Wednesday, November 15, 2006

The weirdness flows between us, anyone can tell to see us.

On my left wrist I wear a Secret Squirrel terry towelling sweat band. It reminds me to play everything close to my chest. That sometimes, passion is best held tight, compressed in the base of your stomach, and used to fuel the fires behind your eyes. Do you ever feel that? It's a giddy giggle and shake, a lightning storm in your hands, and you have tornado feet and hurricane legs, ready to voosh vam around and around let it all out brother sister lover bang I am alive and let's burn it all down. But instead, you hold it in, and the illusion of the world around you begins to shimmer like a magic trick, and you are you the mad mandrake, waiting to pull back the curtain.

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Tonight a group of friends are going to The Convent. It's a special place. There's ghosts and peacocks and a statue of Jesus and an entire city built in the paddock behind it. Once some Goths had a threeway on the altar in the church. Once I took a really strong pill and walked down to the local pub, rough as guts, and took over the jukebox. The locals looked pissed at me, until I played Highway to Hell. Then we owned the joint. Once I drove there off my guts after seeing the Black Eyed Peas and staying awake until 6am, it took three hours and I talked to myself the whole way. When I got there, the first thing everybody said was, DID YOU BRING THE DRUGS? But it's not all like that. There's also...ummm...errrr...ummm.....stuff like....ummm.....actually, it's a motherfucking den of iniquity, and it's a shame I don't think I'm going to make it this time.

********

A couple o' months ago. I was walking down paths trying to find the way. There were crossroads and maps and signs and trees and dirt roads and rocks and mountains and fuck shitty yeah, I was hella confused. But see, that whole time, I'd forgotten. 1985 Under 14 Victorian Orienteering Champion. So not long ago I just tapped into my inner running nerd, and left the pathway all together. I'm making a new way, cross country, not a fucking path in sight.

Better.

********

Short and sweet today my furry friends.

Tell me a story.

x

8 comments:

  1. what another one?

    sheesh

    i'm all out

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  2. what's a mad mandrake? a kind of duck isnt it? I am confused.

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  3. No, like Mandrake the Magician! Though he was a bit of a quack.

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  4. Ooh, also you like Fante. This is good.

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  5. Here's an ancient Romanian bedtime story my immigrant Grandmama used to tell us kids before bed.

    "A Dog and Pony Show"
    Once upon a time there was a little white house with a little pink door. On a lonely cul-de-sac it sat, completely hidden behind the ever-expanding middle of a mighty Gingko. They sky would send forth rain, and still it sat. The ground would send up shudders, and still it sat. The wind whistling through Gingko’s towering braches brought House its only fearful moments. What if a limb should fall? A great clubbed shoulder or fist that could swing down from above, wrecking all in its path, leaving a trembling, heaving, gaping, jagged hole of a twin passage in it’s wake. What would house do? After a blustery, sleepless, night, House spied that around Gingko a dog gave chase to a pony.
    The Pony’s sides heaved, and still it ran. The Dog’s paws left ever-reddening tracks in the creased soil, and still it ran. “You Dog. You Pony. Why do you do this thing?” Not stopping to shout a reply, the Pony sharply changed direction. Coming toward House now, Dog nipping close behind, Pony stopped, a shivering mess, to whisper: “Love Hurts.” Looking up at the swaying branches, House just sighed. “Ah.”

    The End.

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  6. Aha.

    Yea, dabbled in Fante. Can't find enough like him. Just finished 'Locked in the Arms of a Crazy Life' - Howard Sounes. Worth a read if you havent since I see you like da Buke.

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  7. Pony: Beautiful story, great fucking Shellac song too.

    Mr Berry, da Buke is my hero. Not for his lifestyle, though I wouldbe lying if I said mine does not share common elements, but more for his breathtaking sentences.

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  8. One of the more succinct descriptions of the convent. it rocked. missed you. xxx

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