good days

christmas is over - and surprisingly it was a good one.

pre-christmas was an entorage of parties & friends. went to kooky with W & G. played around with R, and ended up back with my friends partying the morning away.

Decided to go out again sunday morning (christmas eve) to dayclub. Bumped into J, his boy, as well as S and then mr M, an old uni friend. All this was most unexpected & quite a nice lead up to christmas...

...besides being drug fucked, i managed to stay awake for christmas lunch. Mum luckily ramained in her bedroom for the most part. I avoided dad & was given a low-down no the wonderful world of hair dressing by my sister. My younger brothers have grown soo much, they have hit their puberty groth spurt. Upper lip hair & pimples abound. its so cute. My older brother unfortunately is still depressed & remained a recluse in his bedroom for the most part.

Back in newtown - i drank the rest of my christmas away with mr B, listening to snatches of music & making friendly banter...

and then slept through the night in a warmly drunk sprawl on the couch. bliss

mean words

hard cover. bound spine. a stiff black card encasing all that is truth. I opened the book to find the pages torn. ripped to shreds. a story is placed into hiatus. desperate urges for a conclusion are stifled by a maze of pulp fragments. tape & time will not ease the pain borne by the destruction.

Without the possibility of reading - how could we align ourselves to the memory of meaning?

A horse tied to each corner of the page. Paragraph severed from paragraph. Sentence drawn, sentence quartered. Sickly smiles & laughters abound from the onlookers of this destruction. Stanza reduced to words, words reduced to letters. The letters are buried deep in the sand, & only the bitter head of the bastard vowel sticks out. A long and drawn out howl, a desperate & despairing question - Y? Y? Y-Y-Y?

'In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God'

I try to read this book. I am desperate, I yearn what is destined to be denied. I am without hope. My eyes tear up. My body stretches into the form of some tragic figure. Anxious whimpers as my hands scramble. I jerk my body forth. I heave it back. I desperately try to pull these words together. As if to re-animate stanzas. As if to set into motion the frame of meaning. As if that would suffice to make the word living. to make meaning. To make sense of what is this paradise lost.

It's Flashbeagle, Charlie Brown...

need i say more....
i have to get off youtube...

the gravity of cheese

Im not ure if this is meant to be a science presentation or an infomercial, an advertisers pitch or a envrionmentalists educational. But here is a clip explaining the ideal of fuelless flight.

thanks to bunny for directing me to damn interesting.

how to break dance

omg - i love it!!

dance bitch, dance

my singlet top is drenched with sweat, my feet are desparately sore... wounded infact - i can see the makings of bruises and blood. "...sweat & tears!? huh?" i think to myself.


the good news is that my dance teacher gave us the go ahead to move onto elementary/intermediate classes. YAY !!! so i'm moving forward. classes are over for the year...

next year is a commitment to:
1 class of classical ballet - to help develop - posture, stretch & strength ie refine
2 of contemporary
PLUS yoga & gym three times per week each if i can manage... or plan B - doing pushups, situps etc, streching, skipping and a less intense gym/yoga schedule ontop of that... basically the idea is try to make sure that im doing something 6 of the 7 nights in the week to help my skill level... or atleast trying to hehehe

my goal over the holidays is to work on doing hand stands & working on doing the splits... maybe even a cart wheel if i can manage lol

Dematerialise! (take 2)

"Isn't it just reducing? Are you making up words... Agaaain?!" inquired Mr W.

"Nuh - Nuuuh" i responeded... "I was perhaps just being a little more poetic that informing... is it such a crime?" Mr W replies with a cheshire cat smile, a laugh & a nod in the affirmative.

So what does it mean to dematerialise & why isnt it reducing?


Well in a way it is reducing - it does involve using less - but not in the traditional sense. De materialising is about the evaporation of the very materials that produce particular objects/commodities & not about the reduction of the object itself.

Take for instance water heating. Having a hot shower usualy involves the use of electricity. Electricity is generated by burning fossil fuels (coal). If we have a shorter shower then we would have less demand for energy & less fossil fuel burning etc. This is a typical model for reducing. Using less means less impact on the environment... yay for us :)

So how is dematerialising different? Well there is a way we can have a hot shower that goes for the same time & that involves burning less coal. we can use a solar hot water heater. We may not be using less hot water - but the way the heat is produced involves alot less energy to produce and is more sustainable*.

Another example is online resources vs paper resources... Less material is used on the net, less production, but still the same product/object. Basically dematerialising is using less resources in making objects/commodities, while reducing applies to using less of the object itself.

Dematerialising usually requires/casues changes in the way the resource is produced & distributed in society. Solar pannels can atomise energy production, users produce energy locally & not in a mass/grid fashion. On the other hand the internet tends to network & proliferate information production, as oposed to a book which tends towards a static & isolated existance on a shelf. So energy is no longer as much a social crisis of concern, and information is not limited to discrete books in particular orders.

Ideally we should both reduce & dematerialise. But if dematerialising is done with a bit of thought it can lead to one really cool thing - sharing. you dont really get that with reducing. Laundry mats are all about "sharing" resources (well, for a cost). Think about the amount of time that your washing machine spends NOT being used... now if someone else were to use it instead of buying their own machine - we've just saved ourself the production of one more machine**

The question is -Is this reduction or dematerialisation. The argument for reduction would go: well we're making less machines so its reducing. The arguement for dematerialisation would say: the same amount washing is happening, nothing has been reduced, but the way in which the washing has changed to use less resources, so its dematerialising.

*Solar power can be probelmatic its not always as eco friendly as envisaged, the problem is there is not enough money being put into it tgo work out the bugs.

**Now if only there was a co-operatively run laundry around the corner, with low prices, eco-friendly washing powder & front loading machines that uses less water??

some where else

This is Skin 'purple'
- one thing i always found interesting about her lyrics was the way the perspective shifts between the two people involved in the song. Between the cheater & the cheated, between the one who gives & the one who takes. Both the lover & the fool - and so we cry with a tinge of anger, and we shout with a thread of forgiveness.

Purple washes over me
Seeping through my open seams
Im stained all over

You pretend weve started again
Waiting for me to say when
But I say purple

[Chorus]
She wont go
Where I
I would go for you
Id curse my heart
For you

Silence makes a girl talk fast
Speeding but Im gonna crash
And burn for loves sake

Duty keeps a lover loyal
(But) is it really worth the spoils
When I dream purple

card board boxes again

It seems illl be moving in 3 weeks. Its back to packing & unpacking boxes. The move is not by choice. I'm quite happy with the current moving arrangements. In fact i cant imagine a me place being better at all!

I'll be going from a situation where i was living with friends, in a nice 3 bedroom terrace, to something most likely less substantial... I'm not pleased with the idea of moving. What is worst of all is that i am unresolved as of where to move too.

I havn't really heard of much in the area, and i really dont want to ballon my rent by trying to live on my own. Its lead to alot of anxious uncertianty for me... omg! shoes.


