short exchange

my house is back to front
my bedroom is downstairs and I have to walk
upstairs
to the kitchen
there are bedrooms next to the kitchen
I am afraid that if I boil the jug for
a late-night cup of tea
I will be a bad flat mate
I cannot
feed sleepless hours with
cheese on toast
because oven trays clank around on benches
making scratchy friends
and people have class earlier than I do tomorrow

but they are sleeping now - so that's fair, right?

I don't like that the house is backwards
my bedroom is upside down
well I guess I have been trying to defy gravity for about thirteen years --
success?

and if I want to go for a wander in the street
the whole street will be quiet
but if I want to wander around my own house
I will be too loud
if I want to wander around my own head well, I am not allowed

if I want to wander around my bed
that is encouraged (but
you won't be any better off for it)

if I want to wander around the studio tomorrow
I will be told off
and then I will tell myself off
for wandering around my head
and if I don't wander around my head
I will be told off in the studio
and if I wander around the street
I will be told off by my mother
and if I wander around my bed
I will be told off by my mother
and if I wander around my head
my mother will probably think I am sitting still and being good
well done, she will say, you have
cured yourself
then I will wander around my head some more

it's all O.K. because there are things in the world such as
coffee
apples
orange juice
warm-up exercises
luck
eyelash curlers
very hot showers
icy cold showers
facial moisturiser
fear
self-deprecation
the numbers one through to eight and sometimes nine or ten
professional dancers who are better than me
life
spirulina smoothies
loud car horns
intrusive sunshine
text messages
full bladders
alarm clocks
suddenly remembering something
really good muesli in the cupboard... upstairs
refrigerated water
hills to walk down

bacon

love/hate II

love:

I love how dancers always apologise for being sweaty when they hug each other - even though the other person is equally as sweaty.

I love that there are sequins in our fridge.

hate:

I hate how petulant I become when I can't do things the way I want to do them. 

 

sydney scribblings: they know the answers are not in the book

This one is also mostly Jeanie. 

It's the last one. 

"

(flip to pg 3 for white lies!)

"

city post-animals

Two Asian women at the bus stop giggled at a car 

which slowed to pick up a hooker.

The hooker fobbed the car off.

When Animals Dream of Sheep

Tonight I saw the opening show of When Animals Dream of Sheep. It is part of the fringe festival and is created by Stephen Bain's Winning Productions, involving Geof Gilson, Cat Ruka (who I haven't seen perform before) and Josh Rutter.


The performance was in Myers Park below St. Kevin's arcade. There was a pretty big turnout. The audience sat one side of the huge grass slope and the performance happened across the walkway. I thought the space was used really well. The slope opposite acted like this massive backdrop that doubled as a stage; there was also a smaller, more conventional stage in front with a 'cyc' for video projection. The trees were both obstacles (for viewing) and scenery.

It was great to see people in the surrounding apartments looking down, curious about what was happening. At one point a model helicopter was flown from the carpark above. I'm still trying to work out if this was part of the show or not. Kind of awkward.

I had really high expectations of this show (which is maybe not a great thing to have as an audience member, for any show (or really for life in general)). Because of the enormity of the space and the fact that it was outdoors, microphones were necessary. Personally I am not a fan of microphones in performance - they are unreliable and hugely distracting if they don't work properly. And voice is so much nicer to listen to. The sound was pretty crap at times. Particularly a shame because the first part consisted of a lot of dialogue (which I also felt didn't need to be as long as it was).


Highlights:

Watching the performers navigate the incredibly steep grassy slope.

Live music created by plastic drink bottles, strings laid across a styrofoam box, a guitar and a large drum.

Delightfully awkward verbal repetition ("The wolves are O.K. ... at this moment").

A chorus of long, black-skirted figures with massive deer antlers scaling along the fence at the top of the grass slope. With headlights on.

Watching Cat Ruka navigate her way, blindfolded, along a path of wooden slats laid out by the other performers and up the stairs. In glittery red sneaker shoes.

Josh Rutter giving a beautiful and somewhat effeminate performance in a violet floral dress and deer head. Beginning with walking slowly and steadily down the massive flight of stone stairs, hands open away from himself.

A very human, teenage soap-esque conversation between the three main performers. In deer heads. At a kitchen table sitting on slanted wooden slats across the stairs. Including deer-slurping eating and drinking noises.


