hullo
although i have enjoyed my time here, within the sweet cardigan-coloured template of nevernever, but i have decided to start a new blog here. it will essentially be the same, perhaps with some more poetica stuff in preparation for a phd proposal etc. so please update your links etc., and mosey back here for a perusal of the archives at your leisure.
[trivial pursuit -- a mere selection of 6,000 words spoken by fred during the game]
I won’t play with anyone shorter than me. I’m excited about this now; these are the ideal teams, actually. These are the only teams. I hate the Smiths! As do I hate all other teams aside from my own. I’m just saying that right now. I’m not giving any clues to anyone. Astrid, what pie are we? We’re going to do well, just quietly. There’s a winning team, but is there a losing team? Wouldn’t have got it. I was going to say ‘banana peels’. Don’t give them confidence. Need to beat them down. Ooh, I know. Sssh. No. Don’t give anyone clues. Have a guess. One. That’s a bronze roll. Mars is our answer. It’s the reddest! Damn it. Oh, I’m very red at the moment, that’s terrible. I knew it would start off badly for us. Would have you said Venus? Would have you said Venus? You see Venus early, I’m a fuckin’ moron! Morning star. Idiot. I’m very angry. I feel like I prematurely ejaculated then, though. That was a bad guess. They established rail in the United Kingdom before any of the... Ahh, you think that. That’s his guess, can’t change it. I know which team I hate the most already. Now this’d be an embarrassing one not to get. Oh. Don’t give him a clue if he asks anything, no. I can’t believe you guys didn’t get that. Oh. Yeah right, yeah right. Five. Nature and science. OK, nature and science. I would like to redeem myself. Oh dear, very nervous. Alright. Yellow. We’re yellow. What countries had uprisings around the 70s? Yeah, everyone has. Mau Mau uprising, OK, say Thailand, say Thailand. Kenya? That’s a hard question to answer; no one would have got that, though. I know who the luckiest team is. I said, I know who the luckiest team is. What was the answer? Answer? Yeah, I like you guys. You’re my favourite team. They’re my favourite team. Don’t look around! Oh, cheat, minus a bit of pie when you get one! That’s clue, don’t give him clues. Still, any clue... Slight nudging... But you wouldn’t. Don’t give them clues, don’t give them clues. Don’t. Yurka? Bury it. They don’t need any more, any more advantages. You guys... Oi! I can’t wait for my clues from you when I get my question. Very angry if they get it right. I’m upset. I’m very upset with you for opening your trap. ‘What if it’s Pluto?’ Damn it. You’re on a mute ban, when other questions are... Hunchbacks. It’s a good chance to embarrass yourself by getting it wrong. We should know the Bay of Biscay, shouldn’t we. Um, do you know where the Bay of Biscay is? No, I don’t, I’m just... So, that’s where we should start, if we did know that, then we... Well I’m I’m... Is it, is it, is it, it’s not going to be France and Spain is it? I don’t know, I’m just thinking ‘nugget’. We should have let them; we should have let them fuck up for a while. I did, hey. Pie. Yes, that’s your answer. But do you die of when you get hung? You can’t say ‘die of hung’? Minus a bit of pie for Cambo’s lack of commitment. I’d almost think it’d be safe to say that the people who have the least pie, in a way, are doing the best, at answering questions. I know, you said it, you got it right, and George was very angry. Not unless they ask, they could’ve got it wrong. Did they? They hadn’t conferred on wolf. You need to be more cutthroat in this game. Well they’re getting so much luck; they’re getting a lot of luck. We’re not allowed to hurry them on, because next time they try to hurry us on we can just say, ‘hey!’ We didn’t say anything. What did he say? You lose a bit of pie if you get this one right. Pre. Fuck it. I knew it. Get so much pie, they have, damn it. Six. Land on another bit of pie. I’m really upset. Only half way. Lucky we got Joel out of the room, ‘cause he would have been bouncing around. They’re not gonna get it. You can guess, in five seconds. Ten, nine, eight, seven... I’ll guess Atlantic over Mediterranean.OK, fair enough, I’ll stop counting. Four... Six, five, four, three, two, one. Is ‘goat’ your answer? You did. Did you miss all of it? That’s a clue. That’s too big a clue. New question. ‘What age’—Oh, I could get this one—‘What age must a thoroughbred horse be, before it is eligible to start racing?’ Very angry. Orange. Just ask us the easiest one on the card. Could we say ‘Hitler’? Snap. Time’s Man of the Year, 1938. Bronze, let’s go bronze. We need every... We need bronze. Bronze. ‘Nother one about Hitler. I’m happy to get pie through fascism. There’s an obvious discrepancy in the answer, in his answer and the... Computer and video? Well, it’s worth debating, it’s wrong! The answer is... Very generous with the pie these days, givin’ them away. No I don’t... Filthy. Eat meat on a Friday. Did too. I can eat wafer, not the wine. I’m not Catholic. I thought. Right in the middle of the board. Rally driver. Peter Brock is not the right answer. What is a by-product of Coca-Cola? Tough question, OK. Oh. Matches. A libido. We might not say Jupiter, depending on what the answer is. Jupiter’s right! Well, I might have said it. I might have said it, I might have said it, I might have said it. I might have said it. Astrid won that one. Me? I’ve never said anything the whole game. Got bronze. I haven’t said anything! But why not France, why not France? Why not France, why not France? Who was it between? I’d say France. Fuckin’ close! Fuckin’ close. Aardvark? Aardvark? Or a... Earth... Yay! ‘What is also known as an earth bear, a cape pig or an anteater?’ Earth bear was the one that gave it away for me. Blue, OK. We got another one. One more. Two. This is it, this is it, see if we can get it. Why do you say that so quickly?
