Dear friends,
The Prime Minister can now call the election any day, and many think
as soon he's finished at APEC he'll do just that. And when he does,
the gates of democracy will swing firmly shut.
That's because the Government has passed new laws closing the
electoral roll at 8pm on the very day the election is officially
called. So click here -- or forward this email -- to make sure that
you and everyone you know are properly enrolled:
http://www.getup.org.au/campaign/votingisthebestrevenge
Odds are, you're enrolled to vote -- but chances are you know someone
who isn't. What may surprise you is just how many people you know
aren't on the rolls. For instance, the Government recently admitted
more than a third of all Australians aged 18 to 25 are not enrolled.
That's a whopping 410,000 voters - four whole electorates' worth --
and we're only talking about young people.
To make matters worse, you're not informed if you've been taken off
the electoral roll for some reason -- such as if a piece of mail
addressed to you from the AEC gets returned to sender -- so many
people do not find out until they turn up on election day, only to be
denied their vote. You may not be enrolled right now, and not even
know it. You can check your enrolment status here.
http://www.getup.org.au/campaign/votingisthebestrevenge
Your fellow GetUp members have been out in force, holding enrolment
drives around the country to fill the gap these changes will create.
We've even launched a TV ad on V and MTV ("Make Your First Time
Special") encouraging young voters to get on the rolls.
Click below for your one-stop enrolment shop - whether it's checking
your own enrolment status, signing a petition to reverse the changes,
or making sure everyone you know is enrolled.
http://www.getup.org.au/campaign/votingisthebestrevenge
With all that's at stake in this election, let's all have our say.
Forward this email to everyone you know, because once the election is
called it will be too late.
Thanks for making it happen,
The GetUp team
PS: Our APEC climate change petition is almost at 100,000 Australians.
There's still time to put your name here.
Saturday, September 08, 2007
Friday, August 24, 2007
Far Out Week
My messy baby
he lands all over the floor
when i'm not looking
maybe i'm poorer
for not looking
anymore
but my messy baby
when he lands all up on the floor
he waits for me to bathe him
'til he ain't no mess no more.
He comes up for air and surfaces over the opalescent water. Above him, the blue sky wobbles and below him, the blue sky squabbles at his neck, the sky and water meet. He breaks their union with spit, wipes salty hand over salty face. A low hiss of air over the water and he sends ripples to China. He lolls back and lets the water reach over his body its cold hands taking each other and tightening. He reforms, spits again, a surge of deep anger inside him. He begins to yell. At all those he thought betrayed him in life. His sister and her cold fingers on his neck while he dozed. His mother and her bent back, seeking his hands at the dinner table, gently shushing the stereo in his sister's room. His father's red car, forever tweaked, forever twisted. The cat that was left flat on the mat on Saturday. A dozen crazy crabs who left him for bigger shells. Barty, Martin, Chipper, Haz, their big brown hands on his neck on a victorious Saturday lunchtime. Madelen, who had bigger fish to fry. The quiet of his lonely home at night. He is now left with an expanse bigger than his ego, blue to the last, from top to side to bottom and below. His belly quivers with hunger. His legs tire from movement. He lolls again, feels the dizzying depths below. His voice is hoarse and he immediately regrets having yelled and bellowed. His anger seems dwarfed by the calm of the blue to blue around him. It angers him more. Why is he the only angry one? Why do no others rage beside him? He cries but you wouldn't know - it's just salt and there's plenty more to go around. Here at this crucial juncture - do you hold on, or do you sink? How long can you swim for before you realise there's only more blue beyond the blue?
he lands all over the floor
when i'm not looking
maybe i'm poorer
for not looking
anymore
but my messy baby
when he lands all up on the floor
he waits for me to bathe him
'til he ain't no mess no more.
He comes up for air and surfaces over the opalescent water. Above him, the blue sky wobbles and below him, the blue sky squabbles at his neck, the sky and water meet. He breaks their union with spit, wipes salty hand over salty face. A low hiss of air over the water and he sends ripples to China. He lolls back and lets the water reach over his body its cold hands taking each other and tightening. He reforms, spits again, a surge of deep anger inside him. He begins to yell. At all those he thought betrayed him in life. His sister and her cold fingers on his neck while he dozed. His mother and her bent back, seeking his hands at the dinner table, gently shushing the stereo in his sister's room. His father's red car, forever tweaked, forever twisted. The cat that was left flat on the mat on Saturday. A dozen crazy crabs who left him for bigger shells. Barty, Martin, Chipper, Haz, their big brown hands on his neck on a victorious Saturday lunchtime. Madelen, who had bigger fish to fry. The quiet of his lonely home at night. He is now left with an expanse bigger than his ego, blue to the last, from top to side to bottom and below. His belly quivers with hunger. His legs tire from movement. He lolls again, feels the dizzying depths below. His voice is hoarse and he immediately regrets having yelled and bellowed. His anger seems dwarfed by the calm of the blue to blue around him. It angers him more. Why is he the only angry one? Why do no others rage beside him? He cries but you wouldn't know - it's just salt and there's plenty more to go around. Here at this crucial juncture - do you hold on, or do you sink? How long can you swim for before you realise there's only more blue beyond the blue?
Friday, August 17, 2007
Our God, he doth walk among us, his light like a beacon to the open skies.
Muse Touring, November 10, Supreme Court Gardens. Tickets on sale yesterday. Come see Him preach to the long-haired masses. My eyes will be wild with glee.
Monday, August 13, 2007
A long cold winter
In this longish hiatus from my posting on this site, I have thought much. Indeed, I'd go as far to say that a terribly lot of things have happened in my life. I've met all these people, done all these things, spent all this money.
