Drawing in the Box

Sometimes I wish I was more diligent and could have been keeping a daily inventory of the whacky things that I see each day..... Wandering around a new city - dialy life still stirkes me as completely extraordinary. I saw some huge billboard saying something about contemporary art today - it was over a street in the northern tip of chelsea - where caryards meet ocndos meet contemporary art spaces.
Outside the streets were icy, with one of those rapier like winds that sting your eyes and make the tears freeze on your face -inside free piss was flowing. Each white box lit up
like a little beacon of delight......

I was headed for the uber white box, literally called "white box" - where they had a retrospective for the toronto based rad-mag off the '80's called impulse. there were tables and walls full of photos,cuttings and lots of fun weird little things - like some guy's microfilm comic strip and a display of documents and images from SITE. site was the acronym for Sculpture In the Environment who were a bunch of artists and architects who got together in the '70's to make some pretty amazingingly deconstructed shopping malls. Impulse had bits from their fragmented shopping mall - as well as the lava'd parking lot - ccars set into and covered in concrete..... which reminded me of the forest blockaders in tassie..... way to go!

so what was I doing swanning around in the chelsea art-cube world? - wishing I could imbibe some of the Grolsh beer being popped open ever second. If it had been congnac - or even a half decent vin rouge I probably would have succumed

Acutally, I had tagged along with Carollee Schneemann - who invited me out after our interview...... I know this sounds like crazy name dropping but I've realised that New york lives from a continuous circulation of namedropping and story telling. the narrratives and networks are the cultural life blood of a city that is also rapidly changing - and turning into some really weird version of strathfield, or something. Condo's eat up whole areas - really fast. and being white, arty, queer and aspirationally upwardly mobile (ie doing a PhD) I feel like part of the problem. which is the arty, bright eyed, alternative, go getting high culturaly capitalled rif-raf like muggins are the thin edge of the wedge for the staid culture eating, financially capitalled, psychic vampires that eat up cities,, suck out the life blood and turn them into apartments, parking lots and shopping malls. It's happened already in Brooklyn - and bits of manhattan. anyway - said thin edges of wedgers - living off a sliver of hope, possibility with smatterings of conscientious social contention - slip aghast as the ground slides under beneath us and gets teflonned into consumerised antimatter - and so all we have left is our stories, the names, the brief brushes with fame, utopian possibilities, eternal nostalgia. it's certainly how i feel about newtown - so I'm fully OK with the name dropping nostalgia thing.

It also contributes to the increasing shudder I feel around williamsburg - which is homogenisedly young, white and clean cut cool. Everyone there looks like the fashion students from east sydney tech. It's a bit scary - and they all look 10 years younger than the yuppies pushing prams or walking dogs in park slope. which is like Balmain. eugh

so, my interview with Carolllee was amazing, as expected - though I was mostly rather speechless and I don't think I sounded intelligent or asked nearly half of the questions I wanted to ask. I guess one of the reasons I love and adore what she does - is that she's like a beacon of hope for what I really, deep down believe about art, and about drawing as a form of critical praxis.....

I HATE the way that drawing and life drawing has been mobilised as emblematic of traditional skills. and the type of drawing that emerges from this discourse is DEAD, dead drawing, by and for psychic vampires who are afraid of their own and others bodies, senses and experiences and want to foreclose any possiblity of ART being a way of re-imagining and experiencing the world
. I HATE people who insist on drawing being 'hard' and needing some form of 'mastery' whihc is shorthand for denying the self. Denying the power and beauty of vulnerability, of failure. I'm not saying that drawing ISN'T hard - or isn't intense, because, like any serious practice it can be, extremely personally, physically, and mentally challenging. (When the ciy winds hit me like a slap - I remember sitting on cliffs in belle Ile, moaning aloud from the cold - going half mad from the wind - but staying there drawing for 3 hours... because I HAD TO). Carollee's vintage piece "up to and including her limits" really articulates what drawing is for me. It is about pushing yourself - completely, being utterly immersed in space, and thrown into both the space around, suspended with your own bodily force as the only momentum. and marking, marking marking, this process of reahcing out to make matter mark across space, to trace what we see - through our skin, through our muscles as much as with our eyes. Seeing and drawing is embodied, empathic and life affirming, and is a profoundly human pursuit. In addition to being a legend performance artist, Carollee is also an exquisite draftsperson - and she showed me a catalogue of the chorecographic sketches through which she developed her performance work. Renaissance primero pensieri eat your bloody heart out! this is not reflection of a continuous tradition - but an exquisite point in the life of the universe where imaginations, connnections, images and possibilities meet across time and space. It's a rhizomatic miracle - not a dead arboreal lineage. Carollee has also taught drawing and life drawing for about as long as I've ben alive or something - and is critically engaged with it as an empathic discipline, a practice that is absolutely contemporary, because its a means of observing and engaging with the present.

So this is the fire in my belly that keeps me trudging back to the library, and up those bloody marble stairs. And keeps me from screaming aloud after wasting my last $2 on a photocopier that doesn't have metric measurements..... It's what keeps me going, going through interviews of people who I occasionally find offensive, or boring or just obfuscating. And going through bad lying books and bad lying articles that are offensive or boring or obfuscating. Because I believe in the necessity and importance of disrupting the use of history as a bludgeon to destroy the present. when people cite a tradition like its some monolith, they make it into a myth - which like the law of the father, doesn't get challenged easily. So I like to break it up - find little tricks, little by-ways - expose it as a fractured connection of white lies, arbitrary habits, strange chinese whispers, odd moments. Every 'tradition' is just a collection of habits and blind spots - which can be challenged, and changed and contested.

In the USA - people refer to the classical tradition - quite a bit - and they mention some guy called Bargue who i'd never heard of before last month. He's THE MAN they like to copy. Today I trudged up to the extreme sports old school National Academy of Art to hear a talk and demonstration of the BARGUE DRAWING TECHNIQUE. and the place resembled the Royal Art Society so much it wasn't funny. Even the smell. and the weird beige partitions. and the people, of course. Oh God. the lecturer was not an art historian. at all. In fact the whole thing was dilletante city. Most of the questions were about wher she got her fancy drawing tools, and white type of expensive vellum paper to get. Oh fuck. to be fair - she seeme dlike a good drawing isntructor - open to and responsive to her own and other's foibles. The main thing she emphasised was the sight-size method - which I felt like a gorgeous little piece of maxmeldrum in manhattan.

for the purposes of public information - the sight size method was a way of generating tonal copies of drawings or paintings or even statues and objects, and people. It works on the basis of generating a tonal sketch based on the idela viewing position of a picture. this is ye-olde-worlde-genuine you beaut renaissance master territory here. Basically the viewing position - is where a painting especially - but any 2D image should resolve into an effective illusion of three dimensionality. I think you can calculate it as 3.5 times the vertical length of the picture. so if a picture is 50 cms high - you have to stand 1.75 metres away form it to see it properly. Now in the sight size method of drawing/painting - the artist has to make all of the decisions about their drawing from this distance. If you are copying an A4 drawing, onto an A4 peice of paper - then you stand 90cms away from both the oringinal and your copy. If you are dong a life study -then you set up your subject as a TABLEAU and then set up your easel so that the posing figure appears to be the same size as the copy that you will create on the canvas. and you must stand 3.5 x the height of the canvas away. If that distance is longer than your arm - then the process involves looking and making a decision at the viewing point, stepping forward to make a mark, and then stepping back to the viewing point. It requires an enormous amount of self discipline, spatial awareness and bodily control in order to do it. the plus side - is that, like Iyengar yoga - the precision does increase your kinaesthetic awareness of your own body in space and how seeing and mark making becomes and extension of this. the down side of it, is that unlike Iyenga yoga - the bodily schemata is extremely limited to standing upright and still, wiht one arm -pointed straight out, which is shit boring. this shit boringness - the rigidity encourages a denial of the body, and its capacities. If people oculd do sight sizing stanidng on their heads, lying donw, seating, turned sideways or lying sideways -then it could be interesting. as it is, pretending to be a set of compass points or some kind of freaky fleshy CAD program is just silly. (I didn't tell them that's what I thought though.)

the reason why I mention the BARGUE thing - is that I SUSPECT that this is what has made so much of the postwar US drawing so mechanical. Mercedes Matter was really into phenomenology - and yet the New York Studio School produces a 'style' of drawings that is weirdly geometric and cold and very unlike anything that comes out of a body. so I'm interested in people who can help me tease apart this link. I LIKE phenomoenology and phenomenological drawing, I respect people who can obsessively engage with a level of observational precision that borders on complete barminess. but I want drawings to be warm, embodied, open to possibilities and exchanges which communicate the vulnerability of that precision. some do - but it's a funny and strange thing how.

Bananas in Brooklyn

I've been typing, I've been writing, seriously, shitloads!
just not on the blog.

i've settled into the bookish life of an innelekshool abroad, and I love it.

I make amazing porridge each day from this 5 grain organic mix and add in a banana, plus strawberries, blackberries, blueberries and rasberries. Plus freshly grated cinnamon and a tablespoon of tahini or sunflower sead paste.

this keeps me going for 5 hours or so in the fucking cold whatever 17 degrees farenheit is mean to represent....

and I've been doing interviews and going to local sketch clubs, including a burlesque one (again) and the nicolaides run through at Spring Street.

and today i found "the worlds largest discount paint store" and was pretty happy -and sending texts to firends overseas seeing if they wanted to place orders......

I know this sounds really banal and probably is -but everyday life and banans are what makes a city liveable.

the other day though there was a bright sunlight on my exposed nose and it was even a bit warm and I had a brief longing for the sensation of sun on naked skin..... and I sighed. Hell I never get that in Sinney summer anyway - but bundling up in 5 layers eahc time I want to elave the house gets a bit tedious at times.

my friends Hen & J, have got me addictied to this new Dr. Who spinoff called TORCHWOOD. It's set in Cardiff! It's reminiscent to 12 months ago when simon and holly got me hooked on Shameless. Each day I'd cram my eyeballs and brain with the british library and then come home to vicarious white trash land - it was great. now my mind is full of ideas about drawing and tyring to intellectualise recent art pedagogy AND futuristic pan sexual alien seekers in wales.

and I rekcon noo yorkers are nutty

Where am I?

at present I'm drama free and blogging here
I've also got really boring pics up on my flickr site

cultural lubrication

I broke my new years resolution and had two glasses of wine last night. Not entirely by consent.

