Sunday, March 25, 2007

Well Red,


"You're all dressed in red! You look like Mr. Tomato!"

"oooo boobitty boobitty boooo!"

"What the Hell is that?"

"That's what Mr. Tomato sounds like!"


"Mr. Tomato!"

"Who's Mr. Tomato?"


Thursday, March 22, 2007


I'm getting sent a lot of writing for my job, everything from travel stories to interviews with hack comedians who have somehow found fame by making lame as fuck political asides and jokes on mainstream TV. Hey, that John Howard looks like Mr Sheen. Haha. Hey, if he loves America so much, why doesn't he marry it? Hahaha. Hey, I wonder if the end of this shotgun tastes like cock, I'll just put it in my mouth and see. ChckchckBANG.


I've become an editor. Somehow. Which is weird because I'm anti-adjective and though I love my punctuation I'm also happy to let it go for a little while when I'm writing and just let the sentences stumble drunkenly on until they slam into a full stop somewhere down the line. It's also weird because I'm a book whore, a cheap slut who'll invite them all to bed with me at the same time, letting my fingers caress one while my eyes drip syrup and lust across the curves of the other, spread wide in front of me so I can trace my finger slowly down the spine.

But I'm starting to wonder about the ethics of editing. I mean, I'm finding myself rewriting people's articles, sentence by sentence. Changing the voice of a piece because I can't stand the way the sentences are structured. I'm basically tagging my name across the page, morphing their words into mine, trying to get them to understand the beauty of short, sharp and concise. Trying to turn amateur journalists into writers. Like I'm a fucking writer.

What's the etiquette? When I've asked them to write a piece and they do and I'm sitting in front of something that dances gaily around the core of the matter, and does everything in its power to avoid being passionate about the subject. I send it back to them and I can't explain HOW to make it better, I just wish they'd SEE what it was they needed. It's not even the writing, the writing I can fix, the writing I can use, but where's the passion, the heat, the intensity, the love? I think it's like music. I'd rather watch a band who couldn't play for shit, play like they fucking MEANT IT, play like it was the end of the world, than watch a group of technically brilliant players, going through the motions.


Wednesday, March 21, 2007

Work Update

Quote: "Books. They're like the internet on paper"

Kill me. Kill me now.

The Whispering Track.

My overalls were pulled up to my bosom, showing my orange and black striped socks as I waved the folks on the train goodbye. Bye folks! Bye! I miss you folks! I'm gonna wait right here for ya folks! I'm gonna wave and wave and wave and wave and my arm ain't never gonna get tired 'cause I'm missing on y'all and if I stay right here fo' long enough, I knows y'all gonna be back real soon.

A few hours later and I was still waving, long after the train had flown into the horizon, pressed between the palms of the sky and the earth. My upper lip was curled into a smile dense with hope, and my teeth were chattering as night slunk down to mock my gentle determination.

My arm was tired, but I thought I could bring them train folk back. If I just kept at it. Kept on waving.

I don't know how long it was, the minutes became hours and all them little pricks of light took their turn tittering at my optimism as they danced across the black curtains above me until eventually that Sun rose on up to rebuke and reprimand the night for being so cruel. The morning brought warmth and clouds and birds and together they chased the darkness from me, and held me until I began to grow warm and lazy. My arm fell. Heavy and sore. I was heavy and sore on the inside too, but I hadn't been waving on the inside. Or had I? I dunno.

I could feel my lip begin to tremble, and my eyes got all squinty. I knew they'd be making rivers if I wasn't strong about it. I never knew what was right with that. My mama said it was good to clean out the pipes of the soul, but I read on the papers the other day a man that died and he said, to weep is to lessen the depth of your grief. Good grief, how's a boy supposed to know what's what?

I just stood there, and the memory of the whistle was a sweet melody of farewell.

Sooner or later, I turned from that train, saw the green grass around me and started to laugh and I ran down that hill and I chased that doggy that lives on the corner, near Bob Evan's old Hotel, where my momma and he used to meet do the naughty, hahaha, it's true you know. I don't mind, I liked seeing her so happy. Even if that Bob Evans is a married man.

I'm a married man too you know? Don't look like it. But I'm married to my memories, and my hope, and the way my heart dances for what may be. Huh, now I know I don't look like much of a catch to y'all mayhap, and I've heard the things people say behind my back, about me, being not quite right n' all. But I know things. And I see things that people don't give me credits for. And I can do secret things. I can't teach 'em, but I can do 'em.