There was a really, really great moment where two girls walked right through the middle of the performance space - somehow (at first) oblivious to the performance happening around them. The performers were all hiding behind trees calling out manic animal calls. The entire audience thought it was a great joke. The girls seemed extremely confused at first and then extremely embarrassed.

The more I think about this show, the more I like it. I think I will go again. You can see this show until the 27 February, 8.30pm each night, at Myer's Park. A $5 donation is recommended.

I recommend you go and watch.

22.02.11

http://www.salvationarmy.org.nz/giving-back/donate-online/disaster-appeals/canterbury-earthquake-appeal/


(Maybe a somewhat easy/apathetic way of helping, but still a little helpful right?)

not suicidal or anything, but...

A bracelet I wear has a bead that gets stuck in my steering wheel when I drive. One day I am going to not be able to turn the steering wheel the way I need to and it is going to be BAD.

But I still wear the bracelet.

 

[photo Caitlyn Crivelli]

sydney scribblings: the answer

Jeanie wrote most of this one. But I stained it. Also I think the left side was written later in the year.

 

" 

THE ANSWER: 

what do these words 

mean to you? 

<---                                        --->

unsympathetic            <----->             unreasonable  

 

"

thought #2

Sometimes I would like to engage in inappropriately personal conversation with strangers/acquaintances.

But you can't just do that.

It is not appropriate to say, "How would you like your eggs?" followed by "I think you are quite beautiful."

You can't ask the chef if his eyes are red because he has insomnia or cried too much last night or he inhales something he shouldn't,

I'd like to tell fifteen year old boys that they should love every girl they can and don't worry about if they are right or wrong loves. But their mothers would frown and complain to the manager and probably get their trim flat whites and salmon eggs benedict with a side salad somewhere else next time.

Sometimes with less stranger friends I do indulge in these fantasies.
Often it is disastrous.
Sometimes it is good.

thought #1

happy.
but.
still.
something.
wrong.

eight-ing

Me and Eight are very good friends.
We have known each other a long time.
She is lovely.
Sometimes predictable and sometimes not.
I know her as quick-witted and full of energy;
I have seen her scuffing her heels lazily, too, almost late.
Sometimes Eight drags extra limbs around with her.

Eight plays tricks on me.
She will find two halves of her
self and try to confuse me with them.
Or worse, four selves.
Eight has split-personality disorder.

She is extremely resistant to outsiders.
She insists on being the centre of attention.
She is not happy about having to adjust to Nine types.
She thinks they are awful.
There is no particular reason
they are OK sorts
but she just doesn't get on with them so well.
Eight is okay with Sixes.
If she must compromise, she would prefer to be around Sixes than Nines.
Tens are ok too.
But she would prefer to stick with other Eights.

Eight knows she has charm.
She shamelessly flaunts her charisma.
She flirts with everyone and has multiple long-term relationships.
She seduced me.
As I said, we've known each other a long time.
Quite a long time,

For a while I almost forgot that there were other people around.
I ignored them all.
It's difficult.
Everyone else is flirting with Eight too and she is flirting back.
You know you are part of this massive polygamous family but you think it is good.
You like it.
You like it lots,
the family's rhythm is so enticing.
You will go to see Eight every hour
and become obsessive and
demand her company every minute.
Even though she is flirting with everyone, she seems to have
eyes only for
you.
She gives you instant gratification, if you get her right.
You can't miss her.
She is stealing from rainbows and borrowing from Beethoven.
He's been dead for ages anyhow.
There's no rights on his property anymore.
Besides she doesn't take much from him, only what he can afford to give.

I like Eight. I do.

Sometimes I leave her face but then I see her looking at me
Guilty guilty guilty
It's not as if she has no other company,
plenty of other people like her but
I can still feel her insisting I stay with her.
She's very obsessive. She's not infatuated but
she definitely wants all the friends she can get and also
she gets jealous easily.
Especially if you start hanging out with those Ten types.
They are so similar, you see.
Eight is almost human and knows what it's like
to be replaced by something she almost could be.
She is almost human and she is almost ten but
Eight is neither.

Whereas I am human.
I am not Ten at all, but you know, sometimes opposites attract.
Maybe we could strike up a friendship, Ten and I.
Then I wouldn't be so reliant on Eight.

