Friday, June 30, 2006

A valedictory for "the unity bar"

I’ve got a note book, covered with stars, from my first trip to Paris 8 years ago. In it I’ve got pages of illegible biro screeds interspersed by a series of poorly drawn biro scrawls. Scribbling circles denoting buttocks, breasts, heads – with ovoid limbs spanned by slashes – probably ‘inspired’ by pool queues.

In the sketches from ‘le club privee pour les femmes’ done in July 1998, no one is really identifiable. I was drawing in the dark and it was the year I failed life drawing at art school. But the act of drawing inspired Abel to head towards my table and try to peer at the sketches – which she feared were a documentation of her humiliation at pool. …. And so the rest is history.

I’ve got another note book from January this year. It looks like some picture perfect artists sketch book from Paris. Pages of expressive, skilled graphite sketches of Paris street scapes are interspersed by my notes in biro – some academic – many just my inanely boring travel reflections (“poor sleep, checked email in Puteaux, spent 5 euros on kebab” etc.) and a few notes form the biblioteque nationale. Many sketches feature the sculpture of Carpaux’s dance outside of the Opera Garnier – flanked by scarfed and beanied buskers, banging out java in the sleet as I drew. There are multiple sketches in metros, cafes, people’s houses, views from platforms of various ‘gares de la banleiu’. (frog for suburban train stations). Almost all feature the fluffy hair, dark almond eyes and half moon face of Abel. These were probably the nicest parts of our last Paris sojourn. When we could splurge on a weekly carte d’orange – we could spend days just flanning around. Standing in the cold, drawing buildings until our hands and bodies grew numb, and then heading into a café for a ‘vin chaud’ and sketching while we thawed, and then if it was too cold or too dark to face the streets again – we’d do a ‘derive au cul’ – jumping on the nearest metro and playing random games of hopping on and off – sketching in between. Line 2 is still my favourite – I love the overhead route from Abesses – past Stalingrad over to Belleville – and in reverse – we could take it to Rome and then stride down to Gare St. Lazare for the Banlieu line home.

So there’s a few pages featuring serpentine lines and triangulated axes of women playing pool. I think I had the skill and the sense – to stick in more details like the pool tables, overhead lamps, posts, walls and floor. Some have foreground details of heads and arms nearby, and in the background you can see women chatting, smoking (les gouines chiantes!), sipping or staring into space. Some are sitting around tables, some are huddles together, standing and talking or dancing madly to tacky ‘80’s eurotrash.

Quite a few feature Abel and Slut – huddled together, chatting, smoking dancing. Hell! the hand captures what the heart refuses to admit. I’d like to believe Abel when she says that they didn’t sleep together before last week – but their body language in these sketches certainly suggest otherwise. I thought it was Slut just playing butch. I did my stone-ish act in return. Danced with both of them, shared drinks, and when their smoking got too much – headed to the other side of the room and sketched and chatted to a couple of older dykes – who Slut insisted were ‘drageurs’. Her view of human relations is a bit limiting sometimes. I’ve got an attempted half portrait off Slut – thin hair, glasses, square face – sitting net to Abel who I’ve drawn looking not entirely unlike Alexis Carrington from dynasty. Maybe I was just pissed by that stage.

This revisitation of the place where I met Abel 8 years ago this month - sounds quite painful – when recounted through the prism of these sketches – so I’ll let words – those elusive tangental things – try to capture more of the nuances of the evening.

Last month, I told Abel that if I ever saw Slut again that I’d kick her in the teeth. That I couldn’t be angry at Abel – but that anger had to go somewhere – and she shouldn’t even think of bringing Slut here, to our home or to the coop. I wouldn’t even want to be in Sydney – if she was here. Sound melodramatic? Possessive, domineering, malevolent? How frigging un politically correct. Yeah. And whoever said you could legislate for peoples emotions? Vladimir Illyich lenin maybe? And look what happened to Russia. I’ve spent four months feeling like I’ve been kicked in the guts. I’ve lost a chapter I would have had finished tomorrow, I’ve lost two stone and I am probably going to lose my home, and I’ll count mysef lucky if I don’t lose my sanity in the process. I have good reason to be angry. And then Abel tries to tell me that she’s not even happy! This situation is fucked.