Do i live on my own & scarifice a social life & nice clothes? do i live in share housing with people who i dont know & hope for the best? maybe i should hold out & see if there is someone i know looking to move, but will that cut me short at the last minute? i dont know.

fake chemical state

Skin has released her second solo album. Its called fake chemical state. it has some pretty amazing stuff on it. songs like movin' & i dont need a reason are just fantastic examples of the evolution of her style :)

A look of death that turns you on
I’m too destructive to be the one

That’s were I’m going to
Some place that’s far from you
I’m movin’ on

I’m to frustrated to kill your glare
I can’t dismiss, you don’t compare

And when I find my place
I’ll make this stupid feeling last forever
When I find my way
Nothing left in this sick world will matter

I’d have to kill to fit your rules
I can’t resign until you’re through

That’s were I’m running to
Some place that’s far from you
I’m movin’ on

teddy bear suicides

this is 'sometimes' by les rythmes digitales. its a great song from the 90's with some top lyrics... shame about tedy though.

you ever have days like these?

check this out. it's Legend of a Cowgirl' back from 1997. not quite broke back but i do love the bikers :)

kiss you off

Scissor Sisters - Kiss You Off

You say you see what's under me
That the gloss has washed away
But you're the one whose colour's gone
From love to dirty grey
Questions come alive in the middle of the day
Over and over again
Watch me start a fire in the middle of your shade
That's why I'm telling you I'm gonna

Kiss you off my lips
I don't need another tube of that dime store lipstick
Well I think I'm gonna buy me a brand new shade of man
Kiss you off my lips
It's standing room only for a piece of my pigment
So excuse me a minute while I supply demand

Kiss you off these lips of mine
Kiss you off for a custom shine
Pissed yours truly off this time
It's why I ain't just kissin' you I'm kissin' you off

Spare this child your sideways smile
That crack in your veneer
Some blue broad will spoil your rod
It just takes patience dear
They rush you for your life
But you'll never beat the game
Older and older you get
Cruch you like gyre
But the gimble's all the same
Oh no I think it's happening


Kiss you off my lips
I don't need another tube of that dime store lipstick
Well I think I'm gonna buy me a brand new shade of man
Kiss you off my lips
It's standing room only for a piece of my pigment
So excuse me a minute while I supply demand
Kiss you off these lips of mine
Kiss you off for a custom shine
Pissed yours truly off this time
It's why I ain't just kissin' you I'm kissin' you off

worth it?

I feel like such a piece of meat... & its been a while since i've felt like this. Not since i was alot younger... and dumb.

So im having sex & enjoying it & at a certian point i realise that its not about me at all, its about them. They get off, i havnt gotten off. Things go abit quiet, and he leaves shortly. Im a bit amiss as to the entire sitution. A little confused.

Something doesnt feel right. My gut is just a little too wretched to be happy. I remember this feeling. Its when you realise that they just didnt care. It was about them. And im left feeling like a fool. I hope im wrong. I hope its just paranoia, that im just a little depressed. I hope i'll clear up & stop my crying.

Either way i feel like Im a fool. So wheres that hole to crawl onto again?

on the road again

so i've gotten my Learners license. the photo aint too bad, though i look like a thug. Anyways, considering how many jobs require you to have a lisence these days it was more than appropriate for me to get. sheish, im so career minded these days. ;)

eva

in the famous words of Mistao "my god, this is not possible"

i finally found a cheap DVD set of Evangelion: Neon Genisis!!

Anyone want to come & watch all 22 episodes with me?

yes

One of my fond memoroies of film is to be found in in a documentary on Yoko Ono. In the documentary John Lenon reaccounts how he met Yoko at an early viewing of her art exhibition. He mentions climbing a ladder in order to view a image hung on the roof. the image portrayed a single word. "YES" It was a positive statement, a openness, an affirmation.

Yes is an important phrase in political practice. I think that the left is starting to relearn what this phrase means. I think im starting to relearn what this phrase means.
Prohibitions & Antagonisms are a common statement in any politics. No to racism, no to sexism. Prohibit the violence, & condemn the war. These are all good things to say, but no poplitical project can end with those words.

Of late i think things are changing. yes seems to be on the table. Be it the environmental politics of climate change, the new Dr Who, movies such as V for Vendetta or documentarites like Shut up & sing (which im plugging cause it looks really good). I think all these things tend towards a belief in change of affirmation & in their different ways & different mediums providing a language to voice those concerns.

Most interesting is the American Left finding its new feet - or rather finally getting some airplay - they've always been there, they are jut getting out there more. omething to do in Sydney maybe?

vice versa

I arrived at the syndey airport last night with a strange feeling tickling my gut. It was something between relief and sadness. I was very glad to be home, to be back to my friends & fun nights out, to bus trips up to the rocks & bike rides all over town. But at the same time i felt a pang of sorrow. And no - it wasnt about leaving melbourne.

Lets get things straight. I like melbourne. I think of it as a sister city. Sure i bitch when im down there - i constantly compare it to syndey & pick them appart. But thats whats so special about it. The two cities are in many ways alike. As Kath would say "same... but different". Melbournian people come to sydney and bitch, we all have out little complexes about "the scene" and we all work essentially banal jobs - and escape onto the net, cafe's & bars or sydney to re-establish some semblance of meaning. My sorrow then was not from missing melbourne. Melbourne is not gone, its here in syndney in some way, and vice versa.

So then why was i sorrowfull? Melbourne left me with more questions than answers. Melbourne offered neither the restful fatigue of a hectic week, nor did it offer the rejuvinating effects of rest. It seemed that it wasnt really a holiday that occassioned my stay. It was a unconcious need to see things differently. A minor flicker in perspective.

Close the left eye & see the world - you think you know it? Now close the right & open the left. The world is shifted. Things disapear & others appear. Angles change, shadow & light plays differently. Suttle shifts can be prosperous things.

So many questions hinge around life & love. What to do... what can i do... when & where. how? The sorrow quickly passed as i went to sleep. The answers i'd find at a latter date.

melbourne

melbourne is fun but cold.

i keep on ending up at the bear bar. go figure ;)

River

i really love Natalie Merchant - but it took me ages to realise that the song River is about River Phoenix, and his tragic death. The lyrics are supplied bellow. It interesting to thing about what mourning means for press vs people vs fellow rockers. I loved him in idaho

to sleepy boys, death, stars & dreams. i love you baby, i love you so much. i love you all. so much. and the dreams. and the stars. and the sleep.

Young and strong Hollywood son
In the early morning light
This star fell down
On Sunset Boulevard

Young and strong beautiful one
We embraced so close
Is gone
Was torn away

Let the youth of America mourn
Include him in their prayers
Let his image linger on
Repeat it everywhere

With candles, with flowers
He was one of ours
One of ours

Why don't you let him be?
He's gone
We know
Give his mother and his father peace
Your vulture's candor
Your casual slander
You murder his memory
He's gone
We know
It's nothing but a tragedy

Lay to rest your soul and body
Lay beside your name
Lay to rest your rage
Your hunger and amazing grace

With candles, with flowers
You were one of ours
One of ours

I saw cameras expose your life
I heard rumors explode with lies
I saw children in tears
Cry and crowd around the sight
Of where you had collapsed that day
Where your last breath and word
Had been sighed
Where your heart had burst
Where you had died

I saw how they were lost in grieving
All half believing you were gone
The loss and pain of it
Crime and shame of it
You were gone
It was such a nightmare raving,
"How could we save him from himself?"

love

i'm not david... maybe not even puppet anymore... excuse me... who am i?

bad wolf

There is a little tear in my eye as the entire second season of doctor who passed with out me even knowing it was on. (i knew it was happening, but i didnt realise it was happening NOW) *sigh* just my luck hehehe. Well i guess its for the best i just finished watching the first season, so now i can get the order all right.

This is a picture of me dancing at bad dog party - not the best expression but i like it none the less. It was my first bad dog & im committed to going to many more.

:D

Dematerialise!

Reduce, Reuse, Recycle is the creed of old school environmentalism.