I’d trekked over to Chelsea after doing a gallery stroll in Williamsburg. The local galleries actually produce a monthly map and listings of the openings each night – so arty punters in search of free piss and eyeball stimulation – or just warmth amidst the pretty cool young things - can guide themselves along the circuit.

I was actually very strong and resisted the free beer, and free pastis on offer. OK it didn’t take that much self control actually. And the art was pretty orright too.

First up was a ballpoint show at Cinders gallery. Biro drawings are tres cool part of the edgy ‘anal grunge’ aesthetic that characterizes modern ‘youf’ art. You know the thing? Everyday materials – as a generous nod tho the waste aesthetic post-arte-povera thing combined with exquisite attention to detail and that self conscious focus on pop-culture trivia, or just trivia, that denotes authentic late-industrial-consumer-society angst?

Cinder’s last show was a big printmakers combo – and the back room sells jewellery, objects, zines, t-shirts and VINYL – yeah – RECORDS – by local hipsters, all for nice present level prices. I’d bought a resin cast cumquat slice enamelled onto a ring for a friend – and the owner said they were planning a t-shirt show in Melbourne of screenprints on teatowels at the 3rd Drawer gallery.

Back to Friday – the gallery was packed. The walls were wallpapered with 3 or four deep A4 sheets of mostly bond paper – all covered with mainly blue biro drawings –though there was one corner of black biro drawings. Tiling is a great way to hang serial style shows – where there are lots of works that share a formal criteria – (like size, or support medium) and evokes the post-modern trash-ironic-aesthetic that seeks to rise above the preciousness of art as reified singular object of genius – and embrace seriality and repeatability as fun facts of life. Prices ranged from $2.95 to $1,000.00 which was cute too. Most were in the $50-$100 range. I grasped all of the above at the threshold of the gallery, by peeking above the heads of the throng which filled the centre of the room, while swiping a catalogue at the doorway.

The next bit was a bit harder – doing the New York sauna slow stripping shuffle. (actually I’m becoming quite adept at this) – which involves peeling off layers of clothing – allowing enough time for snowflakes to evaporate but not condense on spectacles as steam, while in a really crowded room /subway/queue of people doing the same thing. One of the things I really like about winter is the constant doona like gentle pressure between bodies. Danes have word ford it: “hooglie” – which reminds me of “huggily”. Peoples bodies are so wrapped up in winter woollies that we forget our boundaries – and huddle and press and gently and sway together, all without eye contact. It’s kind of intimate, and cute, and kind of weird at the same time. I guess guys must have a similar thing at beats. Anyway I was doing this in a room, edging along the walls, back to the centre, peering at biro drawings in a not quite steamy bespectacled kind of way, while ferreting around for a tissue to wipe my runny nose. Behind me I felt the padded pressings and shufflings of the black clad hipsters of Williamsburg and I felt like I’d walked into some cool pub on Brunswick Street. (or maybe surry hills in the 1990’s – Sydney is too sunny and plastic to really be ‘cool’). Almost everyone was 10 years younger than me, with bad skin and bad hair (mainly facial on the men), but a certain je ne sais quoi that made me feel self conscious. Oh, yeah, I know. They were wearing duffle coats, high tops, those trendy Tibetan/Inca style beanies and all had white skin, black hair and mostly black clothing. I also have white skin and mostly black hair but also had on a stripy beanie, flouro orange polar, blue jeans with an appliquéd flower on the sides, green/white sneakers, and I was lugging a big puffy full length parka. (one of the key markers of social capital in winter cites is the confidance to wander round looking half fed- and underdressed – overdressing tends to connote homelessness – and overeating denotes white trash poverty – coolness invokes a detachment from the senses – such as the fear of cold or hunger).

I really stuck out because, I wasn’t carrying a can of budweiser, and I was looking at the art. Which was kind of cool. There were some really amazing detailed drawings, some exquisite stencil style blade cut and biro drawings, and a lot of fairly banal illustration, some fairly bland adolescent ‘protest-angst’ art, (complete with bad poetry) and lots of mad magazine teenage boy cartoony art. Which ain’t my cup of expresso. I considered forking out $10 for a drawing of exqisitely rendered diarrhoea on a garbage can – but then couldn’t be bothered fighting my way back through the crowds to do the purchase. So I rugged up and braved the snowflakes once more.

I checked my map and scurried around the corner to a place called “front room” – in a warehouse behind big metal doors up some stairs. This was a big white box of delights – miniatures and reproductions and a more heterogeneous crowd – that looked – like the other crowd – the artists and their friends – but these artists seemed to have spent more time away from their teenage bedrooms. The place was so packed – that I was forced to negotiate the space warily – peering at video installations, into light boxes, onto shelves. There was some bronze pistachio nuts, FUCK snow globes and a book of beautiful superimposed photographs by Robert Flynt – that were creepy and beautiful and so I got one for my friend who collects found photographs and stitches them up into little sculptures. There were more PLM’s (people like me) at this space so I could have happily stayed but – my friend wanted to push on. So out we went…..

And trudged for 2 blocks up the same street to Parkers Box. This was redolent of the Good Hope Gallery on a good night with more ‘serious’ artists, and buyers (with decent winter coats). It was a very clean white cube, with clean white works, and clean white people. And blissfully free of the stench of Storrier. (you know, I can’t BELIEVE how Australia is sooo small that even potentially interesting galleries are forced to take moribund turkeys seriously because the art buyers are so few and far between and so turkeyfied themselves that the only way to keep a profit is to sell big buck turkey art –and showing anything interesting is regarded as an act of fucking charity).

I’ll stop whingeing now – because the group show, called ‘the troubled waters of permeability’ had some really lovely works to make me smile for quite a while – especially animated sculpture video stuff – as in electronically interfaced kinetic sculptures…. Eergh. In English this means that one bit had a rotating sphere of wires linked to a whole heap of little daisies on wires on the wall that scintillated and shimmered, with various nice alternances, and then there was a really intense forest video placed in this great moving assemblage of old printer bits. I’m not sure what it meant but it looked good (great art review eh?). There was an amazing big funnel object by Soyeon Cho, suspended from the ceiling, that had the lyrical grandeur of similar objects made by Petra Coyne. It was made from an plastic forks and other every day things – and had the witty transformation of the everyday into exquisite fanciful otherness that Koji Rui did in Primavera this year.

At the steel school of sculptural formalism where I did my training – they wer e pretty down on assemblage art – because (apparently) it never allowed the objects to transcend their object-ness and become ‘pure’ material that can then evoke ‘pure’ form – and those hokey rustic wood and metal things that you see in bad Sculpture shows certainly prove that point. But occasionally, the plastic soul of banal objects can take flight and become both object and form, and matter, and as our eyes and minds stumble between all three possibilities, nice things happen. The Mayhem Theory Of Aesthetics‰ holds fast to the power of interstices, of gaps and crevices, of incomplete junctures and wrinkled seams as the repositories of the great stuff in life (which reminds me; I’ve run out of dental floss).

So I was enamoured of Soyeon’s funnel – as a permeable shell of meanings and troubledness, and nice imaginative possibilities, even though dusting it would prove a total shit. One of the nicest things I saw though was a great digital/kinetic installation by a duo called “electric shadow”. The gallery curtained of a corner to create a nice little booth. A shallow rectangular pool of bubbling water was in the centre, on the floor, with some abstracted elegant blue-green lines projected over the rippling surface – which then reflected up onto the wall. There was an enticingly expanding, shrinking animated circle projection on a pad at one end of the pool – which was incredibly tempting – to stick a foot in, o on. Which after a few bevvy’s punters gingerly did. The projection was mounted on a pressure pad – and standing on it –set off another projection across the pool – a weird diaphanous smokey shadow form streaming across the rippling water – in a way reminiscent of viola’s ‘ascentions’ (which is perfectly housed at MOMA right now). Ghostly presence, rippling water, light, air, and fine fine algorithms. Digital art done well can evoke the stuff of the self so well – sense, experiment, fate, form. This was nice.

After this I had a slow trudge tot he subway and a long wait at 6th avenue for a train to the Chelsea Bar where my friend was playing. By the time I arrived, my face was almost too numb to form words. She said she’d put my name on the door, but negotiating my way through two floors of a pumping Chelsea Gay bar on a friday night was not easy. Not to mention dealing with the attitude of the staff manning the caberet theatre where she was playing. “Have you got a reservation?” “Yeah, I’m with the Bass Player”. “Well, there’s no seats left” “I can stand” “You can’t stand” “Oh” “Ok, I think there’s a seat here, at this table, (to the seated clients) can you make room for this lady?” “yeah sure” “Ok, you can sit here” “great thanks” “now, you must have a drink, what do you want?” “err.. have you got a drinks list?” “Ok, come in here (so I struggle into the bar area) this is our drinks list (shows me to a wall of vodka). “err… can I have a glass of wine, please?” so they brought me two glasses of wine. (What!) but I was in no mood to protest. I was at a table of really lovely Manhattan Queens being regaled by an incredible performer - who put the soul back into country and coaxed a double bass solo off a Tammy Wynette tune from my Jazz muso friend. What a genius! Strutting, talking, singing, sobbing to blues, country and Tango. I texted Kath Ellis and told her to get her arse over here. New York is the place where Carlos Gardel meets Hank Williams with just enough Streisand…. I thought about some great lecture on CAMP that I heard at an art-history conference last month and felt very glad to be alive. At the end of the night, I handed over my plastic, and me, my friend and her tree (pet name for double bass) squeezed past the disco beats and muscle marys in the other two rooms and headed back to Brooklyn.

Last night in bed I actually kept on my pyjamas and my doona – and could hear the central heating hissing –so I knew it must have been cold. This morning I groggily woke up to a world of whiteness outside –and watched it melt while eating my fruit porridge. Now, I’m aiming to get to a ‘burlesque sketch club’ a few blocks away. I’m meant to shower first I guess, but I want to stay in my pyjamas and keep tapping away. I hope the burlesque show isn’t full of scary frat boys with scary ‘arty’ attitude. – and I can sit and do some fun little drawings of the people and the room, and hopefully see some nice stuff.

bananas, Bagels, books

have I made you all really sick with my incessant ravings about how bloody great it is here?

