playing cards

your concept of an honest loving supportive relationship is somewhat different to mine. but you do win originality points for your reconciliation approach, perhaps not for taste. but then it's such a personal thing is it not?

thanks for disappearing once more last night to "look after your mates". i see their care was in excellent hands. the boys club lives on. i get the picture. all four of them.

poem for andrew

thank
you
for
wasting
my
time
i
won't
take
up
any
more
of
yours

special thanks

thanks for finally turning up to my film night. all those monday's you never bothered before, hindered by last minute excuses. i had stopped inviting you, having come to the slow realisation that i enjoy them more without your controlling presence & inevitable disappointment when you never showed. i was the eternal small child standing atop a stage peering out into a parent-free shadowed audience. you were never there.


and then you came, arriving three hours late. yeah , i still remember what it was like having a job. i stood at the back in my usual place clutching worthless drink vouchers. i gave them away but the bar had already run dry. still not drinking as flu racked my body. the alcohol supply's early demise was not because of me.


my film had not played yet. not that it mattered. it was only a silly ditty poorly crafted on the fly built on an inside joke. we made it for fun on the breath of the wind, a spare five minutes & a pile of confectionery wrappers.


after it played & the evening wrapped, i said my goodbyes while the troops went on as tradition deems, to drink next door. i quietly slipped away; my sanitorium calling from afar.


you stood outside smoking knowing how much i hate it & insisted on chasing the night further sans me [despite your declarations that i am your motivation]. you wanted to drink. your lover which you have always respected more. you'd had a hard week. as usual. 


afterwards when i admonished you for your social negligence, you said that you came because my friend, who is now yours, invited you, rather than me & my permission wasn't required. oh, and you wanted to see me despite my constantly reprimanded childish behavior. 


as the credits roll, i'd like to thank you for your continued support. i should've done it without you.


Sah Kah She Fah Rah from punk monk propaganda on vimeo.

your oversized boots

a priceless flower

rare delicate bloom

to be cherished, nurtured

struck from the wilderness

errant grown tumultuous

in unsuspecting soil

wavered in the idolizing wind

could not withstand

the incessant stomping

of your oversized boots

and fell

- crushed.

i awoke in the morning

uncharacteristically clear

cured of my obsession,

the love well 

miraculously emptied

overnight

- tortured petals

vanished into the ether.

a thinly veiled wall

of disinterest built

where the blossom had

languished instead.

sunrise in shades of grey

I couldn't

Sleep

So restless

Ran

As fast as I could

To the top of the hill.

Sydney Park

Still in darkness

Odd walkers about

With dogs impatient

Straining on leads

Like me.

I sat foetal

Hugging my knees

On the still

Monochrome grass

Panting red-faced

Desperately

Waiting for the first

Sunrise

Without you

But it would not come.

Cold city walls

Still shrouded by

Layers of Colin McCahon 

Grey
Greeted me
instead. 
Amusing no?
It was beautiful

but

I'd hoped

for 
Colour.

does the noose fit?

crimes of the heart are often subjective & confused by perception. before playing hangman i have learned that context is key, whether or not the actions of others fall within one moral code or another.

in order to abide by the obscure & often seemingly ironic principles that guide my life, it is not my right to play god & publicly condemn others. no matter how i feel at the time. we are all entitled to our own flaws & mistakes in order to build & learn from them.

the power of the pen is far mightier than the sword, and with great power comes incredible responsibility. i try to exercise mine well.

#FAIL

this magic moment

today was a day like no other. forever i will have lou reed's "this magic moment" fused with slightly askew classical radio, charlie's angels TV theme song combined with uncontained electricity, sleep deprivation, swine flu & you melting into a thriller-esque tribute embedded into my mind.

these were the sounds of friday morning june 26, 2009. angel of the 70s blowwave farrah fawcett, dead. the king of 80s pop, michael jackson, dead. sasha grey's fish, dead. for awhile there, king of the dinosaurs AKA jeff goldblum didn't look so crash-hot either but he was later resurrected from the interwebs hysteria which suddenly resulted in "add your own celebrity & stir = instant death formula". to my shame, i was temporarily suckered too.