The primary term is Reduce. Limit intake, proportion accordingly. Negotiate the cycles of material production. Avoid unecassary waste. The two other terms echo the first, but a degree of conviction is lost in each turn. The second term, Reuse, mearly reminds us that to keep the commodity in circulation is to elapse the time before its eventual termination. Keep it usefull means keeping it from becoming part of the problem. From becoming waste, an expenditure. And as is well known - all expenditures demand a balanced injection. Something must be put back into the system to take its functional place. The third term, most fathest removed, states that what has been used can be remade. Reduce the exploitation of the environment, by exploiting the waste of our society instead.

The second & more so third term of these co-ordinates of conservation tend to stem on a trajectory outward from point 1 (reduce). Both point 2 (reuse) and point 3 (recycle) require the increased manifestation & circulation of materials. Incremental increases from a starting point (1). These three points can be imagined to sit on a line constructed from this logic. If we work backwards from 3 through 2 & then 1 we find a trajectory, shooting back to a 0. This is the zero point of conservationism. Point zero is the point of dematerialisation.

Dematerialise! Matter into Energy. Form is lost. Only radiation abounds... in all directions. It seems that dematerialising is the radical origin of these logics of conservation. Dematerialise is eternal. Energy has no mass, no decay, no death.

To dematerialise is to restructure society so as to disappear material objects. To end the tyranny of the mass commodity. It is a simple & mundaine thing. Deny the material world commodity status. In capitalism it is a laundry mat. Wash your clothes. What is bought is not a commodity - is is a service. In socialism it is the bus. Cars evaporate & communal needs transpire. In anarchism it would bee the re-establishment of the Commons, to this day still too uncertian to offer a description.

Jazz Sushi

We make our way to that little jazz sushi place. You'd know the one, on a not so distant corner deposited in the middle of surry hills.

"You know i love this place, i like to come here once a month" States Ms H. She clarifies her point "Just often enough not to miss it & just often enough not to go broke. You know, special occasions - pay day"

We have both finished work. So tired. A little brain dead. Welfare and Health are not really mental or physical professions so much as emotional professions. Dont matter what the problem is, youir care is demanded. Your compassion is depleted. Somewhere in our minds we decide a sober talk is appropriate for such moments. Sober moments themselves go best with a glass or red.

Agadashi Tofu, Sashimi Salad. Salt & Peper Crab, Camembert Tempura. And then dessert. Its rich & flavoursome meal. Our bellies grumble with satisfaction. the lopic strays to pets.

"You know i really do like animals. I've just seen one too many people treat animals baddly. One too many people cling to them too closely. One too many bills to pay" I pause "And yeah, i do kinda want one..." Ms H giggles.

We listen to our requested song being played before we leave for home. "You know this is a great place," I say, "for special events".
"Yeah" Replies Ms H, "Romantic occassions & Breakups"
"with a bottle of sake i hope"

we walk away.

Fly me to the moon
And let me play among the stars
Let me see what spring is like
On Jupiter and Mars
In other words hold my hand
In other words darling kiss me

Fill my life with song
And let me sing forevermore
You are all I hope for
All I worship and adore
In other words please be true
In other words I love you

try to smoke alone

so im single again..

SOMETIMES ALL THE MOMENTS
THAT WE SAVOURED FOR THE LAST
GET CRUSHED BETWEEN THE GOOD AND BAD
FROM PRESSURES WE HAVE HAD

BUT YOU KNOW I CAN'T CONCEIVE THE DAY
WHEN FEELINGS RUN TOO HIGH
TO WORK OUT ALL THE STALE TERRAIN
EMOTIONS TRY TO HIDE, WHEN I TRY

LATELY I CAN'T SEEM TO COLOUR WHAT WE'VE LOST
IT ALL SEEMS LIKE BAD MEANS
WHEN LOVERS TURN FROM LUST
THEN I TRY, TRY TO SMOKE ALONE

THESE SHATTERED TIES WITH NO COMPROMISE
FALL THROUGH THIS FRAGILE HELL
THE DRINKS STAY SIPPED 'COS WE'VE LOST OUR GRIP
TOO EXHAUSTED TO REBEL

lately, skunk anansie

fair go

I flick through the paper to see whats in the news. The death of a croc hunter makes the front page. I homosexual scandal in NZ is also given a mention. A full page is devoted to a sale at Myer. In other lesser news a military coup has occured in thai land.

There is an arguement over getting newbies to the country agree to australian values - such as having a 'fair go'. They dont really explain what it means, what having a 'fair go' entails. I suspect because if they did they might find that the idea's of potentail & equality, of giving people a chance & equal footing is not so inately Australian. Nationalism is only ever surface.

There is no depth.

Depth is the enemy of the cultural artifact. If packaging increases sales of commodities by anywhere as much as 300% we can safely say people perfer to buy packaging over commodity. Nationalism is a commodity.

If we ask people to buy into the idea of a 'fair go', were not really asking them to buy into the concepts behind it. Were just demanding that they say it our [sic] way.

techno geek

I know that i really shouldnt get all excited, & its probably very telling that i do, but yeah new technology just pushes my buttons.

j.s.

its as if it was all a big jig saw puzzle. Time stopped & this world pulled apart. The pieces scattered onto the floor. Its my job to put it back together. One by one i pick them up. One by one i make things whole. Each time i get a little closser to that primal scene. One & one & one. I'm close to complete. Breath bites & heart skips. One piece is missing. A small gap on the board. A blank in this world. A piece is missing. The one that reveals it all. The piece that depicts your mind.

Im denied satisfaction. There is no completion. I'm left un-content. Dare i say - I have no piece of mind. You hide the jig in your hand. You can be so cruel sometimes.

I know what the piece should look like, its colours, its contours. Its tale of dark betrayals, & deep passions. A tilted face & soft smile. Hell, i can even turn over the box to see a blur of what that piece should look like. But its a different thing to hold the piece. Different completely.

'oh how cruel - to make a girl cry.'

indy media

its been a while since ive checked out indy-media, ut it seems somewhere down the line they got a faced lift. The site is alot more user friendly now :) & still the best source for factual information. Best of all you can make the 'news' yourself!!


on a tangent...

....it occurs to me that if the role of the journalist is to report facts - to log an account - to submit a journal entry, then who or what is a journalist in the age of the internet? where investigations are not nessacarily as time consuming or resource exhausting. Where the world is progressively dematerialising itself?

Maybe the hyperlink is the essence of journalism today - delivering you the facts in an instant. Perhaps the degree & diversity as well as destination of those links is what should be the judge of the journalistic integrity of our society... mmm, just maybe

bikes & boys

a bit of an update post:

i have a brand new bike. Its yellow. I think i love it, its kinda just what i wanted. Cute, practical,environmentally friendly, it wasnt too expensive, nor was it cheap. Trigger gears & disc breaks. very modern. Best of all - its french! (remind me to post on 'cyclophilia' in future).

the bike i got yesterday. a little before i got the bike i got me self a man. So fer the rascals i see out & about - expect to meet him soon. Hes got a great smile, & many other good qualities im discovering. Hes read all of my blog entries already (which is adorable & yet un-nerving at the same time) so i guess he'll be reading this one too. Hi babe *pokes out tounge* (a tounge wave?!) Best of all - hes a slav! (Well a serb to be exact, & im croatian *shock, horror* - but is ok, we both follow the dictum 'make love, not war')

ciao bello babe

sorry for the delay

argh... sorry for the delay in posting - blogger now has a beta version that is linked to gmail/google, & for some reason it kept on signing me into the wrong account...

