Wednesday, April 20, 2005

For my bestie, Simone.

I heard them before I saw them.

I could hear him groaning, and the sound of his pubis slapping hard against her backside. And his words "Don't you...fucking...move...", over and over. Whispered like a threat. Hissed, like a puncture.


And as the truck came around the corner to load out the show, I saw them too, for a split second.

He had her on all fours, him behind her. He had one hand in her hair, pulling her head backwards, and to the left hand side. His other hand held them steady, gripping the steel stairs. Her eyes were looking somewhere other than at the world we were in, only her body was there. She was dribbling all over her left hand, her face right on top of it. He was fucking her ass. She was deflated.

They were under the back stairs to the bar.

He was on his feet now, running for the gap between me and the truck, and his eyes were wide. She lay collapsed on the concrete, unmoving. He had flown past me while my mind tried to catch up with what was happening, when Otie knocked him on his back with a wheeled roadcase to the knees.

"Did you see that shit?" he asked me, pointing at 'him'.
"Um, what?" I say.
"Did you SEE that SHIT?" he said, emphasising the good bits, sitting on 'his' chest, one fist poised for a knockout.
"Yeah man..." I said, walking towards her " thinking. Good work."

I shrugged my way out of my hoodie, and lay it over her, it covered her from her neck to her knees.

"Hey..." I said quietly. "You don't have to say anything, you don't have to move if you don't want. We're gonna call the cops and an ambulance. You're safe now."

I checked her pulse, because I thought she was dead.

She wasn't, but she wasn't moving either. She blinked, and I hit my head on the stairs in a fright.

"Otie, get on the radio and tell the tour manager the deal. Get him to get the filth and an ambulance down here." I was seeing stars.
"But I'm sitting on this guy..." Otie says.
"Well, knock his ass out, then go do it."
"Roger that."
Otie says with a smile "I have to 'accidentally' knock you out, bro."
And he swings his boot hard into the bottom of the guys jaw, snapping his head back, and removing a wad of gaffer tape neither of us knew was there.

I was so scared for her.

I stroked her hair, and moved it out of her eyes. She was like a fish, just cold and staring. I couldn't see how she was breathing, she was so quiet. Blood was soaking up through my hoodie.

"You must be freezing." I said, but I felt like I was talking to myself.

After a minute, the tour manager came running down the stairs, as Otie re-emerged from the truck.
"What the fuck is this?" ...he shouted it.

"Tim, lower your voice man, this girl is in a bad way. Did you make the calls?"
"Shit, sorry." he whispered. "Yeah, they're on their way. God, is she alive?"
"Yeah, but she's cold, Otie, can you grab a packing blanket? We can wrap her up in it."
"Aren't you going to disturb the evidence?" Tim said.
"We both saw it happen man, and Otie got the guy. He's right there" I said, pointing at the guy, tapped out, bleeding from his mouth. This case is closed."
"Fuck me!" said Tim. He clearly hadn't noticed the guy on his rush down the stairs. he poked at him with his shoe.
"Is HE dead?" he asked?
"Nope" said Otie, "Just sleeping."
"Oh." said Tim, shaking his head, not actually knowing what Otie meant, not really caring either.

Otie brought the blanket, a huge, thick, soft, and itchy thing we use to wedge between roadcases, and laid it over her. Then we rolled her onto her back, covering her as we moved.

The three of us spent the next five minutes with her. Holding her hand, stroking her hair, gently talking, and trying to elicit a response from her. "You're going to be fine."

None came.

But the ambulance did, and the police did. And they put her in the back of the ambulance, and the police took our statements, and they revived the guy, and took them both away in opposite directions.

We loaded out the show, and drove 300 kilometres to the next town, for the next date on the tour.

That was December.

For the next month, she was all i could think about. i didn't know her name, I knew nothing, except what we had seen. As soon as it ended in Mooloolabah, I caught the first bus back down the coast, and told the band I'd catch them back in Melbourne. It wasn't like me to give up a plane ride home. But they had a good idea where i was going.

Queensland gave way to New South Wales, and I got there at lunchtime.

I went straight to the cop shop, and tried to make enquiries as to what had happened after we left. How she was doing.

The cops at reception were no help. Totally arrogant, with no reason. They said "Why do you want to know about her for? She's trash." I was stunned. "How could you say that?" I asked. "She's a dog, mate. She probably asked him to do her, then changed her mind. She's fucked in the head." I didn't realise I would, but my voice got louder and louder until i realised I was leaning across the counter and shouting at these cops, spit flying everywhere.

