stuck in the windy past

oh oh oh oh

oh oh oh

oh oh

oh.

one day. one day.

pretty russian girl.

- anna durneva

on death.

I sew myself to your shadow
But cruel;
Ripped and scratched, he
Drags fingernails down our backs,
Draws blood .
You expected it.

The door opens and
His stained hand – dull - creeps through; but
We did not see it. We heard only
The morning bell ring
To tell us of tomorrow, ignoring
What we knew.

I always thought of death as
A boundary, a line drawn in the crisp sand
Of a beach wiped clean of footprints by the tide.


At that kind of height, everything is visible.

it's mixed media post modernist wank.

- molly springfield

an art critic is going blind. last night i watched her say that she'd rather die.

i think i agree with her.

i wonder if she'd feel the canvas and stick her fingers in the paints and try and work out what the sculptures looked like with her body. i would.

my dad is colourblind. this reminds me of the song by the dresden dolls. also the song by counting crows. also this girl i used to be crazy about, who said she was so sorry to hear it, that he'd never see the colours, that all the reds and greens of the world would be dead to him.

i thought she was being melodramatic.
but then again, she was always melodramatic.

i'm off to pine the ridiculously expensive word artsy book. fuck you, ngv shop.

respect the boom

today someone said this to me. respect the boom.

jay, what are you talking about?

if aliens looked down and saw us dancing, he says, they'd be mighty confused.
it's one thing you can't explain, music. it doesn't make one shred of sense, he says, the way we move, the way we feel the music.

he continues:

it's that we can't explain it that makes it so universal. boom is the reverberations. the wordless. it's bigger than clubs, or records, or concerts. it's caberet as much as it is the latin american that we spinned to, this afternoon, it's classical flute as much as it is cutting edge fucking techno.
boom is what makes you dance. when you hear it and it's YES, yes.

it's peter damned garrett. it's children tripping over their toes and deluded romantics of my ballroom class. it calls out to something in us. hips are sexy, no matter where you're from. a good tango argentino says lust, anger, passion. it doesn't matter what language you speak.

for jay:
a toast.
to boom. everywhere.

art is all about collection, ordering, putting into place.

“What I want is to be needed. What I need is to be indispensable to somebody. Who I need is somebody that will eat up all my free time, my ego, my attention. Somebody addicted to me. A mutual addiction.”

elitism

the time has come to break the ties with private school inner city bubbledom.
the open world is full of people
willing to take your picture
and fall in and out and in and out of love and listen to your problems and tell you their own. lend you sugar for your tea. spoon on a cold night. get you a job you'd be crap at. cook you meals. tell you secrets. it's nice out here.

road trip.

this week we went on a kerouac around victoria. down around the great ocean road - beaches and fish and chips and cold, fucking, wind - then past the twelve apostles with bronte weather - then up through the grampians. we drove and drove and drove. stayed in backpackers hostels and with a nice german guy called steve and in some ugly motel. took all the exits for sightseeing. saw kangaroos. emus. koalas. beaches. art. we painted, sang, sat around the fire, cooked fresh and ate at cafes and fish co-ops and pubs.
now i'm back and i had bagels for lunch while a pretty lady played saxophone in a laneway, my friend had a spanish coffee shot and the waiter told us all about his life. i love travel, but i love melbourne too.