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.

observation #4: its make or break baby

its funny. Some relationships have recently come to a halt. Others have transpired in front of me. Arising from nothingness, completly unexpected on my part. Some 'ships i have clung to, others i have remembered how sore it is to loose them. Others i am happy to have some form of distance from.

nearness hurts, distance hurts... it seems connecting it a delema not limited to hedgehogs.

in hind sight, all loves take time. all 'ships define themselves. they manifest in their own way... its no use forcing it, just play it by touch.

heat wave

heat in summer. its never the nicest thing. seems to bring out the worst in people. take for instance riots on the beach. It seems everyone decided it wasnt hot enough just lying there. no. some people needed to get a bit phyiscal too...

race riots.

there seems to be several versions floating around. not surprising given how inaccurate & down right wrong the press can be. But there does seem to be some aggreed on - dare i say - 'facts'. two lebs injure a life guard. so some people decide to reclaim the beach. with violence, of course. And so some lebs decide to return the favour & protect their colour. with violence, of course. and so the police decide to stop the riots. with violence of course.

Any use of violence is only done to halt a percieved posibility of violence from the other group in question. Such a flimsy excuse. But then again a thin cover is all thats needed to legitimise actions when things get hot. And when issues of race & nation are rasied things get hot. Stickily hot.

too may fears & emotions mixed together. all sides are misrepresented by the press. it stalls any true understanding of the situation. (perhaps this is the greatest violence of all - if we cant ever really understand whats going on how do we solve the problem?) Latent issues are ignored and only the manifested expressions of those issues are dealt with.

the violence the police issue is most devistating & most hipocritical.

pseudo political spiels either complain about this as being the real face of 'racist australia' or as a hicup within a essentially multicultural society. pseudo politicans play name games, while socialists call a rally. a pesudo political action, no teeth to the bite. no content to the form.

Real thought, engagement of the differently afftected people of society remains ignored. Both perpertrators and victims go on being perpetrators & victims. Policicians hope to buy up the votes by giving the best subjective description to the bystanding majority of australia.

Scince the world trade centre's went blam, one thing is obvious - the religious strategy of tackling racism & opression has failed. As too has the political strategy, half arsed as it was to begin with.

Maybe before we think up anything else to do, before we fix the world, we should take some time out. Be a bit anti-political, be a bit anti-religious. Maybe go down to the beach and have a sit down in the sand. Look at the people dashing around. And, at some point say 'Hi, how are you?' to that stranger near by...

maybe learn something, understand something, then doing something...

letters

i couldnt quite believe it happened. such an unusual thing, and of all people, it happen to me! My mind quizzes over the situation, 'how had this come to be?'

I imagine the catalyst for such a senario could only be a moment of sheer boredom. Someone sitting in there lounge room, daily chores half done, looking for relief in some internet key bashing. Google this, read that. And then at some point a thought would have traversed their mind...

Maybe they glanced at a picture on the wall - a photograph from a summer holiday. Oversized sunglasses and smuges of fluro pink zinc cream. young smiling children whom you half remember, and of course your own face. now aged scince then. A day at the beach, maybe? a typical polariod moment. Maybe such a picture was the reason to thread together several letters on the keyboard into a proper name... d... a... v... all the way through to the letter r.

A name googled. results come up & by sheer coincidence my name appears with a email address attached. A perfect opportunity to send a letter over the ether. Or atleast this is how i suspect the event originated...

I recived an email. from my cousin in canada. she shares my last name. she reminded me of trips to the beach. to the zoo. to the park. even to wollongong. typical things done during a holiday. she's asked me how things are with the family. She writes:

so anyways -- how old are you now? you are working too?
how are your brothers and sister? My mom told me that adam is now 19.... I feel so old. I have thought of you guys many times. In fact I still have alittle note that you wrote me when I returned to canada from my trip.

so I am good - alittle stressed over the whole christmas thing but this shall pass. I have recently gone back to school. I took about 10 years off to raise my kids and I think its time I got back to work. One of my boys is actually named david too! he is seven. daniella is 10 and anthony is 5. and I am old


i am stumped. i don not know what to write in reply. so much has happened. not all so good... memories, sweet memories. remember the good ones eh?! tears stall in my eyes. i fail in my ability to turn letters into words. if only you could offer a silent smile over the ether, and not have to settle for letters.

this dance is for me

last week i had made a decision. It was high time that i went out on the scene... alone.

without the prearranged meetings, without taking along a safety net of friends. i felt it was something i needed to do, given the current pressures that i've had with friends. Given the current change in my life. the only safetly net that i took was a pill and a plan to end up at Dirty Donkey.

