shower, after Superman went home, I sat in the rare comfort of an empty head, my sheets were clean, my hair was clean and the confusion was gone. I made one good decision then wished for rain.
Blow up the pokies; the years will condemn
Now not everyone likes The Whitlams, in fact I'm pretty sure I don't like them but if you're thinking about the geography of sound and I'm thinking about the geography of sound, then I don't think I can entirely ignore them, not even if I want to.
I was crossing borders today driving out of the city until I could see the flat hum of the horizon. Dropping in on Superman at his Mum's house I drank a hasty cup of tea at Emu Plains, conscious all the while of a container full of chocolate pastries waiting in the car for Rita's oven. I'm no pastry chef and my hands were still sore from rubbing the skin from hot hazelnuts straight out of my oven. I was worried something might happen to them in the car so that when I baked them in Rita's oven the middles would run out and the pastry shells burn to a crisp. No such in-car-pastry-disaster occurred and Rita pulled them brown and ready from the oven about an hour later but I've lost my train of thought.
I was sitting in the mountains, glass of sarsaparilla in hand, chewing on a triumphant chocolate pastry. No, that's not it either. I was driving down the mountains back towards Emu Plains wondering why the horizon was now behind me when it occurred to me it might be slightly bonkers of me to promise Superman I would help him with his odd project that afternoon. You see how I am tired and threads of thought float past each other without hook or knot or woven shape.
This evening Superman and I visited the Olympia Milkbar. I failed to adequately explain the legend, I failed to build in Superman's mind the right blend of curiousity and sorrow. I failed to explain that he should enter with silent reverence because it is everything that needs to be remembered. A cabinet of lest we forget. I am determined to try again, soon.
I dropped Superman at Central Station then headed back through the city to Newtown and Spencer waiting at the island cafe. We drank coffee and hot chocolate. We walked south for pastizzis walking the middle length of Newtown. From Newtown to Newtown crossing atmosphere and memories. Half way through my chilli con carne pastizzi I noticed the conversation was wide open, my words were making sense and I was interested, in everything.
Spencer and I have been talking about the geography of sound. We've talking about locating self through memories of landscape, the effect of place on our work, the people that have turned centuries and lived here throwing bricks and songs and words into our landscape, the one we're sitting in right now.
I'm thinking about the landscape of today and how different parts of me live in Emu Plains, The Blue Mountains, Springwood, Central Station and scattered walking ghosts in Newtown. I'm thinking about the geography of sound and the rain shadows of words. I'm thinking I might need a compass.
I was crossing borders today driving out of the city until I could see the flat hum of the horizon. Dropping in on Superman at his Mum's house I drank a hasty cup of tea at Emu Plains, conscious all the while of a container full of chocolate pastries waiting in the car for Rita's oven. I'm no pastry chef and my hands were still sore from rubbing the skin from hot hazelnuts straight out of my oven. I was worried something might happen to them in the car so that when I baked them in Rita's oven the middles would run out and the pastry shells burn to a crisp. No such in-car-pastry-disaster occurred and Rita pulled them brown and ready from the oven about an hour later but I've lost my train of thought.
I was sitting in the mountains, glass of sarsaparilla in hand, chewing on a triumphant chocolate pastry. No, that's not it either. I was driving down the mountains back towards Emu Plains wondering why the horizon was now behind me when it occurred to me it might be slightly bonkers of me to promise Superman I would help him with his odd project that afternoon. You see how I am tired and threads of thought float past each other without hook or knot or woven shape.
This evening Superman and I visited the Olympia Milkbar. I failed to adequately explain the legend, I failed to build in Superman's mind the right blend of curiousity and sorrow. I failed to explain that he should enter with silent reverence because it is everything that needs to be remembered. A cabinet of lest we forget. I am determined to try again, soon.
I dropped Superman at Central Station then headed back through the city to Newtown and Spencer waiting at the island cafe. We drank coffee and hot chocolate. We walked south for pastizzis walking the middle length of Newtown. From Newtown to Newtown crossing atmosphere and memories. Half way through my chilli con carne pastizzi I noticed the conversation was wide open, my words were making sense and I was interested, in everything.
