Wednesday, February 28, 2007

I won't, be the one to disappoint you. Anymore.

A few things that made me happy this week:

A myspace bulletin from Jesus with the title: I lost me keycard! Fuck!

My best friend being back in Melbourne and saying she enjoyed John Fante's Ask The Dust, but it wasn't any better than what I write.

Getting free tickets again.

Late night dinners in secret Japanese restaurants which wash away bad moods.

The Kaiser Chiefs' song: Love's not a competition (but I'm winning)

A conversation about meeting a cow up a tree. Either the cow, or the person telling me the story, was wearing a mini skirt. I'm pretty sure it was the cow.

Talking every day with people on the other side of the world.

This rain right now, while I'm in my bed, on the internet, listening to Pete Molinari sing, "I'm so indescribably blue" and "My love's in a bottle of Gin"



It's a soft rain, a gentle rain, a kiss that barely brushes the cheek. The cat likes it, she sits and stares out the window, turning to face me from time to time. She blinks slowly and I smile, my whole body smiles a lazy curve.

I haven't made it, not yet, but I'm closer to the end than I ever was.

I'm not insane, I'm not an alcoholic, I'm just the proud owner of a living, beating, healing heart.

I close my eyes and dream a future.

And when I wake, I find the future has come.

Wednesday, February 21, 2007

I got my job.

It's very exciting.

Come get it, I got it.

The good thing about the choice I face right now, is that it's no choice at all.

It's forward or forward, a one way street.


The way to walk through fire is to find a centred peace within yourself, exhale and move slowly. So when I've finally had enough of a familiar ache, where do I go? What do I do?

I get in the car, drive to a friend's house. He's waiting out the front, he's holding a paper bag. We're excited. We're pumped. This is what life is all about. It's been too long. Too fucking long.

I stop at the bottle shop. We're going to need it.

Back in the car, and we hit the road just as the sun decides it wants no part of what's to come and bashfully sinks behind its lover, the horizon.

We pull up at the place and head inside.

I'm home.

I open the Taltarni Shiraz, it's a fucking awesome drop.

My friend sets everything up in my backyard.

And we play Chess, for hours.

And it's fucking fantastic.


When I'm kicking myself, brought up on failure, desperation and loneliness, I think I'm behind everyone. I think I'm missing out, on culture, on fun, on gigs, on parties, on friends who were friends.

Oh, but that's crazy talk.

Crazy talk from a guy who deep down knows that happiness lies buried in the dirt, in the Earth, and in flight with the wind, in the thunder of waves and dancing in the white heat of an open fire.

There are greater truths out there, than the menial shit we all concern ourselves with.
And fuck, sometimes, the deceptive heart casts emotive spells which we think are reality.
But if you can get through them, and see the past as it truly is, and people as they really are,
then you're on the way.

I don't know, depends what your ambition is really.

Some people just want to stay the same.

I just can't anchor myself to them anymore.

It retards my ability to see the path I'm on, which is a good 'un, you'll have to trust me.

Even if it bores you.


To two beautiful fucking people, who reminded me of who I can be.

Monday, February 19, 2007

It's a...mad world.

Conversation last night:

Me to Nick my housemate: Hey man, what's up?

Nick: Ah man, it's Al, the guitarist in my band, he's fucking gone mad.

Really? Cool! What sort of mad?

Aww, it's weird, he won't let us release our CD. He's going to hire a lawyer to stop the release of our CD.

Dude, that's fucked.


What brought this on anyway?

Well, the thing is...he says he's working for the Secret Service, and he says that through the buzzing of lightbulbs and through resonant music, the government have been controlling our minds. He says when he mixed our CD, he was forced to use some of the mind controlling frequencies, and now he's nervous about what our songs will do to the general populace.

Yeah, he's coming over here now to pick up his bass. I don't know what to fucking do.

[a knock on the door, I answer it, Al is standing there. he's about seven foot tall]

Hi Al. How are you, come on in.

Yeah, yeah, thankyou. I can't stay long. [he glances furtively from side to side] I have...some people to meet.

[I try not to giggle, and clear my throat] Yeah...okay, I'm going to bed anyway. See you guys.

