beauti...

...is undoubtedly in the eye of the beholder, ultimately subjective & one of the hottest philosophical topics up for debate since before plato contradicted his teacher socrates by declaring that beauty was an integral property in all entities. relative beauty can only be determined thereby through comparison with others. this causes countless problems.

non materialists like the selp-appointed high priest of aesthetics oscar wilde & also kant concede it is so, whilst most philosophers including myself agree that beauty is truth is beauty. is you.

there's no need to desire anna karina's form or any others, yours is more than perfectly adequate to enable this theoretical construct manifest itself through the physical divide. no need for me to sing joe cocker's "you are so beautiful" or you'll blush an even deeper shade of pink whilst we both hastily reach for ear plugs.

your beauty on every level from the outside edge of your skin to the metaphysical intangible, deep within your alive complex mind is immeasurable yet immense. there is no need to be anyone but you.

let our eyes be your mirrors. to both your skin & your soul.

i wished i was a panda...

today i cried in the middle of one of my favourite sydney restaurants. for at least ten minutes my blurred eyes bled tears as they burnt very visible whiter shade of pale trails through my already off white foundation [not everyone in sydney is the proud owner of a bondi beach tan]. for another ten minutes i was incapable of speech [some people would argue that this is a good thing] as i managed to wildy gesticulate with flapping arms my urgent need for milk & cucumber.

call it post childhood traumatic separation anxiety [i'm just not that big on cookies] or the divinity of the malaya's master chef mustapar jaffar's signature dish: szechuan egglant... yes, i flirted with danger & ate the dried chillies. victoria 0: chillies: 1.

in fairness to the malaya i knew what i was getting myself into, you're not actually supposed to eat them per se. famously the stoic locals from the szechuan province in china can casually chew on these concentrated torpedos of edible flame like athenians would kalamata olives which meant in journalistic enquiry mode, i had to also...

like the local pandas of the region, i suddenly wondered whether the bamboo shoots were a more viable decision. those bears are onto something i think whilst guzzling almost a litre of milk making strange appreciative sucking noises on my second bowl of chopped cucumber. but then i dip back into that heaven meets hell plate for more...

i must assign this lesson to the concept of nature's systematic appointing of short term pain memory to women re: childbirth. if we remembered that clearly the horror involved it's possible we wouldn't go there again no matter how much fun the first step in the process might be.

last time i did this with the same dish several years ago i managed to weep at a table for a full half hour whilst the table played one of those group bravado things where we all outdid each other's chilli consumption. i lost that round too, whilst kleenex shares went through the roof just from what was going down at our table. any intestinal cobwebs have long since been laid to rest. but dear god, the eggpant is so good it just has to be done.

so does everything... i am addicted to the "must have" otak otak and often dream about it. if there was crack in that wonderful mash of minced fish fillet fused with chilli & spices before being wrapped in a banana leaf and barbecued i wouldn't be surprised. mystery spices eh?

on inital entrance after consuming the obligatory warm-up caipiroska in true athletic form, it is closely followed by an ice maiden, a deliciously subtle combination of pear vodka loaded with fresh lime & frangelica [i'm thirsty]. then it's time to face the menu which means mandatory starter of steamed scallops in the shell with fresh ginger, chilli, soy and shallots. there can be no other, or at least shouldn't be.

for the longest time whilst supply was short they were only available on the set menu but due to popular demand owners lance & givie wong have ensured this entree is now available for the unfenced grazers like myself. because i harassed staff for so long it is my moral responsibility to eat scallops as much as possible in order to fill the demand bubble. a tough job indeed.

after chasing everything down with a bottle of duval leroy fleur de champagne [we're celebrating rio tinto's just announced BHP billiton joint endeavor, watch those stocks rise] it's time to hit up the salt and pepper prawns. these chillies are much easier on the palette. this time consumption is painfree and so deliciously salt-good tantalising i want to lick my plate clean, but do not.