But the nuances, the layers of ambiguity – are that half the music on my computer is thanks to Slut – and I can’t help but thanks her for it. she introduced Abel to so much music which Abel introduced to me in turn – and I have to say I’m glad to know Java, and their lyrics probably did more for my French than anything else. (except nino ferrer perhaps). Last winter, Slut got us hooked onto Anais (whose song; mon amore; mon Coeur! Mon amour; mon Coeur! Je n’aime pas les couples, parce que quand je les voir, je resouviens que je suis seul… etc.” is probably the siren song that wooed Abel away from me and is certainly our swansong in French– but hell – I digress) , and to bitch and animal (whose ‘best cock on the block’ kind of describes my weekend – but I digress again). And I’ve got a random song by Erin McKeon “my hips” who I also think came from the same frightful woman. So I can’t hate her completely.

And that night in the unity bar – was mostly pleasant thanks to the presence of slut. When I strode in to the unity bar – in that awkward anxious way that butch dykes (even ones wearing pink) have of unconsciously imitating John Wayne (Maybe the bow legs are a way of hinting at a good fisting recently but I dunno, I just do it). I was standing there, meeting friendly hungry eyes all around me, feeling my pelvis realign as I ordered a beer, I saw her at the back of the room at a table of dykes – and called out. That familiarity of our exchange – mad bad banter in argot made me feel so at home. It was one of the first times that I really felt ‘yeah, I could live in Paris, this isn’t too bad’. I’ve written elsewhere of the delight of this exchange – of the experience of social interpelation as a need – something really essential to feeling… well, like, not so much like a dyke even –but like a woman. I feel like a woman (or two) – I feel sexual, strong, human, female, alive. I’m not posing and playing some little role for the amusement of others, I walk and stand with my desire naked around me. It’s a fine, fine thing. It happens everywhere in Newtown – and lots of places in the Sapphic halls of sandstone – but almost no where in Paris. So, despite the smoke – I, and we, danced, chatted, drank, flirted and sang with slut –and the others - a series of incredibly cheesy Eurotrash songs. There’s something incredibly delightful about seeing a room full of stone butches singing like schoolgirls at the top of their voices – they said that they were trying to outdo the gaybar 3 doors down. Abel refused to screech along to ‘Roxanne’ – so I leapt around with Slut – singing the words and mouthing the rest, as Abel ordered drinks and laughed. Then Abel and I had our turn at an insane rendition of – god! Who did that song? The pointer sisters? Abel and I – had done so many mad performance stunts, posing together and playing imaginary worlds that we were happy to take over all the floor space we could find. Running up stairs, swooning, racing around the pool table, inventing more and more baroque gestures that would make Madonna concert look like Kraftwerk – as well mimed to the lyrics. And the song…. “allleleluliah! it’s raining men!” . Butler could go to town on this one. Sweet mad irony…..

…Which has effectively morphed into a paradox six months later. I was sleep deprived and collapsed into bed at midnight after meeting my brother’s ex at the airport and chatting and hugging and laughing over dinner. Woke up at 4am to attempt to rewrite a paper for next week. These are all good excuses for having missed the highlight of the lady-loving eye candy calender of the year….. THE PERFECT SNATCH contest at the Sly. I’m lucky enough to have been on intimate terms with some of the pink bits on display (yeah yeah, me and half of Newtown) – and would have been delighted to have a reviewing. Even braving a chilly 20 minutes stride across the suburb. Even braving beer and cigarette smoke with lack of sleep and ladypain. OK the cigarette smoke was a deterrent. And the thought of having to decide between a Carlton Black hangover or cramping sober in a room full of drunken wenches.

But it’s also that I’m probably incredibly lazy about sex. As soon as I know where the next bout is coming from – I lose interest in leaving the house and trawling the streets for interpellative possibilities. And also, at the moment – I’m not sure how to walk, sit or stand. How to look, when a smile constantly shimmers at the corners of my mouth, and my eyes keep involuntarily glazing. I guess I’ll be able to sit normally by the weekend – but my flesh keeps tingling and I nearly come from feeling my thighs rub against each other. So I involuntarily blush, and try to ignore the open roaring yowls from my nether regions. This feels extremely queer and not in the usual sense of the word. It’s very strange, very intense, very pleasant –but completely unnerving. Maybe it’s just my biological clock screaming out an alarm, but … other pole-ish encounters haven’t produced anything like this. Maybe I just need something, and someone completely different from Abel. Something to efface all of the traces, the inner maps of our movements together, the touches, scents, caresses. Nothing will efface those, but my flesh aches to be drawn over by a skein of new sensations. Every singly cell. My hands, lips, thighs want to move differently, to shapes themselves in other ways, my back, torsoe and breasts to feel different possibilities of being. My ears ache to be filled with other honeyed tones. This longing is unbearable, and I’m only letting myself feel it in the cracks between short term memory and brief anticipation. I’ve got 12 hours of waiting today. My mind hums distractedly.

