Thursday, May 31, 2007

Out clubbing in the year 1000BC.

Things I really like:


Things I could live without forever and quite happily:


Things that have caused me the most heartache:


Name of my as yet unwritten first album:

Boozey chicks with money.

The three most written about topics in my diaries over the years:


I never really wrote about booze. Twist!

Considered names for my three fish:



One way conversation with Carlton Draught and gay male:

I wish you were a girl, if you were a girl, I'd be all like, fuck yeah, you and me baby. Man, I'd make you my bitch. I'd be pulling your hair, real dirty shit you know. I'd fuck you so good. Make you do deep and deliciously downright wicked shit man...

Visual response of gay male:


Conversation regarding planned photo shoot:

So basically what we need B, is four electro chicks who are willing to get coked up and take their clothes off.

Yeah, but they've got to have a sense of humour. That's important.

Okay, so four coked up electro chicks who love to take their clothes off and have a great sense of humour.


I don't know, I don't think so...

SHIT! If I fucking meet four coked up electro chicks who love to get naked and have a great sense of humour, I'm fucking married right there dude.

This is going to be difficult...




I'm going to be in the country in 24 hours.

[edit] yay.

Wednesday, May 30, 2007

We can work it out.

Soundtrack: Jolie Holland / Old Fashion Morphine

Epiphany: One of the main principles of design is Perspective. Perspective makes the world an entirely different place. You can change your world, simply by changing your angle of approach. Same world, different perspective. Works for me.


Things are strange as they always are. If you care for the people around you, it makes it so much easier to hurt them. Some people decide to do as they will, regardless of the consequences, I guess this is a "it's my life" attitude. I'm sorry that I hurt you, but this is how I live. I understand this. I live this, sometimes. But having been on the receiving end of major hurt from this attitude, I also understand what it feels like on the other side. It's a difficult balancing act. Sometimes you have to create major hurt in order to stop continual throbbing hurt. Hurt hurt hurt. I don't even like the letters in that word. It looks horrible.

Perspective is the only answer to this conundrum. Facing the hurt, does not make it go away. Ignoring it, does not make it go away. The only way to get through it, is to gain some perspective. A broader outlook. Make it about neither you or them or anyone else. Look at the world, look at life, understand how it all works, suck it all in, and move forward. Forward is good. And just around the corner...


I need to take stock and gain some perspective. To do this, I am taking myself out of this beautifully gloomy grey town and driving on my own for two hours to look at:

Pictures like this. Rennie Ellis. I like this one. It's hot. My 40 year old step sister used to work for Rennie Ellis, years ago. And he once took a photo of my mum's boobs. Useless fact #274.

In Daylesford, Hepburn and Clunes this weekend, is the opening of the International Daylesford Photography Biennial. My friend is in it. She takes photos like this:

She uses a biscuit tin. She's very clever. But most importantly, she is a great friend of mine and I am going there to support her in her first major foray toward International Fame and Glory. GO FAME AND GLORY.

Also she is the genius behind the WORST AND GREATEST PUN EVER.

Last year we sat at a bar in the city together, drinking whiskey and smoking cigarettes. I was attempting to teach her how to pun. I pointed to the wooden bar. I said, I WOOD teach you how to pun (points at cigarette butt ) BUT...

She got very angry at me, and her inability to do it.

A few whiskeys later, she screamed, I HAVE ONE. I HAVE A PUN.

Go on, I said...

She pointed to a plant, next to a lamp and said:



PLAMP! Plant / Lamp! PLAMP!

I ordered another whiskey.

Tuesday, May 29, 2007

Culture: A Bacterial Odyssey.

You got a smoke?

Sure mate.

I reach in to my pocket and open the package, hand one over. I've had a rough time brother, he says. I'm not going to make it. I know I'm not going to make it. Too many charges, I'm going inside, and I won't come out. I'm not doing so good man. I'm not going to make it. I've been taking it out on the dog, I don't know what to do. I'm not going to make it. The dog, small, white, sits obediently beside his terrified master and reflects the sadness and horror in his eyes. Another victim, two victims. Scars still scabbing brown and black blood form a relief map across the curves - the ridges and ravines - of his face, the map of his past and the route ahead. It's fear and resignation and death, a horrible fight against death, that light, the spark behind the off milk eyes and he spews curdled and panicked words at me in the hope of one last show of kindness, or more importantly - brotherhood. Proof of existence. Proof of humanity. Who writes this man's story? Who stops to mark his passage as he becomes a shadow? I don't know what to say, so I speak the truth for what greater crime than to lie to a doomed man, I say, I can't help you brother - but don't be hard on that little one - the dog - he doesn't know, and he's your mate. I'm not going to make it, I'm not going to make it. I shake his hand, give him that, and keep walking. I flick my cigarette aside and it's forgotten, swept far away, out of sight.