our enlightened waiter savio with the name of an italian saint & the body of a hong kong chinese expat steers us towards the new dessert which is black rice pudding.

if you're only going to have one dessert on the menu in an asian inspired restaurant the odds are coconut is going to have to make an appearance. so it does and in the best possible way. light, creamy with the resonance one expects from sticky rice this small glass houses a unique blend with an incredible mixture of fruit so finely chopped that the flavour maintains such vital intensity but is not lost amongst the others: bananas, lychees and berries dance together in a perfect waltz which heads straight to my hips but i don't mind.

today i am a panda with such short term memory loss that those hips could well be child-bearing for all i care. i just can't wait to do it all over again.

spectoracular spectoracular!

the agony and the ecstasy of phil spector is how i chose to begin my sydney film festival journey this year & there couldn've been a more perfect metaphor for what became an opening night of masochistic pleasure & pain [no i didn't go see ken loach's looking for eric, but then unlike my friend gracie, i don't particularly like football, or upstanding british comedic cinema no matter how allegedly gritty it is].

no, the rollercoaster ride was all self-induced, fuelled by the fabulous imagery of phil spector's hair [sometimes in pieces], aeon traversing pop culture anthems [to know, know know him, is to love, love, love him] and dapper suits, the turmoil of genius, catherine breillat's seductive shepherdlike but somewhat schlocky reimagining of a fairytale [la barbe bleue/bluebeard] and all that complimentary champagne at the after party, dancing to prince with kate whilst dermot planned murder in the cloakroom, oh and boys. so call me venus in furs, sit back and listen.

the evening cinematic highlight for me was undeniably hijacked by the spectre which is the phenomena of phil spector.

vikram jayanti's portrayal was simplistic but an outstanding piece of filmwork utilising the soundtracks [all produced by spector] that multiple generations have grown up & lived to. if you can go in to a film with a polarized perspective & come out with another or a massive question mark dangling, that is a powerful execution of the artform of documentary in my book. it doesn't matter what the question is. the answer according to spector is him [and i'm inclined to agree].

in a relaxed interview style a very self-aware spector pokes tongue-in-cheek fun at his peers [tony bennet's cocaine addiction, woody allen's relationship with soon-yi, brian wilson's inability to ever crack the be my baby hit formula] and candidly illustrates the impact he single-handedly has made on popular culture referencing his resistant wave-through [at john lennon's encouragement] of the unauthorised use of be my baby in mean streets [martin scorcese's breakout feature] would have been kill-switched at the 13th hour & with that potentially a whole bunch of spotlit careers including scorsese and de niro.

this is the kind of russian roulette mentality which has haunted & uplifted spector to hedonistic heights and lows throughout his blissfully tortured life. his surgically enhanced cabbage patch baby face reveals toupé framed eyes which proclaim arcane knowledge of the double-edged sword of methodic madness akin to the genius of da vinci, michaelangelo and galileo. these are his alluded to peers. he dared to be different and succeeded, wearing his school graduation motto like a nazi-enforced star of david armband, with tremendous pride.

this brilliance is what pushes edges and boundaries, which traverse the fine line between madness and sanity, death and life, a self alchemized gun in the hand... or mouth.

there can be no balance, for it represents mediocrity and with that there would be no songs: no let it be, no imagine, no rockin roll high school, no you've lost that lovin feeling, no da doo ron ron, no he's a rebel, no be my baby, no then he kissed me, no to know him is to love him, no rose of spanish harlem, and maybe the last forty years woud have been completely different. lennon attributes him as being the man who kept rock n roll alive while elvis was at war. spector unashamedly thinks so. pain, turmoil and jagged edges are a vital constant with the artistic condition of genius: yes phil spector is guilty. i wouldn't want him to be innocent.

and then...