... but im here now. If i had been here sooner i would have posted on:

gay stuff, the odd boring update on life, clubbing excapades, eye candy at the gym, the importance of living an earnest life, my new facination with utube, oh - not to mention the hype around spider man 3, the horrors of www.allbadboys.com having failed to update recently, the evils of mass-mediated-politico-power, wolves, a recipie for making brownies, not to mention instructions for overthrowing the capitalist state, a continued appreciation for the sleepy jackson, a note on the presses insane stance on terrorism, existential coments on the nature of sudoku, & yeah other funky stuff

all written while drinking my dry white in one hand, typing with the other, blind to the spelling mistakes but open to the idea that words mean something more than a mere shuffled mimicary of the dictonary. Words may be words, but they may just also mean something too.

The Bart Simpson Show

well, U tube is a band wagon...

twitch

im in newcastle. i remind myself that im up here for business. A community housing confernece... but i cant seem to keep my mind on work. Im a anxious. Distraction isnt working. My computer is connected up wirelessly in the confines of a pub. The beer that i sip also offers no release.

Its as if ive forgotten something. im so desparate to remember. its as if i need something, but everything should be here. its not home sickness. i have only been here for a day...

maybe its existential - anxiety of the present self.. maybe psychoanalytical - anxiety of the impinging past. perhaps its not clinical. perhaps its justified. water. petrol. life & death. intollerable work & a dead culture that we all call our own.

i lament on the matter in absence of a cure. it is an end in itself.

Dream On

I have fallen for Luke Steele, from The Sleepy Jackson... oh yeah their music is good too.

warming up :)

so kooky is re-opening this friday. me thinks this clubbing season will have an early start, more prolonged rather than immediately intense.

Oh and as i discovered on the maquarie uni website:

Climate

The Australian climate ranges from tropical to temperate and Sydney has a temperate climate. The wettest months are March to May; the coldest month is July and the hottest months are January and February. The average rainfall is 1,200 millimetres per year. Average humidity is 62 per cent.

Summer (Dec-Feb) Max 28.5 Celsius Min 18.2 Celsius

Autumn (Mar-May) Max 22 Celsius Min 14.5 Celsius

Winter (Jun- Aug) Max 16.8 Celsius Min 8.6 Celsius

Spring (Sep- Nov) Max 21.7 Celsius Min 13.3 Celsius

Sydney has a mild climate that encourages Sydneysiders to enjoy many outdoor activities.


we are officially past the coldest month. YaY!!

travelling the world

i'm bitting my lip. i fills the time while i figure out what words to say. i look at him. he's so cute, that cute little nose, beautiful eyes, the hint of a few frekles... I just want say the right thing, not that there is a 'right' thing to say.

Serbian huh? Gez my parents would be furious *smirks*. I can see that you love to smile as much as i do. cute teeth, kissable lips. Though i must admit he talks alot - almost as much as i do. Darn competition, lol. Yeah... sooo, you're like... um... built?... grrrowl. makes me feel so meek. A strong spirit, analytical, thoughtfull, he speaks his heart. he excites mine.

i'm smiling babe, this night, this moment... its fantastic.

puppy dog's tails?

Arms arised. feet apart. bend my knees. My hands fall as i turn left. My face goes red. I've turned the wrong way. I turn the right way. as they say 'life's full of wrong turns...' i'm tempted to add that these turns are '...coupled with many an embarasing moments'.

Going to dance class is a frustrating thing. It really is starting from scratch. You learn set styles, to specific beats. Your feet & hands play different games as the music referee's. Dont matter what you could do before. Now there is only this. The trick is not so much learning to dance. It is learning to be taught. Learn the dicipline.

I remember a connection between mr foucault and dicipline. he showed how dicipline as the practice of correction, as the body of knowledge, and as the conditioning of the body all came together. I appreciate his words as i step, shuffle, march. body, knowledge, power. I soilder on.

I enjoy it. I like dancing with the additional classes of yoga and of course the gym. its a challenge. the good dancers inspire me. a shyness brought on from unfamiliarity is a hinderance slowly lifting. Gary mentions that 'its most difficult for you beacause you're not used to being taught, to restrictions. Your freestyle, this isn't' He places the emphasis on free. 'sometimes though you gotta take 2 steps back to go 3 forward'....

...and step 1, 2, 3



I saw my baby, crying hard as babe could cry
What could I do
My baby's love had gone
And left my baby blue
Nobody knew

What kind of magic spell to use
Slime and snails
Or puppy dogs' tails
Thunder or lightning
Then baby said
Dance magic, dance (dance magic, dance)
Dance magic, dance (dance magic, dance)
Put that baby spell on me
Jump magic, jump (jump magic, jump)
Jump magic, jump (jump magic, jump)
Put that magic jump on me
Slap that baby, make him free

I saw my baby, trying hard as babe could try
What could I do
My baby's fun had gone
And left my baby blue
Nobody knew

What kind of magic spell to use
Slime and snails
Or puppy dog's tails
Thunder or lightning
Then baby said
Dance magic, dance (dance magic, dance)
Dance magic, dance (dance magic, dance)
Put that baby spell on me

what gay am i?

i think i answered in the positive too often...

You scored as The all-round cute gay guy. YOu are a cute guy who many would die to be with..........lucky!! The all-round cute gay guy 90% A Big Bear 70% Straight Acting 70% S + M guy 70% Raging Queer 70% Straight 10% Straight Queer Basher 0% What type of Gay are YOU? created with QuizFarm.com

deviate!

I wanted a quiet night. I could have done with cheap weekend. But some how... some bizzare act of fate it all went sideways. I deviated.

It started with dinner at Don & Andy's. A quiet dinner. A nice side of pork belly. A few glasses of wine. Maybe it was the pot smoking started the trouble. Or the little pash that found me a lift to manicle. Alas, whos to say?

A few beers at manicle, a chat with emma. A little dance & some flirting with the boys. Not too dramatic... till i found myself in the posession of a half price pill. As the sounds became hazy & my sight blurry, i suddenly couldn't tell if i was at manicle, or shift, or phoenix, or bent. I lost a nice t-shirt, and found myself in the company of unexpected aquaintances.

After leaving the home of some trade on sunday evening i met up with Will for a drink. A cask latter i crashed, getting enough sleep for an 8:30am start. I borrowed a cute shirt off Will.

I laid on my bed for most of monday evening, not sleeping first time home since saturday. Just lying there. My mind buzzing. Amiss from the weekend. 'ok, next weekend is really going to have to be a quiet one this time...'

family

Matthew & Paul are my younger brothers. Twin brothers. They've grown up so much. With their little tuff's of hair growing on their upper lip & broke-in voices. They're so cute & now taller than my sister! You cant see it in the pics, but they have rosy cheaks, that blush easily. Its so cute & sexy. (mental note: next boyfriend will have rosy cheaks).

I hadnt been home for a while & was happy to see them mature. I was happy that Teresa (my sister) was looking after them. Giving them love, in her own way. Teresa was lookin wogtastic herself.

Dad was nowhere to be seen. His absence has apparently become steadily more present within the house. The house itself is run down. In need of a fix. Half restored, half desroyed.

Joseph, my older brother, was withdrawn. Finding comfort in solace i guess.

Mother was... well, mother. She still doesnt leave the house. She is like the house. I miss her i guess, but i just cant seem to cry for her. I remember once talking to my sister about how in a way if she was dead things would be better than this. We could grieve then, instead of stuck in this limbo of emotional turmoil. I've lost my hope to see my mother again. I dont even know if i'd recognise her if she was with us.

Wait.

Maybe i would. I think i rember her laughing once. And she hugged me once. Read me stories from the bible before i went to sleep. Maybe i would... if it could happen...