The problem is, you still need Eight.
The other types, they are like smoking.
If you just give up -- suddenly
You can avoid cigarettes forever.
But Eight is like eating.
You can't quit Eight because you need her.
You still need to eat.
You and Eight are locked into contract.

I like Eight. I do.
But she is best in moderation.

sydney scribblings: my mother's lost friend

"

 what do I do with this?
                                     no-one taught me about this one..

I like that 

your over

is under. 

so you contradicted 

yourself 

TWICE. 

is it still a 

contradiction? 

things we gift to others

                         we'd usually keep for ourselves..

you should

write

                  that down! 

SUPRISE HAZELNUT!!!

on grey 

sunday 

sydney

me

+

photographer  

I like 

arrows 

but I 

don't 

know 

why. I

guess

it's because

they're going somewhere

and that's what

I wanna do.

"MY MOTHER'S LOST FRIEND"   7/2/10

did this page exist before the words formed on it??

do these words exist if they can be erased??

does this pencil exist

                    if all the lead can be used up

and all the wood sharpened away??

does this page exist if it can be torn out

burned, shredded, eaten

does the hand which makes these markings exist

if one day it will be turned back into the earth

born of its own defecation

returning to from where it came

one day, in finding our own ends

we will discover the beginnings of each other

(what happens when the pencil goes blunt?)

they're 

going

somewhere

"

sydney scribblings: nowhere may be better

I think it's important for me to document how I was a year ago*.

"

memories of cute moments... (regarding what?)
5 being lifted off the ground in hugs
#2) a smile from a stranger in the street
3) realising I've met him before <-- x = direction
6 tears in bathroomstubs
4) kisses on foreheads (like amelie)

8 pan-caking gummy fejoa lollies
9 realising hte girls across the room also has pen & paper

7) hugs from ________
                      everyone
                      anyone
                      someone
9 living in the moment --> NOW.
14: sitting on chair horizontally
11 daisies picked by a someone special
13) thinking the same things

SOME THINGS
SHOULD SLEEP
PERMANENTLY
NEXT TO THE
HEART
but mine have
nightmares
on
computer screens

"

*Still makes me cringe though.

sunday floating

This fourteen year old kid is looking at me with an expression I can’t help but feel endeared towards: confused as hell yet forgiving. A teacher. He's going, "You need to be moving before. You need to put your weight forward first and then pull it back." And then, "You need to feel you're going before you stand up."

I'm leeching on to every bit of information and trying to get every scrap of meaning I can out of it. I am trying to understand what I can't yet understand.

I look at him thinking, you are a much different world to me. Thinking I am probably a minority in this place marked by a sign shouting "YOU ARE A GUEST." Definitely. I bet everyone up here can do this. Kids younger than fourteen year olds, even.

"Hey," I ask him. "How old were you when you started doing this?"

Post-its note messages are flying at me. Instinctively: Make space underneath yourself. Lift your body weight off the board with your arms. Feet parallel and whole foot on the board, one at the back, one in the middle. Weight downwards, into the board. Momentum -- momentum and weight, it's the same it's the same and therefore you SHOULD be able to do this.

I announce to my company that it will happen today. Lock myself into a contract by publicly vomiting out great ambitions. Pride thrown into the water to be gobbled up by sharks. It has to happen now, I'm telling myself. Can't give up now. Got you. You said it out loud. Ha-ha.

"Got this one," the fourteen year old says. But he doesn't. He is better than me. He falls off his board. He's better at this than me.

The company are happy. They are sitting on masses of salt and startling shadows. They are sitting on each other sitting on masses of salt and one is wearing sunblock. An old man about six meters to my right is completely owned by a wave. He surfaces and is pulling his swimming pants back to the height they are meant to be at. He is watching three thirteen year old girls on shore. I am watching an old man watch three thirteen year old girls in sixteen year old bikinis.

The fourteen year old gets out of the water and walks past the thirteen year old girls. He says to them, "Hey Melissa." Melissa says to the sun, "He-ey." The old man gets owned by an even dumpier wave. When he surfaces the fourteen year old has walked across the beach just in time to let the old man have his view back.

The old man gets out. And walks past the three girls.