Spencer and I have been talking about the geography of sound. We've talking about locating self through memories of landscape, the effect of place on our work, the people that have turned centuries and lived here throwing bricks and songs and words into our landscape, the one we're sitting in right now.
I'm thinking about the landscape of today and how different parts of me live in Emu Plains, The Blue Mountains, Springwood, Central Station and scattered walking ghosts in Newtown. I'm thinking about the geography of sound and the rain shadows of words. I'm thinking I might need a compass.
Brought to you by the letter B
Ronita ran up to me with her alphabet book said 'A' then 'fish'. She climbed into my lap and thrust the book into my hands saying 'more' with a rising inflection. She sat through three readings of the alphabet saying 'A' and then 'fish' each time.
I find her being astonishing. You can feel the elastic push of her expanding mind. I read A, B then paused asking "Can you say B?". She stared intently for a moment then with an upwards bounce for emphasis yelled "B!" her small hands raised and flailing with joy. I thought this is meaning unfolding. This a small making sense of the world. This is how it should be, caged gently in protective arms trying our hardest and knowing that whatever happens it will be alright.
I find her being astonishing. You can feel the elastic push of her expanding mind. I read A, B then paused asking "Can you say B?". She stared intently for a moment then with an upwards bounce for emphasis yelled "B!" her small hands raised and flailing with joy. I thought this is meaning unfolding. This a small making sense of the world. This is how it should be, caged gently in protective arms trying our hardest and knowing that whatever happens it will be alright.
Lovely Rita (a) Neater Maid (would be real hard to find)
Rita of the waist length ringlets shaved her head for charity. I ate corn chips and watched, that's as close as I'll ever get to shaving my head. When a person has hair as awesome as mine it is their civic duty to preserve it by resisting the temptation to shave.
This is not a review of the Damo Suzuki gig and Dale's Fake Birthday Party. Do you want a guitar and a petty job?
Tex Perkins is alive right now because my brother used to deliver pizza for a shop that owned a fleet of race cars. He also used to run fish from the airport but that's another story.
Ben Byrne and Ivan Lisyak opened the night with some laptop noise. It brought back memories of a thousand nights spent sitting on concrete gallery floors watching boys, including those boys, crouched behind laptops making noise and art while my back bent and butt froze. I whispered to Ron & Rita "I had eight years of this stuff". Rita made a face.
I want to be The Captain of Noise is what Tex Perkins must have thought to himself one day and now behold, he is. He stood in front of the Bumhead Orchestra in a tuxedo waving a knitting needle like a madman. The idea is he points at one of them and they make some kind of noise based on the wildness of his gestures and face. The overall effect is somewhat startling if lacking a little something in terms of noise art. Between songs he turned around to address the audience, this is where the swooning happened. Unfortunately it was me doing the swooning.
The Annandale is sticky at the best of times but Friday night they outdid themselves in the sticky department. Every time I wanted to move my feet I had to curl my toes and grip my shoes or one of two disastrous things would happen. Disaster one; my feet do not move but the rest of me does in a swan face plant. Disaster two; my feet come out of my shoes and step unprotected onto the stickiness.
Dear The Annandale,
Get a mop.
Dale
This is the part where my musical knowledge does its own faceplant. What happened was large in a monument to Superman kind of way. Damo Suzuki, Spencer with The Holy Soul (plus Petey-O, Andrew Gaddo and some other guy I don't know) walked onto stage set up their equipment and cracked open my ribs one at a time until the noise broke like the ocean. I hear that the Melbourne gig was a quiet affair but in Sydney the rock escaped and raged round inside the big room at The Annandale until even Spencer was dancing on stage. I was standing in the crowd cracked wide open and pulsing like a bird on a wire.
Tex Perkins was in the crowd right in front of me, luckily for me I was so distracted by what I was witnessing onstage that I only nearly swooned seven times. Not too bad really.