If Abel read this, I’m sure she’d argue that this is what she has felt for Slut. Because she’s a freak –she’s prolonged the anticipation for 4 months. Calling, emailing and texting obsessively, seeking a strange comfort in feeding longing. She used to do it with me. 10 pages each week for 4 months in 1998, then 9 months before June 2000. I’m still amazed, even while dying on the inside, and part of me sees this state as the source of her creativity. Maybe that’s what she thinks? Maybe that’s why she, insanely wants to return here, alone, to an expensive art course in a city far from her lover, with a hostile ex looming in the background. And I thought I was the recovering catholic.

All of the above is my invention or course. Or my interpretation on events and situations that I can’t understand. I’m scared that if this is what I believe about her, then all I’m doing at the moment is a type of mimicry. Than what I’m feeling isn’t about now, it isn’t about me, and it isn’t about the rather delightful object of my affections. Maybe I’m just jealous of her – so much so that I want to feel what she feels, feel it better, harder, bigger, longer, louder, closer. Here, in our home, between the sheets where we slept. In this body, where I’ve felt and shared so much with her.

I think I write, when the lines of communication go down – when I can no longer tell someone what I feel about them. I have to have some stream outwards. I could write anecdotes about who I’m seeing now, but enclosing someone in a story…taking a fragment, one facet and drawing it out into a line…. I’m scared it closes off the possibilities of what might happen. I started to blog about Abel – converting our relationship into literary nostalgia as it wilted between us. The parts within me, the parts I’ve shared with, that were nurtured by Abel, are withering and dying. The only way to describe what I feel physically – is as analogy with a dying plant – its roots in my belly, branches and leaves though my frame. (hell, this is so arboreal and not Deleuzian at all). I spent all last week, prostrate with this sense of dying, withering ending. It was hell. So I’m patting it down with words, nice stories, sealing it off and sending it away. Here now, as the sun has risen on this continent and Abel no doubt has just farewelled a midsummer sunset in the caresses of…. Someone I can’t bear to think about it. She’s gone. It’s over. End the possibilities, wrap it up, finish the story.

So the new thing, is outside words, and hopefully shall remain that way. Dancing, eluding a niice neat tale, a category. I sent a text to some friends last night – and they immediately wanted names, details, statistics. Wanted to pin this down, and I understand theem – even as I’m eticent to do so. Part of me is. Part of me is terrified by this openness, by the ambiguity, by the intricate negotiations of identity formation that lie ahead of me if this thing continues. Which I hope it does. Yes its fulfilling now, I have been filled, fully thankyou….. but these new circuits of touch, my touch softening even my own skin after such tender strokes across other flesh, feeling not just as a comfort but as a discovery, and finding space for a possibility I can’t even imagine…. Well, it’s nice. As the salsa about pedro Navajo goes “La vida tenga sopresas; sorpresas tienen la vida”. Where there is room for surprise, there is life.

Friday, June 23, 2006

Molecular Meanderings

While media have been used as the basis of much classification of artworks, how can art practices be described or classified outside of the legible (or credible) art objects? Arguably, the classification of art within the forms of its ‘media’ is imbricated with a molar view of substrates, materials and exchanges, fixing the engagement with art practices within a reified authority of a textual analysis.

This panel aims to draw together some current research across a variety of fields of visual culture, and explore the problems and possibilities of ‘extra-object’ aesthetic research. It aims to explore how the concept of medium can be reconfigured via deleuzian thinking and practices of ethnography. By researching practices that do not produce credible art objects, or visual modes regarded as obsolete or marginal, or even the types of exchanges that occur beyond the reification of spectatorship into a singular perspective of an art critic, this speakers on this panel hope to explore the aesthetics of becoming, of movement and possibility.


I wrote this as a draft panel proposal for some conference I want to present at in December. It's a product of a productive felafel lunch with the one other research i've found who is interested in a similar appproach to THE DISCIPLINE as myself. Unfortunately she lives in western Finland.