but then it was time to eat, leaving my computer, twitter et al far far away [until the need to jack in on the run via mobile is all consuming]. after a morning of perusing costumers with clare to create the perfect cowgirl, i headed towards the quay in a cab which insisted in stopping for gas preceded by the rhetorical question of "you're not in a hurry are you?" um, yes actually i'm running late for lunch and potentially should be in ambulance being tested for mutating flu strains, hence the taxi over public transport... and still stopping & being charged for the pleasure. aah, sydney cabs...

the overseas passenger terminal is a whole world away however. it promises the mystery of yesteryear, the traditional berth and departure dock for many great ships coming in and out of sydney's harbour. today something akin to the flying dutchman [actually the james craig miraculously restored for 22 million] on cue arrives & the dead have risen again.

despite being mega-late, i'm early at the ocean room & immediately bury my michael jackson [the later years] red stained lips into a bloody mary for alleged restorative powers after a slightly embarassing entrance. if vodka gargling works for the russians, i plan to follow suit. today i plan to drink a lot -- i am in mourning after all. besides i need to paralyse my throat with alcohol so the glands will work & i can swallow.

i've flicked my hair in homage to farrah but it didn't work so well & requires more length so hat is firmly back in place. wearing one glove [i couldn't find the other in the jungle which is my semi-unpacked room] i moonwalk the last leg to the table with billy jean from the cab radio under my breath, promptly tripping over my dangling scarf. entry FAIL. thank god for the most fantastic invention of last century: sunglasses. the staff pretend not to notice.

i decide to stop thinking about dead people, stop planning my own timely funeral & focus on the menu even though i already know before looking what i'm going to have... there are two places in sydney to have superlative salt & pepper prawns and chef raita noda's interpretation is one of them [the other is the malaya]. the salt and five pepper king prawns are extremely addictive and moreish. mmm, the pepper, the salt, the prawns...

i struggle to finish my main today but it's only because my appetite is off & i'm tired. my arms are sore from my failed signature blowwave in a salute to the once pin-up woman who bravely video documented her later battle with cancer in the hope it might benefit others involved in a similar struggle. she had already shaved off her own signature locks by then. i feel for farrah that her death today has been completely overshadowed by michael jackson -- they were both incredible popular culture idols in their own right. as my friend tom said, today is the gen Y JFK question: where were you when michael jackson died?

i drink a couple of glasses of delicious seresin savignon blanc from marlborough, nz, even though i was too young to drink in the pinnacle of both the red swimsuited & one gloved years. i'm certainly not now. what's freaky about michael jackson is that he was fifty when he died. um, how did that happen? i drink more to try to forget.

sometime earlier before our mains arrived we ate california art being tempura battered spicy tuna & salmon california roll with citrus-soy. it's not where i'd normally go but i'm in preproduction for another experimental film and feel i should merge realities more than usual. it's good but i'm not in love [at least not with this dish but that says more about me than the food]. it reminds me of something else however which i have other photos for which i mentally bookmark as a potential blog because it's so awesome, pure and weird i have to share it. maybe tomorrow if i can find the pics before going geisha shopping in chinatown.

the peppered calamari pops however are so much fun i want to play knuckle bones with them and maybe create some kind of manga ad campaign with. they really do pop, are malleable and dry curry salted. frivolously delightful.

jump back forward to mains: my dearest friend, john, is eating the pan seared ocean trout as we share the japanese roasted pumpkin with seeds which is so incredible but suddenly i realise this night meets morning of emotional intensity fused with illness has really taken it out of me more than i gave credit for. it's a chore to take photos & i keep micro-sleeping at the table with a montage of eclectic meets iconic imagery slow-dancing in my scrambled head. john looks concerned and tells me i don't look so well... hot date FAIL. thankfully we're old friends.

what i'm even more concerned about as i consider inserting toothpicks in my eyes piling into the cab en route for a mid avo nana nap, is that i have not done nearly enough justice to the ocean room. hopefully its million dollar views & exquisitely salted signature japanese fusion dishes will speak for themselves.

i'll let the dead: these defining pop culture icons of their day, of this day, have the last word despite most high profile MJ youtube vids having embed request disabled now. RIP farrah fawcett. RIP michael jackson.

i don't care if it hurts...

i want to have control [back].

for AB.

i want a perfect soul... from punk monk propaganda on vimeo.