A woman in a white dress came up to me and said she liked my dress. She put her hand on my waist and said something that I didn't hear. I felt odd, it felt odd, it felt like she knew me but I didn't her. She smiled every time she saw me. She was a leitmotif.
Afterwards Gecko came back to The Peach and we sat on The Peach Deck drinking cups of tea. He's a walking cupboard of discombobulation opening and closing his internal drawers and hidden panels sometimes brandishing a shining swatch or an orb of darkness. He seems dangerous and frightening but only after he goes away. When I sit by him with mug in hand it feels like a conversation lifted from my blueprint. I'm not sure what to make of him really.
At the end of the night lying in bed staring at the sticky shoes on my bedroom floor I felt the music come back through me in spectacular waves of noise, light and fury. I just closed my eyes and smiled.
Ben Byrne and Ivan Lisyak opened the night with some laptop noise. It brought back memories of a thousand nights spent sitting on concrete gallery floors watching boys, including those boys, crouched behind laptops making noise and art while my back bent and butt froze. I whispered to Ron & Rita "I had eight years of this stuff". Rita made a face.
I want to be The Captain of Noise is what Tex Perkins must have thought to himself one day and now behold, he is. He stood in front of the Bumhead Orchestra in a tuxedo waving a knitting needle like a madman. The idea is he points at one of them and they make some kind of noise based on the wildness of his gestures and face. The overall effect is somewhat startling if lacking a little something in terms of noise art. Between songs he turned around to address the audience, this is where the swooning happened. Unfortunately it was me doing the swooning.
The Annandale is sticky at the best of times but Friday night they outdid themselves in the sticky department. Every time I wanted to move my feet I had to curl my toes and grip my shoes or one of two disastrous things would happen. Disaster one; my feet do not move but the rest of me does in a swan face plant. Disaster two; my feet come out of my shoes and step unprotected onto the stickiness.
Dear The Annandale,
Get a mop.
Dale
This is the part where my musical knowledge does its own faceplant. What happened was large in a monument to Superman kind of way. Damo Suzuki, Spencer with The Holy Soul (plus Petey-O, Andrew Gaddo and some other guy I don't know) walked onto stage set up their equipment and cracked open my ribs one at a time until the noise broke like the ocean. I hear that the Melbourne gig was a quiet affair but in Sydney the rock escaped and raged round inside the big room at The Annandale until even Spencer was dancing on stage. I was standing in the crowd cracked wide open and pulsing like a bird on a wire.
Tex Perkins was in the crowd right in front of me, luckily for me I was so distracted by what I was witnessing onstage that I only nearly swooned seven times. Not too bad really.
A woman in a white dress came up to me and said she liked my dress. She put her hand on my waist and said something that I didn't hear. I felt odd, it felt odd, it felt like she knew me but I didn't her. She smiled every time she saw me. She was a leitmotif.
Afterwards Gecko came back to The Peach and we sat on The Peach Deck drinking cups of tea. He's a walking cupboard of discombobulation opening and closing his internal drawers and hidden panels sometimes brandishing a shining swatch or an orb of darkness. He seems dangerous and frightening but only after he goes away. When I sit by him with mug in hand it feels like a conversation lifted from my blueprint. I'm not sure what to make of him really.
At the end of the night lying in bed staring at the sticky shoes on my bedroom floor I felt the music come back through me in spectacular waves of noise, light and fury. I just closed my eyes and smiled.
Psychic shower tiles and German surfing Professors of Literature
Ah ha! I thought, followed later by Oh no! This had nothing to do with the fact that I was standing in the middle of the road it was more shower related than that.
Grizelda and I walked to the end of the road to pick a mango, on the way home we swung by the IGA because I was desperate for a frozen dim sim, the kind you bring home from the shop then put in a pot of hot water. I haven't had one for ages but Rita was talking about them on the telephone and that's what set the whole thing rolling.