During the solo treak... this journey of self discovery... i found that i was never quite alone. My path so quickly flowed into the path of others. I met up with steve at palms. Was good to see him doing well. I could have stayed longer, listening to the handbag trash - but going it alone means going it alone. While jumping between the oxford & manicle i met several of the boys. danny, rob, guy, luke & ben happened to stumble into my path.

Walked into rouges not knowing what to expect. Dirty donkey had got good billing in the past, but rainy days tend to keep crazy clubers away. but rest assured, the dirty cubz were there. those crazy older clubers who rove manicle, arq & kooky lookin for a bit of fun. I knew that i'd be in good hands tonight ;)

danced, clubed raved, little rach & khan graced my presence & ms ali arrived all glamour & glitz promising to stay out the night now that she had taken a pill. My own pill sent me all lovey dovey. Text messages, random pashes & flash dancing. Playful boys & e talks. Bumps of k, flirtations & contemplations of life, Love & friends.

after a snit at phoenix ali, rach, khan and i went back to my place to chill & we all ended up in the cemetary drinking long necks & eating takeaway from clems. such a sweet thing to do with people whom i've known but not really hung out with so closely.

the day ended. i slept, i felt warm. wasnt sure if it was the pill, or if it was real happiness. maybe both... most likely.

workin 9 to 5

so last week was all sex & work. not much time left for puppet or friends - is this what work life is like? mmmm... need to get a routine together.

anyone for tea

i recently obtained a set of japanese tea cups. very cute. very ornate. very symptomatic.

my old life that ive known for all its ups & downs, the recklessness & the love seems to be passing, or atleast changing. altering in quality & quantity. not that it was bad. It taught me lots & still has much to give, but alas, things change.

Transition. Between jobs, places, friends, homes, boys.

I'm beginning to be a bit more, say, tender? brave? stable? - more like relaxed. I still want the clubing, & the occassional recklessness but i need some other things too, things that have thus far has only appeared in apparitions. I am unsure of what i see, there is no manifestation for me to reach out. to grab. all is mystery.

This sighting has left its mark on me. It influences from underneath. Alters my action, differs who i am. ever so slightly. small changes. little desires. glimpses &
the occasional materialisation of objects that remind me of what is to be. They fill me with the kind of warmth you get from drinking a glass of green tea.

is this what they call the mid 20's

two four. 24. i'm older now... though still young at heart :) this was my birthday weekend. 48 hours of drugs, sex, boys, friends, emotions, and friendship, all washed down with several sweetly tasting glasses of sangrier. In the past, a party at my place has meant viciously trashy behaviour - unexpected guests, unwanted messes, and unforseen crashes. Luckily, at this party the trashyness was kept to a more subdued level.

With soft lighting, music from both justin's & my play list, a movie playing in the background and an adequite level of sangrier the party kept a stable level of enthusiasm. No peaks, no slumps, just a fairly chilled hum. People happily roved up and down the long hall separating the lounge from the kitchen, plastic cups in hand, stopping mid way to chat as they bumped into friends. Forgetting where they were ment to be. Rediscovering their destination only after several further displacements and several drinks later.

One thing that was striking about the party was the level of sexual energy and tension that hung in the air. the tension came from the high proportion of ex's present - emma jorja, will, puppet, luke, justin. Sexual enegry i think was the result of the large number of gay boi's present. There was alot of 'W likes X, X likes Y, Y likes Z etc' going on. The outcome of this energy was a a mixture of flirtation, drinking, crying, kisses, D&M's, and other bizare confessions which were possibly more of the moment than of the heart.

the rest of the party on the sunday was at kens & kooky. needless to say, i got my birthday fuck. then went out and got really fucked up. Ran into the older scene boys went down with them to arq & danced well into the morning light.

thankyou to those who came & for the thoughful presents. special thanks to justin for sorting out the music, the kids at kens for getting me extra passes.

serious? fun!? KooKy 10

Its been ten years scince Club KooKy openned. KooKy has changed alot scince the five or so years ago i went there. Different, that is, but still very much the same. Gemma & Seymour seem to have become more serious about their fun. Its as if they are two kids who've moved from a childrens chemestry set to one for adults.

I wish i had some of the past CD's to really touch on the history of their music in this review of KooKy 10. But i cant. So i wont. I'll just give you the low down.