Henri

Henri Bergson was born a jew, but over time grew sentimental towards the roman catholic faith. At the time (30's) jews were being persecuted. He chose to remain a jew to show his solidarity to their cause. When he died in 1941 a prayer was read out by a catholic priest, on his request.

to have compassion above faith is truly a blessed thing.

short term

babes gone. i new it would happen. the use by date was in clear view for all to see. it has happened. all those little chance encounters mean a little too much now. Its all thats there. Evenings into mornings, mornings into evenings. Prolonged departures are the template for all our joinings.

'yer a diver huh? well, dive in deep then'

just my luck. 'me' see 'you' go, never really an 'us' to cry about... but im still sad.

bye babe, enjoy the trip.

history of madness

Finally, its more than any little foucauldian could wish for. After reading all his major works, most of his minor works, & briskly attending his lectures, what could make me happier than the history of madness, in english!

This book was actually Foucaults doctorate thesis. It concerns the rise of madness in western society, or rather how one could come to be known as being 'mad'. Madness & Civillisation was the early version of this work. A book that was in need of a makeover. M&C was a translation of the abridged french version of Foucaults text. While the book gave some insight to his ideas, it was also a shocking piece of literature. References were deleted, translation whas poor & 80 pages vanished in the transition to english. The final verison of M&C was two fiths the size of the original.

I cant wait to read this book... *sigh*

game boy

the boys are out, & they're playing games. It can be in the form of a semantic challenge, or just a plain old polemic. Romantic lead-on's that end in cold dismmisals. Emotional manipulations are everywhere, in many different forms. Mind fucks seem to come by the dozen. Its always a case of you vs me. The game is taken so seriously and you play to win. Its a war baby, but what you fail to see is that like all wars no one ever wins.

puppet is a wolf

the following is a exercise in the free flow of thought, while on drugs. dont expect it to all make sense, just take what you want, or nothing at all...


i am no play thing, though i am playful. not a thing to be played with or controlled.


are there strings? yes. But none that lead to your hands. They lead to my heart, to my soul. To my belief in knowing what is good. To my dream of a better world. To the childish (and for that reason so honest) belief in compassion. Like Pinochhio, i am lead by my disires - for better or worse.

I am puppet. I am a mechanical boy. i want to be a real boy. but like the tin man, the scarecrow & the lion i do not realise i already have what i want. but ironically, in order to realise it i must journey for it.

i am puppet cause i dont like the scars any more, the tarnished flesh of razor blades and cigarette butts. i am puppet now because i have come alive. i am half way there. a hurricane of emotion. i am puppet to remind me. because sometimes davey needs the help of a friend.

'i want to be a real boy' said pinochhio, and yet in so many ways he alreay was.

Mechanical boy. Full of gears & cogs. Sprockets & springs. Desires & machines. Desiring machines. As im sure both Deluze & Guttarri would agree: 'I' am but a aggregate of partial machines. Mini cellular machines, muscle machines, macro limbic machines. Hand machine connects to the arm machine connects to the chest machine. Child machine, develops from the womb machine of the mother machine. Puppet lives symbotically with the David machine. The symbosis interconnects. IT jam's & accelerates with the other machines that constitute the social body. We speak with your mecha language, we travel in automated objects. The world is full of machines! It is silly to imagine a non machine. Or even the completed machina, a machine that exists independant of other machines.

---

To continue with the Deluze & Guttarri there is also Burifification. Burification (as i remember it from yr 12 chemestry): A chemical reaction that occurs only when two specific quantities of two differing chemicals are present at critical levels. The burification leads to the production of a new chemical compound.

We have experiences, they have little effect on the particular moment, but they accumulate. Some specific experiences interact with other differing experiences. Accumulation to critical point. Necessary quantities are reached & a qualitative change occurs. In one experience we change. A moment that should be as insignificant as the one before it & the one to follow - is NOT! Critical point is reached. We change. In one moment we fall in love. You and me burify into us. Me and the words on the page suddenly burify into knowledge within - 'wow! it finally makes sense!' Quantity becomes quantity, its almost dialectical baby, oh how karl marx would be proud.

Our mind fills with aggregates & burifications & aggregates of burifications!

I transform. Thesis, Anti-thesis, Synthesis. I move beyond, as do you. The future - our only promise, the great unknown! Man-Wolf-Machine. Always was a little coy, always was a little boy. I grow from standing on two legs to stand on four. My fur machine & my animalistic howl. I live in the night still. I sniff out the trouble. I eat meat, i devour. I've found my furry, or atleast one to begin with. This ink on my arm has sunk in deep. Its inceptor android overides my main frame. Enter Wolf-Puppet-Machine.

Puppet is a wolf, transformed not born. I seek out my pack. Run with be my baby, my friend, my brother. I would like to be with you. But let it be known - i have no fear of running about alone. Would you like to play? Some sharp eyed, mishchievious faun. Some koi boy, running down his arm. Some quirk star fly boy with yer paws all dirty from the club. I seek out my pack because i want them... to want you is a stronger thing than to need you. Equals. We speak, we fuck, we love. Kinship is ours to create. Fuck the idea of a kinship to conform to.

We're Interactionauts, baby. Travelling through the solar machinery. Desiring. Unbeknowestly transforming our chances into our destiny. The naieve actions of a puppet who trully is a real boy. In a moment i'll feel it...

what a feeling

i know i dont write poetry on this blog. but just once indulge me:

dicipline...

i lack it. so completely.

that will change - as it already is.

i've decided to take dancing seriously.

going to the gym was part of it.

yoga & dance classes to come in the following weeks.

it is a commitment to art

to expression!

dancing always made me happy...

... even when i was sad

nothing may come of this

other than a smile

the truth

in a past post i quoted the lyrics to cloudbusting. A song by Kate Bush. THe lyrics are quite beautiful but a little unusual to decipher. It seems to be about a son singing to his father who has left - possibly because he was conscripted into the war, or maybe a anarchist & trying to overthrow the state. Here is wikipedia's take on it:

"There was yet another song with a clear literary source: the hit single "Cloudbusting" was based on A Book Of Dreams by Peter Reich, son of the radical Freudian psychoanalyst and "orgone energy" researcher Wilhelm Reich, who built a "cloudbuster" machine in an attempt to control weather."

mmmm... who's to say?

soo gay

A tap in the bathroom is dripping. We feel guilty. Neither me nor justin or gary know how to change the washer. It seems like a simple thing. There are a ton of tools under the kitchen sink. Alas, just cant seem to figure it out. I ask gary about it. We decide to ask richard for assistance. He looks butch, we figure he'll know - right?

the tap is still dripping.

cold weather

beannies & mittens. They are here. There. Everywhere. I've looked down to find them clasping my hands. They cradle my head as it tilts forward to take the cold breaze from my face. They console me, some little comfort against the cold. Small condolances, & remedial relief for some deceased season.

Lets not forget all the other reminders of the end of summer. Those little things that jear at our misfortune rather than protect against it. There are scarves - the hang mans noose. Layers upon layers of clothes perform a stylish mumification. Heaters? i'd perfer the furnace. We see our last breath evade our mouth in the morning air. Quickly beathe it in again before its too late. It is not Winter. It is the end of summer. Local swimming pools are mausoleums for the summer. And let us not forget the midnight dashes to the bathroom. Sheer murder.

Umbrellas are the worst. They are a totem for the coldness. Even during the summer - like the cough of a sick man, the sound punctures life. With our hands streched up we must accept the frailness of life - the need for sancutary. A hovel from the world. Either accept or be drenched to the bone. The fingers of the umberella Snap backwards. Jarring distortions. The metal bends. The fabric wears thin. Liquid trickles in through some unseen, never found, hole. It breaks. Dies. Blows back. just when you need it most.