my punk monkish peers who i also think of as running amok genii led me onto the back of a bus in their infinite adventurous wisdom and we hightailed it to dendy opera quays to meet more friends and soak up the tapestried french femme telling of a fable which allegedly demonstrates the fallen eve condition. of women and apples falling from paradise, of others with doors and dead bloodied wives...la barbe bleue. i'm obsessed with fairy tales & have been since childhood but then the early days of university political science where i picked up a few feminist studies papers and deconstructed like a woman possessed... andrea dworkin was my book bed buddy for a time.

there was too much set up involved with this french provacateur led production. whenever i'm that excited about a film it's destined for a fall. oh and how it fell for me despite the divine production design in parts which was horribly flattened by the decision to shoot digitally which just could not always do justice to the costuming and sets, excellent casting and the skilful painting of the sexual power relations are bodice-ripping material on and off screen in their implied erotic suspense. delicious...

BUT i resent being treated like a sheep and continually forced between intercut narrative commentary which initally served as an excellent device illustrating the dichotomous attraction and repulsion of a young girl to bluebeard but by the end i lost interest as i did with the overall narrative. yes, the girls are charming, but their overuse becomes increasingly annoying despite the fact we are invited to see the folk tale through their eyes. must we keep going back there? with a shotgun against our heads?

i do like the depiction of the girlish carnal sexual knowledge & the manifestation of greed and betterment of the younger sister's acute awareness of the sibling rivalry "i have to show my sister anne this dress, it was made just for me". she's a proverbial ladder-climber with her eyes firmly focussed on the ivory tower from the outset of the story.

the role reversion, oedipal manipulation and overtly subtle seduction of the gluttenous baron where the metaphor is poignantly illustrated that both girl and man are guilty of the same seventh sin. who is the monster?

the gorging feast scenes are sublime but feel stylistically forced. yes, there is ironic emptiness whilst surrounded by food but it feels unnecessarily two dimensional. whilst understanding where breillat was going with this, the overlayed edits & reused tower shots [of which spector would never approve] were alienating not so much because of the artistic decision but because it didn't go far enough and wishwashed between realism & fantasy to excess.

in a nod to renaissance art, breillat ends the film metaphorizing her reversed approach through the decapitated head of this grisly overlord of whom history tells us was a 15th century french serial killer on a plate at the hands of the cunning & resourceful virgin bride.

she escapes the same end as her predecessors but the cautionary tale fails in the sense of it's fable form in that her mapped qualities she shares with her deceased husband go unnoticed and unpunished. curiosity in this case did not kill the cat. nor should it, but her greed and gluttony wouldn't escape david fincher's john doe so easily.

and it's just as well the antagonist of se7en wasn't at the sydney film festival after party because with complimentary champagne flowing for the night um, i guess we all could have justifiably ended up with our heads in that gentileschi-esque painting. not least the eighty year old woman who pointedly told dermot that she'd "worked a cloakroom for forty years young man" whilst providing some hot etiquette tips. that's always got to be a showstopper of a party comment. god only knows what mine were.

luckily kate and i were distracted by the funky tunes and took over the dance floor at the establishment and lured the suits out to play [all whilst ky was locked out, 'forced' to drink more trademark whiskey with two boys on a date]... after ambushing various celebrity types and ruining their photos.

special thanks and mentions with standing ovation to my friend josh for his seamless implementation of OVSS. many thanks to carmel as well; all your hard work and missed engagements were worth it. the film festival opening was a huge success. you should really take the day off. i have and am still too afraid to look at the sydney morning herald today [or my NOKIA SMS sent box].

and no, you really shouldn't try any of this at home. none of it.

the 56th sydney film festival is running jun 03 - jun 14. the program is immense and jumping with incredible films. life suddenly got even more full and techno-colorful.

haiku: fuji no kaze ya

富士の風や扇にのせて江戸土産

fuji no kaze ya

oogi ni nosete

edo miyage

the wind from mt. fuji

i brought it on my fan

a souvenir from edo

and another classic [possibly the most famous haiku ever]:

furu ike ya
kawazu tobikomu
mizu no oto

old pond...
a frog leaps in
water's sound.