None of that however is terribly interesting or entertaining. Not so much as those few little oddment bits of anecdotal strain events that have blotted the landscape in between the bigs and the grands, and filled in the modest gaps in my rather gappy life.
Firstly is my discovery that my new laptop underlines misspelt words in red, no matter what program I am in. After writing a facebook (which i shall come to later) wall post which resembled a suivre:
LOL thats massively kewl! LOLZ u rok girlf! LOL!the squips of red rather disconcerted me. I reconsidered with a rather more conservative 'laugh out loud!'.
Secondly, my loss of ability to write anything remotely interesting, entertaining or witty such as to invite readers and potential publishers into my literary sphere. This has resulted in mass book collecting, writing everyday, in the hope that the loss is salvageable and not entire. Further such updates may ensue.
Three my newfound adoration of wordbuilding and making up words to suit the sounds I need, the descriptive morphology, phonology and orthography to establish that which I am trying to explain to whomsoever may be in the vicinity. This is perhaps not as fruitful as hoped, though these words are slowly seeping into my everyday vocabulary, thus further enriching and diversifying it. Three point five is my use of unnecessary or inappropriate words particularly adjectives in sentences.
Four, my complete failure in French. I think no more needs be said on this matter.
Fifth is my UNYA hackness and my apparently unquenchable desire to be consumed by UNYA in such a way as leaves no trace of my soul and but for my modest collection of stamps and Muse newspaper cuttings would all my remnants be lost. BKM better be appreciative.
Sixth is my unnerving desire to insure my new car, along with my echinaceal love of good health and painfreeuninterruptedmovement.
Seventh is my new addiction to facebook, the vice of the studying world, my foray into internet obsession and meandering thought trails. I feel journeyed alongside, shared and betrothed to a higher demon than those that tie me to facebook and not to my tortsbook. Alas this betrothal reminds me of brothel and thus eight.
Eight is unsurprisingly my desire to travel around WA. My WAphile status has long been knownst to myself, though to others it may serve as a reminder that I am slightly bizarre and off-kilter with the wants and desires of the contemporary Australian youth. That dirt just gets in your blood and courses through them veins, then you're suckered for good and can't think of nothing by saltbush, sandalwood, open horizons and lonely highway corners upon which one may meet a roadtrain. The minimalism and simplicity of it all has me virtually begging to be taken. TV programmes such as the circuit and a quick sojourn to Kalgoorlie neither helped nor abated this thirst.
Nine is my despisal for all things law related: employment, lectures, assignments, professors (bar Doug), Brenda McGivern (bless her), cases, tortsbook, laptop. Ouch. Don't shut down on me honey. You are also my gateway to outside world, I need.
Ten is the realisation that in order to avoid reading I will write an unnecessary list of things to entertain no one but myself. I think my blog is an empty alley, kind of lit by a light that keeps going out and then going white then going orange, a skip bin, high walls, odd smell. I skulk around here and kick around the grime for playtime things to do. Playlunch comes with the scurrying of feet.
Eleventh is my new love of wondering around, yes with an o, being only interested in things that interest me, coming to terms with people who don't like me (like you'd really waste time on that?) and my dislike of fibromyalgia.
For now c'est tout.
None of that however is terribly interesting or entertaining. Not so much as those few little oddment bits of anecdotal strain events that have blotted the landscape in between the bigs and the grands, and filled in the modest gaps in my rather gappy life.
Firstly is my discovery that my new laptop underlines misspelt words in red, no matter what program I am in. After writing a facebook (which i shall come to later) wall post which resembled a suivre:
LOL thats massively kewl! LOLZ u rok girlf! LOL!the squips of red rather disconcerted me. I reconsidered with a rather more conservative 'laugh out loud!'.
Secondly, my loss of ability to write anything remotely interesting, entertaining or witty such as to invite readers and potential publishers into my literary sphere. This has resulted in mass book collecting, writing everyday, in the hope that the loss is salvageable and not entire. Further such updates may ensue.
Three my newfound adoration of wordbuilding and making up words to suit the sounds I need, the descriptive morphology, phonology and orthography to establish that which I am trying to explain to whomsoever may be in the vicinity. This is perhaps not as fruitful as hoped, though these words are slowly seeping into my everyday vocabulary, thus further enriching and diversifying it. Three point five is my use of unnecessary or inappropriate words particularly adjectives in sentences.
Four, my complete failure in French. I think no more needs be said on this matter.
Fifth is my UNYA hackness and my apparently unquenchable desire to be consumed by UNYA in such a way as leaves no trace of my soul and but for my modest collection of stamps and Muse newspaper cuttings would all my remnants be lost. BKM better be appreciative.
Sixth is my unnerving desire to insure my new car, along with my echinaceal love of good health and painfreeuninterruptedmovement.
Seventh is my new addiction to facebook, the vice of the studying world, my foray into internet obsession and meandering thought trails. I feel journeyed alongside, shared and betrothed to a higher demon than those that tie me to facebook and not to my tortsbook. Alas this betrothal reminds me of brothel and thus eight.
Eight is unsurprisingly my desire to travel around WA. My WAphile status has long been knownst to myself, though to others it may serve as a reminder that I am slightly bizarre and off-kilter with the wants and desires of the contemporary Australian youth. That dirt just gets in your blood and courses through them veins, then you're suckered for good and can't think of nothing by saltbush, sandalwood, open horizons and lonely highway corners upon which one may meet a roadtrain. The minimalism and simplicity of it all has me virtually begging to be taken. TV programmes such as the circuit and a quick sojourn to Kalgoorlie neither helped nor abated this thirst.
Nine is my despisal for all things law related: employment, lectures, assignments, professors (bar Doug), Brenda McGivern (bless her), cases, tortsbook, laptop. Ouch. Don't shut down on me honey. You are also my gateway to outside world, I need.
