Tuesday, September 27, 2005

El Continuuoso.

I got an email from someone I love yesterday (purr), and in it they asked me if I believe in reincarnation, they do and I don't.

My best friend in New Zealand does too. She's a former model/radio personality/general superstar who turned her back on the world at large in favour of finding out just how "this life thing" really works. She has a bunch of odd friends, some of whom you may consider rather unsavoury (let's include me in this sub-group), and from us all, she garners her wisdom. She is so impossibly beautiful I would try to describe it to you, but there's no point, because it's impossible. But I will say that she looks at everything she sees with the most incredible and empathetic look in her eyes. Like she sees everything for what it is, and she's soooo sorry, but it will be okay, just you wait and see. Even when she's smiling, she looks so sad and remote and perfect, just like the antipodes of New Zealand themselves.

My Mother also, is a big fan of reincarnation. My Mother, for those of you who don't know her, is what you would call a "no shit kinda gal". She's an ex model also, and a radio personality too, now that I think of it. She doesn't give any shit, and she doesn't take any shit, because she used to hang out with the Bee Gees and The Easybeats, and you didn't. She used to work on the second-biggest cattle station in Australia, which might not sound like much, until you consider the fact it is bigger than Sweden and the former Czech Republic combined, so big, you need a helicopter with a jet engine just to go fetch the newspaper from the front gate. She used to do a lot of things. A lot of no shit kinds of things. She knows all about the world, and the people in it, and let's face it, she raised me, and I turned out to be completely normal. (For the uninitiated, turn on your sarcasm-o-meters now.)

But I still just don't get down with reincarnation.

And so, after reading 'The Dharma Bums' by Jack Kerouac, and being so inspired by his enthusiasm and simple devotion, and being overtired to the point of hallucination, I kinda zoned out and thought about...

...how everything in this Universe is made of not much. How, on an atomic/molecular level, every solid object you have ever experienced is pretty much just empty space, with little electrons and neutrons and molecules and atoms all whirring around in their own little orbits, relating to each other, and locking together to form bigger things like bottle tops, and iPods, and foreskins.

How, if you knock on the surface of a guitar, like you would on a door, your sense perception is that that object, is solid. We even call it solid. But it isn't. Our eyes, which we trust way more than we ever should, tell us it looks solid, our touch tells us it is hard and solid, our ears tell us through knocking that it sounds solid, but it isn't solid. It isn't solid the way the bones that make up your skeleton, or the International Space Station, or an Yngwie Malmsteen CD is solid, or the way you think they are. It's just the same empty space, with a different set of elements from the periodic table dancing around to spice it up. Just like Sperm whales, full cream milk, or your brothers haircut do. Nothing is solid, it just perceives that way.

If we could shrink ourselves down small enough, and we took a trip, we could see all that empty space, that makes up Mount Rushmore, and the hard boiled egg I'm eating. We could fly right through the middle of a bacteria, the slide it's on, the microscope that surrounds it. We could fly right through the lab assistant, and the doors, and the walls, and out into space right through the sun, and for all we knew, we had been in space all along, because all we could see was the space that makes up all things. And we would see that there are no spaces between anything, because everything is space. That there are no spaces between us, because we are all space, and therefore, we are all one person. One person, made up of billions, of small people. But that one person is also made up of ant colonies, and wolf packs, and shopping malls, and uranium mines, and submarines, and newspaper columns. That buddhism was right after all, and that everything is connected, and one, and all at once an illusion, and nothing at all.

Why, if you could shrink yourself small enough, do you know what? We'd look like God. A God made of everything, even cancer, and a thousand smeary fluids we shall not name.

And maybe that's it. Maybe that's what it is. Maybe there is a God, and it is the full amalgamation of everything in the Universe, all together at once. Which really would make us all of God, and he greater than all of us combined, and far too much to comprehend with just the one segment of mind. That his will is far too complex and great for you or I to ever understand, because his will is made up of every thought process, natural occurrence and complex system in the Universe, all physics, and Geometry, and Logic, and bowel movement, and river rushing, and ice crystal forming, all at once, so it would take every mind in existence to house every thought that makes up the mental component of his will, and no less. And reincarnation could be, it could be the dying of some people, and their rhythms and smells and ideas, and the new birth of others, giving the whole continuity through time/space, while ending the singularities of particular individuals having an instance in that self same time/space. Like blips on the radar, it's still the same plane from blip to blip, even though it's new, and in a different place, at a later time. Together with all the bugs and cars, we ARE God, and if humanity succumbs to some as-yet unknown disease, and we all die, then the bugs would be God, and the cars too, until the bugs all died, and then the cars would be God. And the Coupland-esque superhighways with vines growing across them and the sun shining down on them would lie silent for a hundred thousand years, while God rusts himself into airbourne particles, spaces drifting off into space. The Holy Spirit, and the rapture, and judgement for all of us and our pets and real estate and computer porn and parking fines and good deeds and the Swiss Army knife you dropped under the front stairs of your Grandfathers house when you were eight, and you never found, until you died and decomposed, and it rusted, and you both drifted together in the epicentre of a North Sea Hurricane, with a Tyrannasaurs eye, and the first atom of matter that ever existed in the Universe, all swirling and dancing together at the end of human time, after cars and insects had their turn at being Gods, and the Earth danced right into the warm embrace of Sol, our sun.