Gemma and Seymour have been hard at work. Its a strong CD, with very little filler. Was a little surprised that they didn't actually mix the songs in together, as would happen on a typical Ministry of Sound CD. Instead it plays like a 'best of' album. The album clues into Seymours liking of deep male vocals (morning city stirs) and gemmas punkish interests (suck it). As well as the usual assortment of electronica (wet n wild), nostalgia (dreams), and darker (dimension) tunes.

club kooky 10 does have a few faults. the rock dont always sit well with the electro. it could also do with some of the more lighter beats. but what can you do? guess i'll just have to hope one of them reads this b4 the next club kooky album is relased...

TRACK LISTING

01 WET N WILD - kim
02 MORNING CITY STIRS - dsico: that no-talent hack
03 SIREN - general electric feat. llama
04 BLACK ELIZABETH - ollo
05 KITTY IN THE MIDDLE (kitty said) - the presets
06 DIMENSION (dimensional kooky mix) - wolfmother
07 QUEEN ON CROWN - the somethings
08 DREAMS - kill peaches
09 TOURIST ATTRACTION - kiosk
10 FAT CAT - liz martin
11 SUCK IT - buggirl
12 ITS NOT ME ITS YOU - paul mac feat ngaiire (itchee and scratchee remix)
13 CRICKET BALL - ez & loretto
14 DUSKY - lake lustre
15 ASTON - suspect

the politics of dance

so at approx 5pm yesterday i wrote this response to someone who emailed me about my zine, 'dance pig'. I thought it would be good to post it here because a) i was impresed that i could write something like this, given how sleep deprived i was. b) it helps to explain some of the politics behind the zine, & c) lots of people who dont participate in dance culture have asked me similar questions -this may offer them the beginnings of an answer ... cheers

hey there,

thanks for taking the time out to read my zine. Im gald you liked it :)

The dance scene is what i kinda grew up on. (or more like the queer alternative dance scene). Mmm, Pretty much everything in it has happened to me or someone else at one time of another, give or tke a few name changes, and alterations. So its kinda more personal than political - not that i really want to separate them (when isn't the personal political?) rather i just want to suggest that i didnt really want to make a definitive political statement.

I wanted to keep the politics implicit. The politics only become explicit through the act of interperetation by the reader. And as Freud noticed from any one text there are many times more interperetations that can be made. Any text is always a highly condensed work of other social, political and psychic texts. This is as true for lived experience as it is the writen word. Any experience is always a highly condensed product of social, political and psychic processes.

It was really good to hear about your take on the scene. I've had talks with friends about this before, and agree that people can partake in the scene as a bit an escapist venture, but this is a highly problematic concept. What i mean to say is who has the right (or ability) to draw the line in the sand so mark where fun ends and escapism begins?, If capitalism is so bad that people need to escape on occasion, is this nessasarily a bad thing? Is escapism really a threat to political action, or can they both exist simoultaneously?

I always find it interesting that escapism is always used in reference to pleasurable activity. Isn't pleasure allowed without some negative connotation or is there a serious need to apply a work ethic to time off the clock. I personally always thought that the true escapists were political individuals who undertake political action that does nothing - such as labor hacks, members of the DSP and people who donate money to charity. They know the system dosent work but they escape from any real form of comitment to social change, yet aleviate any guilt from their own concious by participating in half-arsed campaigns.

Clubing - dancing, meeting people, socialising, substance usage & altered states, a darkened room and loud music. people may find this a nice place to escape, but it is not the only thing they do there. People in these spaces tend to create. They create friends, new perspectives on life, new values that differ from the mainstream. Its a social space in which people can talk politics, they can be confronted with issues of race & sexuality. People can be incited to think - and unlike thinking at work - its on their terms.

What is produced is a sociality that is unlike the nuclear family, the taylorist work place, or the buracratic apparatus that Kafka detested. It is a place with the posibility of open connections. It is a sociality - a way of life - that offers people de-individualisation. I personally follow Fredrick Jamerson in believing that new socialities are a pre-requisite for any political struggle and vice versa. Social spaces - social interaction - shape the culture, politics and actions of the political struggle, and sometimes for the struggle the values and sociality of dance culture are more desirable than the values and sociality of work culture

mmm... i'm talking too much, i hope that made sense, thanks for reading

working 9 to 5

so today i completed my final exam - was up at 4am studying, sat the exam at 8:30am and left campus at 11am. As i walked off campus i felt a little sad that this would be pretty much the last time i saw the campus. *sniff* the place made me allot of who i am. Its also attached to some bad memories... alas, fairwell :(

on the brighter side of things, i got the job at youth association accomodation. YAY! i start in two weeks. so i have a bit of chill time till then. Pro's it'll give me some good experience, its in redfern, it'll be interesting, cons the pay is quite average. Either way it'll be good for the change. Hopefully it'll go ok :)

once again YAY! - it seems that today is one of those thresholds between the old and the new. the past & the future - lets see how i go...

puppet is turning 24!