They're telling me to "Calm down mate", and I'm telling them "You're the worst kind of filth...what's your fucking problem?! Why can't you just tell me if she's okay, without acting like she's a FUCKING CRIMINAL?! She was RAPED for Christ's sake! Who the fuck are you to judge her?!"

I'm pointing my finger, and I'm not sure whether I'm about to jump the counter and kill them or not. I think I might. Yeah, I'm definitely going to.

The door behind the counter opens, and i recognise the face. He's older, nothing to prove, and weary. He raises the counter and walks to my side, puts a hand on my shoulder, and gently says "Let's go out the back son, we can get some privacy out there."

"Thanks." I say through gritted teeth. I'm shaking. I want to bite.

"Do you remember me?" he asked, walking past desks, into the lunchroom.
"Yeah, you took my statement." I replied. I wanted to cry now, I was so fucking confused.
"That's it." he said. "I'm Bruce..." he said. "...I'm the Sergeant here." he pulled out a chair for me.
"D'you want a cuppa?" he asks.
"Nah, I'm right."
"No worries."

He had kind eyes, and they confused the Hell out of me.
I hate cops, but Bruce was so fatherly and patient. It upset me even more.

"I'm sorry, for's not my usual style." I apologised.
"Hey, don't you worry about that son..." Bruce said, "...I'll be giving those two a dressing down later myself, believe you me."
He leaned back in his chair and breathed out deeply. i sensed bad news.

"I can't tell you her name" he started, "But I can tell you she's OK. At least, as Ok as she ever was."
"She was taken to the hospital, and after a night in there, she snapped back to it."
"She talked?" I asked.
"No. Not a word. But she doesn't speak to anyone. Anyone she doesn't know anyway. I've been aware of her for about four years. She lives on the street. But she got up and left, and from what I've seen, it's life as usual."

"So...I mean...where does she stay?" I asked.
"You'll find her down at the main beach, near the surf club" he said. "But don't expect her to talk to you. She's carrying a lot of weight, that one. I would tell you not to contact her, but I know you will anyway. i can see it all over your face. Have you slept since I saw you last?"
"Not really" I answered.
"Yup, I thought as much."

He stood, and I suddenly realised Bruce was over seven feet tall.
"You take care son..." he said, hand on my shoulder again.
"This is my number, use it if you need it."
"Will do..." I said, then stopped.
"Thanks Sarge, I..."
I stopped again.
He smiled at me, showing all the lines of his face, but none of the pain that caused them.
"No worries at all."
He squeezed my shoulder, and opened the back door.
"No worries at all."

I hired a room at The Fishermans Hotel, and dumped my bag into it.
I splashed water on my face, and changed clothes.
And I practically ran out the door.

I was on the beach, walking on the sand, a minute later.
Past British backpackers, people doing yoga and Tai Chi, swimmers and families and hippies.

And there she was.

She was in the shade, sitting on a backpack. Not a huge one, but it wasn't small either.
She looked out over the ocean, out East.
I was shocked to see her supporting her own weight, as odd as that is.

I walked even faster, not wanting to waste another second, burning to know for myself that she was ok, longing to be there to hear her words, or ease her pain, or...anything.

Then it suddenly struck me, that I was practically running towards a girl who only a month ago had been assaulted in a way I could never understand, and I stopped dead.

"What the fuck are you going to say?" I asked myself.
I had no answer.

I was ten metres away from her now, she hadn't moved.

"Fuck it" I thought, and walked over.

I half crouched, leaning to the left, hands together, like a penitent monk, or a scheming chaimberlain, walking slowly through her stage right.

She still didn't move. At least she didn't seem spooked.

When I was eight feet away I said, in the quietest voice I own "Hello."


I was next to her now, just in front of her, and I kneeled in the sand.

"Do you remember me?" i asked, eyes searching for a flicker from hers.

More nothing.

"I'm so glad you're ok..." I started, then realised hat a stupid thing that was to say.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. Of course you're not ok. I just meant...that..."

Nothing. From either of us.

I traced her line of vision, and looked out to where she stared.

And sighed.

We both looked out to sea for a minute, and I broke the silence.

"Please don't be frightened. I know this might sound weird, but I swear it isn't. i've just come a long way to see you, and I've been thinking about you all month, and...well...if it's ok, I'd just like to sit with you for a while. If I bother you, or if you're uncomfortable, or anything, just tell me, and I'll go. I just really want to hang out with you, if it's ok."

More of the nothing. But this time i was relieved.

So we sat, and watched the sea, and said nothing, and after about six hours of this, the sun went down.

I was worried. i didn't want to go, but I didn't want to stay there in the dark, in case I scared her. She had moved around a bit since i had arrived, letting her blood flow to crampy legs, or stretching her back. But had still remained silent.