"Hey Melissa," he says to the sun.

The old man walks up to the top of the sand dunes. He reads the sign which says "YOU ARE A GUEST." He watches me chew. I have never much been a fan of salt. I'm failing.

"Hey!" the old man yells at me. The three girls lift their sunglasses above their eyes just enough to see and turn their heads around to look at him, but he is looking at me. "You need to be moving before. And put your weight forward first."

"I fucking know, okay?" I yell back. "Go put some clothes on," I bark at the girls. The old man adjusts the worn elastic on his swim shorts. "Yeah," he tells the girls. "Yeah, go put some clothes on would you?"

The company are drifting sideways. Clinging to each other like koala bears clinging to trees. "Shark!" I shout. "There's a shark!"

"Get on your board!" yell the koala bears. "And for God's sake, put your weight forward. You'll never make a triple unless you put your weight forward. Bend from the hips. Shoulders relaxed. Torso lifted. Leg straight. Arms tidy. Smile. There's a whole beach here who've paid to watch you. Bloody hell, just SMILE! And put your weight forward!"

The three girls are performing a bit of beach choreography. On surfboards. Three surfboards pointing towards the sea. The motion of the ocean in their pelvises. With good turn out. Good legs. Real good legs. "YOU ARE A GUEST" the old man tells them each individually. "And five, six..."  The old man likes their legs. The old man joins in with the beach choreography but he does not have good turn out. The elastic on his swim shorts is worn.

"Where's your mate?" I yell at the company.

"Whaa-aat?" they yell back.

"Where's your mate gone? The teacher?"

"Just put your weight forward," they yell at me. Clinging tighter to the small soluble salt particles in the water. "Everything will work out if your put your weight forward. Just trust that your body already knows how to do it. Yeah. Try to understand how it feels. We're drifting! Oh my gosh we're drifting away! There's a shark! Whatever you do, don't let the shark get you. Just stand up and don't fall off! Don't fall off don't fall off don't falafel. Don't falafel. Just catch the shark and eat it. The shark's hungry. It hasn't eaten in days. Just do it a favour. Kill it humanely. It's had a good life, really. The shark loves you. The shark loves everyone. Even the creepy old man. The shark loves little girls. The shark loves beach choreography. You can kill it. Just kill it. With a straight, quick arm. With good turn out."

"But I'm just a guest here," I say. "I can't just go killing sharks whenever I feel like it."

"Nah, it's all good," say the koalas. "Look, the fourteen year old's doing it."

Sure enough he's sitting on a fold out chair, in the sea, line out, just like that old early 20th century picture of glamorous women floating in the dead sea. Plus fishing line. He floats past me. "I'm drifting!" The shark is coming to him. He is not going for the shark.

"Look, the fourteen year old's doing it," the koalas reassure me.

I'm taking my board out further. I'm sick of this crap. I don't care about being an amateur. I wanna get dumped by the waves like the old man. Not even wearing swim shorts.

I'm going to do some easy beach choreography. On a surfboard. Not even on land. Legit beach choreography on a surfboard in the waves. In a bikini. Knees bent. Weight forward. I'm going to scout out little girls and break their scrawny little legs by throwing overweight sharks at their bones. "Try stand up on your surfboards now!" I will tell them. They will cry because sharks will be gnawing at their shins.

Then, once the sharks have finished eating them, I will return to land and eat the sharks. And eat the girl parts which have been eaten by the sharks. "You should have kept your weight forward," I will say to them. "You are GUESTS. Please don't hate me. I was doing you a favour. You looked hungry. I mean, you had good legs but they looked hungry. Have you seen a pair of koalas by chance?"

A thirteen year old finger will find it's way out of my throat and point down the beach.

"There," it will say. "At the other end of the beach. They have been drifting all this time and you didn't even notice. Two koalas."

The finger will waggle a little bit and tickle my throat.

"Two koalas. And one fourteen year old."

11.02.2011

Today's date is a palindrome.

C6

Hello. I would quite like to have your dreams. I don't mean I want to dream the dreams you dream. I mean I actually want your dreams that you have dreamed inside my own head.

I am going to put your pillow case on my pillow. On my bed.

Looks good.

No, better than that. I am going to wear it. I am going to wear your pillow case. I think it would make a very nice hat. More of a head cover. Some head garment/accessory of some sort. Whatever. I am going to wear it.