newly injected oyster spawn /
because the portuguese like sardines /
you’ll have a crop on the run, in some gully /
bluebottles are like colonies /
i mean, it’s very visceral /
constantly marrying people /
if i was doing it on my own little panel
for my own little reasons, i could get into it /
a wet dog is a smelly dog /
i was gonna go confess my love to someone /
i’m gonna get myself a piece of toast,
rub with garlic and then rub it with tomato /
[this is the first in a series of poems created entirely by the language of fred, whose voice was recorded for an entire day. more to follow.]
fred language poem #1
i’m tempted to go to the toilet /
i’m tempted to try it, just to see if it /
the good start breakfast is tempting /
i’m tempted to get the vege breakfast but /
i’m tempted to get one of those as well /
i would have been just so tempted to wrap stella’s tail in it /
i was tempted to shelter in there this morning for a bit /
i don't like them / they're too big and they are a conspicuous tone / but that's no reason to get new ones / i don't believe in that sort of logic when it comes to purchasing new goods / and making landfill of old goods / and i'm not good at rejigging electrical things to make new and innovative inventions / and i don't have a nephew who sniffs around for off-casts of such menial items / and then / in one slip of the hoof / accidentally / i stepped on them / and they broke in two / and they're unusable / and the feeling of it snapping shocked me / and the shock was replaced by guilt / because inwardly / i'll admit it / i was glad they were gone
often dreams are more exhausting than life
swooping angles of a plasticine paris, no trees
and then, as though by some grand vectorial drift
the madness of an errand to run that becomes impossible
(i think these are categorically called anxiety dreams,
and i have them all the time -- it feels as if i am the kind of
bumbling hopeless luckless sap from a film and i can not
function and things keep needing to be done:
it's quite comical, i can imagine me being played by
some charming but useless ragpicker in an italian flick)
and then i wake up because something has happened,
a sensation more wooing than a tiresome dream:
the sound of rain smashing onto the roof the street,
droplets at the window, the azalea slapping like a wet
newspaper, and i am awake, for a moment, and relieved
over fat, ricepaper rolls we talked:
you into the mirror at my reflection
& me, too agitated to notice the doppelgangers
talking straight into your distracted face
(i don’t care for reminders of my surface self
i’m more toothy, less graceful than i’d like
to imagine) but anyway we were talking about language
& how people are quick to proclaim nonsense
& meaninglessness yet they hear ads for cars &
luncheon meat & don’t hesitate at the fracturing
of words & the non-sequitors & the inversion
of meaning so really the only difference between
poetry & advertising is that people
take notice of advertising
and then she dumped me! can you believe
it? we got married and then she dumped me
like so much coopers' scum* / and she's the
white trash / i'm from middle-class intelligentsia!
*(not entirely sure what he meant by this, but we hoped that it was a metaphor referring to the sediment in a beer.)
so it was a breakfast poetry reading, which i didn't think was strange till someone mentioned it. they're usually the kind of things that happen in the evening, with goon etc. the reading was an extension of my early-morning dreams, when i knew that it was twelve minutes until the alarm would ring, but i chose to go back for the last few moments of absurdist cinema. the poems were short, wrapped tightly like fat bound ankles, and yet light as well, punctuated by sounds i did not recognise.
questions of translation and experience were raised, predictably, as well as questions of questions themselves. there are certain questions that, no matter what kind of illuminating responses they might elicit, are dull in nature. like the question how does it feel?
i remembered that poetry was something i am interested in. i need to remind myself this often, it's not innate. it's a wonderfully uncomfortable relationship, in many respects. it would be far easier to be interested in economic rationalism.