And she hadn't looked at me at all.

"It's getting dark. I don't even know if you're suddenly going to get up and leave, or...what? This is really hard to get my head around, I can't imagine what it must be like for you. Maybe you don't want to think about that. Of course you don't. Maybe I should...I don't know." I was lost.

"Tell me a story." she said, and I had to stare through the coming dark, to focus, just to make absolutely sure she had said it.

"A story?" I asked, but she said nothing more.

"OK, a story for you."

I leaned back in the sand, hands behind my head, and I looked at the stars for a minute, then down to the white of the breaking waves. And I began...

"Millions of years ago, when whales walked on land, horses were the size of cats. They lived in the forest, and hid in the undergrowth, hid from the birds, that were six feet tall, and couldn't yet fly. They were timid little things, these horses. And they could never go out into the open, where the birds would hunt them. So for miliions of years, the horses evolved in hiding, and the birds became smaller and smaller, and grew wings, and learned to fly, and the whales went to live in the ocean. Until the horses were big enough, and the birds grew small enough, that the horses could finally come out onto the plains, and run and run and run. And that's why horses to this day, love to run, and will run themselves lame if you ask them to. because for millions of years, they never, ever could. That's the worlds shittest story, but there it is., and it's all true."

"Good things come to those who wait..." she whispered, and she turned her head, and she looked at me.

I smiled with my eyes, and I said "I hope so. I really hope so."

"Because I'm through running." she said, reaching for me.

And I took her hand, and wrapped her up in my arms. And we held each other til morning, held each other in total silence.

And we slept right there on the beach, until we were woken by birds, and horses, and whales.

"Maybe it's time to evolve?" she asked, through sleepy eyes, her lips against my neck.
"Maybe..." I said to her head on my chest. "...we need to grow bigger, and run where we want."

"Or maybe..." she replied, "It's time to grow wings of our own?"
"Or we could live underwater." I said.

"Have you ever been to Melbourne?" I asked.
"Is that where we're going today?" she replied.

"Yes, it is. That's where we're going." I was smiling.

"Well, let me grab my things", she said, and picked up her backpack.
"I'm ready!"

I took her pack, and put it on my back, took her hand, and exhaled.

"I'm ready too."

This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Tuesday, April 19, 2005

Standing on the edge of the Hoover Dam.

A lot of us feel lost.

"Where the hell am I??!!"

We're reaching out to one another, blind, from behind fences and walls and computer screens. Like a West Bank that just never stopped, we inhabit countless gated communities, and if we're to continue this simile, the dangerous world outside is like our own personal Arafat-era Palestine. We're stealing their land to build more cellphone towers and to house acres of servers, and wind-farms. And art galleries.

But what makes this world so dangerous to us? What is it about the world that makes us feel so fake when we're out in the thick of it?

We still go shopping, we still socialise. We're not so scared to go outside really. And yet the trend unfolds, that we increasingly limit our interactions with other people, opting to Myspace or Friendster or online date, or blog. We lie a lot, too.

Like lonely ham radio operators back in 1985, we repeat our callsigns endlessly, hoping a disembodied voice from Siberia will reply, and send us a card in the mail.

It's easier than actually going to Siberia. Or Lithuania, or anywhere else most kids from next door could not point to on a map if you gave them all day.

So what is this fear? And where does it originate from? What are we searching for?

Oh, it's big allright!

From the 60's, to the late 90's, it was common practice to talk about the 'fabric of society', the texture of our culture. We heard the words 'global village', we saw the Benetton ads, and we ran with the term. We embraced it, we liked it.

We saw the advantage to diversity, and reaped the reward of all this fresh culture that came with cosmopolitan living. Thanks to the internet, I have online friends in the Arctic wastes of Alaska, who shop from the same stores you do, and wear what you wear, and probably have the latest album from whoever we all like this week before you have it. They have ultra fast cable connections, and through them, they both share in and are co-opted by, the new melting pot of culture.

But as great as it is to be accepting of other people's ways, and as fresh as it is to eat sushi now, or even remember a time when you couldn't get it anywhere, the downside is this:

This texture of our culture has become so complex and confusing to us, that we don't feel we own it any more.

We are adrift in a sea of other people's food, fashion, music, art, you name it. And they are adrift in ours.

More than ever we know who we are, and what we want.

We want exactly what everyone else has got, only more of it and the latest version. And we are the net result of that neverending search to obtain it all.