The night before is Henry Miller - I am the germ of a new insanity, a freak dressed in intelligible language, a sob that is buried like a splinter in the quick of the soul - and it's cunt and cock, cunt and cock, alone in the world, a sailor in dry dock lost both on land and sea, and emotion spills over when one teenage girl does not win the million dollar modelling contract, I shed a tear for her when the scarred face of death brought naught but an opiate of emptiness, an echo of compassion in the dark cavern of my soul, our souls, the world is a living creature and we are the dream rodents, scurrying and consuming and there's more cunt and more cock and more money and more death than we know what to do with and all those who don't look in make their way in the world and those who do simply close down and are lost, the incompatible waste of evolution's steady march and us in between, we try and find balance and love who we can and forget what we must and it's never, ever, ever enough. Ever. How do you love an insane world without going insane? I do it. I rub garlic and salt into a fillet of kangaroo and sit alone with red wine and watch the storms watch the wind fall for rain fall to earth and the drums beat a funeral march on the roof and it's all I can do not to laugh, an old dirty insane bastard, laugh as the world collapses, ready to be rebuilt at dawn.

Also, the new Kings of Leon is a great side dish to the dark-dark and rain-main.

Monday, May 28, 2007

Will I float?

Dear Dave Letterman Show,

I watch your show most nights with a cup of hot chocolate and my cat C**ty (you really do not want to know what my cat is called) on my lap, all the way on the other side of the world in Melbourne, Australia. I like Dave, he's alright, you know. Sweet. Anyway, for the last two years I have been HAUNTED by the incredibly annoying but ultimately loveable (much like me) strains of the Will It Float theme song. Often I'm shopping for pasta, or meat, or those fluffy mink blankets that are so good in winter when all of a sudden I'll start singing, Wiiiilll it floooat will it float. Wiiiillll it floooooat will it float. People will give me strange looks, and I'll be all like, IT FLOATS! Or sometimes, IT DOESN'T FLOAT!

I've met many a nice Supermarket Security Guard this way.

So anyway.

On 6th November I'm flying into New York and I'm staying for six days. Now I could lie and tell you I'm over there visiting friends, or taking my amazing idea to a multi-national company over there...but I'd never lie to you. I'm really coming there with the express purpose of trying to be an object that either floats or doesn't floats. No really. I am. It's costing me a lot of money you know. And I've got my heart set on it. No really, I do. I really want to be the Will It Float object, and I can think of no greater excitement than being behind the curtain, above a tank of water with those really weird metal ladies beside me...listening as the wiiiilll it floooaot will it float begins...and the tension builds...and I hear them say, What's the object? And it's announced: AN AUSTRALIAN. OH MY GOD! EXCITING!

So there you go.

It's a dream. Lance Armstrong had his, Neil Armstrong had his, and I'll do weights over the next months to build up my strength so I'll be an Arm Strong too.

By the way. I really am serious.

Hope to hear back from you soon.

Love you.

Rastus T. Sexplosion*

*Possibly an alias.


Also, this is fun.

Sunday, May 27, 2007


Long term goals are not sexy, they are not witty, entertaining, nor do they provide a lot of fun weekends with friends as you make the most of every hour in an orgy of good times and partypartyparty. Long term goals are, like me, ruled by Saturn and generally involve a lot of reflection, a lot of crosswords, hours spent walking at twilight and trying to work out what's best for you, me and everyone in between. What is real. What is right. What the Hell is that hole in your stomach and how the Hell do you make it go away. Having been a thousand times more sober this year than I was last year, perhaps the last five years, long term goals and I have spent a lot of time together, and I'm kind of used to their company. And I like being at home, though the ache to drive, fly, run never completely disappears. The call of the trees, the sunsets, the smell of pine needles, the perfume of fire and smoke and wood, they stay with you - a memory of a forgotten dream - a deja-vu waiting to happen. Sometimes I get sad about that, that it's not a reality. Sometimes I get sick of rebuilding. But mostly, I'm more Capricorn than I've ever been, and I just wait. Patiently, and rebuild and plot and dream for the honeyed promise of my future. The secret I haven't been let in on.

The name of a daughter
I am yet to hold.
I'm getting
and it's a
tight fitting suit.