Deleuze is overrated and overrcited - and I'm interested in using "the rubric known as deleuze" in relation to the tension of molecularity ( discrete, contingent and temporarlly situated objects that are capable of multiple cnnections wiht a range of other similarly discrete, contingent and temporarily situated objects) - rahte rthan a molar - (think of chemistry labs in 1989; stained lab coat, flirting with boys while carrying phials of sulphuric acid - what's the aliquot? measuring the molar emount into an ehrlein flask... with a friggin oral pipette....). yeah, molar. Molar is an arbittrary and set, definied amount of the potentiality of an existing molecular configuration to effect err.... something.(wihs pred was still alive to correct and clarify this blither) Molar - is defining something as a fixed measurement. Molecular conveys potentiality (what could it do) and contingency (it could fall apart, and probably will, it is only like this under a specific range of circumstances) and i like it.

In relation to A R T... rather than describing art according to some lexicon of this is the truth, the whole truth this is the word, and the word was with god (the mastercritic)and one with god (the masterpiece) etc. - I like to think of a form of art discourse - that opens up an authoritative interpretation, (well, hell , breaks it apart even) - to other voices - to the contingency of the critical moment. Who is interpreting art - what are the exchanges behind producing the art object, describing it - what's being closed off in that moment off describing a work, what's bieng closed off in the moment off describing or liiting art to a specific artowork, objet or image?

what's being closed off when I write this particular set of propositions? when I extract, remove, censor, refine and code into JARGON my set of vague hunches and generla complete confusion about my thesis, my work, my life.

I spent most of this week, lying flat on my back wiht tears pouring out of my eyes. Each day I have found myself almost frozen in immobility. Can't move. well, I eventually move, but it's hard, slow and painful.

Writing is a melancholy act - and the kind of euphoric palabric flights that issue forth are a strange and probably inevitable counterpoint to the morbid stillness which precedes them. I'd like to be able to write - like Leiris in 'scratches' - in a way that articulates both staates. the condition off deahtlike immobility ad te flight of dazzling ideas...... I'd like to be able to articulate this moevement between the state of hell and state of pure delirious joy.

but hell, i can barely spell
who do I think I am?

and the whole elevated project is laughable when i consider the subject matter of my tome.

I jjust tried 3 times to insert and image into this posting - dragged of the internet - of an amateur life drawing class form NZ. Nothing about this image conveys lines of flight, or molecular becomings. It looks incredibly moribund and banal.

maybe thats the point.
the violence of a photography, and it does to violence to these sort sof encoutners - in seizing a singular moment - and draining it of all the temporal richness where the meaning is created.
if there is any meaning
and who gives a fuck anyway?
fuck oh fuck

I don't know whether I've been so sad this week - because i've been gestating on a paper (that still won't come), or missing abel horribly, or grieving for my brother. I try to imagine he's in the same place as charlie parker (I know that sounds hideously pretentious but trumpet players deserve their own heaven)

I heard a flugelhorn at a gig last night and had to force tears back in the darkness. soft dull tones, like a Paris sky in winter - sounding like soft drizzle. Very hard to do mambo on a flugel (it's much more milonga) .

the gig was crazed caberet with the sax player from Waiting for Guinness doing schamlzy skanky riffs. and the singer, a good friend - belting out the swansong of my former marriage:

I'll be fine
and You'll be fine
No-one's died
and theoretically
We can still be friends
just as no-one pretends
that's it's the same
as before

Times like these feel like the onion cellar in gunter Grasses "the tin drum"

it's stopped raining. I'd better go for a walk before I collapse in front of another SODUKO.

Tuesday, June 20, 2006

Blame the chicken

Yesterday was a really horrible horrible bad day.

things were kind of greyish and OK, and after a day ff pointless onanistic gloom I decided to push myself under the shower and then head off on a long stride into uni to prepare the art and mayhem segment - which I strode up to UTS to deliver.

Daz and I chatted about ladypain and lady gloom in between track changes and the segment - and then I headed off, ostensibly to get some vegan junkfood in the form of deep fried tofu with peanut sauce (its the elvis version of TOFU and it costs $4). STUPIDLY however, I decided to go all random and adventurous and attempt something new.