I walked with Grizelda because I wanted a dim sim; I cared not a fig for a mango. After mango picking we continued to the IGA but the IGA was closed. Most people say I G A but I prefer to pronounce it as a word that sounds like tiger. We plodded on with me grumbling incoherently about frozen things and pots of water while Grizelda held her mango as though it was a grenade. Out the front of the backpackers I stopped to cross the road. This is where the Ah ha! happened.
Across the road sitting in the driver's seat of an unusually small and decrepit red car was one of The Beautiful Boys. I've only met this one a few times. He looked up in surprise and called out to me. I walked straight into the middle of the road. I asked him if he was lost but he shook his head and pointed at his mobile phone. It was an odd conversation in that it wasn't really a conversation at all. We exchanged few words but inside my head went technicolour. I have no idea what I was thinking beyond Ah ha! until I had a shower.
In the shower I was thinking of a way to describe him, that and wishing I had shouted "Come to The Annandale on Friday night". He is like a German literary professor that surfs and then dries off and puts on tweeds is what I was thinking as I turned in the shower and placed my right palm flat against the glass of the shower screen. I thought that's odd, usually I turn left and put my right palm on the second tile down. I turned and placed my hand on the tile. Immediately I remembered the last time I had stood like that feeling at once that I had better move my hand or be overcome. I removed my hand, waited a moment then once again placed it on that tile. It is the tile of sorrow, memories hardened and sharpened their points. Feeling experimental I turned right and tested the spot on the glass screen. Happy spot, all Zissou, fuzzy cats, fig sorbet and German Surfing Professors of Literature.
The only sensible conclusion I can come to is that I have psychic shower tiles, that and I'm thinking odd thoughts about German Surfing Professors of Literature in small decrepit cars. Oh no!
Grizelda and I walked to the end of the road to pick a mango, on the way home we swung by the IGA because I was desperate for a frozen dim sim, the kind you bring home from the shop then put in a pot of hot water. I haven't had one for ages but Rita was talking about them on the telephone and that's what set the whole thing rolling.
I walked with Grizelda because I wanted a dim sim; I cared not a fig for a mango. After mango picking we continued to the IGA but the IGA was closed. Most people say I G A but I prefer to pronounce it as a word that sounds like tiger. We plodded on with me grumbling incoherently about frozen things and pots of water while Grizelda held her mango as though it was a grenade. Out the front of the backpackers I stopped to cross the road. This is where the Ah ha! happened.
Across the road sitting in the driver's seat of an unusually small and decrepit red car was one of The Beautiful Boys. I've only met this one a few times. He looked up in surprise and called out to me. I walked straight into the middle of the road. I asked him if he was lost but he shook his head and pointed at his mobile phone. It was an odd conversation in that it wasn't really a conversation at all. We exchanged few words but inside my head went technicolour. I have no idea what I was thinking beyond Ah ha! until I had a shower.
In the shower I was thinking of a way to describe him, that and wishing I had shouted "Come to The Annandale on Friday night". He is like a German literary professor that surfs and then dries off and puts on tweeds is what I was thinking as I turned in the shower and placed my right palm flat against the glass of the shower screen. I thought that's odd, usually I turn left and put my right palm on the second tile down. I turned and placed my hand on the tile. Immediately I remembered the last time I had stood like that feeling at once that I had better move my hand or be overcome. I removed my hand, waited a moment then once again placed it on that tile. It is the tile of sorrow, memories hardened and sharpened their points. Feeling experimental I turned right and tested the spot on the glass screen. Happy spot, all Zissou, fuzzy cats, fig sorbet and German Surfing Professors of Literature.
The only sensible conclusion I can come to is that I have psychic shower tiles, that and I'm thinking odd thoughts about German Surfing Professors of Literature in small decrepit cars. Oh no!
A gown, a theodolite and a garbage truck driver
I drove to work this morning. I couldn't bear one more day of walking through the door sopping wet despite my large red umbrella with hearts on it. Waiting at the lights to turn onto Salisbury Rd a garbage truck turned across the intersection at high speed. I caught a glimpse of the driver steering the truck calmly with a centred grace. He made the truck's turn sinuous with his large tattooed arms and I had an alarming moment of oooh.