it's more sunday breakfast protein than nervousness but i can't find the difference right now. the humidity of a full room has gone and i'm left with cold legs and a hair right at the back of my throat, like the time i swallowed a small piece of masking tape and it stuck to my insides. (i've never ripped tape with my molars since.)
and i know that it always happens at this time. the sun is more like dawn and five o'clock is desolate. but there's no way to find dinner anywhere, because we used to lie in the bath until it dulled: the kitchen plug wrapped in a tea towel. small nail parings and things that must be skin parts. and the drops like ash in hair, farts trapped in jars, the smell of aching grow-pains and healthy sweat.
let's just wash the carpets, keep on top of the kitchen grime and stick around for a while.
i remember when paté (i tried to do an a with the little triangle over the top but motime won't let me -- fascist bastards! viva la triangle!) wanted to document an experiment of how many hours he could stay up, and how many coffees he could drink. he abandoned the experiment for wont of general health and longevity. i remember such things with fondness when i've had too much coffee and my brain is exploding. it jitters too quickly, and i can't express myself, apart from general ranting and exasperated huffing.
zing!
there are some things that can only be done when you’re alone. like the meditation of throwing things out, the meditation of folding clothes, the meditation of picking stray foodstuffs from the sink and flicking it in the bin. these small things are forgotten while in company. yet they are small, good things that are helpful to the brain.
whiskey & wimmen; last night i gave an impromptu poetry reading of things i wrote many years ago. smith & fred proved a ruddy-faced, wine-pissed audience that urged me along the histrionics. afterwards i had clammy armpits. later on, in bed, i wanted to find it through henry miller, find that strange and thirst-making desire to write. there was something stimulated by the wine, all the sugar in that plummy tasting tannin. my head was wet and limp, but my brain was composing some lovely prose in quick, slippery words. i lay back and read it as a dream. my legs were in each corner of the bed, my body noting the boy’s absence this week. my limbs growing into new regions.
henry always seems to be walking across a bridge, in snowfall, with an empty belly and a wonderful deluge of heady text. it’s the scatty text that composes itself in hysteria when he’s looking for a buck to buy a slice of pie and a coffee. it reminds me that there’s little use in overfeeding myself.
(babe, you turn me on. like a lightbulb, babe. like an idea. like an atom bom-omb. PPPPRRRCCCCGGGGHHHHH.)
1. cupcakes, a map of the world and shirley bassey
2. kneeling in broken glass and nick licking the blood from my knee [then]
3. did it taste metallic?
4. cranky, prostrate across the top of the hills hoist
5. triple rice-cooker action
6. chance-generated love stanzas in a small, beautiful book
7. last tango in paris and aden's signature 'piano' massage technique
8. slow-cooked beef
9. two t-shirts, caked in salt, discovered next to the front door
10. message from patty the next morning; i feel like there's wine stains on my soul
standing, even though i don't want to be, i notice that men in tight black jeans look like men in wetsuits. it's an amusing thought. i am warm with gin. it's my first night out with a cardigan on, and even though it's body-muggy in here i'm not taking it off.
i'm not convinced by the separation of the space, the way they sit down in front of the stage at small tables with candles. we are lined up around the edges dumbly, trying to stand still and casually, trying to balance on both feet and not cock to one side. there is not enough room between us and the bar. the seated people are being delivered wedges with sour cream and giant piles of battered fish. i don't know where it is coming from, but i am jealous. i realise that i am swaying gently from the swivels of my kneecaps. my hips are thrust forward and i'm sort of sitting back on my own spine. i know how bad this is for posture. pretend that there is a dish of milk balanced on the top of your pelvis that you are trying not to spill. odd that milk is specified.
oh, the music. it comes in two distinct halves. the first, a gentle, crawling patchwork of sound. the second, a slapped-up-against-the-wall sound, so dizzying i sit on the exit steps with my head resting on my knees.
the couple in front of me haven't had sex before. i can tell by their body language. they're talking in small, close, movements. it's that wide-mouthed, smiling talk that comes right up to the earhole so that it can be felt.
a few years ago i wrote a piece about the section of regent street in chippendale between cleveland street and central station. this strange, quick-paced slither of non-space was always of interest to me on my walks from redfern to uni. the roadside, once a collection of shopfronts and factories, is now a deathly loud thoroughfare of kicked-in windows and abandoned buildings. the traffic, built down into a strange circular intersection, is relentless.
the piece i wrote required a small amount of fairly perfunctory research into the history of street naming in sydney. as little as i did, it was fascinating (much more so, in fact, than the writing of the piece itself).