New yorkians are obsessed with raving about how much cooler things were in the olden days (the eighties or the nineties or somehting) - but even now things are pretty damn cool now.Actually there not very cool - kind of mild - like the weather. right now i'm got hissing central heating and my room is like a sauna. i'm trying to pretend that it's good for my cold.

i'm staying in williamsburg - whihc used to be a rough area 5 years ago - but is now officially 'hip'. Half the shops around where i'm styaing are boarded up, the others are kind of paint peelingly garish - and there's lots of Latinos - who wrinkle their nose at my dodgy attempts at spanish.

tho i had one success - trying to buy a recharge card for my phone - I didn't know the local word in either english or spanish - so asked in spanish - and things worked out fine. so far i've discovered in NYC that if you don't use the PRECISE terminology for a thing - then you get ignored - like in the back of a psycho cab the other day - yelling"Stop1 STOP!!!" - till finally the guy asked, "oh, you mean pullover?" (I thought that was a jumper).....

and the shops this end of town blare "Supa Queso" tacky music and sell really scarily cheap polyester clothes for $5US that make scragg's eyes water.....

A few blocks round the corner - things are a bit different. People's skin colour lightens, their hair colour and clothes darken. the streets look like a transplant of the nicer bits of Brunswick Street. Blocks and blocks of coolcafes, coolgalereis, cool shops all selling the international youfstreetcred wear that Scrag's house of Fashion and Refred's seel in newtown - and that i didn't really see much of in Paris. I've been feeling a bit outre in my beanie and full length parka so i lashed out on a red leather tranch coat and a trilby. i now look like a technicolour Kermit the frog in reporter mode. (told you this place is like sesame street)

the thing that amuses and delights me is how cheap - i mean reasonably priced the art is. there's are lots of nice prints, jewelry, drawings paitnings - all under $500 - wiht prints and objects under $50. AND IT'S NICE, interesting refreshing stuff - like the better fare at Gaffa......

(this is in marked contrast to Hawaii - where the local hilo poetry art gallery - had hideous bad screen prints for minimum of $75...... I mean I know hawaii is famous for kitsch - but surely it can be made into a selling point - like the cover of that great Martin Denny CD - rahter than blanded out to tourist pastel.)

I got some nice jewelry and prints as xmas prezzies for friends byt i'm saving my pennies for BABELAND. there's a hitachi wonderwand with my name on it waiting for me in soho.

Meanwhile - i think i've stumbled apon the Bagel store that Alan Cholodenko RAVED about. I wasn't a fan of bagels till i went to this place. OMIGOD. it's on the corner of Bdford and Metropolitan avenues in williamsburg - and the bagels are about 60c each and bloody amazing.

Away from the trendy ubercool zone of black clad beige - a little stroll towards East Williamsburg feels like a realy freaky timewarp back into unnamed Eruopean city circa 1930. the local Hassidic Jews have stopped time preholocaust - with shops and women clad Just like the olden days - in identical bobbed wigs, black shoes, beige stockings (and all with very well turned out ankles), black jackets, cloche hats and black prams. i'm used to seeing orhtodox hassidic men in ear tails, hats 7 cloaks in bondi - but the mathcing shops and womenfolk are really weird. Up the street towards bushwick or flushing - there are crack dealers on ever corner - and there's a funny part of the bus route where both tribes overlap.

New Year, New york

I get a bit suspicious about how I start each New Year. dunno why.

Last year I started the new year with a small intimate dinner party wiht Abel's family in frogland. i'd foregone a larger dinner party with Australian friends - and kinda had regrets, but not too many. Dunno what that was a portent of... give up friends for Love and get kicked in the teeth?

The previous year was being drunk around a campfiire wiht a big group of amazing artists/activists/hippies - including one of my new flatmates!

this year I was under the bursting fireworks in a park in Brooklyn with some amazing close friends. i was stone cold sober for the first time in 20 years as was half the assembled friends - and i had no regrets. I decided that if i've resolved to give up alcohol in 200 - then a hangover was not a good way to start.

After fireworks we went to a neighbourhood party (from the Park Slope blog) and saw the times square hullaballo on a small TV in the corner. I made polite conversation wiht local lesbians asking if there was any non frat-boy local burlesque and culminated in some weird group conversation at 3am, ABOUT PEOPLE's TOXIC COLONS. It reminded me of a NYE in Lawson 4 years ago(?) spent with a close couple of my former wife/life and also why I LOVE THIS CITY! - Nooyorkians are totally nuts -but completely candid about it. My estimable friend Doctor Jay was trying to convince everyone of the scientific merits of Faecal transplants -but they weren't all gullible enough.....

the next day I struggles wiht a migraine induced dylsexia to poorly negotiate the tangle of beige coloured lettered lines on my subway map to try to get from Brooklyn to the Lower East Side. Normally should be easy peasey - but the B-train was donw -and the A-train was going too far uptown (I STILL havne't caught it yet!) so I jumped on a Q train - and then thought I saw an M-train but it was an N train - and I think I was after the F-train anyway.

I was an hour late for my rendezvous in the rain with Stacy and Shannon. they waited. And we strolled down to tenth street and into St. Marks. I got chatting with one of the volunteers on the door who said she was some Professor who'd started up the camera Obsucra journal - and I was regretting knowing fuck-all about cinema studies - apart from Mulvey/doane/ etc.

anway - the poetry reading was refreshingly unlike anything i'd seen in Sydney (except maybe some of the nicer stuff at the writers festival - and actually Jess & Miles would go down a treat at the poetry project).

tho i reckon my canberra kultur-terrorist friends would still be a bit pukey at the earnest lefty niceness of it all (see Hazy bits blog)

Me? I don't care - New york still feels like a real living set of Sesame Street - and I love every milimetre of it. I love the niceness, the smiles, the friendly conversation, the dykes, the music, the accents, the air, the graf-art, the free hard copies of THE ONION and the village voice each week (note for self: they don't review places in Little Italy....)

Back to poetry - I had my possy of 3 female friends and a bag of fruit and we grabbed a nice place on the carpetted stairs and prepard to sit it out. I scribbled nice lines and did quick skethces of the way epople stood to recits. and realised that they speak form the hips, from the crotch and mostly swayed from the hips while speaking. Potry is embodied. This was a good sign. and Phillip glass's piano piece was monumental and patti Smith is a fucking GOD -and I SAW HER and heard her voice 20 metres from my ears - and she was singing about the Bombing of Lebanese Cana with the same resonance as on 'horses' (30 years ago) that used to fuel my early furiosu painting (10 years ago) and I loved and love her even more........ and Penny Arcade is a fucking trooper and did a great cute small piece and chatted to me about what chocolate cookies to get -and I met a nice girl called Kate......

It weren't all genius and glory tho. There was some freaky old bloke who rabbitted on about Loving the rain for 15 minutes, flapping his arms and crowing, and some even freakier older bloke who recited a nice(?) ditty about being fucked to and by soem music and then he blithered about his own rather monstrous sexual politics which was OK coz he was 82 and uses a zimmer frame so isn't gonna do a lot of harm..... and there was an INSANE couple! The guy on sax looked like Salman rushdie dressed in a brown polo shrt and brown slacks and was hinking discordantly on a big golden saxaphone. The woman had black firzzy hair, a big black coat, and bright red shiny shoes and an orange scarf –and SHE was raving about manitees in great and pompous detail and it was so loony they must have had to practice 100 times or take some laughter suppressing drugs so they didn’t double over every third line. And then there were a troop of budding thespians doing a great ‘bucket-hugger’ piece which firmy cemented my belief that NEW YORK IS MUPPETLAND and another reason why it is so great – and thank god texta queen was here for 6 months.

At about midnight - stacy and I both agreed our brains were fried so we walked up to 14th street and headed home on the L-Train. What a great way to start the year!

I spent the second day of the year on my TOME. God. I love it sometimes and hate it at others. I think I love it. I’m tyring to believe that If I just can work on the thing that it will get written and I will get to come back here and live here forever…… and go to Colombia and get to check out Gayatri Chakravoorty Spivak in a terry towelling headband just like Shannon’s friend at Colombia does…… OK this sounds trivial, I know. But Sydney brilliance and innovation and creativity and ideas are always fleeting and beleagured and swamped by the masses of stupid neurotic competitive BANALITY that is Sydney. Each time I think about Australia I cringe. Eahc time I think about supposedly critical left wing academics tyring to be engaged and populist and sympathetic to the death of Steve fucking Irwin – I want to scream for a hundred years and burn my passport and give up my language and never again eat vegemite. What’s next? Queen Mary of Denmark?

In New york I could nestle quietly into a large forgiving soup of unashamedly bookish earnestness. I could imagine being called elitist for within to wallow in my own little corner of bespectacled earnest chattering class endeavour. And I fucking hate that label so much I feel like projectile vomitting at random. ‘elitist’ is one of those nasty little double speak labels that John Howard, Rupert Murdoch, and members of the ALP like to throw at people who disagree with them. It’s a form of silencing discourse, engagement, criticism. There’s a big difference between being elitist and selective. I give a shit more about the death of Sean Bell than James Brown. (sean bell was an black nooyorka who got shot FIFTY times by gun toting (crack crazed?) cops for no real reason). And even tho James Brown’s death was a big symbolic moment for Harlem, for new york, for soul, for whatever – when the NYPD are planning to make all gatherings of more than 30 people illegal (unless they’ve applied for a permit) – I kinda reckon that sometimes it’s time to call a spade a fucking shovel. Little people matter. Little hard anonymous struggles matter. And however flakey, preachy, bespectacled and poorly perfumed the masses of earnest unwashed activists/academics/ranters/poets etc. are – its better than being a cashed up apologist for the consumerised corporatised society of disinformation and distraction….

Ahem. I drank zapatista coffee this morning and look what it’s done to me!

Yesterday was a delightful day of quite superficial consumerist meanderings. I had a rendezvous at the Aussie bite Tuck shop with Stacy, Shannon and Shannon’s friend at Colombia, and managed to get there relatively quickly. We ate ‘gormette’ pies and bitched/nostalgiaed about places among gum trees, punctuated by shannon’s lament at her immanent return… (to a lectureship btw). I like Shannon coz her ancestors came from the same town I grew up in and she understands and shares the stupid acculturated melancholy of recovering catholic skip-ness. When I whinge at my mum’s response to my blitherings about new york; “well, dear, remember that these are the best days of your life, and there are other people far less fortunate than you are” (followed by a long litany of whatever obscure corner of tragedy she can dig up from local gossip or the SMH or ABC) –shannon understands, coz her mum had exactly the same response to her ringing up sobbing and confused in Albania or Romania or somewhere else full on and strange. She seems to share my need to look for full on strangeness – for culture, and aliveness to escape the deadening fug of complacency – that disguises an infinite unspoken melancholy and deceit. (melancholy from acculturated exiled ancestors; deceit for continuing stain of SKIP incoherence and hostility towards kooris.) Meanwhile in New York, the tuck shop’s coffee machine broke so we had more meaningless meanderings looking for expresso on first avenue –before Stacy led us to the street of the tenement museum – where I spotted a GREAT FROG DINER. Whereapon I had the best coffee I’ve had since those last grains of Campos superior got steamed into my expresso concoction – and the others had 2 or 3… It was great. There are places in Paris that come close – but I still reckon frog-city central is a place best dreamed of in exile - this was kind may ‘68/squatter/uber-kool effect. Tres noice.

