And it begs the impossibly mind bending question, am I doing it because I want to do it or am I doing it to prove a point to myself. etc. And so on, et al.
I remember my graduation ceremony well, it was my family’s proudest day. We were the generation on straddling the time when university was still an achievement. Proud as Punch: P.A.P.
Years later I’d look back with a sense of alienation at photos of my long hair and apathetic squint.
This person I do not know, yet we’ve lived each other, through and through.
You remember this time now, but will you think about it
when there are only seconds left?
A conscious man is not a man of conscience.
I learned this the hard way in Istanbul, this lesson was tough. Groundhog class.
Everything comes in three.
That particular end of the week was quieter than he could remember in months. Jacob noticed the pacific December air as soon as he left the apartment on his way to a record shop, where in the stillness of a Sunday there was life in the city yet.
He’d made the acquaintance of a woman who he’d imagined he’d only ever read about and never meet, a Gertrude Stein type. Jacob was the traveler who became a regular and then the status of a regular became something more, with Julie. She’d told him that Hawtin was in town and was putting on a show at her Shop and that he was invited, he was one of the first to know.
As Jacob marched towards the Heart of Montmartre, Paris was a narrow, white sepulture. In the wake of violence the police patrolled the streets like lovers in arms.
The first time Jacob had met Salome she was a young girl. She’d let a room from him on her travels through Sydney, She was traveling with a friend and the two stayed with Jacob for a month. They’d taken an add for a single room and the first time they’d met, the two girls mistook his Australian hospitality for lecherousness. Between teaching him about petty theft and blue cheese, the girls taught Jacob about their home. And such are the wonders of Paris.
That night, the first since they’d been together, there was no premier screening. Charline Dupont lay in her bed, carelessly not-reading a book waiting for her boyfriend to come and join her. He was late.
A shared love of cinema had become their ritual end to the night. The only rule: neither mustn’t have seen the film before. It was his job to pick the movie before starting the process of rejection, there wasn’t a movie she hadn’t seen and she never missed a new release no matter her schedule at the shop. Eventually they would find a title.
Routine is the sibling of boredom, and the ancestor of contempt, and forgiveness can be given where permission can not. Tomorrow he would leave, there would be no encore. His peregrination had come to an end, punctuated by the irrevocable fact that their relationship had been damaged. Foolish mistakes had driven a stake between them and pride now kept them apart. Right through to the end, their relationship had followed script of a B-grade romance — immoderate joy coupled with tacky and predictable mistakes. Like something they would have watched, and laughed at together, before eventually falling asleep.
They would say to strangers what they couldn’t say to each other. The unbridgeable silence eventually leading to his departure.
In retrospect, he would punish himself for his impetuous decision until his youth retreated and his face became slack. She didn’t know it yet, but she would suffer silently until time made the memories black and white: The bad forgotten and their love placed on her mind’s dais. They lay together for what he knew to be the final time, his open palm replete with the sadness of her ignorant touch.
He looks around the room at her objects collected over half a lifetime from various markets, second hand shops, and the kicks and knacks sent by her friends. She was a avid taxidermist.
As he pulled the shattered pieces of of a boiled egg stuck in the perforated plug at the bottom of the kitchen sink, the one that lets the water pass but stops the food-shit from falling into the hole, he realized that she helped him enjoy the mundane things in life.
What he couldn’t see then became clear to him now. He stopped, epiphanous, and thought that life is a series of uninteresting moments, to eat, to clean, to work and to rest is to live. This had become his life. She helped him punctuate the everyday with moments of rapacious sex and joyous laughter. And now that was gone.
The Great Barrier Reef is now the world’s cheapest hit-man, ugh… -thing.
Bequest family money ahead of His time by sending your grandparents and/or elderly parents to the Great Barrier Reef.
For only $200, you can send a geriatric family member on the trip to end a life time, snorkeling one of Australia’s natural wonders, the Reef, a wonder the size of Italy replete with little nastys, sure to test the cardiac abilities of even the most chest strong, the most perfect arrangement for those seeking patrimonial riches.
In addition to the patrimony package, tour operators also offer a discount on the kill your spouse bundle; whereby you can arrange for a significant other to meet their maker via the jaws of a shark — The Steve Erwin spectacular is available for an additional fee, Stingrays must be arranged ahead of time.
Owner of one of the operators providing tours of the Great Barrier Reef, Rick Sontivo: “Given that the waters around the Reef have risen in recent years, if conditions are right, an entire family could potentially be wiped out in just one trip. It’s a bumper season so far.” He said.
Queensland tourism has reported a significant increase in the number of visitors to the reef since the subjectively tragic deaths of the elderly French couple.
Terror group allegedly responsible for Sydney motorway madness last week
SYDNEY: Jihadi group ISIS have claimed responsibility for major traffic delays on a busy Sydney motorway after a car ran out of petrol last week.
The terror organization released a statement this morning: “Every extra minute the Australian-infidel sits stuck in traffic is a minute less the Australian-infidel can spend living his imbecilic and piggish Western ways.”