In the meantime. Books, food, football, my country house, good company and the rush of the wind which makes the tall, green dancers in my garden giggle and sigh.

It's ok.

Thursday, May 24, 2007

The Transformation.

The first time I opened the book I have just finished I was immediately struck by the romantic inscription on the title page. They shall never take away the time we spent together my darling, or something equally as wonderful, and tragic, and deliciously delirious and romantic. Unfortunately the inscription was made out to the woman I loved, and "the time we spent together" was about two weeks prior, a time I affectionally like to think of as "when I was still going out with her" or "when she was on a holiday telling me she missed me". To be honest opening that particular book that day felt like opening my front door to discover my lover's lover casually withdrawing mid-coitus and excusing himself with a shake and a flourish and he dismissively shot fountains of jism across my face. Oh, sorry about that old fellow, would you mind holding my umbrella while I give the old girl a quick kiss? I stare dumbfounded as behind the chorus in the background is just blood and tangled and sad, empty eyes.

But you know, who am I to take anyone's time from them. Such moments are but part of the rich tapestry of human existence which is from time to time shat upon by various errant curs, vermin and pussies. Ce la vie. Say my name, say my name...

Eventually, curiosity was released after serving time for felicide - minimum security as the judge had also owned a tapestry - and I found myself holding a copy of the book in my hand and paying money for it and taking it home and spreading it open with my fingers and and and...and I wanted to not like it, I wanted to be bad to it, to own it, to treat it horribly, use it and cast it aside and I'd read other books in my bed, same sheets, and sometimes I'd even read them aloud, sexier, wilder books, but I'd always return and read these beautifully vicious, tragically comic passages until eventually I read:

This is a long book. This book has pictures. I like pictures. Pictures are good. There is a picture of a man. There is a picture of a house. There is a picture of a lady. You have to read pages but you don't have to read pictures. I like pictures because pictures are good.

and laughing out loud I closed the book and let everything fall away and wondered while I sat in front of my heater in my little country house with my big unfashionable boofhead woolen hood over my head - I wondered about spite and ego and sadness and loss and time and lust and passion and spirit and faith and most of all I wondered about perspective and about the veracity of your own feelings and how that's all you've got to go on but it should never mean you don't leave room for other people's too even if you just wanna say, fuck it, fuck it all to Hell, you can still keep a little secret spot of understanding for the whole world and the way people are just plain retarded, and at that moment there was an unexpected knock on my door and although it's dangerous to say it: somedays you wake up and you just know it's going to be a good day.

So I hope you have one too.

The author spends some quiet time at home in his wooly hood.

Tuesday, May 22, 2007

Hell is for the lonely.

Callous winds fly words meant for others - send dull chills through me - so I bury my hands deep and James Dean the street up toward Fitzroy. It's been a while since I sat on my own in the window, filling myself with words and food and wine. It feels good. Am I alone or lonely? I don't feel lonely. Sometimes lonely isn't what you think, sometimes it's a quiet reward. Sometimes it's the peace you think you're searching for. Sometimes you got to swallow it and let the aftertaste warm you when no one else will. I like that. It's whiskey living, clean and sober, as you tell yourself a story that only you can understand. A love affair in a book. A cerebral information, a dark and dirty paperback in the mail, or a blissful joy - a happy ending. Maybe. Makes sense to a brain like mine, too complicated and humourless to anyone else. So freedom - as in the teenage break up - means you've got time to kill, time to live maybe. You just have to work out what is worth what. For you. For me - The only thing that matters is looking inside. I make my money now, I am a citizen, I just don't care for the hunger all that much. It's another step on the road to transparency, like having a conversation with someone and telling them, not much, just been staying home, and watching their eyes glaze as they realise you don't have an invite for them, or don't care to drop names, or appear anything other than that which you are, quietly moving along in your life, hoping for the moment or the person or the words, the gentle erosion or violent explosion that will signal the next phase in you. That's a lot of commas. I figure there's something in that. There's been commas and full stops and abbreviations and indents and question marks and exclamation marks, but it still feels like the same chapter, the same Part. Soon I'll turn a page and I'll be greeted by a white page, by a title case sign post that holds the promise of a new thread, either climax or resolution I'm unsure of which, which is next, to be honest it could be either. But it feels like this Part is closing, threads wound up, some left tangled, some frayed, some set alight, the whole thing a distraction for a pent up pussy. Fuck it. I'm a dog person. I play rough and occasionally get bit and throw my balls around until they come back covered in slobber and slime and with a more, more, more until everyone's had enough damn it and all you want to do is take a break. On your mat. Sit the fuck down, or even better, go outside and stay because I'm going out and I won't be back. Hell is for the lonely. One scorched and scarlet earth burning eternal flame and passion which never quits only consumes always tempts never satisfies and is populated by billions of shadows, dark corners of the soul connected to us the hermits and shells which populate the living land above, forever distracting, reacting, creating, copulating, killing, annihilating, anything, anything, anything that denies the existence of the fear that breathes terror into you as a child and which you slowly learn to live with. Hell is for the whores, the unloved, the frightened, the promiscuous, the liars, the cheats, the writers, the kings, the shallow, the weak, the gluttonous and the perverted. Hell is justice for all. Hell is the threat thrown at us by a vengeful God when it was the same god who put us fair and square in the middle of it to begin with. Hell is my Fuck You. For what is this world but my perception of it, or yours or theirs. Hell is my dream. And you're all in it.