I sit in my room and Joseph Heller keeps me company. I hear raised voices from the lounge room. I ponder upon madness in all its forms. I feel as though I am the only sane person I know. I know this is not true, but sitting alone in my room reading of the madness of war in language that fucks with your head, is enough to make you feel sane. But if everyone else is mad, then surely I'd be crazy to be sane. After an hour or so, the voices stop, and I return to the lounge room to see how my housemate Nick is.

Hey brother, how'd you go? I ask.

Fuck, he's really gone Mat. He says he's been sitting alone in his house, listening to the light bulbs. He says there's a cover up going on, and it has to do with the light bulbs. I can't talk him out of it. It's the Army and the Secret Service or something. I didn't even think Australia HAD a Secret Service...

MAN, this is AMAZING [well, it IS kind of cool isn't it?] So what's the rest of the band going to do about it?

Well....we're going to ask him to redo his guitar parts. that all?

Yeah. there is a lot of resonance in a lot of the songs. I mean, there's a lot of resonance in Rock n' Roll in general, so maybe he's got a point.

Um, what about the light bulbs? And the Secret Service and stuff?

Well fuck it. He can still function. And he's a fucking good guitarist.

Fair enough, I guess...well, good luck. I'm off to bed.

I read another four chapters of Catch 22 and fall asleep to the buzzing of my touch lamp. When I wake in the morning I read some Penthouse articles, eat some Weet Bix and sit in the lounge room watching the morning news while I drink my coffee. The newsreader rustles his paper and says:

Malcolm Turnbull, the Environment Minister, this morning announced a plan to phase out all incandescent light bulbs within the next three months, all light bulbs must be replaced by special "energy saving" bulbs as soon as possible.

I do an Eddie Murphy, turn my head, and look straight at the camera of my life.

Sunday, February 18, 2007

Anger is an energy.

I stand barefoot in the grass in my garden paradise and hold my arms outstretched as the sky weeps for the dry earth and drip drop dancers fall in torrents and pit pit patter pit pat percussionists rumble rhythms on the tin roof of my decking. But there's something else in the air at the moment, thunder and lightning, and I've created it. My stomach matches the clouds, both churning, yearning for release and pushing white hot forks of electricity out like the razor sharp tongue of an emotionally charged viper. Flick, fork, fuck, fucking fuck.

How is this here again?

I want to scream it all out, wring myself of it all in a single violent explosion, so I contort the muscles in my face tight and terrified, squeezing like Hell to shit it all out. Primordial aggression, instinctive reactions to a pain that can't be healed, and a weight that slowly crushes the light out of me. FUCK OFF. I want to slam my fist into my chest and rip that duplicitous beating heart out from its cage, I want to hold it aloft and let the energy of the storm destroy it once and for all. Take it, take it, I don't fucking want it.

And anger morphs to frustration and frustration turns to sorrow and sorrow blooms into a dying rose.

And the rain falls harder, and tries to bring the flower to life.

But I just fall onto my arse, on the grass, in the mud, and face first I topple and taste the bitter dirt of resignation.

Fuck you, fuck me, fuck it all. Cunts. Fuck.

The rain stops, and when I lift my head, there is the cat, and her cat eyes are cold.

Wednesday, February 14, 2007

You drive me crazy.

Heard on the Channel 9 Today Show this morning:

...and in breaking news, apparently Anna Nicole Smith was starving her baby, in a bid to make it sexier.

Tuesday, February 13, 2007

And if you turn back, just to fuck me up, I'll cut you loose and watch you fall.

Every time I try and write about it, I stop myself. I think, maybe it's a cautious thing, making sure no one gets fucked over. But I'm starting to think, it's more a reflection of myself. I don't want to be that fucked up that I have to write it all down. I don't want to even feel this way, and if I write it all down, I'm admitting that I do. It's hard to explain. But on this day, if I wasn't about to go to an interview for an amazing fucking job, I might just find myself getting it all out.

So, silent ones, what do you think? What do you think about writing personal shit on the internet? Vibe, or no vibe?