Its puppet's birthday coming up in just under 2 weeks!

on the Sunday 20th will be partying at Klub Kooky from 11pm onwards! (its at 77 williams st, near the corner of riley)

there are other b.day on goings but you'll have to get in contact with me to find those out.(try dancepuppet@gmail.com)

no more classes

i droped my research report in today! 2 days early. No more classes yay!

And give or take a little bit of study for my final exam i can start to get back on track and be sociable, write not so boring blogs. That is till i get a job, then its all grey suits and droopy faces :-(

UPCOMING: halloween kooky this sunday, dress up & dance up!! performers & tunes 4 the freaktastic!

work it out

mmm... that last post was a bit angsty in a teenage way. Remind me never to post song lyrics again.

Anyways, last week i lived up to my comitment not to drink for 5 consecutive days. I suceeded. Yes thats right the one and only puppet 'is it beer o'clock?' choose not to drink, and whats more kinda enjoyed it. Am a bit proud. I think it was high time that i pushed the reset button on my drinking habits.

My reserch project is done, yay! all thats left is a proper print up. Thanks to luke & nat for their help.

You may have noticed a link in the post, its a first 4 me. I'm teaching myself HTML. Its kinda fun, but also kinda make me feel like 'well now that i can do it so... that's it... i guess...'

study days can be meloncholy too

There’s no point in being careful
I’ll burn bridges anyway

There’s no point in talking vicious
(I’ve) nothing cutting left to say

I’ve achieved my own survival
I’ve refined my own sweet hell

There’s no point in craving beauty
When you’ll tear me anyhow

If I look you in the eye
I swear I’ll die
‘Cos you kill everything you love

Should I scar my face
To find my peace
While you kill everything you love

-Skin you kill everything you love

cute paper and a bow

my sneakers came today, wrapped up in cute paper and a bow. Strangers can be so kind...

It made me think of presents, of the act of giving. Of another gift. A band placed on the wrist and left there, so precariously. It clung to me so dearly & yet just so... i dont know the word, it is somewhere between meloncholy, unworthyness, adoration & confussion. It is difficult to say anything, at all really. Instead a silent game is of interperetation and wonder is played as my fist clenches and releases. The leather tightens and eases on my naked skin. Grip & release...

I also am reminded of being given a letter written on an old type writer. Some mispelt words were erased with other lettera typed over them. Such a cute thing. Like the band it was another goodbye of sorts. I know exactly where it is, in my room, in between the pages of a certian book. I choose to leave those pages firmly pressed closed. other memories typed over this one, it is an effort to remember, to erase the former without damaging the latter...

...as i was saying, strangers can be so kind to give a sense of naievity to the act of giving & recieving. As if what was given and what was recieved is the same thing.

livin' just enough for the city

word count is now down to 5000. most of the formatting is done. referecnes are checked. All thats left for my reseach project is fixing up on one or two mistakes, doing the proof read, grammar, spelling etc & then printing it!! It will be done a week in advance! I'll be glad to have it done and over with. Its an experience to be at uni, but i'm sure there are other experiences out there that i'd like to partake in...

To walk to school, she's got to get up early
Her clothes are old, but never are they dirty
Living just enough, just enough for the city
Living for the city - bonnie tyler
(from puppets homo studyin' music)

dancing with my eyes closed

something inside of me tells me to close my eyes. something told me to just enjoy the moment. roll with the beats. didnt notice whats going on around me. ignored the signs. lived in a dream that 'of course it's all ok...' but then, as always, i bumped into someone. My shoulder connected with their rib cage. coughs... chokes... cry... my arm hurts, but i imagine the pain to be worse for the chest. its such a foolish thing to dance with my eyes closed, to dance in dreams. where what you think your doing and what you are doing are two completely different things.

random things

I am born in the year of the roster, metal is the sub-element.