The driver, who escaped the vehicle unharmed albeit a little embarrassed, said he had no idea his vehicle was running on empty. “They must have got me when I was at work because I filled up the tank that morning, it was cheap Tuesday.” He added.
The broken down vehicle led to a standstill in westbound lanes on the M5 around Beverly Hills at about 6pm on Tuesday.
The incident caused major traffic delays late into the night.
Traffic jams stretched back kilometers to the airport at Mascot.
In other news, Al-Qaeda have claimed responsibility for popular reality television program, ‘The Voice’.
Because every should be treated equal
Those with nothing to give could still spare a thought for #equality
Further reading about indigenous incarceration rates
Creativespirits.info highlights one of the most serious social issues in Australian history: the Indigenous incarceration rate.
Simpson and Doyle (abc.net.au) published a great piece: ‘Indigenous prison rates a national shame’.
Change your facebook profile picture, let the world know you care. Make indigenous incarceration rates a talking point on the street, not just in parliament.
Hawtin showcases new mixer at Walrus, Paris.
He defined a sound. Richie Hawtin visited Walrus to PLAYdifferently, a stop on his Prototypes Tour, a rapid series of shows to test the product on the road and build hype, the Parisian performance lasted for an hour and there were no more than 50 people present.
It was a unique show.Hawtin’s performance bought a new definition to the term, ‘intimate gig’. Last time I saw a performer of this caliber, about a thousand people gathered in front of a stage in a field.
The venue is called Walrus. It’s a record shop and a home for Parisian musicians and artists to showcase their work.
I got a chance to speak to Hawtin after the show. You can listed to the interview below.
I wrote an article about the night: ‘Richie Hawtin Speaks: PLAYDifferently, Prototypes, & Innovation‘. In it, Hawtin gives a clarion call to electronic artists to ‘PlayDifferently’.
It’s about as cold as it should be, for a December, the air is type of crisp that invites you to snap off a wafer of afternoon to keep and savour later. Exposed chimneys scar the sides of buildings and ascend past mansard roofs and fired clay flues which casually puff smoke like a man who doesn’t really want a cigarette but lights one anyway. I take a left onto Dunkerque, an angular street marching towards the heart of Montmartre. Gare du Nord is probably the filthiest part of the city. Men with confused hair do laps of the blocks asking people for cigarettes and coins. Mobile phone shops stay open suspiciously late. The streets are flooded and swept every morning so the accumulated sin and shit ends up kilometers away. But even here it’s intimidatingly beautiful — even a sad looking dog shit sandwiched and smushed in two by a pram reflects a rainbow.
Walrus is a big rectangle house of grog, music and laughter. A tall journalist interviews two bright eyed American cubs hiding behind their hair. A man in a piebald coat and a woman with a foreign hairstyle wax lyrical in Spanish. The way they speak, the way their sentences caper into each other and how they laugh (there’s always a laugh), the whole scene serves as a shining example to friends around the world. A youth flicks through a wall of records wanting everything but looking for nothing. I take a seat at one of my regular positions, a table with a short leg which needs a folded coaster to stay level. It’s funny how if you go to a place regularly enough, being creatures of habit and all, you’ll only end up sitting in like maximum two places. These spots are usually decided on the first and second visit.
Ever wondered what to call removing fecal matter from the back of the toilet bowl with your pee?
English is wibbly-wobbly and fluid. Some suggestions to cope with modern life.
[/ f ʌ m b ə l /]
- The unnecessary and repetitive act of unlocking and then re-locking a smartphone, particularly an iPhone: Paul phumbled on his phone and didn’t really pay attention to what they were saying. Jessica had seen Paul phumble on his phone so many times she now knew the unlock code and she promised herself to send something embarrassing to his friends later that evening.
- The act of phumbling
[/ juː r ɛ r ɪ l aɪ z /]
- The action of removing fecal matter stuck to the back of a toilet seat with your urine stream. Jim smiled with satisfaction as he urelized the shit off the back of the toilet. Alex flushed the toilet and lifted the lid to inspect the damage. It wasn’t good but he didn’t need to use the brush because he still had to piss. Now he was the urelizer.
- urelizer, noun
- urelizeable, adjective
[/ k r æ s ʌ s /]
- Someone (particularly a friend) who acts like a sex pest in a group situation causing one or more members of the group to be excluded from conversation. Fuck, do you remember how much of a krassus cunt Rick was last night?
- krassusly, adverb
- krasusness, noun
[/ g l ʌ ɡ ɪ ʃ /]
- The feeling of guilt that comes from a night of heavy drinking especially if you’ve done nothing wrong. Jim was in a gruggish hell that morning. He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly and begun the difficult task of trying to figure out where he’d fucked up the night before.