I'm asking the audience, because I'm fifty / fifty, and all my friends work during the day, so I can't call them.

I'd like to know.

Hope you're enjoying the sun.

Monday, February 12, 2007

You set the scene.

In the mornings, I usually go to the same cafe because the coffees are well made and reasonably priced. I know most of the staff there, the same way that I know most of the staff everywhere I go. That's why I go there. I hate waiting in line for a drink. I hate feeling like the person next to me. It makes me feel like walking out the door and hiding at home where there are books and a fridge, and so I can choose to serve myself whenever the fuck I want. But I go to this cafe because the coffees are well made and reasonably priced.

I walked in the other day and I recognised the waitress. She was cute, but I hadn't made a wink, hadn't even thought about her I didn't think, not more than is normal for me anyway.

Hi, she said, it's you!

I thought I gave her a smile. But I've watched myself in a mirror before and thought I was smiling, and sometimes it doesn't look that way. I don't know what it looked like this time. It was early, 8am, and I was hungover and I wanted a coffee. I told her. I want a coffee. Latte, strong, four sugars.

Sure hon, she scribbled something down on a scrap of paper but didn't seem to put it anywhere special. Just held it. Do you remember meeting me?

I'd met her a thousand times. Right here. Not making my coffee.

Man you were so funny, so fucking entertaining. You were crazy, what a fucking christmas! You're crazy!

Yeah, it was fun wasn't it. Hey, umm...I really need that coffee...

Oh sure. She turns and shimmies behind the bar, but her eyes don't leave me.

I don't really know what she's talking about, but that's no surprise. I didn't think that party was that crazy. Not until the morning anyway. Not until there were only five of us left and I knew everyone of us, and there was a ham and a chainsaw and bottles and christmas went from beautiful chaos to being screamed at over the phone to watching spongebob squarepants all night on my own.

Right then another of the waitresses walks past, I know her a bit better, have flirted with her lamely for a year or so, pretty standard stuff really, I'm not your type and you're not mine so let's at least call each other hotness and spunky and wink a little, play the game, we're both bored shitless...she says, Hey matty, and keeps walking past.

The first girl gasps. You're like, famous. You know everyone!

Yeah, I'm massive.

I look her up and down, and I just know, all I want is my coffee.


Sentimentality is like jerking off.
Afterwards, you always
feel a little dirty.
And a little bit weaker.
But I'm a sucker for it.
And sentimentality too.


I go back there for breakfast later that morning, and halfway through my eggs find myself needing to find some quiet time in the room out the back. I hate that. When I get there, I lock the door and get comfortable. Then I notice a ledge to my right, about waist height. And the first thing I think of is how I'd like to arrange to meet someone here, and eat breakfast seperately, and one by one walk into this room and fuck on this ledge. At that point I realise just how fucking sexy I look, pants around my ankles with a bunched up piece of toilet paper in my hand, about to wipe my arse, and thinking of how hot it would be to fuck someone, anyone in the toilet.

I go outside, have a coffee, and when I smile at the waitress, I try to show my teeth, and I try to say, we're all in this together, but I think in your toilet I just realised that I'm lower than most.

She winks. I like that.

Later that night, I dream of elephants in the water, and they look beautiful until someone warns me that they're probably going to roll over at some point and squash me. Then they turn into crocodiles, and so I scramble out of the water and up the banks until I'm in a kitchen and there's a woman and she's reading me a poem and each line ends in a phrase that make me sweat.


Conviction is a fucking great word. I could've done with that word when the acid bugs were taking hold and crawling slithering doubt spiders were jittering and scratching under my skin. It's a great fucking word, it almost holds a promise within it. A promise of belief in something. A promise that out there is something worth standing for. And being a fucker that looks down every road I pass, that's a pretty beautiful thing to dream of.


Good lines heard on television tonight part 1.

"What are you watching?"

"Bukkake Chef"

"Oh, I hate that show, the secret ingredient is always the same..."

Sunday, February 11, 2007

Gimme that ole fashioned Morphine.