burlesque betty spares rib

dita von teese is the undisputed queen of burlesque but she is a late yet very worthy commercially accessible heir to the throne of a tradition which has its roots steeped in athenian history, courtesan/stuntwoman flavoured intrigue AND massive misconception swathed in lashings of luxurious colour, texture & bauble...

burlesque was commonly appropriated by blue collar workers in the european but more recently founding american tradition & turned into something bawdier than arguably originially intended. almost synonymous with striptease until the recent public re-education it is an artform under constant reinterpretation & reinvention. but still it's often reduced to: "when do ya get your gear off..."

unattainable objects of desire are so much more fun when slowly unwrapped or not even at all... playing hard to get is one of the oldest yet most pleasurable torturous games of all. *adopts mental note*

true burlesque is about the art of tease but in many ways it embraces less is more which doesn't necessarily equate to fewer layers or none. it's all about seductive mystery with a dash of vaudeville thrown in for good measure. burlesque is an art form. period. her executors are superbly talented performers which obviously like anything is modified by degrees.

sometimes a carefully revealed [and well turned] ankle is enough to induce the required hysteria & longing. those greek soldiers were mere putty in their scheming wives hands post peloponnesian war days. couple that coquettish ankle several hundred years later with sheer stockings, rigorous dance routines & bite-sized pieces of thigh flashing & the sublime decadence of moulin rouge is born.

fast track to mid 20th century to betty page & marilyn monroe who were modern female heroines who embraced the dichotomous tradition of exaggerated subtlety with measurable cult effect.

there are mathematical equations which formulate masculine desire to the proportions of womanhood & with the aid of a corset, the achieved hourglass figure becomes tangible. swooning becomes de rigeur [through lack of breath]. actually this is really a fallacy: a correctly fitted corset should do nothing of the sort.

this past weekend i strapped myself in courtesy of the excuse of my wonderful friend karina's burlesque birthday party & was almost diasppointingly able to achieve raptuous breath when presented with ample opportunity without so much as busting a rib. i have jo at sydney's house of fetish to thank for always looking after me so very well & being the professional corset lacer with inimitable but up close personal pizazz.

...and for the most part at that party [from recollection] we all retained our clothes. our dignity on the other hand is an entirely different topic.

[thanks to marianne whose photos i have slightly pilfered as my camera maintained a low profile for the night. the only in focus shot was at the hands of AB.]

taking a page from my fave book...

a kind of tribute to "fear & loathing in las vegas" meets "dude, where's my car":

"we were someplace around barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold. i remember saying something like 'i feel a bit lightheaded; maybe you should drive . . .' and suddenly there was a terrible roar all around us and the sky was full of what looked like huge bats, all swooping and screeching and diving around the car, which was going about a hundred miles an hour with the top down to las vegas. and a voice was screaming: 'holy jesus! what are these goddamn animals?'" -- fear & loathing in las vegas, hunter s thompson

for a formative part of my life this book propped by its counter-culture ilk was the closest to a bible i got. as a life metaphor & an incredible piece of literature & history i still love it to pieces.

unlike many people i did not adore the 1998 film probably because of my prior intimate relationship with the novel. i had lived the book many times over a generation late post publication without ever actually driving to vegas.

one day i'll most probably take that road trip but am terrified of anti-climax & my dr gonzo is now fried in an institution from somewhere back there when i lost him on one too many trips which left the "acid fanciers" blubbing like akira kurosawa crybabies in the early school district days. like hunter s observes, sometimes reality is already too twisted. i've already indulged in several lifetimes of & perhaps there's time for more. who knows? escapism is ultimately a less skewed mirror, but right now i don't feel a need to run & hide.

as a direct result from those hedonistic exploratory days, drug tolerance has been swallowed up by extensive enhanced sensory experiments & consequently my resting state is the equivalent of a pretty fucked-up individual. i don't need help to be any more interesting & have technically died, not once but twice since then, when just licking the envelope perchance to push, more's the pity. death and i have a flirtatious relationship. what i have retained however [apart from about three brain cells] is extremely accurate perception, strong sense of experimentation, bizarrely twisted innocence & an arcanely honed sense of intuition. and the colour girls sing...

cut to today.

i said "...plans are mutable which is fine but even hunter s thompson knew where he was going when he & his attorney loaded up the car trunk with their stash of mind altering goodies..."