We gather as much as we can, and hide it in our iPods and hard drives, and never listen to one one-hundredth of it. We're cultural squirrel/vultures. Compulsive collectors. Hoping one day we'll get what all this stuff is, that we seemingly love so much. We hoard it all away in the hope someone will come along and tell us what it all means, where it came from, how it fits together, and what in the world we can actually do with it.

Frank Zappa said it best.

And yet, how much of it do we understand? How much is real and comfortable to us, as opposed to being novel and "now!"

Why do I know who 'Banksy' is, when Banksy lives in England, and likes throwing up stencils? i don't know my neighbours. Not one of them.

"Mmm! Culture!"

You know what?

It's not us that is lost, it's the culture around us.

We're still standing here, working hard to make sure the Industrial Revolution wasn't all for nothing. We're still 'monkey-see'ing/monkey do-ing' just like we've been trained to since the 50's. We've traded DVD for video, and home theatres for the movie cinema and the intermission (remember those?), but we still have both eyes on the screen, either way.

It's the world that got lost. It lost control and careened headlong into a billboard for pharmaceuticals you don't need, starring a reality tv star that just as easily could have been you.

And what's with that?

What's with the new talent all being people we used to surf with, beat up at school, or whos boyfriend we used to fuck secretly on sundays? it makes the insult of our collective ( and somehow entitled) lack of fame even more injurious, that we missed out by such a close margin.

We all still live on streets, in suburbs, drive cars or ride bikes, go to work, eat out, pick up, and throw down.

But the word from upstairs has suffered a serious case of Chinese Whispers (is it un-p.c. to say that now?), so we don't know who to be in relation to it all. Like the world is a mass of swirling foam, or a crowd disaster, and we're getting swept away in a massive tidal wave of...well...nothing really.

Nothing that we can easily comprehend anyway.

But it sounds great, and it tastes good. And I look amazing wearing it. Even if it is what my Dad wore when he was a struggling painter in Amsterdam in 1967.

Our notion of culture is not only beamed-in from wherever the Hell overseas it came from, it is even exhumed from times in history when we were all either not born, not yet into puberty, or were completely different people in a lot of cases we'd like to forget, or simply leave behind.

We have become the grave robbers of someone else's zeitgeist.

We're getting nostalgic for experiences most of us never even experienced in the first place!

Nostalgia is big business to style merchants, so it's no small wonder a lot of us are feeling a little confused when our televisions and radios regurgitate relics of yesteryear onto us, as if we not only ever got it the first time around, but were even there.

The cultural paradigm we came to expect in the 80's, and rebel against in the 90's, is breaking up, not only through diffusion and redistribution, but through a hole torn through the time/space continuum by Saatchi and Saatchi.

I thought we were all getting rocket cars?

When I saw 'I, Robot', and by "saw", I mean "downloaded from a bit-torrent site", I couldn't understand why it was up on screen, instead of in my actual world. But that's probably just me. Tech like that clearly has to wait until we have developed better weight-loss drugs and fought wars with people who have unpronounceable names.

Beside the point, which is, "So we go ahead and set up our sites, and broadcast to the world that we too, are relevant, and display our talents or our passions, or our depravity (always a crowd-pleaser!), and watch that little blue Gmail notifier icon in the system tray for a sign of incoming responses."

Is this what we are now?

Pure stimulus/response engines?

Is this why we make art or music or whatever mess our predelictions dictate?

So we can be validated by people we may never ever meet?

I will be watching my Gmail notifier icon intently for your responses.

This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Sunday, April 17, 2005

Temper, Temper !!!

Bad things happen when you repeatedly beat me at Chess- be warned.

Yeah, I'm in a foul mood, and i don't have the slightest idea why. Must be having my man-period, or maybe a sympathy-period with my girlfriend. That sounds good, except she's not having hers, and aren't blogs great how we can smash brand new computers and talk about menstruating...even other people's menstruation?

That's what blogs are all about for me anyway.

And don't worry, I feel a lot better after my tanty. Might need a new computer though. Luckily, i keep a backup at all times, because I learned in Scouts how to be prepared and organised, and also how to get molested by my Arkhala, and get my leg caught in a gin trap while running away in terror through the forests of New Zealand.

All in all, Scouts was pretty kickass, coz you'll never know when you might need to quickly cook some beans over a fire made in a cut-out Milo tin, or molested.

Hey, you you have Milo over there?

And where the Hell is Bou? Posting feels so empty without knowing she's over there in the big city with one hand down her pants, reading all about how obnoxious and egotistical I am.

Come back and post rude things again, you *beautiful loser!