Jittery and bubbly – we left the others and Stacy and I headed for AMAZING EXPERIENCES IN BROOKLYN. I’d received an email from Dr. Crawford about the olfactory emporium that is http://www.cbihateperfume.com/ and decided that I couldn’t wait. I was looking for special ‘gorgeous’ gifts for a special person or two –but couldn’t help being drawn to the special mix called ‘faggot’. And wondered if I’ve just become an incurable faghag. Actually it’s called faggot – coz of special combo of burning woods. Hmmm – it’s smoky, earthy and deep – and inspired the salesgentlemen to insist I smell their special Haitian vetervert…. Which If you could bottle the delight of a fine night at manacle on the best MDMA in the universe – musky, leathery, sweaty, hairy, dark, masculine, spicy…..

Before I descend into unpalatable depths of hosebeastiness…. (I sigh and sigh again – completely perplexed) I should also mention that my other favourites included Wet English Pavement – and Ink. ‘CB’ – manages to combine small essences of certain mundane things (like rubber cement) and then fuse them with the right complementary carrier scents and mid tones…. – so each scent is a little olfactory haiku evoking aspects of the title. Naturally I wished they could have done scents based on Abel’s nipples, Zoo’s Breast milk, smoked mussels, Guinness, goat & French camembert but I guess some things are best experienced rather than evoked. I forgot to mention that the boutique is staffed by 2 very camp men and one very large dog which walked solemnly towards my crotch and buried his nose between my legs. Wise mutt. It was the one scent completely absent. Ripe woman on a full moon.

New york has been a pleasant distraction from the pleasures of the loins. I’m trying to hold off my visit to babe’s in toyland – coz I know that once I get my hands on a Hitachi wonderwand – I’ll spend 2 weeks in the spare room not going anywhere…. I have eye watering cravings at odd hours and give odd intense and probably excessively desperate stares to the legions of nice sapphists which inhabit the locale – but I’m enjoying sexual solitude, the hairs on my legs, the lack of mirror glimpsing self monitoring….. I’m enjoying singleness more than I ever have…. Tho I’m not sure if I’m single or not. Anyway I digress.

Post perfume – stacy & I wandered up north 11th into some uberkool clothing boutique – where she splurged on clothes and I got a decent pair of leather boots for $20 and tried on 6 pairs of jeans that didn’t quite fit. (my theory is that buying a pair of jeans is less about outlay of cash than outlay of time and effort in trying on at least 25 different styles and shapes and sized in order to find the right pair) Jeans house legs, the arse, and the sex organs – so the importance of covering and shaping all of the above in an acceptable manner cannot be underestimated. Femmes really have it easier on this one – skirts are much easier. I’m tyring to work out if I should get a hat, shoulder bag and jacket – just to moderate my polyester grunge aesthetic of long parka, backpack and beanie – but I’ll see what the universe turns up. I was tempted by long leather coats in black, ruby and teal (for $40) – but none were quite PERFECT.

Anyway – after our shopping we headed for a final extravagance of the evening – a nice Frenhc restaurant where Debbie was playing with 2 blokes called the mad jazz hatters. I had fillet mignon coz of white truffles and stacy chose onion soup and some nice roast veggie thing. We sat near the band and sketched and were brought a complimentary crepe by the staff – and I realised – strangely, stupidly and incredulously – that New york is just like the nicer parts of Sydney. Seeing live music – is like being with close near friends – and intimate and personal encounter – not like the capital C of culture spectacles – but something close and ordinary – but extraordinary too. The bank leader from the mad jazz hatters – loves popular songs – like great 1940’s Dennis Potter style tunes – to Irish/American protest laments – to the odd gipsy thing and lashings of Grappelli and so the music was special, affecting, intimate. I could have been at buzz Bar with Kathelissism – or in rural buttfucksville singing bad country/irish songs with my extended family – but culture as a form of localised intimate experience – feeling the vibrations of the instruments, meeting the eyes of the musicians, sensing notes and words as the raised hairs on my arms…. This is incredibly special, incredibly precious – and yes, it also is a part of ordinary life in the big apple.

I really wish my stupid brother hadn’t died and could be here now. I wish like hell I could be seeing him play live – whether busking or jamming with other musicians, or doing ordinary gigs for cash – but being glad there are enough of them to keep a city full of muzos fed and housed. On my second day here, I heard a flugelhorn in a basement and tears sprung to my eyes – but mostly I’m not melancholy but incredibly delighted to be here amongst this. I've extended my ticket till the first of March.

Dog of a YEAR

Sorry for lack of posting for the past month. It was a busy time which involved getting a new flatmate, going to melbourne for a conference while all of victoria exploded in flames, then crossing the seas and the USA to New York -then crossing the USA and the seas back again to hawaii, then crossing the seas and the USA in a rather labyrinthine manner to return to New York where I'm slowly emerged from a a state of shock into a state of moderate contentment.you can see pcis of most of the above on my flickr site

Today in brooklyn's chinatown - some shopkeeper gave me a free chinese calendar to celebrate the new year (do you understand it? - I don't!)

anyway - Lunar or otherwise I'm happy to celebrate the end of the year of the dog - it's been a bitch of a time for me for bits of it -other's have been astonishingly good - or just astonishing.

It's nearly 2am on december 31st in New York - on my friend's couch where I'm typing from - and i'm thinking of home where people are gearing up for tonight's fireworks mosquito hazed sodden sweaty frenzy.

Manhattan has been getting progressively more berzerk all week. Pretzel stands catching fire, sirens blaring, hordes of gawking clans of scary midwest honkies and their hordes of spawn, and the big fat funeral of James brown to cap things off.

I've decided to stick to my side of the L-Train, the A-train and everything else that crosses the east river - until monday afternoon when I'm planning to venture out for a POETRY MARATHON.

I've decided that next year will be a time of new challenges and new personal thresholds. I HATE performance poetry as a general principal of random xenophobia, and don't understand poetry anyway - and part of me actually cringes internally a great deal at the thought of encountering freaky stuck up wannabe beat types who are stuck in some imaginary version of the lower east side from fifty years ago. And they'll be wearing berets, and duffle coats and reeking of ciggarettes, and be male wiht bad facial hair and worse teeth or female and fey and flat chested and I'll die a thousand deaths a thousand times over.

but tonight I faced a fear and did it anyway. My friend stacy came up from Tucson and we've been exploring the good, the lame and the ugly of the big apple - worms and all. the met was great, MOMA left us speechless, spanish Harlem was tops, bars in williamsburg made me swear off alcohol (they were too GOOD), the rockefeller centre and hordes of rug-rat clad tourists was totally ugly and scary and Little Italy was scary, or ugly, or maybe just lame.

This evening I sent stacy a text from the NYC public library - where I was sitting on the steps at 6pm -having been sent around the block and up the road (it being a tourist and touter packed 5th avenue) 3 times by seriously thick security guards - looking for basic info about how to get my ACCESS reading permit. Eventually I found a kind and well informed librarian who I could have kissed.

we agreed to meet in Union Square outside some great wholefoods emporium on 4th street. I hd a major craving for pho bo dac biet - so we went to chinatown (canal street subway) and battled more crowded footpaths before finding a $5 pho that was just a bit lite on the meat side - but was otherwise fine.

After being unsure whether to go to spaghetti fundraiser for alternative political theatre project or smutty burlesque club in brooklyn we headed up to washington square to check out former. It was in a converted church next to New york university. Something about the speghetti queue gave me flashbacks to Resistance dinners in sydney in the early '90's. maybe there were too many badly folksy knitted jumpers. Maybe this is the point where I have to cast out the logs of my own sartorial misfortunes. today I wore thick black wooolley tights - whose crotch kept sliding down my thighs. Over this I had a B&W stripey strethc cotton mini-dress/top thing. I topped this with very cheap plastic black moon boots and a cheap full length puffy polyester parker. I'm trying to look like I could *almost* be homeless, or mad or *almost* be cool but i'm not any of the above, just eccentric and anonymous. It suits the upside down state I feel. I'm not part of any tribe here yet - so the sore thumb stick-out look seems like a safe one.....

so back to the church - and the spaghetti queues. Stacy's friends form indymedia recognised us so we had a little chat and then I recognised Michael Taussig from the corner of my eyes and nearly wet myself (gushing girly swot that I am).I went up and gushed about something (ohh yeah - my research) and told him that I loved New York so much that I was on the lookout for a husband or a postdoc here. he smiled. It looked like it would be a good night.

but then the MC started with a bad powerpoint presentation and excessive enunciation and thespianically declaimed lines that gave me sneaking suspicion of rehearsal and collective scripting. I shuddered. I admit I'm the queen of bad performance but this was BAD. and full of 'in jokes' that people were laughing at in an ostentatious manner that made me feel embarrassed for them and embarrassed for me having to witness such tosh.

So this ended eventually and th first act: a 'rock opera', descended from above and swarmed among us, wearing costuems from New york's Reverse Garbage and clacking stones. This was cute - and could have been brilliant if thought through a little more..... I won't add suggestions - but err... less silly costumes, more rocks, more weird amplification, more orchestration? more merging between crowd and performance -its easily done!

so we went downstairs to the 'live painting' room - where a jazz band was doing post punk improvisation (think aural threshold exercises) and some guy was doing a rolf harris reenactment with rollers using red and black paint on ply. Ohhh shit. I hate it when people think that popping some person with a bit of paint in a room so punters can gawk at them going hell for leather with the drippy stuff gets labelled as some kind of improvisational interactive live performance. If painter pete is on planet painting and just doing their stuff doing the oblivious public solitude act - then it's not a performance. stacy liked the black kangaroo form with the red skyscrapers tho..... I wondered if he was sponsored by quantas.