Tears from heaven or maybe sickening laughter? We wear our black above our heads. With bands of dampness around our legs. Our hands are disfiugured. Semi-permanently raised is salute. Hail to the god of cold weather!

little confessions

I met La La at kooky. Was it easter? anzac? argh, it was a little while back.

So cute with his sleves all done up. It made me smile... so much. Bit his lip. His hand on my chest. we kept it up till the day break. Sent me a picture in the mail. I stuck it up at work. I dont know why. Maybe its a childish thing to do. Hes in melbourne. Im probably being silly. I'll probably see him again but it'll all be different. I can imagine his arms, me kissing him. His voice. Hes cute - i'll leave him up a little longer.

Hes my lullaby, even if nothing transpires more than this, its ok. I'll still sleep in peace.

elephants, fleas & wasps... oh my!

So after approximately 15hrs of photoshop training for work - this is what i've come up with... its kinda neat huh? mmm... or atleast a good start.

feet, flutter

I've done my stretches on my bed room floor. Pulling a tendon. Moving a joint. Pushing my body that little bit further. Im getting ready to go out dancing. Getting ready to have a blast.

It's been a while scince i've had a good dance. Sure, i've been to dance parties - but to really dance? No. This babe wants to dance, to flirt, to smile & to fly.

Yeah babe - so what if i am an angel? What's it worth if i dont spead my wings?

My heart is fluttering. I dont know if its the drugs or the anticipation. Its a pillowfight in my chest. Soft beats & floating feathers. A frollic of angelic proportions. I'd put my bet on the drugs doing this to me.

I know im going to like tonight. Many friends will be there. Gaurentteed goodness of music. It will be a stuble nostalgia. Old faces. familiar sounds. Yet soo different.

You're like my yo-yo

So im out in the pub & i bump into Sai. We're chatting & he mentions how he saw me dressed as a bunny at easter. He recited to me how his friends were a little put out by my costume - 'er, what?' kind of put out. He promptly told them he thought it was great. Thanks Sai.


The lyrics to cloudbusting. Please feel free to guess what they mean.

I still dream of Orgonon.
I wake up crying.
You're making rain,
And you're just in reach,
When you and sleep escape me.

You're like my yo-yo
That glowed in the dark.
What made it special
Made it dangerous,
So I bury it
And forget.

But every time it rains,
You're here in my head,
Like the sun coming out--
Ooh, I just know that something good is going to happen.
And I don't know when,
But just saying it could even make it happen.

On top of the world,
Looking over the edge,
You could see them coming.
You looked too small
In their big, black car,
To be a threat to the men in power.

I hid my yo-yo
In the garden.
I can't hide you
From the government.
Oh, God, Daddy--
I won't forget,

'Cause every time it rains,
You're here in my head,
Like the sun coming out--
Ooh, I just know that something good is going to happen.
And I don't know when,
But just saying it could even make it happen.

The sun's coming out.
Your son's coming out.

i just know something good is going to happen

So i was listenning to kate bush today. And for once i agree with emma - cloudbusting is better than running up that hill. But only just. ;) The song is how i feel at this moment - and i know something good is going to happen :)

pastel days & neon nights

i cant get this song out of my head - so i've decided to share it. Its a re-mix of Crockett's theme (words not in original version) of the neo.pop CD. dont know much more about it, but the words are true the the tune - very soap operaic. ;)

white linnen on your back,
black secrets on your mind,
a past you tried to hide,
& a life you left behind.

the pastel days & neon nights,
the guilty hearts & the alibi's,
the streets run red on ocean drive,
but can our love survive...

I've seen too many of the wrong men die,
for stealing their dreams & buyin' time.
In your eyes i saw the rising sun,
& still sold my self for a badge & a gun.

I've seen too many of the wrong men die,
for stealing their dreams & buyin' time.
I never thought i'd spend the nights alone,
now i walk the streets tryin to find my way back home.

white linnen on your back,
black secrets on your mind,
a past you tried to hide,
& a life you left behind.

the pastel days & neon nights,
the guilty hearts & the alibi's,
the streets run red on ocean drive,
but can our love survive...

Asuka Langley Sohryu

I woke up so full of anger - just for one day. Such a strange day.

I hated the world, I hated the people around me, I hated you, I hated me. I hated everything.

I couldn't stand the silly games people play, That i followed through with, that i on occassion initiated myself.

I hated the taste of retribution & power in my mouth - in my words. It felt no different to guilt or defeat. I hated those things too.

I resented being the show-pony, the little doll-puppet. Some cutsy boy, some sexy fuck. I didnt want to be an angel! I cant stand being your dirty little boy!

I held contempt towards those who told me my feelings werent true, that they had to be false. And i hated doubting my heart, the heart should never be in doubt.

Damn all those who betrayed me. Who srugged me of who took me for little more than a grain of salt.

I abhored all the evils of the world. The capitalist system. I resented the socialists for their faliures.

I felt exhausted by all this anger & resentment. But i persisted. I needed to feel this. For this moment atleast.

Spit in the face of those who love me. Bleed for those who envy me. Belittle those who need me. Silence to those who speak to me. Spite myself.

I hate the fact that i cry - i'm ment to be the strong one! The fearless puppet - always ready to jump into action. I hate having to help everyone. Always.

I hated everything.

Applaud death as the just punishment to life.

I hated it all so much.

I felt like Asuka in her hopeless attempts to fight the Angel of Birds. I can hear her screaming in my head, saying the same thing now she did then. Shroulded in the light of the angels, teeth clenched & body contorted. 'I'd rather die than admit defeat now!' I hated being so powerless to things around me, and yet I persist. I persist. Persist i must.

It all ended when Greg broke the tension. For the next few hours i unraveled in the bar with adrian, paul, sam, sai & frank. They draw me into conversation as if to draw out the venom. I didnt cry - though i thought i would. I didnt scream, too exhausted for such things. I just sat & talked. Dazed but alive. Between the different boys, rocking back & forth. Craddled by their conversations.

Such a strange day, i wont forget it for a while, i shouldnt, but nor should i repeat it.

we're not the same

It seems that my life is a palindrome at the moment. Everything is different, but everything is the same. Endless movements forward only push me backwards. At times the past seems the only way into the future. Each event that exists in the present brings about a sense of de javu. A feeling of familiarity toward the forigen. It is a palindrome - what is said in reverse paradoxically repeats what is said forwards.

Friends & aquaitances, past & future lovers, unprofound objects & sacred images all seem to repeat within me. They speak in a different tounge, but say the same thing. You become me. I become you. The well known become the forigen. The forigen becomes intimate. Any consistency of identity is lost and yet distinction persists. Forwards & Backwards lose their meanings. Forwards is backwards, backwards is forwards. Closseness becomes distance and distance becomes love.

Someone once said to me that we we're not the same. I smiled. 'I know' was the only reply i could give. Are any two people the same? Certianly not. Are any two people realy different? No, not really. We are all palindromes. A palindrome is the space where what is 'different' & what is 'the same' is both constructed & collapses. All people are palindromes to each other. It is only our beliefs that bring us 'closer to' or 'further from' each other.

Review: Ministry of Pain

I love Dubravka Ugresic. She is an author. A 'croatian' political exile. An unashamed Yugonostagic. Her writing really resonates with me. She acts as a window to the 'croatian' culture & history that i myself have become distanced from. She posseses a reflective nature, seeing well beyond the situaltion at hand. But perhaps most compelling is her willingness to believe in both the posibility of a better world & the tarnished nature of the subject.