Cum Camp Update.

And I've gone with:

Come Camp. It's on us.

We'll see if it flies.

Monday, May 21, 2007

Hey Audrey.

Never let the demons and liars and hypocrites in.
Always believe in yourself.
Be true to that heart, it's one of a kind.
You are beautiful,
the outside of you,
a reflection of what bubbles and burns within.
The world is at your little itty feet.
And I am lucky to be your friend.





Thursday, May 17, 2007

Flies like US.

1 Air Segment AA - American Flight Number:
7349 Booking Code: N # Seats: 1
Date: Monday, 29 October 2007
From: MEL - Tullamarine Arpt, Melbourne VI - Australia
To: LAX - Los Angeles Intl Arpt, Los Angeles CA - U.S.
Departs: 11:20 AM Arrives: 7:30 AM

2 Air Segment AA - American Flight Number:
1928 Booking Code: N # Seats: 1
Date: Monday, 29 October 2007
From: LAX - Los Angeles Intl Arpt, Los Angeles CA - U.S.
To: SFO - San Francisco Intl Arpt, San Francisco CA - U.S.
Departs: 10:45 AM Arrives: 12:05 PM

3 Air Segment AA - American Flight Number:
2644 Booking Code: N # Seats: 1
Date: Monday, 5 November 2007
From: SFO - San Francisco Intl Arpt, San Francisco CA - U.S.
To: MIA - Miami Intl, Miami FL - U.S.
Departs: 6:42 AM Arrives: 2:55 PM

4 Air Segment AA - American Flight Number:
518 Booking Code: Q # Seats: 1
Date: Friday, 9 November 2007
From: MIA - Miami Intl, Miami FL - U.S.
To: JFK - John F Kennedy Intl, New York NY - U.S.
Departs: 8:10 AM Arrives: 11:00 AM

5 Air Segment AA - American Flight Number:
7366 Booking Code: V # Seats: 1
Date: Friday, 16 November 2007
From: JFK - John F Kennedy Intl, New York NY - U.S.
To: LAX - Los Angeles Intl Arpt, Los Angeles CA - U.S.
Departs: 6:40 PM Arrives: 9:50 PM

6 Air Segment AA - American Flight Number:
7356 Booking Code: V # Seats: 1
Date: Friday, 16 November 2007
From: LAX - Los Angeles Intl Arpt, Los Angeles CA - U.S.
To: MEL - Tullamarine Arpt, Melbourne VI - Australia
Departs: 11:15 PM Arrives: 9:30 AM Sunday


That's all.

Wednesday, May 16, 2007

I'm pitching a tent in readiness.


B, I need a copy line for this ad.

Ok, what's the ad?

Come Camp.


Come Camp.


Not Cum Camp, Come Camp.






Look, it's serious, we need a line for Come Camp!


FINE. I'll ask someone else. Hey everyone, can anyone think of a copy line for Come Camp? We need a line for Come Camp...anyone???







A deal this good is hard to swallow?





Oh forget it.


Leave your suggestions below. No one here has a fucking chance in Hell.

Monday, May 14, 2007

I wouldn't be asleep for quids.

In the dream I'm smoking cigarettes with Michel Onfray and I'm pissed off he's here because I wanted to talk to him before his fluff piece feature in the lesser of two evil weekend time wasters.

Fuck you, I say, you're only in my subconscious now because it's convenient for you!

A girl walks passed. I laugh at the syntax. The universe is round.

That may be so, I can get his French accent right in my sleep but you should hear me slay it when I'm awake. But I am 'ere now, so let's talk.