So we ventured the audio tour - and that was simple - but pretty cool. a blind fold, headphones and a guide to lead us around the park. I found walking blind hard enough - but the audio scapes of different stories were INTIMATE AND COMPELLING (TM). Nice embedding into the bodily habitus there. Tres good.

so that was so nice that after a quick retour of the other pieces we decided to head off with a smile on our faces and try the Brooklyn burlesque. We got the subway to union street and then wandered up to 'union hall' - and found a imitation victorian gentleman's club filled with frat boys - it was like 'Porky's' meets 'the hours'. We descended to the cave in hope and coughed up cash and then saw bits of some skinny girls showing off their Victoria's Secret underwear, in front of a big crowd of yelling frat boys.Actually the girl strippers were OK, and the music was cool - but the crowd was really really ghastly. I realised how niaive and sheltered I must be beause when I think of Brulesque I automatically assume it'll be a queer, carnivalesque crowd - not a frigid raunch culture rip off. so Park slope is officially a scary place on a saturday night. we left soon after and got asked for cash by some guy in a hoodie. We offered him our fruit.

I'm having and intimate and entertaining NYE with close friends but thought Id try the poetry marathon on new years day - just coz its something I'd never do in sydney - and maybe it'll be cool (patti smith is on the bill). And if not - I can write long words about it and people reading it will think I'm cool just for doing even lame and dumb stuff in such a cool place. and it is cool. not cold. I'll do raptures later.

happy pig year

Kissing Frogs

It's 2am and i'm wired on coffee.

I should have had an antihistamine instead of a cafenoir at bedtime last night. My skin itches from summer, so do my eyes.

the air is dank, even though a soft wind blows. the skanky stench of Maryjane wafts in with distant noises of people's drunken weekend. these endless hot blank nights of stupidity and heat and darkness are what i'm running from. 12 days and counting.

I'm trying to write a paper and I can't. Feel too dumb. I am on the cusp of something.

I've had a horrible slow week of sleeping, sobbing useless gloom. It lifted yesterday.

Writing is a profoundly neurotic activity. as if i'm not neurotic enough!

My fingers itch, my twat smells. My arse feels solid and slow and sore.

there is some good news. I finally managed to screen the texts from psychobunny. so i've had some relief. thank dog.

there's been no sign of her person in the hood either. yet. Not that i've been out looking. I evne missed gurlesque last sunday. the commune had its AGM at the same time and I thoguht I'd better show some civic responsibility for a change.

whoretic's descriptionof the smallness of sapphic circles did send shivers of recognition into my entrails.

sydney is such a small world. And mostly a very safe one. or so it seemed.

anyway - the universe last week was guiding me towards retreat, solitdue and contemplation. whoretic's own museings on the possible sanity of non-coupling interactions resonated wiht the advice of another friend last weekend... she said she liked to a have a year of celibacy between relationships - rather than rushing into rebounds.a nice time to heal and focus on the self and grow.

Part of me thinks NYC will provide this - coz the rebound thing has been really full on. I don't know if this is the relationship I want or not.I've written and stated this repeatedly - sometimes even to the person concerned (I'm working on my passive aggression but it's a long road OK?)

Some one at uni is doing a thesis on the fairy tale myths and modern postfeminists (or whatever the girly version of metrosexual manginas are...)

and then zoo's posting from a week ago got me thinking.....

SOmetimes I think I'm kissing a frog hoping that it will turn into a prince. Or a princess. Sometimes I think I'm kissing a prince, hoping he'll turn into a princess. Sometimes I KNOW I'm kissing a bloody princess and wishing I had a prince. Or a frog. It doesn't help that my ex-princess is literally a frog (aussie slang for dem frenchies) and the frog slang for dyke; 'gouine' means toad. Charming. And i don't know, when I'm desperately desiring the consort - if I'm desring him, or Abel, or what I dreamt Able would be (and was, but idn't now) or what I wish the consort would be (but isn't). am i just infatuated with my own desire?


The consort (frog/princess) once said that all women want to be treated as princesses. Under such expectations, sometimes even I am reduced to the odd pouty sulk and flounce. but in general I'd say I'm more of a QUEEN. I have an ex who called me "Reina Margarita" and even my victorian appellation for the consort - has a stately regal tone. My tits are too big to be a princess. and my gut. and my opinions.


I'm not that crazy about eating frogs legs - but maybe I should have taken the frog/princess to the same frogleg serving restaurant as the last 'deciding factors'.

(this term is a sapphic euphemism for last bioboys bonked - and one that I use with tongue firmly in my cheek. I don't tend to see lesbianism as a reaction to the failings of men - but as an opening up towards the possibilities of women - stalkers aside.. it's a positive thing - well at least the desire is)

and i'm not sure if I'm entirely comfortable with the reverse scenario either. My confessions to other dykes about bonking a bioboy are usually met with 'ahh, don't worry darl, it happens' - and the stalker mentioned that 3 of her exes had turned straight (and now I fucking well see why.... cheezels christ!).

As embarrassing as it is - I actually enjoy the genitalia of said frog/princess. Not as much as ladybits - but certainly more than a dildo. (this may change once I hit the sex shops of NYC wiht my credit card!). My eyes water with desire in his presence, or even imagining it. My whole body shudders with delight at the lightest touch. i do melt into his arms, and in his mouth. Every milimetre of my flesh aches for his touch, inside and out. i haven't felt this physically attracted to anyone for a long, long time.

so what do I do? write this off as an abberation, a delirium induced by heartbreak and heterosexism? or wanking to to much gayboy porn? or girlboi porn?

After 10 years of preaching/writing/teaching open ended poststructuralist polymorphous openendedgenderism - i *still* find this stuff hard to deal with. as much as i can tell myself that the consort is a total girl, and a complete princess - and just has boy bits on the outside - it's another fairytale. One designed to smooth my own creeping back into some scary closet of inadequate role playing. Part of me hopes desperately that one day I won't be kissing a princess but some immense magical prince who'll take away all my worries about doing a phD, about being too fat, too poor, too weird, too grumpy to live any fairytale.and then i shudder' at myself, at him, at the situation.

I wonder how can I feel such immense, intense desire for someone I don't really love that much? - I mean, don't worship, don't idolise, don't feel is all that stimulating, good for my career, good for my sanity or my popularity levels?

(oh fuck i'm turning into paris hilton)

This desire doesn't feel reciprocated. so often the frog/princess falls short, and I fall flat on my face. furstrated, hurt, flumoxed. I sulk and cry in my corner - or go out and defiantly ignore the frog/princess - only to be summonsed and soothed instantly as soon as heshe gets an inclination to touch me.

Sometimes I think I'm a fucking idiot. And i want to run away and never come back.

I was going to write something interesting - and hopefully be fired up enough to work on a GREAT AESTHETIC MANIFESTO and hence conference paper - but obviously I am so shallow and vapid and hopeless and braindead that I'd better stop now.

I reckon sex is destroying my IQ. Or yoga is. Or this crazy new non-sugar non-dairy diet. I shat green turds the other day.

what type of girl?

I'd assumed that coz I heard nothing on wed night (dyke night at 3 pubs in Newtown) that I was safe - and maybe she'd left town after all.

hah!

no such luck.

thanks for your reply. but my life couldnt b any easyer than it already is honey.and feelings? Lets not go there.and im a very good listener.and few would say! what a good fuck.have a great holiday sweetie.x 23.11.06 @ 21.32

Brief not: I made no reply but asked a friend in the FRESIAN islands to text on my behalf. And the obvious reply is 'no: you are not a good listener, you're a fucking nut! Actually It's quite narcisstic of me putting that one up - wiht my sexual credentials broadcast for the world - hell a woman who wears her genitalia on her head can't be too bad I guess.


You know what? You'll never b like me sweetie. so don't use u as an exsample of who i am. as u dont even know me at all. sorry hon but I thought? U had more class than that?. 24/11/06 @ 00.50


I've gone through all the texts's you have sent me! And you know? all ive red. Is you do what you do when its only about sex.but. its obvious that u r hurting big time honey.and you cut off.all I wanted from u. Was 2 have sum great sex with u and 2 bring u a smile.2 b happy. what's wrong with that?x 24/11/06 @ 1.08

Well! what a bizarre delusional tautology the above missive is! Like - I wanted sex, and sex alone -she describes it like an accusation, does some pop psychology 101 ad then offers the same. why can't people be honest and say "all I wanted from U was to have an object of fantasy that i could manipulate, scare and control so we wouldn't have to engage in any sort of reciprocal relationship casual or otherwise. I reckon that call u my bitch and fuck you senseless gives me permisssion for all of the above" huh?


I found u a s a sensual lustful sexy women. and did'nt think 2 b so wrong about someone like u. I was so wrong. thanks 4 the time we had and 4 the awareness of girls like u.im a happy easy going kind of girl that works hard and love's life and people. theres no shit in my life 4 the moment. and thats how i like it. Thanks girl and say hi! If ever we cross paths.x 24/11/06 @1.39

Say hello? More like say 'fuck off you freak!"
so many cliche's, so much shit, so much delusion.

what type of girl did she think I was? the type who pashes someone on the dance floor and drags them home after fucking someone else in the toilets? (this is what I did and this is what I told her at the time) the type who repeatedly says ' I'm not girlfriend material. I have other lovers. i'm bisexual. I'm very busy. Let's just have some fun'? the type who assumes that if someone else says to my face "This is nice. It's just fun. that's OK" that that's what they actually mean? The type that assumes that a kiss is not a contract, a fuck is not a contract. that 2 fucks are not a contract, nor is 10.

i've only made 'contracts' with 2 people in my life. One was a joint lease and a hire purhcas eagreement for a TV. that was with my ancient Ex fomr the 1990's. the second included eveyr type of joint contract possible with Abel. Most of them are sitting under my bed. she's still in my will. (My property consists of a ton of books, a heavy computer and some paintings: combined value? $5000).

Abel left the country after being pissed for most of the weekend. a good chastiity belt - i had no temptations at all and assumed my libido had died wiht stress of psychobunny. Then I saw the consort. thought maybe I was straight and had been deluding myself for the past 12 years. then I saw the most sensible slut in the world. *melt* then I saw ... ooohh ahhh - don't have words for that other one. Oh gosh!

So I was planning to chase pretty girls or at least perve at them on sunday evening. hmmm - but psychobunny is making me think otherwise.

wonder if I should ring Newtown Police?

Last Night of Freedom!

After all the doom and gloom of hiding from a stalker with 70 essays to be marked - I'm going under cover and breaking out in Style.

this thursday the "it's a new day' residency at artspace - is gonna be a top night - and my mate Schappylle Scragg is gonna be there with bell's on - coz it's her hens night!