It's rather a nice colour.

I can't see anything. How do you see with this thing over your eyes? Or do you wear it differently. Oh. The other way around. I see.

No, it's really not making a difference. Maybe wearing it on my head is not such a great idea.

Okay I'm taking it off now.

That's better. Well. I mean. I can see now. I really want your dreams, still, though.

Hello.

You have a very nice head. I really, really mean it. I am being sincere. Your head is nice. I like your head.

No, I'm not joking. You think I'm joking? I'm quite serious. Good head. Good shape. Nice.

No I'm not taking the piss. What, you don't like compliments? Fine. I'm going back inside the pillow.

You what? What? I can't hear you. Oh for shit's sake.. hold on. I'm getting this thing off again.

What? It's your pillow case? Oh. Yeah, it is. I forgot about that.

Do you think I can I borrow it maybe? Like, I just want to wear it for a bit. It makes a really nice head garment. Well, it's a bit sweaty and you can't see much and I actually really don't suit the colour blue but I do like square shapes. I mean, it's a rectangle but shapes with square sides, I like. Although it's kinda floppy material so it doesn't always look very square. But I still like the shape. And I like the little bit that flaps over to keep the pillow inside. Better than having buttons. Buttons are tacky. Nice, clean edge with the flap thing.

You what? You don't have any dreams? You mean I've been standing here for the last six minutes with your pillow case over my head and you only tell me now you don't get dreams? Bloody...

Honestly.

Can I just kind of.. here, give me your head. Just.. put your.. your head.. Shit that's not going to work is it. Damn. Umm...

Look, maybe we can make an arrangement. Do you really need your head? Serious question. Do you really need your head? You think I'm joking! No. Honestly, just consider for a moment. Do you really need your head? Cockroaches can live for ten days without a head. What do you need a head for? Nothing. You have less things you need to do before you die than a cockroach does.

Just kind of.. sideways, like that. You see? Now our heads are kind of together.

I still can't see any of your dreams though.

I think we need to make an incision. And some sort of cable from your head to mine. They still need to be touching though. I'm just saying a cable would help. They can send some amazing things by cable and then I will see all of your dreams.

Oh, no, I don't just want to see them though. What I really, really want is to have them inside me. Your dreams. I want them to be mine. But still yours. I want them to be mine-yours.

Ours. I want dreams which are ours. But still yours. In my head.

Like I don't want us to be the same person. I don't want to halve my dreams with you. And I don't want to take your dreams or have them temporarily on loan or anything. I just want your dreams to be mine.

I said that in the beginning, didn't I? Why didn't I just say that? I want your dreams to be mine.

junk shop

standing in a junk shop;
sudden urge to buy
twenty-two soft toys.

sydney scribblings: looks like

 

 "

looks 

like 

memories

from back (home?)

"

mmm...

I have a bad ligament on the inside of one of my knees and sometimes when it is particularly bad I wear flesh-coloured strapping tape on it to help it out a bit, 'cause I wanna be nice to my body, you know, it does good things for me. And people who don't know about things like strapping tape notice it and think it is a massive plaster (I assume they think it is a massive plaster?) and then they go "OhmyGOD what have you DONE to yourself?" and I kind of just look at it 'cause I am so used to the small uncomfortable niggling feeling living in there and occasionally having to tape it up so it stays where it is and doesn't grow any bigger and I say, "Oh, I just have a bad ligament on the inside of that knee" and I don't mention that the one on the outside of my other knee is even worse and sometimes feels like my femur and my tibia are going to grind away my cartilage and then my knee cap and then each other into a pile of off-white slightly yellow dust and that taping that knee up and stretching and warming up properly and all the other stuff I've been advised to do by "professionals" doesn't help it at all and actually the only thing that does seem to help it, ironically, is running even though people freak out about running completely fucking up your joints and being too high-impact and bad for you and stuff like that.

And they say, "Oh, ok, right" and carry on playing cards or whatever

magical mangawhai, you were a little too magical (but I still like you)

Here is a weekend of thoughts:



Morning, Saturday

It is nice to be watching the household wake. I feel like a patient parent overseeing my young teenagers. They think they know what’s going on but their eyes are still filled by the sleep-dust of birth.