Ten is the realisation that in order to avoid reading I will write an unnecessary list of things to entertain no one but myself. I think my blog is an empty alley, kind of lit by a light that keeps going out and then going white then going orange, a skip bin, high walls, odd smell. I skulk around here and kick around the grime for playtime things to do. Playlunch comes with the scurrying of feet.
Eleventh is my new love of wondering around, yes with an o, being only interested in things that interest me, coming to terms with people who don't like me (like you'd really waste time on that?) and my dislike of fibromyalgia.
For now c'est tout.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
It lurks, there. Il n'ya plus.
I
J'éspere
mais aussi je sais
mes mots, ils sont rien
sans sentiment
parce que pour savoir les autres
on doit savoir lui-même
lui-même?
chépas.
II
I just don't
I need to express myself over boundaries and lines
and it all sounds so self expressive
I can't take that I out of it
III
He liked to hide in words
Sneak behind them and peek out
Jumping de langue à langue
she'd corner him
there he would go leaping
'why do you cry at night?'
'on doit! on doit!'
why does he run
over there he goes
from behind dark lidded eyes he surveys
eyelashes curl up from the fire within
an acrid smoke, spiralling high above him
like signals to a power who might save him
I am here I need salvation
he, saying why can't I finish anything
he, running out of the dark house
he, crying to loosen the pain in his heart
he, with death on his lips
falls upon the step of his église
Padre comes to him
quietens him
she comes to him, wiping away his death with her sleeve
she says, I am come for you, I fall for you
he lips the salt from his lips
tells her of his love, his life
spilling in an hour long narrative
Padre brings some soft bread for him
and he eats, thick mucus washed down like easy poison
and she sits upon her knees and listens
her yellow polka dot dress twined round her knees
and his disquiet is gone
she holds him to her breast
je t'ai compris toujours.
IV
A small wind
blew on the path
I crossed him
he told me of far lands
and his blood
settled on my face
a thin brown film
he washed down a drain late that night
to travel again to far lands
far away
V
She sat on a wall
and kicked the moss
the thick blanket of night lifting slowly from the land
she breathed out thick air
words in her mind
thoughts as dark as the night
now repealing its reign
she pulls off her mask
and drops her life before making her way home.
J'éspere
mais aussi je sais
mes mots, ils sont rien
sans sentiment
parce que pour savoir les autres
on doit savoir lui-même
lui-même?
chépas.
II
I just don't
I need to express myself over boundaries and lines
and it all sounds so self expressive
I can't take that I out of it
III
He liked to hide in words
Sneak behind them and peek out
Jumping de langue à langue
she'd corner him
there he would go leaping
'why do you cry at night?'
'on doit! on doit!'
why does he run
over there he goes
from behind dark lidded eyes he surveys
eyelashes curl up from the fire within
an acrid smoke, spiralling high above him
like signals to a power who might save him
I am here I need salvation
he, saying why can't I finish anything
he, running out of the dark house
he, crying to loosen the pain in his heart
he, with death on his lips
falls upon the step of his église
Padre comes to him
quietens him
she comes to him, wiping away his death with her sleeve
she says, I am come for you, I fall for you
he lips the salt from his lips
tells her of his love, his life
spilling in an hour long narrative
Padre brings some soft bread for him
and he eats, thick mucus washed down like easy poison
and she sits upon her knees and listens
her yellow polka dot dress twined round her knees
and his disquiet is gone
she holds him to her breast
je t'ai compris toujours.
IV
A small wind
blew on the path
I crossed him
he told me of far lands
and his blood
settled on my face
a thin brown film
he washed down a drain late that night
to travel again to far lands
far away
V
She sat on a wall
and kicked the moss
the thick blanket of night lifting slowly from the land
she breathed out thick air
words in her mind
thoughts as dark as the night
now repealing its reign
she pulls off her mask
and drops her life before making her way home.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Dear Torts
Due to popular demand, and also at gunpoint, I am to paraphrase Jai, 'airing' my torts poem.
And all the while my thoughts harke'd back
to torts; the best, and not contract
for though contract may well be clever
torts will have my heart forever
- Tom, despondent Torts lover
A long and squalid love affair
did with dear torts; dear Thomas share
disapproved by one and all
torts and Tom did still stand tall
and weathered all the fronts, alone
they faced the crowds with back and bone
embodied in a book? may be
but love for torts was dear Tom's glee
they journeyed high and journeyed low
until one day, behold and lo;
the end of the semester came
and with it tests; exams, and shame
and here this torrid love affair
did end in gloom and deep despair
for though in those weeks, Tom had grown fond
torts, poor thing, could not respond
the days were tough, the days were long
and still this love beleagured Tom
but torts was actually quite in glee
for now it was best friends with - Rosie!
Hehe yay productive law units!
And all the while my thoughts harke'd back
to torts; the best, and not contract
for though contract may well be clever
torts will have my heart forever
- Tom, despondent Torts lover
A long and squalid love affair
did with dear torts; dear Thomas share
disapproved by one and all
torts and Tom did still stand tall
and weathered all the fronts, alone
they faced the crowds with back and bone
embodied in a book? may be
but love for torts was dear Tom's glee
they journeyed high and journeyed low
until one day, behold and lo;
the end of the semester came
and with it tests; exams, and shame
and here this torrid love affair
did end in gloom and deep despair
for though in those weeks, Tom had grown fond
torts, poor thing, could not respond
the days were tough, the days were long
and still this love beleagured Tom
but torts was actually quite in glee
for now it was best friends with - Rosie!
Hehe yay productive law units!
Sunday, April 15, 2007
what a story, martine. i wish i could think, like you.
Today, I am going to blog without *as much* pretext - mostly this, to tell you that there will be no pretext.