Go glam and get on down to ARTSPACE - at Cowper Wharf Road Woolloomooloo from 6pm on thursday. (opposite the pie cart and a few doors down form the servo).

Scragg has also produced her own version of the Cleo Bikini guide.check it out

You can see some pics of scragg at here

big thanks to the hilton - aka Ladonnarama

Pushing It

Hay Sweetie. Can i come 2 c u? or am pushing it with u? dont want 2 upset u either.please.x 18/11/06 @11.41.39

I called around 2 c u. but u wer'nt there. Well I guess manly is manly 4 u, thank you 4 your communication.and i ran into you ex she is a really nice girl. what's your problem girl? 18/11/06 @22.10

All the above is true. Drunken Abel and friends said that psycho bunny did turn up around the back of the COMMUNE looking for me, and they let her wander around the garden before she wandered off into the night.

Today I had visions of her climbing in through my bedroom and leaping on the consort and tearing off his delicious member. As I watched him doze, blissfully oblivious ot my paranoia I tried to Zenly imagine myself asking her to replace the flyscreen - instead of screaming and throwing the nearest object to hand at her head.

YUCK

so current courses of action:

1. ring the cops - get and AVO.

2. Ring her and scream enough threats so SHE gets an AVO against me.

3. Run around and graffittie lot sof toilet doors and street corners wiht warneings aoubt the psychobunny girl - so she's humiliated into going into hiding

4. try to stoicly ignore her

5. Get her texts blocked from my mobile

6. Hide out in CROYDON

7. Start a STALKING CAMPAIGN.

Frankly I'm tempted to do the latter!

If you are a supportive random reader - then send me a comment and I'll tell you how.

otherwise if you're a known friend - I'll be sending you an email soon with the mobile number of psycho bunny and asking you to call her - from a work phone, pubic telephone or unlisted/stolen/borrowed phone number - (or send a text).

make it as creepy/silly/agggro as you like.

i reckon she needs MORE contact - and is obviously lonely and bored - and I sure as hell don't want anything to do wiht her - so why not get my friends involved?

I reckon after 10 days of 20 random calls and SMS's -- she'll get the picture of how fucked her behaviour is!

Sweetie

today was so cold that IT WAS SNOWING IN STANTHORPE

for those of you unfamiliar with lands north of Chatswood - Stanthorpe is home to "the big apple". Its a hole of a town south of toowoomba but north of wallangarra in the darling downs/granite belt.

Apparently bondi was the coldest its been in 200 years - which put a bit of a dampener on buying slips of fabric for SCRAG. she's got her hens night reenactment next thursday. I think sh'es got enough outfits - but you never know.....

anway - I was trying out a size 8 singlet in insane flouro pink Engrish (for me, not scragg) and the phone rang (I HATE answering the phone in a changeroom) and then the text bell went off:

"Hay sweetie. Y wont u talk 2 me?do u hate me that much?im sorry if u feel that way about me.im only human and i have feelings2! Take care.xx" 16.11.06 @12.38

Sweetie is one of those misused epithets that even I like to misapply in SMSspace. Compliant coyness. Unctiousness.Ick

But who the fuck takes *me* for a 'sweetie'?

Pussycat maybe - but sweetie???? for fuck's sake my photo shows a CUNT ON My HEAD!

Sweetness is in the mouth of the beholder I ponder as a suck on another salmiaki.

Salmiaki are finnish licorice lollies - intensely flavoured wiht ammonia. they are an aquired taste.and kind of sweet.

I cnan't really write tonight and tonight I hate my life.

I've been sleeping 15 hours per day and sobbing for about 3. that leaves 6 hours - of which I spend about 2 in meals, anohter 2 in masturbatin or some random errand - and hey presto! no more time!

i've got shitloads of makring to finish, plus long overdue chapter and some paper to write in the next fortnight.

Oh - and My stomach has been FUCKING SORE, and I've got THRUSH FROM HELL, and yesterday in YOGA I was so plagued by PILES that I could barely stand up! Hobbling across the road afterwards - I had ridiculous visions of me being crushed by traffic and thought 'what a fucking stupid way to go. I private sick chuckle caught in my throat as I gasped in pain.

I think it was the shoulder stand that did it.

(that is such a typically tragic me sort of thing to happen - so bad and so funny I had to laugh - ouch).

today I sobbed on Abel's shoulder and tried to dump the consort. My firend in finland sent me a text saying she was heartbroken and my firend in NYC rang me to tell me the same.

so strangely, I'm not alone. It's a lacrymose season the world over.

miss understanding

today I got back from yoga to the delightful little missives below:

"Hay maggie! didnt go 2 the mines.just thought 2 let u know.You may not give a shit! After my smartass texts i gave u.but dontget me wrong. It was all a big miss understanding and sorry if it upset u.x @10.18am"

indeed!

Last fortnight, Katrina Fox's column is SX - had a great and funny piece about 'the standard' abusive txts from dykes to each other. MOstly along the lines of :"Hey bitch,I wanna fuck you with one of my 10 dildo's with other girls names on them" "why haven't you replied you stupid fuck? go fuck yourself then"....... and the Foxy Femme was laughing at how straight girls don't take shit from men - and make formal protests from far less abusvie texts.......

and I reckon straight girls have got a point. No one deserves to put up with annoying harrassing shit - from a man or a woman - and no-one should feel they have the right to dish it out.

I gues that's what motivated me to start publishing the texts from psychobunny up on my blog.

Because I find this shit totally unnacceptable, and outrageous, and assume other people do. And I don't think its a private matter - its a very public matter.

I assumed that by being NICE to someone on a one night stand - that would earn me some level of esteem and respect. But no!

so in future I'll try to drop a turd in bed or something.

well, maybe not.

and the niceness gets me worried to: the nice girl role sounds like the 'rape script' scenarios that I've hjust been teaching to the earnest undergrand sof Austrlaia's oldest university.

(Sharon Marcus's argument) - that rape happens because rapists start pushing limits, skirting along boundaries and taking the nice pollite ocmpliance role that women have and pushing it, and pushing it and pushing it. Meanwhile women 'go along' being nice, pollite, sweet. Acting available - not syaing 'fuck off you freak'....until things get out of control.ad then sometimes not even then.

Sigh

I think of my own histories - of coercion and nastiness. Even now I don't use the R word. Because there was no clothes tearing, no screams, no scratches. Because I didn't say no. Well not very loudly and only a few times. and not because I didn't say yes.

Ir emember bieng a small pubsecent mayhem. watching scary sixty mintes stories about "the horror of rape" (TM) and thinking 'yeah, it if happens to me, I'll play dead and pretend to go a long with it; so he won't notice".

I think I was 9 at the time?

I'm not denying that violent rape is horrible and violating and a thing that any right thinking woman should be terrified of.

But Isn't it any more horrifying having 9 year old girls writing little secret scripts for themselves - for how they'll comply, collapse and cope when the big bad monster comes to eat them up?

and of course - when a big bad monster did violate me a few years later..... I was sweet and silent and kind of confused and very very sad - but it took YEARS for me to let myself feel anger.

It didn't seem like the bad stories from TV. It wasn't violent, it wasn't a stranger, and I still had my hymen afterwards.


anywya - enough of sad scary stories.

Being socialised as female - living in fear becomes so habitual as to feel instinctive. the nocturnal key clutching, the nocturnal purda, staying home in a locked up house. Staying still, silent, sober and sensible. not taking risks. not drawing attention to oneself.

so its strange how when I've felt real fear - this time around - I've been strangely calm. splitting off and calmly typing out the tome.

but the rest of the time - when I'm not actively avoiding my feeling of being shit scared - I'm in a constant state of anxiety. Whingeing about the consort, fretting about Abel, and err... yeah. Avoiding my feelings of fear, distress, irritation and anger. That its happened again. That poeple trat me like shit. that poeple don't understand me. that as uch as I try to be nice and sweet and generous and clear, I still get pushed into corners, squeezed into shapes I don't fit into and not listened to when I protest.

Maybe its time to take up kickboxing.

Saga dribbles on......

I decided that "halloween horror" was a bit melodramatic for all those texts I kept receiving.

and I heard nothing for a week - unitl today, when rolling over from my sweet nocturnal slumbers at chez consort, I read this on my phone.

Message:

R u free 4 sum lovin. 11 Nov 2006 @2.25

My vagina twitched and spontaneously siezed up with thrush. Bloody hell. Lucky I've got 30 essays to mark

Halloween Horror Volume 10

today was a particular delight - and so persuaded me that such genius needs to be liberated from my phone and deserves to shared with the world. Psycho bunny has taken excerpts of my texts to her (dated from monday- which I've italisized and placed in inverted commas) and added her own comments (in bold)

Sunday 5th November 2006-11-05

"Wow! U mean the mines? Fucking hell!" @15.01

"I know u r real coz I can still taste u & I’ll never wash my sheets again!" @15.02

"Stop it or I’ll hav 2 mop the carpet! Am I dreaming or r u real? Xxx" i am real.x 15.04


"U’re butch enuff 4 me & u don’t need 2 pack 2 impress! Xxx" only a dildo a condom and lube will do 2 impress.? @15.10

"SPEWIN! If only u told me! I just got an email request 2 talk at some do @ hollywood pub on wed 8pm. Wanna come? We can cum after!" What? @15.11

"Not 2day coz if I c u I’ll drag u bak 2 bed! Thanx 4 last night & 2day & I can’t w8 4 wed! I feel like a dog on heat!" U know what they say about being on heat?I don’t sleep with dogs. U only get fleas.wed was that good. I cant remember it was that great!.i think I had some dog on heat fuck me around? @15.25

"A dildo mayb? Cool! Seriously I’m flat out till wed so if ur in town can we meet then? Please? 8-)" had u begging 4 more.got all 2much 4 u sweetie.u had me all wrong.when u thought I wanted more.don’t like being fucked around. @15.32

"I’m just a pathetic phd student with no life! Writing sux but I hav 2 keep trying & keep my mind off sexy women like u!" if only u had the time.and u have a life! But its your pathetic excuses that sux. @15.37

"Sorry I couldn’t call back.2day is crazy but I hope 2 chat L8r! xxx" we never did have that chat. Whats your excuse that time. No credit? @15.42


"Shagging the woman of my dreams! How abt u?" if only that was true.u’d b inheaven by now.u can just keep on dreaming baby while im gone.x @15.52

"I know u r real coz I can still taste u & I’ll never wash my sheets again!" This is what u ran away from. I was 2 real and u got a taste of that realness. That’s y u’ll never wash your sheets again cause u r afraid u’ll never have that again!I had no intentions 4 other than great sex with u.x @16.02

(after this one I was wondering if she'd read Lacan and was playing some stupid joke based on the Symbolic order.....)