The sun is clear and bright as I walk alone through the hundreds and thousand thousands of people on the foreshore. I knew it would be like this, it's not really my thing, but I have a car and an itch and so I make my way here anyway. On the wind, pounding techno competes with latino beats and Ween. It's a musical mish mash brothers and sisters, can't you fell the bringingness together? Bleaugh.

I'm meant to visit my prospective employers down by a stage they're running in Catani Gardens, I stroll over and watch the Catwalk Show they've got going on and listen to "da na nana na na da na nana na na I like the waaaay you moooove..." People are dancing around me, there are too many people with dreadlocks. I can't find the people who I have never met to talk to anyway, so I keep walking.

I find my DJ friend behind the decks in a converted shipping container. The smile I wear when I see him is my favourite smile, it's a real one. I feel happy every time I see him, though we never have much to say, just random catch up talk. It's nice to just be in the same space as him, I think he feels the same. I like that sort of comfort.

He gives me some mdma. I put my sunglasses on, and we make our way down to the Vineyard which is filled with coked up musclemen and ladies in short skirts wearing no underwear. The mdma feels good. The people, good looking as they are, are ugly and sweaty, but I let myself have a good time anyway. And one of the ladies with no underwear is quite keen on showing the world her waxedness as often as possible. I leave my sunglasses on. The mdma feels good.

I hang out with a guy who works at the advertising agency I've been working at. we're probably a little out of place, but it's good, and it feels good. I buy two long necks, Coopers Green, and we sit on a couch drinking beer with the afternoon sun keeping us warm and watch the play of light on sweat on skin.

"da nana na na..."


In the movie Heat, Robert De Niro has a line, he says,"I am alone, but I am not lonely" I've been thinking about that. I'm certainly not alone, and I don't feel lonely, but at the same time, I still find it difficult to feel at home anywhere, with anyone. I understand the things that people say, and the things that they care about and talk about, but my mind is always somewhere else, and I can't remember the last time I felt present and engaged in a deep and meaningful conversation. I hope that doesn't mean I'm arrogant or ditzy, I just very rarely feel drawn into something. I think what it is, is that I feel like my path leads somewhere different than the people I talk to, and I'm impatient to get on with it. Maybe I should just chill the fuck out, and appreciate things more. But I can't help it, I'm always looking at the horizon, and wondering what's to come. Weird. Blah blah.


In the last week before New Year's I was walking along the street when one of those floating little seed pods came dancing toward me mid flight. I've always had it in my head that they contain a wish, must be a childhood memory. So I caught it, and made a wish. It was a pretty boring wish, as far as wishes go, it had to do with working and money and being a normal person after a year and a bit of emotional and financial chaos. The thing is, it's seemed to come true, slowly but surely. It feels so different, stability. So different. The only down side is, I don't feel particularly creative, I feel more concerned with pragmatism and practicality. I guess nothing is forever, so I'll just be patient and see what eventuates. I've got to rewrite my book, and get it to an agent, I've been told. So, I'll wait until the angst returns in secret, and wake up at 4am to do some soul searching and writing. It's always the best time to write, when your only company is a cigarette, a glass of wine and the sounds of the night outside your window.

In the meantime, I'm always looking out for more wishes as I walk the streets.


Do you wanna have some interactive dance fun with me? You see, I'm hoping to save some bucks over the next few months so I can hop on a plane and see some sights in far flung places. I have some locations in mind, and there is a small interpretive dance jig that goes with it. If you, sitting there at your computer, are silly enough to do it with me 1) it'll make me very happy, and 2) maybe it'll send us all some good travel vibes.


You need to be geographically correct when you do it so...

Make two fists.

Work out on an imaginary map in the air in front of you where San Francisco is, and where New York is.

Now say them out loud...San Francisco, New York as you use your fists in the air pointing

(OKAY I KNOW THIS IS WEIRD AND DUMB BUT SHUT UP) you use your fists pointing to where they are...then...and this is the fun bit...

when you've got one fist on SF and the other on NY, bring your arms together to make an M shape and say "MIAMI!"

So, San Francisco, New York, Miami. San Francisco, New York, Miami. San Francisco, New York, Miami.

You can make up a melody as you please, but I think the Snoop Dogg style works best with these words.