I'm not usually a chicken eater - but thought a big bowl of chicken soup wiht noodles and green things might be good for my b-vitamin count and decided to lash out $8.
And then (5 minutes later) I was brought:
a thin plastic bowl with some instant noodles, dried spirng onion, a lettuce leaf, dried mushrooms, and dried savoury cornflake things
And a a sperate bowl with some water

My jaw hit the floor and I stupidly dragged the thing back to my seat and sat silently injesting msg and palm oil with a modicum of soya lethicin modified hydrongenase.... BLEEEAHAAAAHGGGGHHHH!!!!

then felt so depressed that I went to bread story next door and bought more shitty fluffy overpriced junk food, (but durian flavoured - just to get rid of the scary msg taste) and then staggered acrosss the road an caught a bus home.
hit the hay -
- hay smelling futon

Injesting bread story cconfectionary induced a sugar rush which slid into a big fat trough by the time my bus reached home - so I collapsed somnambulant for an hour or two.

then woke up to hell and gloom.

rang my mum and mumbled monosyllables while she breathlessly babbled utter bullshit. Ignored other phone ringing later -wwhihc tunred out to be Abel, ringing from chez maman at lunch. Her mum has been sending me texts and my stomach churns thinking of Abel with her girlie - and fuck I wish I didn't have to see her face ever again.

things are unspeakably bad -when I can spend 5 hours on the SODUKO in an old copy of MX

How am I meant to write a PhD with this brain?

It was all horrible horrible horrible, wanted to die, wanted to sink through the ground - didn't even want to kill 5 people first - just wanted to evaporate.

I even seriously considered going to queensland.

what brought this on?

I'd had a weekend of overnurturing - playing host and tourist guide and endlessly washing dishes sheets for a bunch of , well one was an old school frined, the others were her friends - and i swear that was really really dumb thing of me to do - and I hope I don't do it again in the next 10 years.
It made me feel exhausted, empty and bored, and a bit pannicky.
I don't need anyone's approval that much

this of course being the weekend - after abel left the country. and letting her back in my life before hand was also extrmely dumb and I am now going through the same old hell I went through in march - of separation. She's happpy living 2 contradicotry realities - the life with me as her wife - and her real passionate fantasy world of SLUT - and fuck only knows who else. sure she has to be pissed most of her life in order to do it but she can still do it.

I was sooooo happy - a light delusional joy when she grovelled and moved back in a fortnight before her departure, swearing she'd give up the grog and calling SLUT while under the same roof. she stayed grog free for 4 days, and kept her finger moving over her phone keypad everywhere, in conversation, in the car, at the dinner table. constantly

how could I be so stupid?

After sitting crouched over the computer with hell gut pains at 4am - writing misspelt missives on lists and incurring wrath of some freak (who lives around the corner) upon my poor eardrums, - I crawled into her bed, for chaste cuddles and sweet slumber for 3 hours before our neighbour woke her up to drive her to the airport.

i'm still in love with her, she wants to fuck me, and I fell fucked by her, fucked over. this is all just fucked

Note to self: don't let her ever stay another night under the same roof with me

the day she left - I went and saw a counsellor, had a shiatsu and then got involuntarily screamed at for 15 minutes by some freaky 'activist' type - whose out to solve the middle east peace process by her highly developed skillls in rhetoric and diplomacy. GOD PLEASE LET HER GET HIT WIHT A SKUD I prayed while backing away

Ohhh god doesn't exist and if he does he's certainly not on my side

Note to self: must cancel registration for queer collaborations. I thought it might be a strategy for desperate damsel wooing - but err..... god...... pathcouli, activists and their lack of humour, that abstracted idealism, innappropriate and unmananged anger projected onto the revolution or veganism or some other poor bastards sorry fucked up life or god only knows what and really poor social skills, YUCKKKKKKK.

I'm not twenty and can't be drunk enough to pretend I am anymore.

and the conference website is one of the most patronising things I've encountered in a long time.

I am too old for this
too sober

adding to gloom

and then yesterday was my brother's birthday - and I've decided that if I have any say in my death that I'll try to arrange it on my birthday - so there's only one day of hopeless incomparable sadness for my family to deal with each year instead of two.

so today, I've washed a lot of sheets, and vacuumed the house, and stuffed myself with pumpkin soup and had a shiatsu and barely left the house and I feel safe and warm and well cared for and I'm going to engage in some trivial part of the thesis work rather than some large amorphous imaginative chunk whee I have to face my own doubts about everything and the HELLISH CHASM WITHIN in order to pull something out of my arse.