There’s a slightly uncomfortable disturbance in the morning silence as the womb-tents begin to bulge strange arm shapes and I know a head is going to emerge. Sure enough a long, languid body slithers out. Walks. Falters. A fully formed foetus undergoing speed-evolution.

In the downstairs room, the lower bunk doesn’t appear to be impregnated but you would be deceived; it is only because a much smaller body lies there, quietened by amniotic juices. Occasionally she changes shape too but she is yet to stand evenly on the ground.

The lounge is giving birth to twins. So is the smallest room. These ones are Siamese.

There is a strange child in the garden. Children are not usually made there. He wakes quietly. He will be the next parent after me. In a semi-holy ceremony he approaches me and questions my position. I know to stand; I know to submit. I will find some other place (perhaps under the island bench’s concave?) and return to my child-self. The cycle will perpetuate and we will all be re-created under the observance of the least-fed child.



Midday, Saturday

“Never trust an artist who is always trying to explain their work.”

- Douglas Wright

my eyes just ate words which tried to crawl back behind my tonsils
and suddenly I became aware of the frying heat the day is inflicting


I think our daily ruin is a conflict between our human selves and our artist selves (except our artist selves are our human selves). I don’t know.

The most valuable things I have learned while at this institution have mostly not been taught by the institution, and could not have been learned except for by being at this institution.



Evening, Saturday or Very Early Morning, Sunday

THE BIRTHDAY PARTY (not the Harold Pinter version)

I have ridden on the back of ecstasy
(piggy back, to be precise) and I have
heard different ears of myself tens of times over and I
have wandered up and down lost stairs to a safer place

all our eyes have been eaten by small shards of coloured glass
also know as 'glitter'
our retinas are stained with lack of sight
my eyes are so important to me, they are
and still I don't allow myself to see

(the only one I know who is not blind has three eyes
so surely that’s an unfair advantage anyway –
of course you can see)

you be fucking careful, I told him

fucking was a carefully chosen word

he arabesqued, full of feathers, down the stairs to his death
he insists on the lights being on because
he cannot see either
he tried to give me direction despite this
I took it
directions to a place no-one is able to visit
grasping each other’s hands at irregular intervals, we were
not prepared to be stranded
and I am sitting in a strange forest waiting to pitch my tent
home for a long time and nowhere to go

Dorothy, Dorothy
help us lift off the ground will you?
You be fucking careful in that storm Dorothy, I told her
that storm is bigger than they told you it was gonna be
hello beautiful red shoes

are you lonely?
would you like a visit?
visiting hours are 3:30-5:30am
without appointment only
they know you real good around here
you are addressed by your full name
even if your name is five names
even if it is hyphenated such as
Rose-Marie

look at this:
I have no vision but I still can’t take my eyes off him
he needs looking after
after he has finished looking
but look, I am perfectly inadequate
I am only mum
I have lots of squirming babies in my many rooms
he will have to look after them
that is why he is wandering the house and calling out at them
he is worried about all his sleeping babies
daughter will have to practice* euthanasia if this keeps up
you be fucking careful boy,
they are going to euthanize you.

*Is this the right practice?? I always get confused and have looked up the definitions multiple times but don't remember any better.

Early Morning, Sunday

How can I possibly do anything when everything I do catapults into a whole another series of events beyond my control, affecting people I love and maybe even people I don’t but just other innocent people. Everything is going to do something and this could be good but there is no such thing as a 100% success rate, right? I should just hide in a small safe hole from now on and do nothing and affect no-one.

There is a cancerous growth in the kitchen
I am not talking about the mould on the old bread
The rest of the house is trying to quietly function
He is immune to the rationality of health

fish for breakfast

I do not swallow the pills in the way the container instructs me to
I like to pop the thick skins of them on my molars
slice them open with my teeth and feel their
slimy centres wriggle down my throat
to sit in my gut, then I
explore the empty shell left in my mouth with my tongue.
Then I swallow that too.
It needs to go down with an extra mouthful of water
else it becomes lodged

I like how the inside stuff tastes
I don't think you are supposed to like it
that's why they coat it in something else and say
"take with food”
If I'm going to digest you I
at least want to enjoy it
"The journey, the journey!”they say,
"is as important as the destination!"