"Wow! U mean the mines? Fucking hell!" That’s where im heading on Thursday.lets hope its not hell.was informed theres a sexy girl already there waiting 4 me.how cool.she cant wait.don’t know what it in 4? @16.19

Halloween Horror Volume 9

Saturday 4th November 2006

Do u want 2 fuck the women of your dreams. Then call me. U have my no.x @ 2.19

Halloween Horror Volume 8

After avoiding a number of non identified callers on my mobile and hiding from a knock on the door I thought I'd better get some advice. I asked people at uni what to do and someone suggested that I answer the phone and ask psychobunny to stop sending me messags and be polite but firm and state that I was no longer interested. so i did this at about 7pm - when I got home from uni and the phone rang. And she was polite and seemed to agree - but then rang two mre times before sending a final text..... for the day.

Friday 3rd November

Went 2 c the guy I had trouble with at the hospital. He 2 c the guy ihad trouble with at the hospital. He is fine he was one drug when all shite hit the fan with me.its all good. Dropped the charges. Phew.had 2 clear my name.it was all in defence.and he admitted it in front of the cops.im releaved.x @9.11

Hay sweetie.since u wont speak 2 me. Would it b asking 2 much if I can have your mailing address?xxx @10.59

Look babe im still here in Sydney. but like 2know whats going on with u.do u want 2 catch up 2night?xxx 15.54



U werea delight babe.the last text u will get from me.take care and wathcout at the flying fox.xx.a lot of trash go there.slyfox sux. 19.11

Halloween Horror Volume 7

I've included the last text I sent before running out of credit. Now you get the creepy picture.

Thursday 2nd November 2006

How u feel babe? @11.59

M: Better than last night. i'm trying to make up 4 lost time time & working. how about u? @12.03

Went 2 slyfox.big punch up with sum guys. Cops ambos what a fucking night. @12.08

Im getting the fuck out of Sydney. the cops want 2 charge me 4 assalting. When I was only defending myself.they r saying he’s in a bad way.it was him or me?it sure wasn’t going 2 b me.it was all fair he picked me! It happened so fast.what a fuck.didnt mean 2 hurt him that bad.he was hasselling me most the night.i only hit him when he tried 2 kiss me.and it was one hit he went down it was over.no im introuble.fuck it. @12.47

Im a lover. Not a fighter. @15.56

Whats this about? Is it u don’t want 2 talk 2 me? R u upset with what happened? Im not the type 2 b in any sort of violents by anymeans. Please u need 2 have a greater understanding of me. @19.50

U’ve got it all wrong about me.if u think 4 1 moment that im into that sort of crap.it just all went wrong when he grabed me I just reacted.it was unexspected. Please talk to me babe.x @20.42

Private no calling: 21:02, 21:07. 21:29,

Goodbye my lover goodbye my friend.you had been the one 4 me. Xxx @23:55

Bad Pussy!

Well, sometimes it can be damn hard to shake off the recovering catholicism.

I'm hoping that listening to a customised CD of kathellisism will do the trick - but yeah.....

OK in the catholic scheme of things - we are born to suffer, and jesus suffered for our sins, and if they hit you it hurts them more than it hurts you, and life is fundamentally tragic and you can't ever forget that, and people have it so much worse than us and never forget that however happy you might feel that you could lose it all in a minute and never forget that how sad you feel that someone has it so much worse, and so don't ever let yourself feel too happy or too sad, and don't think of yourself too much and don't think of yourself becaus eits selfish and you should always think of others, and pray for them.

and EVERY PLEASURE will be punished. you will suffer for your sins.

so what has this to do with mayhem? sitting typing late at night on a keyboard, working on her tome, working on her blog, planning more transgressive fun and random wild and crazy shit and having such a wild and crazy life and being so damn... COOL, and POPULAR, and having so much FUN?

well, Last weeks naughtiness - seems to have landed mayhem in a bit of hot water. That nice butch girl turns out to be a bit bloody intense.

ten texts per day kind of intense.

boasting about punch ups and then whining and groveling and making all kinds of WEIRD apologetic excuses - and dropping werid arsed disaster scenarios on me - "I'm leaving today! No i'm not! you've blown it! - i'll give you one last chance."

I went and hid at the consorts for 2 days with a bundle of marking and my tax return. Meanwhile she texted me salaciously describing naked sailing adventures on the harbour.

I had visions of a naked woman atop a 56 foot yacht saiing into delwood beach, and felt kind of aroused and kind of weird.

and the weird hot/cold psychodrama alternate reality monologue kind of reminds me of 'he that died not a moment too soon', my long deceased patermonster.

YUCK.

I was weepy and clingy and couldn't really explain why. fortunately consort can give me the pips but is really great when I'm messy (which is basically all those times when I'm not blogging about how fabbo my life is). He doesn't ask for explanations - just gives nice hugs and tender kisses and cooks good meals.

so after 2 days of pampering and soothing tenderness, I recrossed the harbour and collapsed with a migraine for 18 hours.


and migraines - those weird cerebral explosions can be pretty good for sorting out cobwebs and confusion. (tho its a pretty painful way to do it)

and I realised that the sapphic sex goddes is just a selfish psycho. Texting me till midnight ondering if she could breathe smokey boozy breath alll over me and fuck me as well.

(I guess she's never had a migraine - or she just has no clue).

so.

I'm doing my wallish act. Blankness . no responses. & my phone is switched off.

so, giiven such a messy complication - its easy to BLAME MYSELF.

You know? for taking risks. for fucking someone who hadn't fucked at least 3 of my friends.
for fucking a stranger, strangely


for being greedy and needy and trashy and enjoying being seduced and trashed and treated like trash and dominated and pushed around just a little....

for enjoying it.

but oh but.

Like TEDG says: a kiss is not a contract, and nor is a fuck.

and I was pretty clear the whole way through that "i'm not girlfirend material, I fuck around, and intend to keep doing so".

but psycho bunny doesn't appear to have ears.

so mayhem has retreated to assiduous work on the tome - only heading out with a masculine escort (hah! not quite) and hiding my phone.....

next time I have a random one nite stand - I go to their house - get their surname and address so if they turn psycho i can call the cops and get an AVO faster.....

Halloween Horror Volume 6

Here things started to feel quite odd.

The sympathetic response to my cancelling a date due to migraine was particularly impressive. (I've included my texts below). I really liked the baseball analogy (with my batting skills it was never really going to be great rhetorical device). That's when I decided it was over.

Wednesday 1st November 2006

Ive got 2 fly up 2 queensland don’t know what time I’ll b back.u know the plain that went down? I’ll b back in Sydney at about 8pm.friend has arranged it 4 me.Im tyring 2 get out of not going.. @ 11.14

Cool. @11.30

Ive been put on stndby about the job at the airport. I need to hang around so that means im not going 2 go up north jus yet.so I may c u at 8 at the hollywood.x @ 11.41

Hay sweetie.whats your plans after the holllywood speech? @12.43

Fuck! u r out of your mind. @14.02

Sorry babe. Your not out of your mind. Jus crazy 4 a girl like u.xxxx @14.43

M: I've got a migraine & period pain & im going 2 hide in a dark room till i'm ok. so sorry 2 do this 2 u! I shd b ok by fri but i'll b in contact. xxx @17.03

Hope u r feeling better sooner than Friday.take care and c u soon. Not 2 happy about it I must say. Is that the 3rd strike? @ 17.13

Hay how u feeling? R u ok? Do u need anything?is there anything I can do 4 u?please let me know when u get text.x @21.30

M: I'm ok thx 2 ear plugs, tiger balm & aspirin. I just got 2 rest & w8 till it stips. I also have 2 do a shitload of marking b4 fri! I'll dream of u till then.xxx @21.36

Well then.im no good 4 u.when your feelin like that? @21.44

Would u like it 4 me 2 ease your mind and sooth you body? @22.03

M: Stale tobacco wd make me vomit right now 1.11.06 @22.03

What? I wont smoke then!how fuctdo u feel babe? @ 22.08

Halloween Horror Volume 5

this day seemed reasonably normal.....

Tuesday 31st October 2006

Goodmorning sweetie. Im going sailing on my friends 65 foot yacht 2day.across 2 lady jane beach champain all the goodies. @7.47

Good luck! This is the life.stunning day 2 b havning sex. @10.07

Hay sweetie I hope u didn’t get me wrong. Im save it 4 u. @11.04

So horny tho. @11.06

Did u hear about the plan than went down thanleft the emerald mines? Going 2 gladstone. They think the 3 dead are miners. How fucking freaky. @22.43

Halloween Horror Volume 4

Monday 30.10.06

Am I meeting u at succulents? Cant remember if u said or not? X @10.12

No reply. I guess I was wrong? Been waiting till 11.30. C u wed. I rang 2 change job interview till 2morow at 11.30am 2 c u off I guess that was a wrong fuc up2. Have a great day.x @10.37

That could have been arranged. But u have other commitments and now u can only dream what could have been. Have fun.xthats another u miss out on.3 strikes and your out. @10.59

I’ll let u know. @11.07

Looks like im heading up north 2 night.just waiting 4 phone call. @12.10

Yes babe.isuppose I better start packing. @12.13

What? Jus wear my riggers belt and hard hat? Will that do? @12.18

Don’t 4 get the steel capped boots.and a few tools. What a goo look.and a sweet smile. @12.21

Im real. Didn’t ufeel I was real last nite? Maybe u r dreaming? U never know whats? Around the corner. Life is full of suprizes. Never take it 4 granted. @12.36

The taste will fade. Im not gone yet.as 4 the sheets.u should wash them as the next bitch will b confused. She’ll b fucking the sheets and u might miss out.ha @12.46

Still waiting 4 call. I’ll let u know soon. @12.47

Babe I call the shots.u don’t need 2 cancel 4 me. I can still go at the end of the week. Thatswhat ive arranged. Im waiting 4them 2 give me the OK.but there is a chance I may still have 2 go 2night. @12.59

Will u miss me? Im no great loss. U will get it on and u will 4 get all about me.and it maybe better than ever be 4 I came along. @13.04

You r amazeing babe.thanks 4 your kind nature. U r very real and I like that.go 4 what ever u want in this life now.don’t let anything or anyone deter u what u beleave in.let love show u the way. Love everhting good or bad.its all learning.its allgood.you know what I mean.?x @13.15

Jus got the call babe. @13.57

Cant stop thinking about my cock inside u baby. @16.03

I’ll stop it then. @17.04

Horse and Carriage

currently I'm completing my Tax return and shuddering at the 43 essays I'm meant to be marking.

