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.