Because I saw something. And quite truly it isn't every day that one sees something - that you remember - that - when you see it - you say, 'yes, yes, tomorrow I will remember this' and then tomorrow think, 'I remember this' and so it goes until it's in your memory and you don't remember where it came from. yes, so it goes. I remember it, even now! Even though it was only Wednesday that I saw it, I remember it like it was yesterday, and even though it kind of was, it seems like longer, and I feel prouder that I remember.
There, in the bush. I was in the car. I wasn't driving, mum was. Down southish. Looking out the window, off the beaten track, near a dam. Very few people around. Bush echoed my song for 4 seconds. Maybe, 5pm? Something nearing duskish. I was just sitting and looking. And then I'm thinking, if the world moves it's tilt every day, if every we move just a little more away from the sun towards winter, everyday the sun must shine differently, be it centimetres, metres, incomprehensible difference to the human capacity for understanding. It must. It just has to. There to my left is a tree. It's only a little one, not high, not old. And it's there and it's alight. The sun is shining on it, it's like it's in it's moment, this is the glory moment for this little tree. Any earlier, and the sun would have been at a different angle and shining on other trees around it, any later and the light would have faded. This is it. This moment in time. Any other day, the sun may well have moved, changed, the tilt might have set it off. This one day, this one time, this is the glory time of this tree, and I am there seeing it. This wave of thought, just engulfs me and I can't get out - I think, if I hadn't been here to see this, this tree might not get it's dues. Then, what would it be? A tree? No one would ever know it's glory, it's story. It would just be a tree. It wouldn't have the capacity to know that it had once been something, had it's heyday, shone, like no other tree in the forest, when all other light had gone. It wouldn't know - I wouldn't know - and the world would be a worse place for no one knowing of this beauty.
And I despaired that everyday, this happens, that the world gets worse as beauty happens and is, and no one ever knows, or tells it's story. And it's the stories that keep us coming back for more.
Because I saw something. And quite truly it isn't every day that one sees something - that you remember - that - when you see it - you say, 'yes, yes, tomorrow I will remember this' and then tomorrow think, 'I remember this' and so it goes until it's in your memory and you don't remember where it came from. yes, so it goes. I remember it, even now! Even though it was only Wednesday that I saw it, I remember it like it was yesterday, and even though it kind of was, it seems like longer, and I feel prouder that I remember.
There, in the bush. I was in the car. I wasn't driving, mum was. Down southish. Looking out the window, off the beaten track, near a dam. Very few people around. Bush echoed my song for 4 seconds. Maybe, 5pm? Something nearing duskish. I was just sitting and looking. And then I'm thinking, if the world moves it's tilt every day, if every we move just a little more away from the sun towards winter, everyday the sun must shine differently, be it centimetres, metres, incomprehensible difference to the human capacity for understanding. It must. It just has to. There to my left is a tree. It's only a little one, not high, not old. And it's there and it's alight. The sun is shining on it, it's like it's in it's moment, this is the glory moment for this little tree. Any earlier, and the sun would have been at a different angle and shining on other trees around it, any later and the light would have faded. This is it. This moment in time. Any other day, the sun may well have moved, changed, the tilt might have set it off. This one day, this one time, this is the glory time of this tree, and I am there seeing it. This wave of thought, just engulfs me and I can't get out - I think, if I hadn't been here to see this, this tree might not get it's dues. Then, what would it be? A tree? No one would ever know it's glory, it's story. It would just be a tree. It wouldn't have the capacity to know that it had once been something, had it's heyday, shone, like no other tree in the forest, when all other light had gone. It wouldn't know - I wouldn't know - and the world would be a worse place for no one knowing of this beauty.
And I despaired that everyday, this happens, that the world gets worse as beauty happens and is, and no one ever knows, or tells it's story. And it's the stories that keep us coming back for more.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Buckle up.
The Song of Winter:
: Muse
Get it. Listen to it. It is the song of the season. Winter 2007 - it will echo with Muse.
Map of the Problematique
: Muse
Get it. Listen to it. It is the song of the season. Winter 2007 - it will echo with Muse.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Directing you to...
Read the blog entitled "The Story of My Dream about Matthew Bellamy.' from www.myspace.com/eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeemo (there should be 23 es there)
c'est enchantant.
IT'S AMAZING.
I LOVE HIM/MY DREAMBOX.
c'est enchantant.
IT'S AMAZING.
I LOVE HIM/MY DREAMBOX.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Viszy
Vistessa was bonafide Italiano
Italiana? She wasn't sure. Did it matter?
She prided herself on her meticulous hair
her dark red nails and dark black hair
she flaunted her dark brown skin
and locked herself away in her dark black soul
today she was dressed in a long green dress
that dripped to the floor
sticking to her like honey making its slow descent with gravity in tow
it shimmered in the remaining light of the day
every nuance of her body seen
she is no shrinking violet
engimacy never came easily
she stands out amongst the drab workers
trudging home from work
she notes how many mumble to themselves
recasts her lipstick
her gavelstick declaring them crazy
she arrives at last at her story
she checks her reflection innocuously
Vistessa, you are ravishing
she glances around self-consciously
then pouts her red lips
the mirror melts for lust
her dripgreen dress flutters slightly as the
cool breeze of night begins to blow
she pulls her shawl up to her shoulders
lights a fad
draws from it a single breath
mumbles quietly to herself about life
its cruel realities
she leaves a red ring on the cigarette
no, viszy, no!
Alfonso is lost
she looks over her shoulder
leaning against the bridge
and looking out over the mucky river
its water lapping at browning banks
the smell of frying onions disturb her grooming
my, I am hungry!
The dusk sky is making way for night
the star in the middle of a yellowblue sky
reminds her
she opens her bag and applies her parfum
no woman is complete without her scent!