The book is first & foremost about the experience of being a refugee. It is of the aftermath of war. Memory & Identity. It covers work she has previously written about in essays, but this she does so with fiction. Through the lectures held by Tanya to her slavic refugee students at a university in Amstedam. All have excaped the war in 'former yugoslavia'. Yet can even these lucky ones truly avoid the scars of the war?

The book starts off slow, emotionless. Shell shocked. Yet as as the plot advances so does emerge little bits of sadness. And then pain. And soon enough all the other elements of anger & absurdity that come with war emerge. Things transform. Pearl earings become the mirror to the soul. Shopping bags become time bombs. Comfort objects begin to cut. Memory is a lethal shrapnel for those who have escaped.

For Ugresic, who believes that 'language is just dialect with the backing of an army' it is important for her to be critical of notions of right & wrong. Of what is proper & improper. She is wary of creating her own army. Of erecting her own proper language, at the cost of dialectical [sic] play. She avoids the certianty that is to war. Her work, wirten in short chapters, with a story that turns in on itself, always reflecting, & without complete resolve, captures a land of dialects. A world of typos, mistakes & character flaws that make sense only in the moment.

A deep statement on memory, war, nation & identity. Perhaps not her best work & it can be dry, with little humor, but still full of insight & personal truth.

there are no pieces left to pick up

luke sent me a text message today. A back handed thanks. Rightly deserved i suppose - i mailed him back his copy of No Logo with some inked scrible left in the front cover. The web address to the pdf for a statutory declaration, to be exact. The conversation deteriorated into one of blame & hurt. I lamented on it for a bit. I had changed from being his 'rock' to being his 'bad friend'.

After the unfounded accusations & childish blog posts I'd had enough. 'Like talking to a brick wall' commented one friend 'he lives in his own little fantasy world half the time, the other half of the time hes pushing his fantasies onto everyone else'

I brushed the events aside. A hour later i found myself falling apart. I got into a bad mood. Something came over me & feelings surfaced... unexpected feelings about something else... something different.

I remembered an incident with Mrs A. An ex-house mate. It occured after she had moved out. The mothership had landed in Newtown cemetary to celebrate some event. I cant quite remember what it was... but i guess thats not important. What was important was what she said. I remember it quite clearly: 'we're not friends'. So simply said. Such a flat matter-of-fact voice. So unlike her usual poetic banter. Bam! Full Stop.

My face flushed red. i was embarassed infront of my friends. I was a fool smiling. I had apparently assumed too much. The trust that comes with sharing a home disappeared so quickly in a puff of smoke in her eyes. The small courtesies that are exchanged in share housing no longer applied. The little pieces of kindness that i offered & she accepted were erased, or atleast forgotten for the moment.

I imagine it was much like hitting a wall at high speed. An immediate stop. The force of your previous momentum crushes your body. The soft tissue colapses were hard metal & stone do not.

No appologies. No recognition. Friends offered condolances to my perished body & reminded me that walls are never to blame.

I let it go. I let it slide. I could find no pieces left to pick up. No cogs. No valves. No motor. None. There was nothing left to ride.

Once again i've hit the same wall. Once again there are no pieces left to pick up.

how do you find release from the past?

here is an extract from the ministry of pain:

"How do you find relase from the past? I kept wondering [...]

The past is our "instalation," amateur stuff but with artistic pretensions. With a touch-up here and a touch-up there, here a touch, there a touch, everywhere a touch touch-touch. (Retouching is our favourite artistic device.) Each of us is a curator in his own museum. [...]

Keep your life dust free. Make occasional changes. Get rid of a thing or two. Uncover A; cover up B. Remove all spots. Keep your mouth shut. Think of your tounge as a weapon. Think one thing and say another. Use ortound expressions to obfuscate your intentions. Hide what you believe. Believe what you hide."

-Dubravka Ugresic

Interesting, but do i agree? Is this the only release from the past? & to readers at home do you agree?

hey... slut

I've been having sex. Quite a bit of sex. Being the little wolf cub that i am i seem to be able to sniff out mischief where ever i go.

'gez, were ever we go you always seem to pick up' notes gary, with a little anoyance. My early departures have left him adrift on more than one occassion.

'a boy has needs' rationalises justin as he sips his coffee - a substitute for his breakfast. I splutter my own coffee '...well i must be a very needy person then'

'how goes the scandolously steamy & supurbly sensual sexcapades?' Questions steve with his well crafted words & witful demeanor.

'for the story' reads the comment scribbled on a card. It is followed by a phone number. the card arrived into my hand after a up close & personal dance with a leather boy. It may have well said 'lets have a fuck' given the way we were getting onto each other.

Peter aptly sumarises the situation with his usual 'yer slut'. the comment's are usually followed by fucking. I think 'sluts' turn him on.

I don't mind the sex. Not at all. But i'm begining to mind the label. The baggage that comes with being a overly friendly individual. Am i really a slut? Is it something to reject? Or should i embrace it?

Some inner christian sentiments lament. 'Bad girls finish last'. Such a silly thing to think... its the bad girls that get what the want... of course... how do i know that this is truly what i want?

on moving house, part 2

i am now well settled into my new place. things are unpacked. my life is in order. i've even had time to start bloging again. Yay!

three
Moving out is a haze. A Intense & jumbled moment. A blur. The image of speed itself. Out of focus & almost out of frame of reference. Perhaps thats why it lends itself to a pessimistic perspective - at such speeds one can't help but get motion sickness. In contrast to this moment is unpacking. Slow, elongated, nothing but endless contemplation. Too many boxes & not enough time. Too much thought. Made haste assemblages of furniture & ornaments.

The dismantled home must be put back together. We have been provided endless fragments to this puzzle but little clues as to how it should all fit together. Like a jigsaw we can separate different pieces that should go together, but beyond that point, placing the pieces on the board remains a elusive task. 'this one with the red pieces... and this one with the greens' the jig saw player mutters to himself. 'this box is kitchen stuff.., and these bedroom items' the unpacker mimics.

The difference is that unlike a person who sit at the jigsaw puzzle contently knowing that she will end up making that picture on the box, the unpacker does not know what the final image will look like. They may have a mental picture of where a particular piece fitted before, in the old place, but that does not help to identify where the piece should fit now.

This is the catch. I'm in a new place. A new house. Some how i need to assemble my things to make this a home. A place that feels warm - a place that is me. There are no instructions to follow. No neatly numbered images like you’d find inside an ikea box. And unlike with a jigsaw, i dont think a hammer will be able to help me. At least not in the same way it does to an unyielding jigsaw puzzle piece.

part four
Suggestions, endless suggestions. Combinations, endless combinations. 'perhaps not there, how about over here'. Things begin to come together not bit by bit. Not chunk by chunk, but rather through perpetual permutations & combinations. My room for instance can only be seen as a whole - an aggregate - an ensemble. The different components work with each other & against each other in order to figure themselves out.

'The bed in this corner means... the lamp in that corner which places my bookshelf on this wall and... no it just doesn’t work! Lets start with the bookshelf first'

Friends offer suggestions. Thank god for good friends :) They give little insights & quiz little biases. 'So what are you saving the space in front of the fire place for? You do know santa doesn’t exist... right?!' We laugh & start over again. I reflect. I move from an ill as ease to a joyful yay! For some reason this picture frame doesn’t look out of place any more & when i peak out from beneath my sheets & can see the faces of loved ones clearly. What a nice way to wake up. As things fit together existential unease depreciates.