Like hearing the sweetest melody hiding inside the whistle of a departing train.

And if the folk on the train don't wave back, well that's just 'cause they've got no time to appreciate, no time to listen with their running off down the track, onwards, gotta hurry, down the line, destiny and all that.

I don't think I've found my destiny yet.

But I don't think it lay down that track.

I think it might be around here somewhere, with my momma's memories and the green grass and trying to make just one person get off that train and spend a little time with a boy in orange and black stripey socks.

Choo! Choo!

Sunday, March 18, 2007

Freedom Run.

The concept of freedom is a complex, elusive, and beautiful thing. I never thought to discover its meaning walking through the streets of West Brunswick. I never thought a lithe, moustached Rock God would be the key to unlocking its secret. Yet when I watched a man, smiling the cheekiest smile I had ever seen, and combing his greasy hair before destroying a crowd of hundreds with the power of his Rock, freedom came and stood beside me, put her arms around me and lifted me above the masses.

White light, heat and sweat, the mind numbing beauty of the NOW. That's how freedom feels.

Freedom is nirvana, freedom is the moment, freedom is no thought, the Void. Miyamoto Musashi wrote of that, 400 years ago in a cave in Japan. He discovered it after slaying scores of opponents, a hermit, an armed to the teeth transient, discovering the meaning of freedom by testing his will against any who would dare to challenge him. Until finally, undefeated, he retired to a cave to attempt what many had attempted before him, to capture the concept of freedom in the written word, and eventually finding himself unable to hold prisoner the essence of nothing.

My cave was The Palace, my mentor in a sleeveless denim jacket, tattoos showing, and smiling such warmth and humour that the notoriously fickle Melbourne Music Crowd could not help but love, and dance, and raise their hands in salute to the simple free idea of letting loose and having the time of their lives.

Like many men, the real dilemma I faced was what to do with the freedom I had attained. Like many men, perhaps initially the intoxicating headiness of it steered me wrong and the next night behind the decks I let it explode, an ecstatic symphony of wild rapture, out of the cage, into the fire, pacing and prowling and animalistic.

Sunday taught me, that freedom can also be enjoyed in moments of quiet repose. Sunday taught me, perhaps freedom should be enjoyed thus more often, because a paralysed man can not always enjoy all the rewards a free mind and heart can offer.

Embryonic on a couch, is a prison too.


Thursday, March 15, 2007

The sad deceipt of maturity.

I was an earnest boy. Deep in thought, nose in book, mind racing, plotting and planning, scheming and scholarly. I spoke to adults and they returned the favour with respect. I listened, I learned and everything was collated into an encyclopedic translation of what it meant to be alive. I had faith, I trusted, in myself, and my imagination - my greatest ally and truest friend. But even the best friends move on, and leave you with an empty feeling, as though all they were ever, was a memory, a blanket of companionship tossed aside during a restless night. Now my imagination visits me in the night, and whispers in my ear, and if I'm lucky it's warm and friendly and inspiring, and if I'm unlucky then, well, so are you.

I began to notice girls, and at first, I tried my best to communicate my premature wisdom, tried to find a girl who would sit, and read, and listen as I spoke of Japan, and Homer, and Monty Python, and why I loved what I loved, tried to gently caress that spark with a gentle breath of friendship, openness, meaning.

But all I found in those formative years was cynicism, superficiality and eyes that flicked right and left as a boy old enough to strut and buck Coltish machismo swung toward us, behind me, and click, click, click, with the fingers, and boom with the baby baritone, it no longer mattered what was real, for every day was Spring and a whole generation was in bloom, ready to seed and be polinated.

Slowly, that persona began to cloak me. As the words which had found no use began to evaporate, steamed by the heat of a lustful star, an entire personality shed and left behind as the adder broke forth and slimy, slithered into the snake that the young man would take as his form. And sadly, it worked. Falsehood reaping rewards the grim young lad had read of, but was yet to be atrophied by.

That boy has lain in a coma ever since, the occasional flicker and spit here or there, as the world opened its petals and hovering, he began to drink his fill of the nectars within. THIS is living, he cried, I cried, I felt, as experience held sway over naivety and wisdom, and patience was beat fair and square by the veteran, immediacy.