Alfonso is not coming, but she does not know
the trickle of workers slows
she straightens her dark hair
a vivid picture against the greying city skyline
a stripe of colour, or life, de vivre
She admires the little dog sniffing her red shoes
In a slow zoom-out, she is all alone
Combing her hair, straightening her dress
what is she? but an image of nothing
she prides herself - on what? her black soul
charred by years of careless lovers
keen to fuck
quick to leave
Vistessa, you do not learn
Alfonso had his two cents, wants a girl with more
with what? I don't know. not what she's got, anyway
Vistessa, a lonely figure on a suburban footpath
content because she does not know
mumbling to herself like a crazy
feeling the need to fill in all the gaps opening around her
her chatter continues to cover the silence
she reapplies her eyeshadow
and waits a few minutes more.
Italiana? She wasn't sure. Did it matter?
She prided herself on her meticulous hair
her dark red nails and dark black hair
she flaunted her dark brown skin
and locked herself away in her dark black soul
today she was dressed in a long green dress
that dripped to the floor
sticking to her like honey making its slow descent with gravity in tow
it shimmered in the remaining light of the day
every nuance of her body seen
she is no shrinking violet
engimacy never came easily
she stands out amongst the drab workers
trudging home from work
she notes how many mumble to themselves
recasts her lipstick
her gavelstick declaring them crazy
she arrives at last at her story
she checks her reflection innocuously
Vistessa, you are ravishing
she glances around self-consciously
then pouts her red lips
the mirror melts for lust
her dripgreen dress flutters slightly as the
cool breeze of night begins to blow
she pulls her shawl up to her shoulders
lights a fad
draws from it a single breath
mumbles quietly to herself about life
its cruel realities
she leaves a red ring on the cigarette
no, viszy, no!
Alfonso is lost
she looks over her shoulder
leaning against the bridge
and looking out over the mucky river
its water lapping at browning banks
the smell of frying onions disturb her grooming
my, I am hungry!
The dusk sky is making way for night
the star in the middle of a yellowblue sky
reminds her
she opens her bag and applies her parfum
no woman is complete without her scent!
Alfonso is not coming, but she does not know
the trickle of workers slows
she straightens her dark hair
a vivid picture against the greying city skyline
a stripe of colour, or life, de vivre
She admires the little dog sniffing her red shoes
In a slow zoom-out, she is all alone
Combing her hair, straightening her dress
what is she? but an image of nothing
she prides herself - on what? her black soul
charred by years of careless lovers
keen to fuck
quick to leave
Vistessa, you do not learn
Alfonso had his two cents, wants a girl with more
with what? I don't know. not what she's got, anyway
Vistessa, a lonely figure on a suburban footpath
content because she does not know
mumbling to herself like a crazy
feeling the need to fill in all the gaps opening around her
her chatter continues to cover the silence
she reapplies her eyeshadow
and waits a few minutes more.
Friday, March 09, 2007
You've a long way to go yet, son.
While sweeping, the rough bristles picking out dirt from the grate, a certain sense of self-disengagement present in the kitchen, I made a startling discovery. People thought differently of me than I thought that they thought of me. I was also glad of instant deletion, the image of a typewriter, in which one's thoughts may solidify on the page before being able to be deleted, frightening me. I was glad for this distraction.
"You're innocent. You have an innocent face. "
I stop sweeping. Innocent? I think that's the first time I've been called innocent. I've been called crazy, impulsive, Arabic, even kind, but never innocent. Never innocent. And the thing is, I can feel these thoughts making slow sense in my head, a sleepy, meandering narrative. I'm making this into a story as I think it.
"I'm sorry - innocent?"
"Yes."
"Like in the way a crooked cop looks innocent on the stand of his mate, crooked judge?"
"What?"
"How?"
"How what?"
"How am I innocent?"
"Well, you don't look guilty."
Therein lies the existential problem. It wasn't that I was innocent, it was that I wasn't anything else readily identifiable.
*
Why big and small. Why not something else?
*
"You're funny."
"Why?"
"You say strange things that I don't get."
That's it. That's why I am. Because I do, and they don't get. Funny that.
"You're innocent. You have an innocent face. "
I stop sweeping. Innocent? I think that's the first time I've been called innocent. I've been called crazy, impulsive, Arabic, even kind, but never innocent. Never innocent. And the thing is, I can feel these thoughts making slow sense in my head, a sleepy, meandering narrative. I'm making this into a story as I think it.
"I'm sorry - innocent?"
"Yes."
"Like in the way a crooked cop looks innocent on the stand of his mate, crooked judge?"
"What?"
"How?"
"How what?"
"How am I innocent?"
"Well, you don't look guilty."
Therein lies the existential problem. It wasn't that I was innocent, it was that I wasn't anything else readily identifiable.
*
Why big and small. Why not something else?
*
"You're funny."
"Why?"
"You say strange things that I don't get."
That's it. That's why I am. Because I do, and they don't get. Funny that.
Monday, February 19, 2007
The fire is on house
The fire is on house!
we saviour a need!
alas, door we should the open
smoke will the cometh
we options ourselves no leave
if we soul our devil to the sell
and in so doing
soul our give forever
if we hope our lose
and in the stand of face; tyranny
and simply aside move
we options no death but leave
life of death
liberty of death
love of death
us of death
and thus we goodbye our say
to believed that we all
to loved that we all
to live that we all
but if we soul our give;
to the say we man
'we this way it want'
maybe we it survive can.
we saviour a need!
alas, door we should the open
smoke will the cometh
we options ourselves no leave
if we soul our devil to the sell
and in so doing
soul our give forever
if we hope our lose
and in the stand of face; tyranny
and simply aside move
we options no death but leave
life of death
liberty of death
love of death
us of death
and thus we goodbye our say
to believed that we all
to loved that we all
to live that we all
but if we soul our give;
to the say we man
'we this way it want'
maybe we it survive can.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Mmh. That's right.