- gruggishly, adverb
[/ əˈ (r) pɑː (ə) n tm (ə) nt /]
- A living space which on first appearances looks like a penthouse but on close inspection is more like an apartment with penthouse like features. Luke said to Jim and Suzie: ‘It’s the best penthouse in the building, possibly even the city’. Jim whispered to Suzie, ‘More like an arpentment’. Suzie tried to muffle a laugh.
Hostels are a melting pot of freeks, try-hards, the well adjusted and well affected.
There are a lot of normal and not so normal people using the international hostel system. Whether in Amsterdam or Paris, Sydney or Berlin, you’re sure to meet any one of these hostel archetypes on your travels around the world.
Mystical Traveling Warrior (MTW).
The MTW has a vague age, little name and no sense of humor — an age away from home has left this man hardened. There are very few female MTWs — this is a life that appeals to a man, possibly one traveling from or to love. Listening to stories from these men can be draining or exhilarating depending on your mood.
Hostel First Timer (HFTs).
First timers have an enthusiasm to mingle that could freshen your breath. Despite appearances, they treat the hostel ‘family’ like a face-sucker from Alien.
The most common hostel personality archetype, The Drunk can be charming up until the point he or she pisses their pants.
While sex is on the mind of most men at any given hostel at any given time, The Sex Pest stays at hostels just to fuck.
The local is of the city and staying at the hostel for reasons never really made clear. He’s always the guy who knows a guy who can hook people up with shitty cocaine and there is always conjectured argument over where he’s staying in the hostel just to make a profit.
A general unkempt appearance characterised by the lack of shoes — even in an European winter — and rolling tobacco. Not to be confused with A Hipster. The Hippy may introduce his or herself using ‘Namaste‘. Can accessorize with guitar, ukulele, bongos.* Along with the local, the Hippy may be a source of weed.
*Hipsters claim Banjos.
These different personalities are not mutually exclusive. For example, The Drunk and The Sex Pest have a number of cross-over characteristics. The First Timer ends up almost always becoming a Sex Pest after half a look from a disinterested European girl, and then usually ends up being The Drunk after an unsuccessful and short stint as the Sex Pest.
He attracts buenas vibras, or sympathy, which is why they give him another drink when he’s there. Back home the rules are black and white. This will be the pint of no return.
Vaguely disturbed by the smell of shit, the pulse in his head rocks the bed. This is operant pain. Last night’s tomfoolery was all for a girl who works at a bar. The rank smell is naively attributed to a rank fart in his sleep.
His body hurts but the torment of consciousness holds his mind awake with the brutality of a headlock. In the predawn hours, this installment of the daily joust with The Sleep is particularly hard to achieve.
He notices that the rapid, tidal qualities of the room ease when his head comes up from the pillow. Of course there’s a causal relationship between proximity to the pillow and happy. It finally occurs to him why the graph of comfort is shaped in an arc.
Another dangerous movement comes at dawn; the time, he thinks with difficulty (thinking makes his head hurt) , where sleeping for another hour will only make the day worse.
He’s got a fifteen minute buffer up his sleeve to submit to The Sleep before he ends this silly game and hits the bathroom to drain the piss, which he’s thankful hasn’t happened in the bed — a sign of the cross or prayer is scheduled for around lunch.
Living with my mother.
It’s awkward slipping back in the natural role of son when cohabiting the family home.
My mother, like most mothers — she’s a lovely woman. She’s the type of person who displays on the living room mantle a picture of her two dogs in Santa’s lap around holiday time. The dogs look a little scared, and Santa has the typical intense and almost perverted stare that shopping mall Santa’s tend to have. Black sideburns are clearly visible beneath the fake white beard. It’s fucking awkward having a photo of this stranger holding my dogs staring at me as I sit here with a hangover worthy of an award; judging me for the social sins I committed the night before.
After my friend’s birthday soiree, I sit here with the feeling that I disgraced myself somehow last night, but I’m not exactly sure how. A dark guilt will hang around for the day, maybe longer. I drunk too much — this much is true. The psychic pain I’m now suffering was brought on by actions last night, the pain is not that bad though. I have comfort food and I have weed.
Weed from Shaun.
- The neighbors can see him walk with his head slightly down looking at but not registering the chalk stained pavement of this quintessential Sydney suburb’s back lane. He’d just picked up from Sean and he was hurrying home — but not walking too fast as to arouse suspicion. Sean was the unofficial neighborhood dealer, a status confirmed when it clicked at a barbecue that a guy who he’d been talking to got his weed from the same place. His mother also gets her weed from Sean. Usually he just smokes hers, but today he has his own.
- Awkward is so much more interesting than the robotic. But there’s good awkward and there’s bad awkward. The obligatory exchange of social pleasantries we offer up to each other in an office elevator, like a sign that says “Please accept these few words as a gift that I’m not a fucking rude cunt.” — the French have a word for this, “bonjour”. This is bad awkward. The good awkward can give birth to unexpected events and interactions. Like when there’s too long of a silence when you’re with a girl. Buying weed sits somewhere between these two points. Not unpleasant, just a bit of a chore.