- matsuo basho [master poet - acknowledged first great poet of haikai & haiku tradition + original punk monk] 1644-1694

these days it's hard to capture the same sanctity from fuji yama as such existed in basho's time & beyond until industrialisation seized nihon.

but even stolen glances from the speeding shinkansen between pylons & built up areas afford a sense of the sacred impression that it must have bestowed on the travelers to its far reaches since time incarnate.

in reverence to the haiku form, it seems important to pay humble homage to the original zen master <-- a source of tremendous inspiration. legend has it that basho inspired more disciples than any other poet whilst alive ever. he was a true living icon & posthumously his inheritance goes on.

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.]

acqua de vitae

acqua de vitae = the water of life. one memory that has stuck after all those years of latin classes [mr ferguson would be proud]... he is also the last person i'd like to share the food of the gods with in this superlative setting which is sydney's not so hidden but possibly undervalued gem [on the other side of the bridge].

in roman culture acqua de vitae often referred to classical fermented alchemic drinks such as whiskey which my beloved friend ky arguably does drink like water...

anyway the wine list at contemporary food darling aqua is fantastic as are the apertifs but on a day like this it's hard to go past the french champagne.

this is a place where artemis really needs her apollo as consort: not so close to zeus AKA jupiter in the clouds but close enough to touch the sky & the divine 1930s art deco sydney olympic pool overlooking sydney harbour below.

like an arbitrary mountain-top setting the view is spectacular alone but so much better when shared. besides noone wants to look like a perv without some buffering whilst staring down at the enviable physiques perfecting their breaststroke. the almost invisible 270 degree glass cocoon blurs barriers between here & there. still it's too late to jump, ive already started drinking. my mother would never approve.

although the restaurant environment has a restraint offered by the starched white linen tablecloths which i usually avoid, i've loved this place forever. the surrounding vista in a rich palette of blue hues provides so much visual stimulus that the neutral interior clean lines cleverly offset the scene. when my father came on an infrequent trip into the country this is where i led him & his wife out for lunch to showcase my adopted home town.

because i'm addicted to exhibiting dominance over bottom feeders i make an immediate menu beeline for the pan-fried yamba prawns only because the scallops which are virtually impossible to resist are wrapped in pancetta & although the chef is super accommodating it's no drama to "settle".

the salsa verde & persian feta with goat's cheese pastry which dress these shelled beasties are so good that by the time my crisp parcels of spinach, braised baby leeks and horseradish arrive i've been quaffing back on a good percentage of the bottle of veuve clicquot that um, my tummy is already feeling somewhat challenged. the only way to remedy this is to obviously order another bottle. it is my birthday after all... almost on cue, jupier & inc in the heavens paint a rainbow. everything is going according to plan.

by now i'm far too full in conspicuous consumption mode to even bother with the proffered fork of my lovely lunch date's roast fillet of blue eye trevalla but its firm yet silken flesh beckons me harder than uma thurman's virgin would john malkovich. this is a dangerous liasion of sorts, somewhere in this lunch i am in danger of reliving that infamous monty python wafer thin scene & heading up to olympus much earlier than originally deigned...

somehow i decline the next course [the tablecloths lead, i follow] & just order a fishbowl full of baileys chased by green tea instead of dessert but it comes anyway fully personalised, because the staff are charming as hell & actually go beyond the wooden robotic mould despite the fact i have well-loved artisan shoes which flap smiling faces when i walk uphill. we leave as friends after sharing dreams, south american travel stories & facebook addies to be pursued another day.

i immediately explode on exit & die happy [ridentem dicere verum quid vetat]? thanks horace.