Waiting at the lights near RPA a medical person was standing waiting to cross the road. He was wearing one of those green doctory pyjama suits, a hospital gown and a paper shower cap. I'm not sure why he was wearing those things out on the road. I thought the idea was that they were sterile clothes less likely to kill patients with deadly infecting things. He was holding two cups of coffee.
Waiting at the lights to turn onto City Rd a man on the corner was peering intently into his theodolite. He was a precise study of concentration and my third example of things you can do when you grow up. What if your career choices were limited to the examples you saw on the street one day? What if this is precisely what happened to me? What if one day when I was small I walked past an arts administrator and author but didn't realise it? Perhaps I should have walked past the Prime Minister instead.
I dined with Ron & Rita in Tamanas tonight. We sat peaceably shovelling a variety of curries and naan into our faces with Ronita (Ron & Rita's child) sitting quietly so long as she was sat upon Rita. This disappointed me as I had successfully, for the first time in my life, set up a high chair. Afterwards I snaffled Ronita and she sat very nicely on my lap attempting to spoon fig sorbet into her little mouth with a plastic spoon. Ron & Rita surprised me with a giant takeaway container of fig sorbet. A whole giant container just for me! They are the bringers of joy.
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.
It wasn't Casablanca but I drank a tall drink
That sudden blue burst of horizon eluded me today, instead the mountains crawled into soft focus with a slow force. There is a sudden release I long for whenever I head for the hills but it only comes with the flow of tall grasses and that endless sky. I drove faster to induce wasteland Western Sydney and the rush of home and horror but it didn't come and I arrived in Katoomba sweating and fending off the same old flies.
My Mother wandered about in her house forgetting things and picking things up in armloads and putting them down again, my brother chopped through conversations with a raised wrist and a casual stare, tea cup hanging from a finger. We went out to the garage to Mum's enormous car to see the new Gleebooks at Blackheath but Mother asked me, three steps from her car, keys in hand, which side does the driver sit on? My brother drove.
Aiming straight down the hill I stopped half way for Rita, Ron and the respite found only in the home of good friends. We ate food and sat about in pools of individual exhaustion, companionably, companionably.
The car turned sweeping from the rock face steadily west at the bottom of the big hill and finally that horizon was there all run through with stars and helicopters and dreams but it was the wrong horizon so I veered left into Emu Plains for water.
Walking into Creamboy's video shop I wondered, momentarily, what the hell I was doing there but I was greeted with a smile and a line or two from Casablanca. I asked for a cup of water thinking thirstily of holding an old white mug full of tap water in both hands but he bought me a bottle of water from the fridge and I forgot in my thanks that I had decided not to use anymore bottles of bought water, the damage they do.
When I got home I felt I'd been abroad. I am my own luggage with tassles and invisible tags and straps and always the long trail of where I've been.
My Mother wandered about in her house forgetting things and picking things up in armloads and putting them down again, my brother chopped through conversations with a raised wrist and a casual stare, tea cup hanging from a finger. We went out to the garage to Mum's enormous car to see the new Gleebooks at Blackheath but Mother asked me, three steps from her car, keys in hand, which side does the driver sit on? My brother drove.
Aiming straight down the hill I stopped half way for Rita, Ron and the respite found only in the home of good friends. We ate food and sat about in pools of individual exhaustion, companionably, companionably.
The car turned sweeping from the rock face steadily west at the bottom of the big hill and finally that horizon was there all run through with stars and helicopters and dreams but it was the wrong horizon so I veered left into Emu Plains for water.
Walking into Creamboy's video shop I wondered, momentarily, what the hell I was doing there but I was greeted with a smile and a line or two from Casablanca. I asked for a cup of water thinking thirstily of holding an old white mug full of tap water in both hands but he bought me a bottle of water from the fridge and I forgot in my thanks that I had decided not to use anymore bottles of bought water, the damage they do.
When I got home I felt I'd been abroad. I am my own luggage with tassles and invisible tags and straps and always the long trail of where I've been.
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