conceptually, the difference between a street and a road is that a road goes somewhere and a street is somewhere. a street is more than a site of traversal, it is a space of engagement. in the late nineteenth century, the streets of inner-city sydney were lined with bellowing salesmen, spruiking pigs’ trotters, pipe-clay, pies, clothes-props, honey and watercress. the street was made to be walked, stopped, loitered, wandered and explored.
street names seemed to be fairly arbitrarily picked, not necessarily to suit the space but to honour the name of a man (or his wife, child) who mattered in some way to the processes of settlement and colonisation. these included the ducal titles of george iii’s sons (york, cumberland, sussex, clarence, cambridge, kent); british officials (bathurst, liverpool, castlereagh, pitt); nsw governors (king, hunter, macquarie, bligh). when new streets were forged, like small lanes between houses, their names often came from children of the neighbourhood (ada, marian, henry, alice, ivy, clara).
often, cartographers misspelt names, and streets were either altered slightly over the years (from bishopsgate to bishopgate, hawkins to hawken, juliet to juliett, etc.) or were spelled incorrectly from the beginning (dixon street in chinatown may or may not be a misspelling of dickson).
these days, when new suburbs are made on the outskirts of the city, their streets are designed en masse as part of a major urban development. that is, they are predetermined in neat curves and cul-de-sacs that nest inwards in segmented developments. often, their names are thematically linked; sometimes they are the names of native flora, etc. it’s always been a trend that has seemed strange to me, ever since i was in highschool and my dad moved near a suburb which had shakespearean character names for each of its streets. there was oberon lane, titania place, hamlet avenue ... all loping into a tight sprig of brick houses in the western hinterland of the gold coast. my own hometown, mistakenly thought to be named after the poet lord byron, had poets for all its main streets. keats, jonson, shirley, browning, paterson, milton, and so on. (had i been in charge of throwing twenty poets into a hat for names, rest assured they’d be rather different ... how about bernstein, antin, hejinian, hass, ashbery, ferlinghetti, rimbaud, andrews, mccaffery ... )
over at campbelltown council, they seem to be rather interested in extending the name-choosing game to its most obscure possibilities. on a hungry study of my 2007 gregory’s street directory (a christmas present from my mother), i noticed that the newish developments in south west sydney have strange names. in eschol park they are all named after wines and grape-types: chardonnay street, riesling place, sauvignon close, grenache placer, spumante close, burgundy court. just south of eschol park is semi-precious and precious stones and rocks, minerals and other geological phenomena: talc place, malachite road, onyx place, amethyst place, bauxite place, zeolite place, lignite place, peat close. in raby, each is named after aircraft carriers: kittyhawk crescent, spitfire drive, skyhawk avenue, harrier avenue, skyfarmer place. in kearns, it’s major rivers from the world: tiber place, rio grande drive, yangtze place, rhine close, nile place.
are you applying for an ABN?
yes
are you eligible for an ABN?
yes
do you want to apply for an ABN?
YES
do you have a TFN?
yes
do you want to apply for a TFN?
NO
[and then]
"Please ring the ATO for help applying for your ABN and for answers to any queries you might have with tax". i rang and 'lee' told me that the ATO were not allowed to give advice, but were allowed to give "suggestions". his suggestion? "contact an accountant".
there are times when i mourn the cardigan-coloured drabness of this template, but an occasional desire to change it is far overwhelmed by laziness and general despondence. right now, if i could change something in my local community (virtual or otherwise), i would change the lunatic and the cad vying for state control later this month. i'd replace them with a loveable staffordshire terrier and a milk-laden nanny goat. in perspective, the blog template is rather irrelevant. not when you're faced with debnam's cock all over the media, alongside iemma's hopeless little eyebrows stuck in childish terror.
fuck you new south wales! you suck!
1. a manstrid is an astrid with leg ham
2. do you have excessive male hormones?
3. sweating gin
4. eggplants splayed like silken fans
5. runny-jumpy cat feasted on by fleas
6. enforcing laundry apartheid
7. a couple, copulating in the park
8. sweeping up weevil larvae with a dustpan
9. i wonder what i'll look like when i'm an adult?
10. overloading from debnam-in-dickstickers p.r.
tonight nick and i started boxing classes. muff has been going for a while, and talked it up over a stagnant, two-coffee and oily mushroom breakfast in manly and i decided i wanted to go too. mainly, i was excited about the skipping warm-up. i had fun smashing nick's pads and upper-cutting him mortal kombat style. the trainer kept saying odd things to psych me up like come on! punch him for being a bad boy! . i need to work on my push ups, but so be it.
outside, victoria park was soggy like i haven't seen it in years, and on the way home the low-flying planes looked like submarines in the sky: flanked with wet and lights all muggy.
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