haiku: while i was sleeping

while i was sleeping
four years passed changing love’s face
into your reflection

you spin me round

yeah i, i got to know your name

well and i, could trace your private number baby

all i know is that to me

you look like you're lots of fun

open up your lovin' arms i want some

well i...i set my sights on you [and no one else will do]

and i, i've got to have my way now, baby [and no one else will do]

and i, i've got to have my way now, baby

all i know is that to me

you look like you're havin' fun

open up your lovin' arms

watch out, here i come

you spin me right round, baby

right round like a record, baby

right round round round

you spin me right round, baby

right round like a record, baby

right round round round

old habits die hard

if i meditate on this lovely lightbulb & peeling paint long enough & allow it to create a strong enough story, i shall be absolved from the need to revisit blizzard's diablo III release page. this junkie gamer come filmmaker has other fish to fry. some obsessions die hard [and slow].

i successfully gave up cigarette smoking almost six years ago by going cold turkey. in the end though it wasn't the physical addiction which theatened to undo all my harnessed willpower & hard work, it was the all pervasive psychological associations. i no longer drink ristrettos. for a long time after quitting i embraced social death because going out was just not feasible. temptation was everywhere. a glass of wine in the hand meant a burning glow stick in the other...

it is said that smoking is a two-headed beast which offers physical & psychological addiction & overall is harder to give up than crack or heroin. in the end giving up smoking was easy, it was just a matter of training the mind in an orwellian reversion.

in order to cease smoking i had to learn to hate it to ensure i would never suck back on one of those cancer sticks which offered all the promise of a marlene dietrich fantasy. it started with the repugnance of being enslaved to tobacco companies & ended with a disdain for the habit & others who indulge. self-loathing transference. it helped that it fucks your health & smells bad but that couldn't be the primary reason: it's just not strong enough, or at least it wasn't at the time. smokers are often the worst anti-smokers. it's certainly true for me. i couldn't date anyone who smokes which provides an interesting conundrum when falling onto the love slippery slide.

i have a chequered history in gaming addiction. sometimes when i need to hide from the world & my hermit mode kicks in, i have been known to disappear into the video game abyss. i am not immune to the seductive charms, having commenced the relationship when i used to edit one particular internet magazine way back when it was still called the information super highway. this is before web 2.0 kids.

it all started with the launch of playstation & that enormous sony TV in my office and those first few old school pioneer games: wipeout, demolition derby, tekken etc that sony kindly dumped on my lap for review...

my pixelated vehicle of escapism choice for many years since however is diablo. i've been through all the previous versions/expansions/patches & had a 18-24 hour a day habit 7 days a week for almost 2 years. i was a respected hardcore ladder player in asia & US west. people knew my name, revered my characters, bought uber items from me. it was my metaverse: a concept our inner cyber punks are increasingly lured into. technically that makes me a loser in certain realities ie IRL. i don't generally do things by halves. my intense all consuming passion forbids it. dilution shits me.

depression and mania manifest themselves in strange ways & sometimes treatment goes outside of the square or right deep down into the very soul of the cyber-bits of it. these days my daughter gets nervous when my eyes shine and i talk about my sorceress, randomly discuss a necromancer spell or utter some inane phrase in multiple dialects [barbarian, necromancer, assassin, amazon, sorceress, druid]: " a gift for you", or even just "thank you". she knows... so i do what any addict does: i hide, i justify, i lie.

there should really be a new standard or comparable addiction scale which rates blizzard games at the top. because i know when i saw that world of warcraft booth & clare asked me if i'd ever have used one the answer was an absolute resounding yes. although my virtual walls are so impenetrable once jacked into the realm that nothing else exists. bodily functions are secondary to the need to fight PKs, slay monsters, collect treasure and gather points without allowing your precious hardcore character to die. who needs to eat, sleep or urinate when there's a uber 8 player tristrum run about to go down with the potential of exponential experience points and the opportunity for booty & respect?

i played on bnet asia realm [the servers are based in korea] the day that two seoul kids allegedly shot themselves when their hardcore characters died. i felt... empathy, before quickly logging back into a room to mule my items.

i don't think that smoking has ever elicited the same kind of obsession. its mortal danger fades in comparison to the craftmanship of undoing which is the brilliance of blizzard.net.