Pity coz I've got a conference paper to give in a fortnight - based on a chapter that I haven't written


Monday, June 12, 2006

Every Sperm is Sacred

As you will no doubt be aware, our current government
cares deeply about all children, including the unborn.

sinking the SIEV x was just one example of the the
current governments child protection plan, not to
mention the mandatory detention of aboriginal kiddies
in the NT for stealing textas, plus the concentration
camps for the kiddies who arrive on boats in utero or
associated with adults not in posession of a valid
tourist visa.

So, it will come as no surprise to learn that the
merry mob of canberra have been using some of our hard
earned taxes to fund private counselling services in
womens health.

These cousnelling serivces don't come from any of the
namby pamby chardonnay sipping medical, bureaucratic,
or social worker sets but are made up of honest,
hardworking, god fearing, ordinary Amer....ahem
Australians who don't want to bludge off the taxpayers
and don't want all those baby murdering doctors and
unwed mothers to do the same.

Our government cares about the initiative of ordinary
australians, and so have been doling out the dollars
to such nicely named gourps as "pregnancy Help
australia" (who received $300,000 last year). these
private groups are being funded to give such useful
advice to roughly 11,000 sperm laden ladies each
year, that abortion increases the risk of breast
cancer, and that it will prevent them from becoming
pregnant in future, and that they are murderers for
even thinking of depriving life to their unborn child,
and that they shouldn't be having sex outside of
marriage anyway, and sholdn't even think of shaving
their legs before the age of twenty unless they want
to burn in hell as one of the damned whores of satan.

This is a bit of a worry when, as we all know,
thousands of sperm are wasted daily on internet porn
sites, and each month, millions of women go
shamelessley discarding the unborn by flushing their
used tampons down the toilet.

Instead of allowing the wasteful expenditure on
privately run telephone counselling services why not
join other citizens in mass consumer boycott of
masturbation aids such as pornography and kleenex, as
well as sanitary products that encourage the wasteful
and needless destruction of human embryos through the
unhygenic and often painful practice of menstruation?

why not start smashing up those sanitary bins in
public toilets and banning sodomy, bukake and oral

why not make it a condition of earning a passport
that all australian citizens demonstrate they are in
posession of a mortgage, a plasma screen TV and 2.5
blue eyed blonde haired you beaut bonza kinder... err


Lets make more aussies! stopping abortion is too late,
the earlier the better! Every sperm desrves a chance
to become an aussie kiddie and so does every egg!
Fertilise every single one!

Consumer boycotts are not the only means of saving the
kiddes and ending the waste. you can also go to the
getup site and sign an internet petition. Apparently
the pollies are about too debate the issue in

go to:

spread this message with lashings of fabulon and see
you in the obstretrics ward.

Sunday, June 11, 2006

Frigid weekend

It was thursday night and I was on the train from Sydenham to Town Hall. I was wearing little more than fake tan, a denim micro mini, a truck load of blond hair extensions, false eyelashes, a fur lined white cardigan, fake tattoes and ugh boots.
I was scragg.

I also decided that I needed false nails to complete the look. I opened the box of $3.00 decorated pink nails and unscrewed the tube of nail adhesive. The realised it needed to be cut open. i tried biting and gnawing it instead. then read the ingredients list as i tasted cyaonocongeloggoaguatationguanisocin66opospluhpheoluons on my teeth and tongue.

it was going to be a toxic night. what goon would wash this crap off my tongue?

Undeterred by iminent carcinoma I squeezed droplets of the glue onto the false nails and pressed them onto the finger tips of my right hand. flashing my voluntarily disabled digits and deciding that I'd save my left hand from such fate.

that was 3 days ago and these false nails, unlike my usual $1.00 ones, refuse to budge. the glue must have been some mutant form of builders bog or something left over from the space shuttle. After 2 days of not being able to type, dress, search my pockets or do other two handed tasks, I decided to cut the false nails. Im left handed so I'm not totally immobilised, but there's one major major problem.

My right hand is the organ of lady love, and right now its festooned with 3D plastic pink flowers and glitter. Even in their trimmed state ths is guaranteed to send any girl not starring on a lesbo porn website running a mile. bugger.

I've had a fun weekend of running around and going out dancing. such delight aof gratuitous booty movements to fund music! such delight of the fairer sex before me. And yet, I felt like I was wearing a chastiity built. Immobilised, neutered.