I went to a gallery opening tonight. i wore my new outfit, which consists of an awesome vintage white Terylene/Cotton collared shirt, with these thoroughly Empire-building green stripes sewn into the Glo-weave, a 'several shades of brown' 70/30 Wool/Acrylic Argyle sweater-vest from par Four (circa 1971), and some black Levi's engineered jeans I got for free from Levi's Superstore in Pitt Street Mall in Sydney, when I walked in at the right time and they assumed I was part of the band they were sponsoring, and gave me $1200 worth of stuff for nuthin'.

In fact, here's a couple of pics of it on my floor...just to give you an intimate feel, so to speak.


"Knifey, do me NOW!"

You can pretend they're on your floor if you like, and that we just finished up making sweet love down by the fire. Even if you're a guy. Just don't tell me about it if you are a guy. That would be amazing.

Anyway, this gallery opening was so dull and contrived I'm not entirely sure i didn't crap my pants just for something to do.

As it happened, the main focus of attention for everyone involved was the fact I was wearing these fresh duds, instead of a ripped Motorhead tee shirt and jeans I found by the side of the Hume Highway in 1989.

No-one paid the artist or his work any mind whatsoever, which dissapointed me greatly, as i felt the least we owed him was a good stoning and maybe a beating with sticks, for being so boring.

One guy I barely know, and have barely known for about 5 years now said i looked "hirsute". I was about to start wailing on his face when my friend who drove me there and back said "It's true, you DO look hirsute!"

I have no idea what it means, but I do know how to spell it anyway. I have standards.

Anyway, after listening to Gwen Stefani's 'Holla- back Girl' on repeat for about 60-gazillion hours, we all decided it was time to get horrendously, and irreversibly drunk.

This might not strike you as weird, but seeing as I don't drink, and haven't for maybe 10 years or more, it struck us as weird.

But then we were all
horrendously and irreversibly drunk, so it didn't matter.

My tipple of choice was fruity punch, much to the delight of my crew, who are all of the opinion that if I drank all the time, I'd be ordering 'girlie drinks' at bars and getting embarassed around all the 'real men', drinking straight shots of Satan's Spermatazoa. I was offended by this, as they are 100% on the money.

I must have had all of, I dunno, two...before I stopped remembering, and gave in to full-on intoxication.

Que Fuerte!!!

I'd like to tell you something suitably rock and roll, like, I woke up in the dumpster out the back at 3 in the morning, so i will.

That's what happened, right there.

Then i went back inside, found my friend (who hadn't drunk anything, and therefore cheated), and got a lift home (where I played chess, lost 5 times, and smashed my computer).

And here we are.

I'm gonna go finish installing pickups on my new-guitar-of-the-week, so i can play it and get signed by Sony and be a big rock and roll star one day.

This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

*In-joke, not an insult. So get fucked immediately.

Saturday, April 16, 2005

Red faced, ashamed, and...partially naked.

Holy Crap! I'm back!

I didn't think I would to be honest, I thought I was gone 4 eva.

But I've had so many amazing opportunities come out of this, I think I'd have to be suicidal to walk away now.

When I did the AC/DC Lane thing, Bill Walsh from Cherry Bar was so happy with it, that he invited me to be there next time AC/DC are in town, V.I.P. style'n'that.

When I had nothing to say one night, so I posted up a cute little layout of my favourite magazine Monster Children, turns out the editor found it while Googling, read my blog, and asked me to come write for them. He's also sending me a copy of Issue 1, which I don't have. Maybe a tee shirt too.


Lots more things like this, so, yeah, call me greedy and opportunistic, but it seems like this blog has been getting me out there waaaaay more than my dumb publicist (who may or may not be dead, I'm not sure).

So what's news?

Well, apart from the usual taxi-panelbeating while riding through the city, I've been getting my new band happening (Disgraceland), writing for graffiti magazines in Poland, updating knifeyland (and getting in trouble with my Mom who says it's porn), not being invited to play at the Logies this year (Gasp!), and starting out on a romance that I hope will never end for once.



If you have emailed me and not received a timely reply, there's your reason, right there.

So, I don't know how often I'll be writing on here, nowhere near as much as I used to, I know that much. But hopefully if I ever do anything worthwhile ever again, hopefully its existence on here will open up a few more doors of the kind I've been seeing of late.

I'd like to write more, and I've been offered work with 3 more magazines this week already. So let's keep that coming, and if anybody needs a guitarist who can play guitar like a motherfucking whirlwind inside a tornado, that's on fire in hell, please let me know.

Come back Kitten, come back YGWIN, come back Bou, and all the rest of you crazy kids who don't know any better! Let's get this bee-hotch back on lockdown.

This is knifey, from 'the internet'.