maybe i can kiss you after all [just this once].

windows into the soul

i've always preferred the city at night.

stone cold obtrusive facades come alive & let the outside in with softened edges. these bureaucratic corporate dollhouses inviting alice irrevocably to dance within glowing hitchcockian rear window boxes unconfined.

beer makes things better

cleaning/packing/moving strike starts here. no more until bruises fade & the smell of bleach dims when singed nostril hairs regrow... now it is time to drink!

thank you for being a friend

being on the-day-after" end of an epic almost week long birthday celebration in the midst of moving my life and work, all i can do is, with a smile plastered all over my face [still], say thank you to the beautiful people who enrich my life & make it so much better... thank you for being my friend. and for writing it on my bedroom wall.

these are a tiny sample of images from my birthday. not an accurate depiction at all but an hors d'oevre if you like.

from waking to champagne & cake in bed accompanied by raen's sweet dulcet tones in the early am, to sublime lunches upon lunches all over the city, a zine fair & kusama exhibition run through, relocating an entire warehouse working bee, an impromptu dinner out[featuring an amazing organic wheat-free lemon & almond cake handmade by adam], the perfect last supper in ending with incessant dancing once more into the sunlight all couched with lashings of champagne, the blood of christ & lounge island iced teas... like a never-ending ice-cream/story it just wouldn't stop.

i was too busy enjoying it all to take many pics so there aren't many of you. in fact most unusually i didn't touch my camera all day yesterday. sorry about that. as much as i love myself, this really is supposed to be about you.

you make me very proud, happy and humble. because of you, i have just had the best birthday & year ever. it has been by far both the most challenging & rewarding year of my life. my pledge is to be as good a friend as i can be back and to honour us.

you are [without getting all wedding invitation angsty]:

raen, stevie, clare, kate, marcus, monica, ky, john, baz, dermot, karina, gina, annette, alex almost to the power of infinity [parker, pappas, chamarro], sonja, mark, adam, mathieu, kathleen, matthieu, james [mcintyre, scott, crawford], kaitlyn, serena, eugene, davey, barry, andy, kirsten, caroline, evan, simon, scott, dan, ang, marianne, francois, steve, steven, jessica, heidi, shell, dean, jack, madeleine, jordan, sophie, lisa, dean, claire, troy, maddie, bella, catherine, rosie, anna, fee, dan, felix, michael, chris, glenn, kate, kaori, stefan, katherine, tracey, jen, carmel, josh, shannon, francesca, rachel, jacqueline, shailla, iOTA, richard, jan, krystyna, christine, kirsty, renee, amanda, jacqui, em, amalia, AB.

i can't believe there are so many people whom i love [which is possibly reciprocated] in this crazy little mixed-up world where we don't have enough time for ourselves let alone each other. i didn't even have to pay anyone. thank you for sharing the passion and freely giving your precious energy to be part of this journey. thank you for choosing me. i will continue trying to be the best version possible. to be worthy of your friendship.

each one of you have turns every day contributing to increasing the quality of my life & the pleasure of being on this planet. i am the luckiest girl in the world & indebted to you for helping me remain here & allowing the opportunity to soak you all up.

the consumed champagne et al was a massive toast to you. obviously a lot is required for this never-ending story of ours. no pain-killers need apply.

deli chic[k]

this young girl seems somewhat perturbed by the local deli's window dressing.

how sensually erotic it must feel to lie naked wrapped in soft powdery flour in the shop front window staring back into strangers' faces? i salute the model's stillness.

if only there was enough self-raising in the kitchen at this minute --> the temptation to replicate is overwhelming. flashbacks of jeunet's amélie prevail.

this also makes me think of KT & all those little chicks she gamely let me cover her unwrapped body with in adelaide earlier this year whilst her most adept lover shot & "our kate" delightfully squirmed...

it's important to enjoy your work, n'est-ce pas?