I smirked as i read Sartre's comments on terror. It goes... 'Marxist formalism is a project of elimination. The method is identical with Terror in its inflexible refusal to differentiate; its goal is total assimilation at the least possible effort.'

Today I bought my first pair of sneakers on ebay. they are navy with orange stripes.

A song comes onto itunes, a reminder of being in the imperial in that beer filled youth of mine. Bizzare love triangle played in the background then too... 'every time i see you falling, i get down on my knees and pray'

My little solider boy is back. I knew he would be.

Dubravka Ugresic has writen a new book! The ministry of pain. The review says 'It is an angry narrative, and a dystopic one, suggesting that it is inhumanity, and not goodwill, that binds us. Ugresic does not so much champion difference as detail its disintegration. (...) Despite the bleak prognosis, and occasional awkwardness of the narrative as fiction, this is a disturbing read that should have you in its thrall'

A boy in a club told me that my cosmological sign is White Electric Wind - is this the reason why there is a hurricane within me?

ordinary life

Study, study, study...

Its all this little puppet seems to be doin these days. Little bits of paper have crept onto the walls of my bedroom. Definitions, mind maps & lists form a wallpaper of reminders & commands. My note book is now filled with quotes from Merleu-ponty, Jung, & Giorgi, with a note or two on Husserl.

I've been hacking away at my interview transcripts puling out themes, generating models, throwin it away & putting together something totally new. It should all come together by the end of the week, yay.

Got a good omen too. it came in the mail. a mysterious check from the UNI. dont know why, some refund i assume. it will be spent on junk by the weeks end.

But in this life... I'll give it time...
Cause its always sneaking up from behind...
It'll be alright, it will be fine...
Its nothing more than ordinary life.
- Kristen Barry, Ordinary life
(from puppets homo studyin' music comp.)

misfits & rascals

Every week starts with corny island & ends with club kooky. These bookends keep many different stories together. Sometimes we have a romance, other times tragedy. Sometimes the story is dramatic, at other times comedic. A wide selection of volumes have found themselves between those bookends. It seems by chance i picked up a childrens story to read this time. A fairy tale. Warm, and friendly, with softly spoken romantic intentions. There were several heroes, but no vilians to this bedtime story.

Valiant deeds we performed. People stood up to challenges and faced their fears. So many little adventures. My soft touches reaching up his leg; having coffee with james dean; running an obsticle course of mass produced 'designer' decore; breakfast snacks at midnight; commmunal facinations with david bowies crotch. The book ended with the same warm tingly feeling that it began with. Comfort. I liked the heroes in this book - misfits & rascals who just wanted to be happy & see justice done. I havn't read a book like this in a while.

It wasn't like the other books either, it wasn't a story for the eyes. The words had been writen in braile. The finger darts across the page to find out the ending. Eyes closed to find an inner picture of the adventure. It was not a story to be seen. It is was a story to be felt.

unexplained bruises can be fun

In tropical climates they only have two seasons. the wet & the dry season. In the world of clubs & fun, i'd assume the weather follows a similar pattern. This passing weekend marks the end of the dry. With the Sleaze party there is a migration from our hobbles & into the wilderness. It is the first big storm for the coming torrential down pour of dance, love, clubs & drugs. It begins a monsoon of dance that will last untill mardi gras. And from the looks of it - this storm is set to leave us all drenched to the bone.

While most of the crew steered clear of Sleaze itself, there was more than enough fun on the outskirts to keep us enjoyed. Emma's birthday procedings went quite well. House parties & clubbing, dinners & pool parties, it was the first time in a while that i've sat down & really chilled out with the gang in the same room at the same time. Quiet chats & plenty of magic made the night pretty fantastic even with one or two hicups through the evening. Afterward we went ot bent bar followed by kooky. Bent bar was pretty much the usuall. Was nice to bump into Will, though a little arkward mainly cause we were both quite trashed.

Kooky was fantastic. The music went off, the boys were cute & the company was great. Spent a good deal of the time dancing with the older boys aka mark, bobbie & their cohorts. The guys created their own little dance floor between the tables & rocked to their own beat. It was nice to be around a different crowd, and of such loverly crowd at that too.

This morning i woke up after 6 hours of sleep. My first snit scince i woke on saturday. My legs were aching. I discovered bruises that i just cant explain & a lot less money than i began with. None the less, i cant wait to brave the weather again.

currently reading 'the psychopathology of everyday life' - Sigmund Freud