I guess this was an appropriate way to spend the 10th anniversary of the sunday night fest of FRIGID. the 10 year farewell bash was held on a saturday night just to confuse things and I arrived just after the 2nd set and missed TOOTH. bugger again. the entranc eof Newtown RSL was not unlike a Blue lgiht disco - wiht a big fat que of bag chekcers, membership checkers, ID chekers and god knows what else.gratutious inneificient ridiulous bureacracy reminding me of Sdyney airport. Don'cha love Australia?

Inside saw friends and then tried to meet the extreme booty challenge of swinging to some extremely unhappy hardcore err, ithink the term is banging trance. Lots of tesosterone. Not many buxom wenches on the dance floor. the dance floor like a sauna. i retreated. retreated further from PV's extreme oscillations between slow fluffy e-trance and hard herdish hip hop. Like tha hard core dude he was wearing a thick fleecy hoody. he told me it was because he had a broken toe and couldn't dance. But I reckon he was doing some secret cryogenesis extreme cool challenge. they probably pracitce by weraing thermal underwear in saunas. I sat near a cool wall and saw old friends from the 90's and sat aroudn chin wagigng about our bunions.Inwardly pondered my previous nights extreme enjoyment of Albanian dance music. I really enjoyed it but I think in my eurotrash garb - that I scared the more modestly clad albanians. Everyone else there aready knew I was only doing this part time.

the frigid dance experience was rescued by sir robbos extreme schwanky cheese. Even luke was dancing. It was like hendrix meetsmotown meets the best ever 70's porn sudntracks and so I was happy, happy as larry. Really really happy and sober as a judge. I then floated in to Luke vyberts hard but witty techno retro smorgasbord. this ended on a really stilly segue of happy hardcore. I was glad my friend hoorst was around to hear it. this was a nice entree into the biggest sillliest happiest sub set i've heard in a long long time. Yayy for luke's orchestrated arm waving. yayy for the lovely combo of luke and sebmixing togehter dancing toehger. this is mixing as perfomrance - as a lovely live impro thing that reminds me of great jazz. yayy for seeing MD on the edge, floating near a big speaker and looking completely spacey and not recongizing me with no glasses, no eyebrows and no black hair. (I have a horrrible suspicion that I met MD on the UNSW library lawn in 1989 and the first thing he evern said to me was "you know the rave scene isn't what it used to be...." As I recalled this moment the snarl put in an ORB bit. yayyy!!!! and finished with classic butchered bowie.

My extreme frigid moments included stumbling over couples snogging on the dance floor (am I so puritan to find slow snog e-ing to be an inapropriate chemical strategy for a dance party?) and then seeing one of my students at the bar. (I fled and missed gemma's set!) . Some guy asked if I was the hula girl. I told him I was the booty queen and it was an important distinction. Not enough cute girls and not any cute boys actually (or am I really gay). all irrelevant due to ex-wife in next bedroom and plastic finger tips making me feel like a eunuch anyway.

Walking home in the drizzle, I had to slow right down to a barely moving crawl to avoid a gaggle ff drunken 3 am yobs that even the cabbies were reluctant to pick up. this was annoying.

Tuesday, June 06, 2006

Trucking on

I had 3 days of unanticipated pain last week.

migraines suck.

this week, i feel fluey cold sore tired. My mouth has ulcers, my bowels are loose, and I'm sure no-one wihses they'd just read this.

After a week of extreme fluffy cuteness, tail between the legs tenderness etc., abel has resumed normal adolescent stone baby butch programming.

I'm so over it that I'm numb.

she leaves in 8 days. I can't wait.

she'll be gone only for a month -but a month! a whole month of no guilt, somtach cramps, pain, nerves, anxiety, jelaousy, regret, impotence being rubbed into my face with lashings of old dead longing

So I'm calm and collected about current tense hell. Being civil, remote.

I barely believe what she says I don't care, try not to care, try hard not to care

It's hard trying

Typing messages to NBL - who is a life saver. small missives of hope and possibility. Evne if nothing comes of it, if it all falls in a heap, later one, right now, its a miraculous comfort. Like little pathces of sunlight amist the sodden sky.

Never before this I ever understood the miraculous hope of gratuitous flirting. Expectation as life sustaining. I hated tension, indecision, unresolvedness. never one for dates - I always preferred jumping into bed wiht both boots and mopping up the consequences later.

so this is extremely nice.

I don't have any certainties about my life at the moment - feel pulled professioonally between quite two distinct realms, and my home life has fallen in a heap - so I'm adjusting to uncertainty, precarity, not knowing what will happen.

treading water, if I stop flailing I still float.