However WENDESDAY NIGHT at the HOLLYWOOD HOTEL I'll be busting loose - for some fine chinwagging about sex, gender and sexuality and genitality and lots of other stuff.

It's all in aid of the JACKI PASCOE SALON EXPERIENCE - a residency of weekly perfomrance, music , dance and disocurse organised by local luminary Jacqueline Pascoe.

It'll be like the guest lectures I get paid to do - only I'm not being paid so there'sll be more booty and no powerpoint. ACTUALLY I MIGHT JUST DO A PERFOMRANCE BASED ON MY BLOG RANTS. I'm on a panel with a couple of trannydames and we'll be between two bands - so around 9ish.

the evening kicks off at 8pm - so I hope to see yers there. the hollywood is off commonwealth street in surry hills - ferget the name of the street - its on a corner..... ask some drunk.

Over the weekend Schappylle is doing her interpretation of a South Australian PINK MOLL at an art auction eco conscioussness raising exercise at Mori Gallery at 3pm on Saturday 4th November. Addie is 168 Day Street.


Got this orff a friend - it knd of amused me....

Halloween Horror volume 3

This was the day of our second encounter... ohh if only I hadn't left the confines of my little ivy covered scholarly seclusion!

Sunday 29.10.06

That’s the plan.ill text u where 2 meet soon. Im driving at the moment @13.40

Hi sweetie. Where 2 meet? How about u come down 2 the newtwon hotel 4 one drink then we go and eat? Can u do that? @15.29

Cool. @15.33

I cant c u. im near pool table cum over. @18.43

Halloween Horror Volume 2

this was 2 days after our first encounter. I'd left another encounter up in the air - but swapped phone numbers - I was interested in meeting up but unsure when, but she was kinda persuasive.....

Saturday 28.10.06

Im so horny & u. R u up 4 it? @2.03

Sweet dreams babe. Im out of line sorry.but cant stop thinking about how sweet u tasted. I can still taste u in my mouth.x @2.16

Shame. I could have helped u get your rocks off.licked up your lush sweet pussy and kept u wanting 4 more.x @10.38

I’ll b picking up my tools over the weekend. Jus 4 u. and I hope u will need some adjusting after all the work u r doing? Cant wait 2 c u again.your taste is always on my mouth.and u r on my mind constantly.xxx;-) @11.28

About Sunday night. I would love 2 take u for dinner. I changed my plans as i would rather b sitting across from u enjoying your company and a good feast.xhow about u? x @12.27

8pm is fine.anywhere u like and what ever u desire or would like me 2 choose? As long as its fresh and good im there.let me know baby x. @14.31

Ok sweetie. U r holding me in despence. Thatscool. I’ll just have 2 wait. Is your day going well? @14.48

Suburban Mayhem

There is some good news.

I think I've found my sexual identity: a trashy femme called Sylvie. All thanks to cheap black wigs from the $2.00 shop and cheap black micro mini's from the $5 scragg shop, and cheap pink breasts from… err.., well the tit goddess, I guess. I've had them for about 25 years……. they don't cost very much at all. a bit of pain now and then. decent Bras. TLC & touch wood.

As the trashy femme, I feel like one of the Bronte sisters, being urged into a mask by their Papa " If you put htis on, you can be whoever you like, say whatever you like, it's not you, it's the mask".

so mayhem went out and was totally trashy on wednesday. Dancing like the whore of babylon, feeling up girls on the dance floor, following butches into toilet cubicles. getting other butches to follow me home. My mother would not be impressed with this at all.

Isn't lesbianism meant to be some sad, reclusive reflective decent thing, done between decent malephobic deeply in love sensitive beings who have no other choice than to seek refuge in a feminine caress?

Aren't lesbians lesbians only in couples and just sad spinsters while waiting for the perfect girl?

Can't we be cured by the perfect senstive non threatening man?

Aren't those piggies in the sky so damn pretty?

Last week, feeling mangofied, lusty, happy, energetic, I SMS'd my favourite femme icon of the month and posted a link to her blog. (see regal bits).

Like zoo (Milky and Ouchy) I too admire her eloquent posting on romance - and wish my browser wasn't so spastic that I can't stick up a link rightaway.......

All this midnight oil burning while the consort slept. He'd retreated into some world of pain/exhaustion/goodexcusefornotfuckingmeapprentlybut tryexplainingthattomycuntcozIain'tseenherearshaveyou?

feeling sexually deprived I naturally thought of the infinite sweetness of breastmik washed down by black bitter beer. Of the smoky succulent residue of ladylips lingering through more beers. Desire burned into me, and lay smouldering all week.

I wanked. a lot.

couldn't write. Wanted to sob. did sob. missed Abel. Listened to too much music. Wanted more. My head started throbbing. I had to get out. I took my migraine to yoga, and gently breathed. Realised that I had to get out. and move.

I had to go out and shake my bits, move like I was fucking and being fucked, and maybe even be fucked - but even just going through the motions lets off some thing.


my vagina, strange phallophillic and deaf creature that she is - is a marvelous dance instructor. (even more, I dare say, than the consort - though no-one's paid $80 an hour for her lessons).

she of course, leads. she leads me, she moves and moves me where and when and how she wants to go. Ever other limb, every other muscle follows her.

this explains the beatific smile on my face when I dance. It's like fucking nothing.

and I delightedly got led home by some incredible crinkle eyed butch, wiht a husky voice and eyes like the ocean, and hands like GOD (if a decent once exists) and Jesus - there's a whole world of women I need to sleep with because I think i've been missing out up to this point.


and I realised what I like in a man was being taken in the way that I want a woman to take me. hard, strong. No doubts. that self assurance.......

dykes don't ever ask if you've come or not.

when I told the consort he sobbed a lot but said it wasn't about me, and I'm still stupidly hoping for some sex from him, and meanwhile the saphhic sex god has been texting me every hour, and my twat throbs and I need to wank, and it's REALLY HARD to write.

the downside of the saphic sex god is that she is a chain smoker. and she doesn't drink coffee. She rang me one morning before I'd had mine. she didn't try again. I don't form words before coffee. (All the more Kudos to the consort for being the same way). I'm also scared she wants another girlfriend, she's talking about not moving interstate after all and has already tkaen her sex toys out of storage (ohhh lucky me!). i'm scared to tell her I've been bonking a man.

I wandered donwstairs and sought the advice of TEDG - whose a bit of a postgender sex god after her talk on thursday.

I asked her if I should maybe solve my problems by telling these inadequate, confusing and demanding people that I've FALLEN IN LOVE WITH ABEL AND WE'RE BACK TOGETHER.

those nice bonk/play buddies wouldn't have to be told - coz they don't make any demands. Just proffer bits of flesh, soothing caresses and naughtiness in between meals, coffees, conversations, mangoes..... which is all I want to do with anyone right now.

No fucking demands, no fucking expectations, no fucking dramas, no fucking posession.
Just lots of angst free, smoke free, game free fucking.

TEDG tried to persuade me that I shouldn't make up stories about Abel coz they might come true and that I probably do have the skills to actually ask for my needs to be met, directly from the intimates concerned.

but times like these I wish life could be like one of those ads for working dogs in the "the Land" newspaper.

Bailing, binding half-bull bitch. No time wasters.

Halloween Horror volume 1

Question: how do you tell if someone is a psycho stalker freak?
at what point do you make the call?
what do you do?
who do you blame?

What seemed like a fairly innocent two night stand - somehow over the halloween seemd to turn a bit odd. Lucky we're no longer in the 1980's - coz no doubt we would have gone to the Reclaim the Night march together or something and it would all be horribly ickily ironic.......

Friday 27.10.06

R u serious. @23.25

Maybe its time 2 play. @23.39

I have something on. @23.44

Cool. @23.51

First Mango of the Summer

My friend Jarnot (now snowbound in Sweden)

insisted that at the start of the summer you had to indulge in THE GREAT MANGO RITUAL.

This involves sitting near a tempting body of transparent sparkling water - wearing a sarong or some diaphanous raiment, and eating a mango - a whole one - with your bare hands.

Juice must drippel down forearms.
Pulp must end up on face and other bits of exposed flesh (especially thighs - tempting company to lick them clean).

You must scrape the pip with your teeth and use up a whole box of dental floss extracting the fibres from your interstices.

Having sucked the marrow, and being covered with the scent and pulp of delicious fruit - you then shed the diaphanous raiment and dive - or plunge (ideally naked) into the tempting body of transparent sparkling water .

Rinse the mango, rinse winter, rinse cares,. Float. Enjoy saline supported pneumatic mammaries.... be glad that summer is here.

Last sunday I did just that. Well almost.

I grabbed an overpriced mango from the consort's kitchen and strode purposefully down to Fairlight pool. Well - even though it's just been renovated with a new kiddy proof fence (yep - round a rockpool - what a bloody joke) and covered with breeders and spawn - I sat, in my raiment (Well a hat, and a frock) and dove into the mango with my bare hands and spread the juice inside and out.

coz it was mid october and peak melanoma paranoia season - I maintained my raiment of lycra rash shirt and bikini bottoms - and plunged in anyway.

Saw the ferry cross past south head, and sighed. Watched the sunset as another mango in the sky and sighed again.

I dragged another mango to uni to split with my supervisor on some hot humid lunchtime encounter. OK the main quad ain't quite a harbourside pool - but the mango was cool.

sinney can be great at times.

this week - the mango has gotten inside me. Maybe it was the splurging on seven golden orbs at PAddies that did it (average price: $1.20 per unit - yay!!). Better than bananas. (but god I miss bananas).

So today - I feel gravid with life, like I'm bursting at the sams with joy and delight.

I feel myself frighteningly fertile. Horny as hell, willing to be split in two from the inside. To suckle, to sing, to screw, to spew forth sproglets.

fuck fertility is frightening.

I got used to the clucking and sniffing around babies, the cooing bovinely at pregnant or nascently babified women. But this is weird. I'm stronger than I've ever been phsyically. Fit, energetic, calm..... Full of life, growing emerging. Life pulses within me and wants to extend forth into mini me's...... Maybe this explains the poledancing/hose beast tendencies. Bloody ovaries!

fucking hell.

I cross my legs, scowl and think pious thoughts about the tome.