"Not factoring climate change into economic forecasts because we "can't see it yet" is like not factoring terrorism into security because we haven't had an attack yet in Australia"You always hear parents, teachers and other various old people saying 'time flies while you're having fun,' or plain old 'time flies,' and you know, I've never been entirely convinced. When you're sitting in a lecture, or on a really long busride, or something else equally as long and painful, time seems to be taking one step forwards, two steps back. In fact, time can on occasions just sit still. But I'm convinced now. Life has, in the past two weeks, simply vanished. It's not even about movement now, it's a flat out disappearing act.
Big Day Out
It has been nearly two weeks now, so memories fade. Oh but beauty remains. Lovely, lovely beauty. Beautiful music/men/emos, they are all still here. Lo, they are. Who did I see? Huuumm... dot point time;
The rest of the day before muse was basically spent ferrying food and goods to people and being stuck in lines to go places. After mychem, pilch and llam were still in the mosh area and rhian tom and i were stuck outside. we watched some of jbt then decided to go and line up for the mosh. OH MY GOD. you'd think after what, like, 13 years of BDO, theyd have worked out a good system for getting people in and out of the mosh and letting people know when it was FULL and not going to be OPEN again. But no, they have the little gate with the little red lights, and a bunch of dickhead security guards who don't do anything except look smug. It took them the WHOLE of jbt, the WHOLE of the killers and MOST of jet for someone to say 'oh, sorry people, no more mosh, the red stays on'. i mean FUCK. what kind of sadist arseholes run that part of it? anyway, i got out of the line after about an hour and found a barrier position for bellamy & co. So rhian and tom and me and standing at the barrier - blah blah jet blah. then there's the early-jet-finish silence. the crowd is pretty rancid at this stage. like, seriously, freaktards are at their all day high. but they are NO match one MUSE start the blazing knights of cydonia. oh, what a glorious opening. i was seriously just going crazy. aaaarrrrrrgggghhhhhh. sooooo amazing. what a way to be. they also played
i missed tool. no, i avoided tool. all those long-haired punch-ready bogans bored me. i went and talked to lovely men from uni. contemplated violent femmes. left.
melbourne update must come tomorrow, during more wakened hours. i slept 12.5 hours last night. so very tired. so little sleep in melb. maybe a total of 36 hrs. it took me 10 seconds just now to work out 6 x 6. waaaah.
VIVA LA MUS(E)ICA!
Big Day Out
It has been nearly two weeks now, so memories fade. Oh but beauty remains. Lovely, lovely beauty. Beautiful music/men/emos, they are all still here. Lo, they are. Who did I see? Huuumm... dot point time;
- Evermore
- Mychem
- JBT
- Jet
- Muse
- A whole lot of people's backs
The rest of the day before muse was basically spent ferrying food and goods to people and being stuck in lines to go places. After mychem, pilch and llam were still in the mosh area and rhian tom and i were stuck outside. we watched some of jbt then decided to go and line up for the mosh. OH MY GOD. you'd think after what, like, 13 years of BDO, theyd have worked out a good system for getting people in and out of the mosh and letting people know when it was FULL and not going to be OPEN again. But no, they have the little gate with the little red lights, and a bunch of dickhead security guards who don't do anything except look smug. It took them the WHOLE of jbt, the WHOLE of the killers and MOST of jet for someone to say 'oh, sorry people, no more mosh, the red stays on'. i mean FUCK. what kind of sadist arseholes run that part of it? anyway, i got out of the line after about an hour and found a barrier position for bellamy & co. So rhian and tom and me and standing at the barrier - blah blah jet blah. then there's the early-jet-finish silence. the crowd is pretty rancid at this stage. like, seriously, freaktards are at their all day high. but they are NO match one MUSE start the blazing knights of cydonia. oh, what a glorious opening. i was seriously just going crazy. aaaarrrrrrgggghhhhhh. sooooo amazing. what a way to be. they also played
- starlight
- supermassive
- map of the problematique
- plug in baby (!!!!)(favourite muse song!)
- newborn
- time is running out
- hysteria
- butterflies
- stockholm
i missed tool. no, i avoided tool. all those long-haired punch-ready bogans bored me. i went and talked to lovely men from uni. contemplated violent femmes. left.
melbourne update must come tomorrow, during more wakened hours. i slept 12.5 hours last night. so very tired. so little sleep in melb. maybe a total of 36 hrs. it took me 10 seconds just now to work out 6 x 6. waaaah.
VIVA LA MUS(E)ICA!
Saturday, February 03, 2007
At 4am.
There is a sense of irony when one is awake at 4am, having to be awake for the entire day coming and having been tired just a few hours before drinking about a litre of red bull, and listening to insomniac music. Or at least that's how I see Cog. They keep me company when I drive home late at night. Doors (Now and again my life feels like it's going nowhere) is quite a stroke of mastery when it comes to sequential and insomniac-comforting music. Vraiment, a lot of this makes no sense. But there isn't a whole lot one is able to do, when one cannot make sense of the reason for not making sense.
The circularity of unnatural waking hours is also an interesting phenomena that should I ever be one concerned with the workings of the human mind, I should like to investigate. That circularity being the wake-wake-wake-wake-fitfulsleep-wake cycle that eventually leads to the mad and trance-like state that insomniacs find themselves in.