the divinyls for breakfast

i love myself

i want you to love me

when i'm feelin' down

i want you above me

i search myself

i want you to find me

i forget myself

i want you to remind me

inviting shadows

the shadows of a thousand stories...

the theory of luminous energy fields hold that traumatic events or painful moments of significant emotional energy directly imprint onto a location, building, or entity through space & time. these memories are allegedly stored in full colour & intensity.

tonight as i gaze around me celebrating this now stark space, cross legged in the dark alone on the wooden floor where i have lived/worked/evolved for the last three years -- the walls are not so empty at all.

our collective stories bounce & reflect back so vividly i photograph & still can claim them now... are you able to see us too?

it's been a lovely symbiosis. goodbye & thank you warehouse.

some things are best left unsaid

...or written on walls.

my secret garden

when the city gets too much, this is where i go to hide. a timeless lost world offering escape & renewal. a place to breathe & think. my very own wild secret garden where i can run amok with the pixies, kangaroos, spiders, snakes & wombats...

sometimes it's so very hard to come back.

i like spiders

undoubtedly one of the greatest & most intricate artists which grace our planet [and they eat nasty bugs too]. i have loved spiders since childhood & fail to understand the terror they induce in some others. there's nothing like an early morning walk in the bush to soak up the gorgeousness of the morning dew as it hangs off a just spun web.

this is where i should be today [but am not]. i can avoid the arduous red wine hungover drive by looking at my lovely mountain hideaway photos & almost feel the freshness of the eucalypt infused air just by inhaling the imagery. if only the truckload of furniture could get there by the same method...

forced haiku tree

forced haiku tree

perfect red assymmetry

fifteen minutes fame

ambiguous offerings

ambiguity is ubiquitous. freud defined neurosis as the inability to tolerate it. eighteenth century philosopher adam smith famously wrote that from the city of skepticism he had to pass through the valley of ambiguity.

i love the creative applications it affords the most banal aspects of existence. the lovely deviating scenic route it presents on a dull straight highway: a candied refuge for the mind.

projection & perception are often worlds apart. sometimes intentional, others no. duplicity & ambiguity sporadic half-siblings shrouded in the other's shadow. the stuff of age-old games. most ancient philosophy & poetry does not date. we still dance to the same recycled tune.

as an aside what do you think this company sells?

a slice of soy heaven

another friday, another lunch meeting, another restaurant.

this time one of my most regular haunts, toko, where i walk in & default cocktail is instantly whisked up behind the bar, a welcoming wave where i'm greeted by first name & usual table lies dormant waiting for my dear friend john & i to grace it with our candid conversations & feast on food japanese 'izakaya' style. bliss.

there's a hot bed of inflationary discussion topics which range from proprietry limited company shares, to the ongoing rio tinto debacle to middle aged opposite sex marketability, pioneering telecommunications in australia, failing local restaurant trade [another favourite around the corner sadly just shut down but i managed to track down the wonderful maitre'd over lunch -- see you next thursday marie!], plastic surgery politics & me waxing rhetoric about the wonderful invaluable punk monks... quite suddenly we're onto green tea.

sunny of name & disposition runs the surry hills arm of this divine treasure along with dynamic energy-driven otoosan figure kian, always ensure everything is at least 100%. this destination keeps recurring on our high rotation list because they make the best deviation from a bloody mary in town "kim chi mary", have the most incredible sake menu, but in the end my true love is signature dish the miso cod [eating it is like dying & going to soy heaven].

ultimately though what keeps bringing us back is the irreplaceable energy. kian explains his philosphy: that there is no division between customers & hand-picked crew: there's a comfortable familiarity without it getting weird. kinda like cheers but um, more asian. in surry hills.

apparently there's a recession going on but today the place is busy without feeling rushed. by the time i take these photos it's the end of the second run & a few kim chi marys later...

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: rodent splatter film

flattened in seconds
fevered by cheese promises
but crushed underfoot