Maybe i belong here now. Maybe this is a new chapter in my life. Perhaps as i put the pieces together in my room I also put together my thoughts about how i present myself.

I love to read - i love to sort the multiple books of politics & philosophy on myself. Foucault & other politico stuff up top. Older half read texts to the bottom. The mirror somewhere where i can watch myself dancing - oh how i love to dance. & of course i have a space to lay of the floor - to dissociate - & to glance off the at the world outside my window.

I assemble my room. I make a home with friends. Much loved friends. I make myself... once again.

your regular programming has been delayed...

hey kiddo's

sorry i havent blogged in a while - have been busy... doing nothing. Just a mental break - thinking is exhausting ;) a propper entry is following shortly. (as is a new zine, gasp... shock)

To friends & bears, dykes & lovers, quite web watchers & rascally beer drinkers, and all those other people who visit this site - either to watch, link, comment or challenge:

THaNKS for visiting the sock puppet manifesto. yay!!

currently reading NO LOGO by Naomi Klien - this is a fantastic book, i can see why it was called a manifesto for the anti-WTO protesters. Its long - but even a quick skim reading is fruitfull. I suggest you skip the introduction, it lacks the passion & delicate observation that makes the book so eintersting readable :)

hit the note

cute boys & beers are always an adventure. A mix of risk & desire. Their collisions dont always go as planned. All too often you run the risk of disaster. But sometimes you get lucky & you watch each other watching each other. Its a vision into the future.

Sometimes you summon your strenght & you start to talk. Different interests transpire but a common understanding summarises your not-so-different opinions. Agreement. It agrees. Feels good. Right.

And then it flashes - moments skip forward & backward. Reminders & dejavu. Dont i know you... or maybe you just remind me of someone i loved... Similar styles, a different voice, bits & pieces of several other half loves & other things added in anew.

Your a composer - you make music. Your the babe i allways talk about - 'hey babe, how r u?' - well atleast for tonight, & maybe tomorrow too. And so you sing me a song as i lie in your bed. I am naked. I am so naked. You've stripped me bare.

Oh, smile little puppet - its been a while but i think you remember this happiness. Its the one that comes from cute boys & beers & other finely composed pieces of romance.

on moving house 1

I originally considered calling this blog 'the existentialist guide to interior design'. Needles to say the name was to exhausting, too deeply philosophistic. So i opted for something more straight forward, but i wish to mention the alternate title to suggest a way of interperting what this blog is about. Its not so much about the experience of moving house, but rather the way that the experience of moving house places our selves into question. Moving house - making a new 'home' sets off a range of questions, implicit or explicit, about our existance & identity. So lets begin...

one
Boxes, milk crates & plastic bags. All these material things that i call mine, that i care about if they are lost or stolen, are placed into boxes. Enough for approximately two ute loads. Perhaps a third for the shelf, it may need to travel alone. It is ironic that these personal items, makers of my taste & style, do not travel well with my shelf. The place where they would otherwise sit within my home do not suit each other as well when moving house. Fine china and wooden shelving become parted lovers. They simply do not 'go'. Instead the delicate china is placed in milk crates. And the adored clothes from my wardrobe are placed into plastic bags. Well actually garbage bags. Those personal belongings become indistinguashable from trash. My life is relegated from the fine shelf framing my possesions to the common and unmentionable housing of a milk crates.

China is wraped in yesterdays news. 'Surely its at least worth some up to date?'. No such luck. There is no wardrobe to provide the aura of presitge. They sit in those garbage bags, wraped in that dated paper. Now they too appear to be dated. Some lingering thought persists - that that childrens toy i've kept for so long on the matle piece may as well have been some blackened banana peel. Just a kind of visual gimick, like a peasant sitting on the kings throne. A joke. Perhaps all cultre is just garbage. This isnt so hard to accept. Anthropology has made a science out of such a belief. Treating the waste of ancient cultures as the society itself.

My life, till now, is summed up into a catalouge containing three catagories. Those things best moved in boxes, those things best moved in crates & those things best moved in garbage bags. There is no category for things moved in silken napsacks or finely crafted wooden boxes. It just doesnt fit.

two
I toss out a pair of shoes. They are sill wearable, but only just. 'better to throw them out now, they'll be dead in a month' I tell myself. 'It'll lighten the load for my move.' And so they are thrown out. Trashed. A pair of worn out shoes are thus deleted from my personal belongings, my personal world. Many other things will disapear in this way. Thrown out in order to lighten my load. Other items will be kept. For instance a pair of severly torn pants - long past their use by date. '...At least for a template if i ever decided to sew new ones.' This is a lie. I know the seams are too weak to unpick & the time it would take is not availible to me. Yet... i keep them. They are a sentimental thing.

We clean out things when we move. Keep the things of meaning, throw away those objects which have lost their connection to our 'self'. If something is not liked, if it is no longer 'me' then it is erased. We - maybe I should say 'I', but i feel it is not just me who does such things... anyways - we engage in a process of editing our own lives. This is done much in the same way that we edit photo albums. To paraphrase Dubravka Ugresic, much like a photo album we manage the material indexes of our memories in order to produce a sense of identity that is fitting to who we deem we should be. This does not by necessity match who we are. This process can be a swirl of many emotions but the end result of this process is a clam. The emotions are repressed. We observe a peace that comes with occupying the images of the desired. (After detracting what is undesirable). We are what we want to be. At least for a brief moment, before that image too becomes dated. And no person can ever stand to be dated. We are of the present. The editing proces must begin again.

I continue to throw things out. The pile of stuff i keep sits in one garbage bag in one corner. The stuff to throw sits in another garbage bag in the other corner. I smirk to myself "wouldn't it be funny if i got them mixed up..." My smirking ceases as i decide to move the garbage into the bin. Just in case.

interlude
i am still moving house, or rather unpacking, i have no internet. it will be a while before i post the rest, the less sour finale of this post. i do believe there is some affirming quality to moving... im sure...

this soft lullaby

Every so often i have a an odd moment of understanding. Fateful moments occur. Strange senses of de ja vu & intuitive knowlege.

I listened to the CD i attached to my dance pig zine. Most of the songs have some attached meaning. Reminders of people & places. 'Slave to the Rhythm' for those trashy imperial video jupe box beers. 'Kaltes Klares Wasser' for those house parties at Horden St & 'Ages' for contemplative comedowns as i sat alone in my room.

'Burnt like you' is about those reckless moments we prescribe for ourselves. The reckless things that i do, act that are both inevitable and remorseful. But as i listened to 'Burnt like you' today it wasnt so much about me anymore. The lyrics spoke of someone else. This quite lullaby of a song became so aptly descriptive of another. The sounds soothing the ear with a painful truth before a deep sleep. Before death of sorts.

I have to wonder - did some part of me know this all along? Was the song ever really about me, or was that just some well concealed denial of how things were...

...its a mystery to me, and perhaps it'll stay that way.

Goethe sits on my finger

It was a sureal moment & a special moment.

Drinking beers with my bunny boy. Little flames fly in my stomach - it seems the butterflies have caught alight. My mind lingers, i feel faint touches of fur & see twitching noses. We're close to each other as we sit. Your ears prick up at the sound of my little unfounded fears. And so you show me how much of a fool i am. You summon all your strenght & place goethe on the tip of my finger. I return the favour, in my own little way.

The flames are doused. The buterflies can live now. In peace. With all the other creatures in the forest.

I go to sleep that night, by myself. Before i dream I take some time to Smile in the dark about the things that matter most. Laugh away the things that matter the least. Its what goethe would want.