I found this quote
It's at night, when perhaps we should be dreaming, that the mind is most clear, that we are most able to hold all our life in the palm of our skull. I don't know if anyone has ever pointed out that great attraction of insomnia before, but it is so; the night seems to release a little more of our vast backward inheritance of instincts and feelings; as with the dawn, a little honey is allowed to ooze between the lips of the sandwich, a little of the stuff of dreams to drip into the waking mind. I wish I believed, as J. B. Priestley did, that consciousness continues after disembodiment or death, not forever, but for a long while. Three score years and ten is such a stingy ration of time, when there is so much time around. Perhaps that's why some of us are insomniacs; night is so precious that it would be pusillanimous to sleep all through it! A "bad night" is not always a bad thing. ~Brian W. Aldis
to be of no help. whatsoever. maybe a little. in fact it's quite true, the idea that it is when we have nothing else to think about that we have such clarity of mind. i am visited by bizarre and often ungainly thoughts in my realms of sleep. when i am falling asleep, i often find i am in the company of people, of things, of entities, that seem so very real, yet so very dream like. i wonder if they are my subconscious, or what. i don't really know what else. it's like i know things, am told things, and am subconsciously aware of them, with no real idea what it is i am knowing, or being told, or becoming aware of. i can't begin to explain what this is without sounding absolutely crazy, so i shan't try. not for the fear of crazy thing, just for the fact that i can't actually explain it. when i am sleeping, my dreams are so real, so vivid. i live in my dreams, but i am so much not who i am. if anything in my dreams, i am undefined, i don't have an identity, a me. it is a liberating thing, being free from restrictive labels and preconceptions, from expectations. it is in my dreams that i'm free, yet - oh, oh, irony dancing on a table with little clothing and less inhibitions - it is all trapped inside my little, little head.
then, at 5am, i get here, tired as all shit, ready to beat myself into a pulp, the ugly taste of red bull and jager sitting heavy at the back of my throat, speaking in tongues to friends of old. in some hours, i will be going to play through the annals of music history, then to dine finely, to fuck, to who knows what, to sleep, to get up and go. i grow weary at the thought. oh, i want to weep, but my tear ducts dried up trying to lubricate my eyes as they kept blinking, going, blinking more. ow. my eyes.
The circularity of unnatural waking hours is also an interesting phenomena that should I ever be one concerned with the workings of the human mind, I should like to investigate. That circularity being the wake-wake-wake-wake-fitfulsleep-wake cycle that eventually leads to the mad and trance-like state that insomniacs find themselves in.
I found this quote
It's at night, when perhaps we should be dreaming, that the mind is most clear, that we are most able to hold all our life in the palm of our skull. I don't know if anyone has ever pointed out that great attraction of insomnia before, but it is so; the night seems to release a little more of our vast backward inheritance of instincts and feelings; as with the dawn, a little honey is allowed to ooze between the lips of the sandwich, a little of the stuff of dreams to drip into the waking mind. I wish I believed, as J. B. Priestley did, that consciousness continues after disembodiment or death, not forever, but for a long while. Three score years and ten is such a stingy ration of time, when there is so much time around. Perhaps that's why some of us are insomniacs; night is so precious that it would be pusillanimous to sleep all through it! A "bad night" is not always a bad thing. ~Brian W. Aldis
to be of no help. whatsoever. maybe a little. in fact it's quite true, the idea that it is when we have nothing else to think about that we have such clarity of mind. i am visited by bizarre and often ungainly thoughts in my realms of sleep. when i am falling asleep, i often find i am in the company of people, of things, of entities, that seem so very real, yet so very dream like. i wonder if they are my subconscious, or what. i don't really know what else. it's like i know things, am told things, and am subconsciously aware of them, with no real idea what it is i am knowing, or being told, or becoming aware of. i can't begin to explain what this is without sounding absolutely crazy, so i shan't try. not for the fear of crazy thing, just for the fact that i can't actually explain it. when i am sleeping, my dreams are so real, so vivid. i live in my dreams, but i am so much not who i am. if anything in my dreams, i am undefined, i don't have an identity, a me. it is a liberating thing, being free from restrictive labels and preconceptions, from expectations. it is in my dreams that i'm free, yet - oh, oh, irony dancing on a table with little clothing and less inhibitions - it is all trapped inside my little, little head.
then, at 5am, i get here, tired as all shit, ready to beat myself into a pulp, the ugly taste of red bull and jager sitting heavy at the back of my throat, speaking in tongues to friends of old. in some hours, i will be going to play through the annals of music history, then to dine finely, to fuck, to who knows what, to sleep, to get up and go. i grow weary at the thought. oh, i want to weep, but my tear ducts dried up trying to lubricate my eyes as they kept blinking, going, blinking more. ow. my eyes.
Sometimes, these things are surprisingly accurate...
 | You scored as The Vine. In Celtic astrology, you're a Vine (not everything on the zodiac is a tree). The animal symbol that accompanies this plant is the swan. The ancient Druids say Vine people are graceful, discriminating, perceptive, romantic and have good aesthetics. However, Vines may be prone to procrastination and anxiety. They may also appear emotionally detached or even stuck-up.
What Tree Are You? (Celtic astrology)/ created with QuizFarm.com |
Sunday, January 28, 2007
the ache of love
we all hurt. we all feel pain.
but it lives in some
it dwells in those
who cannot draw away
it seeps
like a slow stain
across our veins
through our clouds and into our stars
puts them out and
burns us sharply
'til we draw away in pain
into ourselves
then it's work is finished
and sated, it moves on
but should we, too, move on
it returns again to feed
and our breathless lifeless souls
know not the light of day
nor the joy of life
and sadly, die.
but it lives in some
it dwells in those
who cannot draw away
it seeps
like a slow stain
across our veins
through our clouds and into our stars
puts them out and
burns us sharply
'til we draw away in pain
into ourselves
then it's work is finished
and sated, it moves on
but should we, too, move on
it returns again to feed
and our breathless lifeless souls
know not the light of day
nor the joy of life
and sadly, die.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
I can paint!