I took, I was taken. I tasted, and I tantalised, terrorised and fantasised. I grew younger with each year that passed, and was blinded by adulthood, never bothering to look down and see my own footprints in the sands, leading forever a circle, a path forged of inertia, and I unable to slow the steady pace of my own mass. Onwards, in an eternal decaying orbit.

That young boy, that funny little guy, so serious, so knowing, so true. Lying in the past, the first casualty of the war within.

In rememberance.

Wednesday, March 14, 2007

I stopped, but the world kept turning. And I didn't mind at all.

I'm looking for rhythm when I write,
I'm looking for enjoyment in the craft, not content,
If I have to say something that's on my mind to achieve my aim of writing to write, then I guess it can appear that I am a little...tortured.
But I'm not.
I just wanted to write about the feeling of having a hole that shouldn't be, and how when in your heart is one thing, out your mouth or hands comes another.
It's funny what that inspires, and it's funny how many people have used the word, save, when it comes to me.
I'm just as emotional and human as everyone else, no less no more, and I fuck up, dust myself off, keep livin', keep tryin', lose friends, make friends, get naked, make with the woop, have one too many, have none at's all quite banal in a way, and that's where the attraction comes in making things intense.
I'm sitting in front of a list of 100 top Australian Blogs, and they're all interesting and sharp in their way, but it's funny how none of them are looking to write as an art form.
It's the information that's important, and that's a sad indictment on technology's raping of a timeless craft. Yesterday, in a board meeting with Executive Computer Geeks, I discussed the need to talk about books. They said, books are gay, who needs books? We have all the information we need at our fingertips. God, I could have cried. Who needs art when we have TV. Who needs slow cooked Veal Ragu when Maggi sell it in a can. Who needs books? Who needs the rows and rows of colours and smells and hardbacks and paperbacks and the tactile sensation, and the different typefaces and large print and small print and blurbs on the back and dust jackets and who needs that perfectly cute girl who works in Brunswick St Books who smiles when I buy books that she loves and who takes me by the hand and leads me to a shelf and says, this one changed my life and so I buy it and it sits beside my bed, unread, who needs the hassle in the modern age? God, I do. I do.

I weep for the world and remember a bon fire I once danced naked around in a paddock on a beautiful farm. I laugh at the irony of saying all this here, within the beast, the ever growing, change the world beast.

And if I make a stand against this future, I'm so readily dismissed by people who speak a thousand miles an hour, and who know a million things, yet cherish none.

I miss the country. Sunsets and paddocks and trees and tracks and the smell of a fire that you can't get off your skin, or out of your hair. Musty corners, rusted tin, fresh bread, old cars, ancient trees, a rock you keep in your coin pocket, the wind that tells tales if only you take the time to listen, the emptiness, and the delicious loneliness, which is not lonely at all, but merely a hyper real perspective of your true place on this earth.

Monday, March 12, 2007

My opposite number, living in...


And his name is B, and there's even a little QOTSA reference.


I like to move in the night.

3 days to go.

Saturday, March 10, 2007

Well you started off with nothing and you're proud that you're a self made man.

But if my friends all came a runnin', slapped me on the back and said, "he-e-ee-ee-eee-eeeee"

I'd think they were a bit odd.

Wednesday, March 7, 2007

The Grotesque.

The moment one of the people took one of the truths to himself, called it his truth, and tried to live his life by it, he became a grotesque, and the truth he embraced became a falsehood.


In the grips of the fever my mind explores many paths until finally the dream takes hold and begins to shimmer colours which dance like hummingbird branches painting razor fast ideas or memories they're so bright, so brilliant, they're eels, I cannot hold them and only regret remains, and confusion, lost illumination, I had a key, I had a key, but instead sleep keeps me quiet, too protective, too motherly, it holds my head weighted upon the pillow until there is no resistance and no questions, and absolutely no movement. You will stay down.

I stay down.


Outside I find myself on top of a hill, smoking again, and looking out on city lights. That cliche over the edge LA or Springfield view, Inspiration Point, though I'm not here for that. Inspiration I mean. I'm here just to look, to be simply and wholly empty. It's hard for some people to understand, and even harder to explain. I find myself and saying nothing sit down beside me and we both simply stare at the lights of the city, tiny stars around which all of our lives orbit. I wonder if someone can see me in my window down there, typing and blowing my nose. I wonder if someone sees my star and makes a wish; and if I will ever be able to make it come true. Maybe God is a wish made in Hell.


In the Light Zone, I was darkness.
Perhaps in the Dark Zone, I will be light.

How happy is this?