Bye for now, I have a car, some money and a week off, so the country is looking gooood.

Thursday, February 8, 2007

Tabula Rasa: Version 790

I had a party. It was a good party, it had a theme, it had a warehouse, it had hundreds of not only beautiful, but also quite wonderful people. The sort of people who if you say, "hey, this year my birthday party theme is Robots vs. Scientists vs. Monsters" come dressed as such. What a sight! A room filled with leggy girls in short lab coats, boys with gigantic horse heads and Dracula capes, and my bestest buddy painted gold from head to toe. It was her birthday, for real as well as belatedly mine, and at midnight I was the first to wish her joy as her 30th rolled round. My old friend who I had not seen in years, came as some sort of gigantic cocked superhero mish mash, and I loved him for it. Another of my friends, came as...well, he wore slacks. Which meant a lot to me.

When the sun came up and I rose from my hidden location fast asleep on my friends bed, I strode to the decks and held the iPod aloft, so that the remains of the night could dance to !!! and Foreigner. And the songs woke up the house and the stragglers who were hiding in various rooms and we all laughed and drank it in and someone handed me a beer, and I drank it thirstily...sometimes, just sometimes, and you may laugh...sometimes debauchery can be a beautiful thing.

The acid which was lurking within the beer however...


In the beer garden of the pub which I have for a long time now renounced, it's hot, real hot and I'm in jeans, black fucking jeans, and there's people everywhere talking and I can't get my legs right and I can hear the thoughts of everyone and feel eyes upon me and every sentence has so much weight within it, because when it's like this, it's not the words I hear, it's the thoughts and more importantly, the thoughts behind the thoughts, fuck I want this to end, it's hot, I can't find a person who will ride through this with me, ain't that deep man? There are people I know, sure enough, and beside me a French speaking bare chested scientist boy in bright orange shorts wolfs down a steak and greedily licks the gravy from the chips from his fingers but instead of laughing all I get is the terrible judgement of a hundred minds and two hundred eyes, woah fucko the trees are leaning close and I'm hiding on a stage in a garden under the shade because I tried to do something so mundane as smile at some friends but the smile was wrong and the gap just got bigger and bigger and bigger. And that, my anonymous friends, is real fucking deep. Don't you see, all of this, it's all a reflection, and it's horrifically, desperately sad. I'm lost. In a place that I once called home.

I stand up, don't say goodbye, and make my way home for real.


In my backyard there is grass, and I play Curtis Mayfield and watch hexagon diamonds dance across the most perfect of blues. I feel so comfortable in my home I can barely express it, even now, five days after. My room, my window, my records, my housemates, my kitchen...but it doesn't let up, the brain never lets up, and all I can hear now is not a giggle or a trip but an eternal tsk tsk tsk, over and over, and I still can't find peace, in that most urgent of places. Inside.

My now stripped of gold paint compatriot, side by side with me, and the bare chested scientist and I, lay on the grass and do a crossword, and eat rubber cheese toasted sandwiches. After this, we watch Monty Python, and the cricket, and drink whiskey and UDLs and laugh and laugh and laugh and the voices inside me begin to grow faint.


On acid, right in the center of it, there are many false insights and dubious answers.

For a day, I lie on my couch and try to make sense of them all.

At this point, I was still unaware of the other twenty people who had been given acid-spiked beer.

Fucked up shit holmies.


During the week, I find myself where I knew I always would. I mean, I find MYSELF. I'm walking to work this morning, days after the troubles have subsided and I'm thinking, fuck man, I was really, really fucking depressed last year. I mean, like, REALLY. And all sorts of fucked up shit happened. And to write them all down, from my point of view, with all emotions and thoughts and angles included, would take another freaking year, and I just can't afford to do that, don't WANT to do that. All I know is, standing here on the corner of the street, new shoes and western shirt, short nerdy haircut and a backpack with my lunch in it, all I know is gratitude. And humility. I hang on to it all day and can't wait for the next. And then the phone rings, unlisted number. I don't answer them, you know? But it rings again, and I answer it, and my world opens up once more.

Don't think twice. It's alright.