you said "no, i think hunter s knew what ingredients were needed but not where they would take him. truly serendipitous..."

although i don't completely disagree with the above mentioned statement, in context with our argument it is inherently flawed.

hunter s said "the trunk of the car looked like a mobile police narcotics lab. we had two bags of grass, seventy-five pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high-powered blotter acid, a salt shaker half full of cocaine, and a whole galaxy of multi-colored uppers, downers, screamers, laughers . . . and also a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of budweiser, a pint of raw ether and two dozen amyls . . . not that we needed all that for the trip, but once you get locked into a serious drug collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can. the only thing that really worried me was the ether. there is nothing in the world more helpless and irresponsible and depraved than a man in the depths of an ether binge. and i knew we'd get into that rotten stuff pretty soon."

you said: "add mutual admiration, attraction, remove baggage, doubt and let its own course be."

and then[hunter s said]...

"there was every reason to believe i was heading for trouble, that i'd pushed my luck a bit far. i'd abused every rule vegas lived by -- burning the locals, abusing the tourists, terrifying the help. the only hope now, i felt, was the possibility that we'd gone to such excess, with our gig, that nobody in a position to bring the hammer down on us could possibly believe it . . . when you bring an act into this town, you want to bring it in heavy. don't waste any time with cheap shucks and misdemeanors. go straight for the jugular. get right into felonies. the mentality of las vegas is so grossly atavistic that a really massive crime often slips by unrecognized."

and then...

"it is a weird feeling to sit in a las vegas hotel at four in the morning—hunkered down with a notebook and a tape recorder in a $75-a-day suite and a fantastic room service bill, run up in forty-eight hours of total madness—knowing that just as soon as dawn comes up you are going to flee without paying a fucking penny . . . go stomping out through the lobby and call your red convertible down from the garage and stand there waiting for it with a suitcase full of marijuana and illegal weapons . . . trying to look casual, scanning the first morning edition of the las vegas sun."

and then....

"we were the menace -- not in disguise, but stone-obvious drug abusers, with a flagrantly cranked-up act that we intended to push all the way to the limit . . . not to prove any final, sociological point, and not even as a conscious mockery: it was mainly a matter of life-style, a sense of obligation and even duty. if the pigs were gathering in vegas for a top-level drug conference, we felt the drug culture should be represented. beyond that, i'd been out of my head for so long now, that a gig like this seemed perfectly logical. considering the circumstances, i felt totally meshed with my karma."

hunter s knew exactly where he wanted to go on every possible level that the concept encapsulates. maybe not when he originally sourced the ether before our story begins. however the moment he placed it in the trunk with his attorney, they knew they were going on a helluva ride. not all of it was road-mapped but that candy red convertible was always going to vegas, with him & his attorney in it.

no, the bats weren't sign-posted but the physical destination was, whether the car & its passengers ultimately made it or not. when the physical & psychological converge nobody is surprised except for perhaps the method of manifestation. where did the bats come from? ask bruce wayne. they weren't in the visible notes although there was space left for them to be written in [both in the pages & collective minds].

i refuse to play your chinese food mind games. fess up that you're a commitment phobe, want to wear marie antoinette's frock, have cake & eat it too, or other... day by day is fine if it's under two people's terms & not just a thinly-veiled one dimensional booty call connect. your rules suck. why can't we redefine & make up new ones together?

i don't want to hijack you for a vegas wedding, i just want to jump in the car. drive. together. neon-bound. let the course be. <-- we can agree to agree!

and then, and then, and then, AND THEN!

hunter s said "but our trip was different. it was a classic affirmation of everything right and true and decent in the national character. it was a gross, physical salute to the fantastic possibilities of life in this country--but only for those with true grit. and we were chock full of that."

if you're going to deconstruct my favorite book back at me then at least have the balls to give me 100% of the story. a mash-up is fine; our chronology is arguably reversed. life, with me in it, is pretty fuck-off cool. i'd like to share more pages. with you.

PS. sharing is a two way street. BYO candy red convertible. or we can graffiti the clio. but please, get in the car. on the sidewalk, the ghosts of our suitcases wave goodbye.

haiku: the owl & pussycat went to town

poles apart maybe

ere colluding cityscapes

the same boat we share