shameless plug

 

DANZ Producing Project presents:
T h e   L I V E   s e r i e s :   T a s t e   M e

Tues 28/Wed 29th June 7:30pm

Galatos
17 Galatos St, Newton

$10

Featuring work by Anna Bate, Katie Burton, Celine Sumic, Natalie Clark, We Should Practice, Amy Mauven, Georgia Giesen, SMS Collective and Ciarin Smith.

Curated by Zahra Killeen-Chance and Christina Houghton.

http://theliveseries.tumblr.com/

Buy tickets here.

best

It makes me a little bit
sad that your book was
sold with a yellow
sticker
for $4.99

you are kept in the corner
by the low table that no-one likes to sit at
so I can find you every half-hour

I think we
write in a similar
way about similar
things

on thursday

I thought of a really good poem line
on Thursday
I was traversing the muddy space behind the doll's house
It was definitely dance-related -- I know this much
(life-related, therefore)
I was going to get a coffee, probably
but I got cake instead because I
forgot my lunch and
forgot
my keep cup. I remember thinking,
"that's good...
that's really good
gotta write that down when I get home"
but I didn't write it down and
now it is
forgotten

new/old

Friend, I wanted to put my hand on your shoulder or knee, a sort of small attempt at comfort. But there are strange things that stop such actions. I'm sorry.



The day the world ended we drove up One Tree Hill so we could see the country splitting in two. What an awesome sight that would have been.

nine shades of

They're painting your room white. It looks very sterile. I can't actually remember what colour it was before. Maybe it was always white. But not like bright, brand-new clean white; just slightly off-grey-ish normal "white". White which we call "white" but isn't actually when you put it next to a piece of printing paper. 


Like the painters' "white" overalls.
"White" bathroom basins.
"White" teeth.
I have a shirt which is "white" except that I've danced in it's so much it's probably more like yellow. Like most teeth.
"White" people are not even white. They were not even white when they used to stand under parasols to avoid freckles. ("Black" people are not black, either.)
Most brides should not be dressed in white (some aren't).
"White" wine is definitely not white.


I think some white lies are not white. Maybe people convince themselves that the lies they are telling are white lies, but they are not. They are very, very black.

Maybe they have eye problems. I don't know. Maybe they are honestly seeing white out of their eyes.

Maybe I have eye problems?

Once in Year 8 I had a friend who told me in art class, "white and black are not colours."
I said, "what are they then?"
She said, "they are shades."

why why why

I don't care that you "liked it".
I want to know why you liked it.
Tell me why you liked it.

dehumidifier

Sometimes I imagine that if I leave my dehumidifier on overnight while I am sleeping that it will suck all the water out of my body. And because my body is like 70% water (or something) I will wake up empty and shrunken and shrivelled and all-round pathetic-looking and waterless. I will have a wooden throat with sharp chords carved into it and fig-like eyes. My brain will be the size of a sad walnut. All of the tubes in me will become like worms that were stranded on the footpath after a sudden bout of rain and dried up in the harsh post-storm sunshine. Flat, brittle strings of skin.

Someone will come into my room in the morning and fetch the water components of myself out of the square-shaped bucket sitting underneath the dehumidifier. It will be slightly off-grey and have oily bits floating around on top. They will pour me out of my own window so that bits of me splash into the garden, onto the window sill, the ground. I will soak into the earth and real, living worms will find me to nibble on, tasty morsels.

The small, hard bits (30%) of me left in the bed will probably be crunched up by dust mites. Which is ironic because I am allergic to dust mites. I guess they win.

adam

Photography: Susan St. Lawrence.

weird/funny

Weird thing #1:
Some people thought I was gay with my straight friend.

Weird thing #2:
Some people thought I was straight with my gay friend.

recurring

He is walking in front of me but I know he is a runner. I see his eyes slipping sideways and his bones preparing to dart; a stiffening in his gait.

His footprints are sharp. He knows how to damage. You wouldn't think it though because he is elusive as all hell. He hides his malice under a inward frown so subtle you can only see it under neon light.

Kaleidoscope buildings loom into my ninth-floor hide-out. Nine lives and nine must-haves. A list of four dos and five don'ts. 

Don't.

"Don't come in," he said. "My landlord's here."

"Ok," I said. "Let's just stand here and listen to the possums crying at each other for a while.

"Have you met your next door neighbours yet?"

"No," he said. "And I don't want to.

"You should go now."

"That's ok," said me, "I've already invited them around for tea tomorrow."

Said he, "You shouldn't have done that. I don't know how to cook. I'm going to run away. You probably shouldn't come with me. I'm going to run away now, ok? Bye."

He didn't even bother shutting the door on me because he knew I wouldn't follow. He just ran.

He turned around and ran down the long, narrow hallway of his landlord's house.

I sat down on the door matt which said 'WELCOME' and crossed my legs. I tried to straighten out the curves of my back.

The hallway extended out ahead of him as he ran, narrowing to a fine, jagged point in the distance. I couldn't see the end of it. The hallway extended out further and further the more he ran. But he didn't shrink as he got further away. He outgrew the narrowing hallway. He had to stop running. He had to hunch over and crawl. Eventually he had to lie on his stomach and wriggle like a legless lizard.

He had to stop running. Wriggling, I mean. He had to stop wriggling away because his hallway was too narrow.

"Do you need a hand, need a hand, need a hand..." I echoed down the hall.

"Nope," he called back. "I'm fine. Just a bit stuck."

"Ok," said me. "I'll just wait."

I pulled an apple out of my bag. The same worm-ridden apple from yesterday's breakfast. Preserved in an oily plastic snap-lock bag. I ate it without looking at it. Welcoming the fluttery ant feeling inside of me once more.

"Hello," I said, patting my belly. "Hello ants.

"Ants, he is a runner. He is not coming back."

I send my ant mafia after him.

"Go!"

Millions of little black specks stalking his nervous footprints. They are smart, these ants. As sharp as he is. He cannot out-smart them, even with disappearing acts. They know his bones well. They can smell him through their leg holes.

The grasshoppers hear his ankle joints clicking as he passes them on the footpath. The grasshoppers dob him in to the ants. Insect secret service. Code 12.

I bought a new laptop yesterday.

So I am probably going to have a massive blog binge sometime soon, following this excruciating blog-skinny period. And never sleep (more) and stay up all night on the internet pretending I am connected to the world and not alone in a flat (which is actually nice mostly).

YES !