I smoke. He smokes. Mutated flying fish dance on the water beside us, holding hands and spinning circles. It's a cobble-stone street and I can see Inspector Cliche in his beige hat reading the New York Times on the other side of the cafe.

Onfray laughs as an ambulance screams past.

He says, It took off like a homosexual comedian! Weeeooooo!

Don't quote that cunt at me, I say, his material kills but his prose is conceited. Still, I do love that fucking line.

I lean forward and I'm ready to talk when all of a sudden I wake up and it's dark and cold and the rain is knocking on my back door, let me in, let me in, so I get up in time to see the back of the night as it disappears, the fog its spurned lover, the rain the notes of their song, the rising sun the caring parent, come to console the frozen earth.

Sunday, May 13, 2007

A rush and a push and the land is ours.

George Harrison / My Sweet Lord

Behind me a thousand broken glasses form a river of diamond glass tears, aching, dancing and shimmering, tiny arms of ghostly light waving farewell from the past. Man I'm a sore loser sometimes. Laugh. Spit if you ever spat, but you don't, so smoke and turn the corners of your mouth up. Grimace yourself a smile if that's how you want to be seen. Just in case anyone's watching, right? Losing is good fuck nuts. Losing gives you the scars. Losing gives you the hunger. Losing makes that next victory taste as fucking sweet as that first time, twenty years ago on the couch, sun shining prison bars through the window, when you had no idea and she just giggled and lent over and the ceiling never looked as sweet as you tilted back and watched the paint peel oh god yes. Sore losin's for silver spooned pimps and spoiled brats. And they've been the enemy since you turned up at school hungry and walked around the block at lunch so they didn't see you go hungrier still. Rubbing your stomach as the back to class bell rang in a fit of overacting, in case they didn't get why, those tears the tears of the Best Fed Boy in School. Mmmm, yum. BLT. Boy, learn to take it. And you didn't spit, not even back then, not even when the wind brought red ash and flame that Wednesday the sky bled and died and we all wondered if the end of the world had come before we even got to live in it. And that was the fear, the fear which has kept at you loss after loss after loss even when you kept your head up and wondered why and clenched your little boy fists and said then as now, I'll show 'em, I can do it, but you never knew what it was, or how, all you were was a little lost boy full of fear with a Hollywood pretention of It'll Work Out In The End. Tenacity taught you hope, hope taught you shit outta luck and luck taught you to never trust a Lady. But losing ain't so bad once you're used to it. Like I say, makes more the sweet after the bitter. Just don't get so used to Hell that you can't see Heaven when you're standing right in it.


Walking home from the shop yesterday I had the revelation that for the first time in 34 years, I am entirely and completely happy with my home life.

I can't begin to tell you what that feels like.

Monday, May 7, 2007

No hope, no harm - just another false alarm...

It's not raining but the sky stands over me nonetheless. Threatening. Claustrophobic. If I was wearing a hood I'd pull it over my head, disguise myself. Instead I stare silver daggers and razor lit clarity, yes, straight back at it, head up - chin out, bravado a falsehood all its own. Every thing's grey, the light, the roads, the cars, the eyes of strangers tearing their own pages from their own stories as they gruff and grizzle past each other, past me - everyone's a code, encrypted, entombed, buried beneath the dreams and shit of hope and the key, the way out, is more elusive than ever. But you can manage a half smile fucko, as you cocoon yourself in a doorway to spark that slow, sexy death. Sometimes baby, self destructive is a dark and sensual animal, its claws a slow sharp relief to the deeper pains. Bleeding you. Leeching you. And all you have to do is breath in deep and exhale silver asps of cancerous tough to bring yourself back to earth. And keep on walking. Always walking. The same road you took those first steps upon all those years ago, the same road that leads round and round through your present and toward your future, the dust on your feet a reminder of the pasts you're either running from or trying to find again. So which are you old man? Are you running or searching? Are those stones in your pocket for luck, or do they keep you weighed down? I don't know, I say and stop and stare at the reflection in the hotel window, put myself in the picture - amongst the people, the golden ghosts floating inside. The genesis of the stones I keep is long forgotten, they form piles on my tables, hibernate in boxes under my bed, pieces of a jigsaw long lost and forgotten, the bones of tombs laid waste by the forces of nature. Mine and theirs. The sky begins to weep, and in a cruel sadistic twist, I feel a whole lot stronger for it. Pick up my pace, walk faster, tighter - an arrow escaped from its quiver - dead on target and flying fleet, to the unknown nowhere ahead.