Every time i am faced with this page, i lose all motivation. To write, to speak to you, my invisible and perhaps even non-existent audience. Every post, every post i write is like blood drawn from a stone, and even then it is blood drawn from an old stone, one without much life anyway, probably ready to make its way down stream to the dreamy stone afterlife. So all we get is dregs, all you get is lifeless dregs and me, an unending sense of confusion and frustration. this, here, is the first time i have managed to put into words on this blog in a long time, exactly how i feel, and address it to whoever the hell cares. probably no one. check.
i feel the words sitting in me, like dead ducks, useless, smelly, decomposing. once brilliant and shiny, proud and works of God's good hand, now nothing, simply unusable, unloveable. there is no end to the waste in my life, my works. it's all very self centered, somewhat conceited, and you get the feeling that none of these words would come from me in real life, that in real life i am somewhat more modest, though in an ambivalent way and that in real life i would use shorter words, to make sure that not too many people might suspect my deviancy, my oddities, or my fascination with the conjurations of certain words and phrases. you would suspect that my life is a barren place, a kind of wasteland. and then you'd notice how i like to tie everything in, everything, relating back. a nice package, a tightly wrapped way of telling you not very much at all, all the while letting you think that you had some idea, that somewhere in the mess there was meaning and depth and intelligence. well, welcome to fucking happytown, reader. there is no meaning, depth or intelligence here. This here is a whole heap of shit that i dump on you regularly. go figure.
oh it is a good feeling, that one might return from a far away place of systematic self-destruction to the forefront of killing and disserting at you.
i don't know, that fire is going out now. those fast few minutes, just then. i captured something then. i think i might have these moments, but i'm just never near something i can channel or burn it into at the time. i think i like things fast. i am still new to this life thing, even though it rushes by daily, and is really, really loud. i am not sure. i think i like it fast, but maybe i like it slow. i like things to challenge me, but i hate being challenged. i like to be told what to do, but i despise orders. you take your pick, which idiot i am, but first dispose of that sexual innuendo and put away your judgement. there's only so much room for ego, and naturally this being my blog and all, it is mostly mine.
i think i am egotistical, hateful - no, not hateful - and never really sure of whether i am or not. i can't erase things, i can't forget things. i cry over old love, all unrequited, and mourn those not yet within view. i wonder if i will have children, or love, or a fast car. or a pony. then i wonder the superficial things, the imbuitive. like happiness. i wonder why i am waiting for things to fall at my feet, when i am standing under the balcony of the tight-pocketed and the hopeful. nothing much falls here, except tall poppies.
i'm sorry, i'm losing my thread. i'm not grasping much at the moment. it has been 10 minutes since i wrote anything. i'm like an alzheimer, drifting in and out of conscious thought. next minute, i'll be asking who you all are. all none of you. i confuse myself sometimes, with where i'm going. i forget things quickly, remember things i didn't even know happened. it's blurry. i can't remember if i can remember or not. maybe i'm going senile early. maybe this isn't early. maybe senility is proportionate to your capacity as... who knows what. capacity sounded right.
who are you all?
i feel the words sitting in me, like dead ducks, useless, smelly, decomposing. once brilliant and shiny, proud and works of God's good hand, now nothing, simply unusable, unloveable. there is no end to the waste in my life, my works. it's all very self centered, somewhat conceited, and you get the feeling that none of these words would come from me in real life, that in real life i am somewhat more modest, though in an ambivalent way and that in real life i would use shorter words, to make sure that not too many people might suspect my deviancy, my oddities, or my fascination with the conjurations of certain words and phrases. you would suspect that my life is a barren place, a kind of wasteland. and then you'd notice how i like to tie everything in, everything, relating back. a nice package, a tightly wrapped way of telling you not very much at all, all the while letting you think that you had some idea, that somewhere in the mess there was meaning and depth and intelligence. well, welcome to fucking happytown, reader. there is no meaning, depth or intelligence here. This here is a whole heap of shit that i dump on you regularly. go figure.
oh it is a good feeling, that one might return from a far away place of systematic self-destruction to the forefront of killing and disserting at you.
i don't know, that fire is going out now. those fast few minutes, just then. i captured something then. i think i might have these moments, but i'm just never near something i can channel or burn it into at the time. i think i like things fast. i am still new to this life thing, even though it rushes by daily, and is really, really loud. i am not sure. i think i like it fast, but maybe i like it slow. i like things to challenge me, but i hate being challenged. i like to be told what to do, but i despise orders. you take your pick, which idiot i am, but first dispose of that sexual innuendo and put away your judgement. there's only so much room for ego, and naturally this being my blog and all, it is mostly mine.
i think i am egotistical, hateful - no, not hateful - and never really sure of whether i am or not. i can't erase things, i can't forget things. i cry over old love, all unrequited, and mourn those not yet within view. i wonder if i will have children, or love, or a fast car. or a pony. then i wonder the superficial things, the imbuitive. like happiness. i wonder why i am waiting for things to fall at my feet, when i am standing under the balcony of the tight-pocketed and the hopeful. nothing much falls here, except tall poppies.
i'm sorry, i'm losing my thread. i'm not grasping much at the moment. it has been 10 minutes since i wrote anything. i'm like an alzheimer, drifting in and out of conscious thought. next minute, i'll be asking who you all are. all none of you. i confuse myself sometimes, with where i'm going. i forget things quickly, remember things i didn't even know happened. it's blurry. i can't remember if i can remember or not. maybe i'm going senile early. maybe this isn't early. maybe senility is proportionate to your capacity as... who knows what. capacity sounded right.
who are you all?
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