Or maybe I'm just overtired, and radically miss Melissa in New England, Jennifer in Auckland City, and Mom up in her trailer park in Queensland.

'Night all...and God bless, whatever that means.

Broadcasting live and direct from The North Melbourne Public Library, this is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Friday, September 23, 2005

I have never met Cameron Diaz, or Johnny Knoxville...

I have never met Cameron Diaz, or Johnny Knoxville.

I have rubbed shoulders with them however, quite literally, and most accidentally.

"So what?" I hear you say. "Who gives a crap about who you know or don't know?" And to you, I say "exactly". Exactly, because, if this world was anything remotely close to resembling the way it should be, no-one would care, least of all me. And let me be clear about this- I don't care either. But there are a lot of people who do, and in the last week, I have experienced quite a few of them.

Last night I came out of a movie at the new Hoyts complex in Melbourne Central, to find I didn't have a snowballs chance in Hell of getting out of the building, as every exit and escalator was blocked by 65-bazillion fans of who I did not yet know. Then I got shoved out of the way by a highly trained crack team of security gorillas, and there's Cameron Diaz all of a sudden, standing right in front of me. I wish someone had told me, I would have caught a different session. Last week at onesixone I was quite rudely stampeded aside as Mr Johnny Knoxville entered the room, by a herd of apparently post-pubescent and excrutiatingly excitable young fillies. And by fillies, clearly I mean girls. This was amazing in two ways.

1. How can people have so little shame, and so much adoration for someone they know nothing about, to actually shriek and stampede toward the nearest movie star? I was standing next to Toni Collette on an escalator in Prahran a while back. I like her in interviews, and I like her work. She comes off as a no shit kind of person, and I dig that. But I didn't say hi because she has idiotic strangers saying hi to her all day, and I figured she could use a break. To be honest, if you don't have your head up your ass, you will see movie stars and rock stars all the time. It's a city, they go shopping. Before you think I'm trying to be cooler-then-thou, allow me to hit you with this- I get excited by seeing movie stars too. It's weird and fun to see someone who has made you feel so many strange and complex emotions in the past, right there in front of you like that. I saw Kerry Armstrong taking her kids to see a movie a couple of weeks ago, and my first instinct was to rush over and profess my eternal and undying love for her (character in Lantana). My god she's beautiful. Luckily I seldom act on first emotions. When I was working at the Logie awards last year, I had a great time (not) drinking and flirting with every hot girl I have ever seen on Australian tv. But come on, have some pride in yourself. Don't shit your pants, just enjoy it for what it is.

2. The Knoxville incident was interesting also, in that I was standing right next to my man Buck Wild when it happened. Don't you ignorant bitches know he's a star? Your loss I guess.

Maybe I 'm lucky, in that I have met so many of my idols. Maybe that's why I see other peoples reactions as so embarassing, while they are too busy being euphoric to ever notice. Maybe if I grew up in the Western suburbs of Melbourne and had never met anyone, and then I ran into whoever is hot right now, I would have acted like more of a tard. Maybe I'm the one with the problem, being too uptight to feel and express myself naturally. I definitely think too much about insignificant things. Things like how I equate this star worship with anthropomorphism, how we have to look up to something/someone at all times, how we have to have something higher to focus on, something better than us. But I think if you asked Cameron Diaz if she thinks she's better than the rest of us, she'd tell you in no uncertain terms you're talking utter shit. I wonder if she goes funny at the knees and idolizes the hell out of someone else? Somehow i doubt it, she seems way too grounded for that. Having said that, like i said before, i don't know her. Star worship, and organised religion and overt materialism are all flipsides to the same coin. People just don't seem able to confront the fact that everything has to die, and will rust, rot, fade, evaporate, congeal, or fall to pieces. And that that's ok. Why does everything have to be permanent? And I don't mean in the 'having evolved from hunter-gatherers and settled into fixed communities' thing. It's like our collective ego is hardwired into a pattern of dealing only in absolutes, like forever or never. Buddhism came so close, in that they know life is never permanent, and that all things must pass. But they still deal in a higher consciousness to attain, and a Godhead to guide you there. Hinduism knows all about birth/death/rebirth. But there's the thing- rebirth. That's where it loses me. There's nothing wrong with death and decay. It just is, like a banana. There's nothing romantic about it either, it just is, like a glass of water. So why do we hide from the knowledge like we do? I don't make a habit of hiding from bananas and glasses of water. Brussels sprouts maybe, but that's different. Clearly they're of Satan.

What about a religion that has no higher consciousness higher than us ourselves, and where death is the absolute end of all consciousness and use?

What about that? So we can use the one life I believe we all have (I believe in it because I'm living it right now, or so I think), to do some good, to learn some lessons once and for all, not just for us but for our children, and their children? Not just so we can build a strong house to hide in, and to make our bodies look like something we were not born as. So we as a species can undergo a second major evolution, where this time we climb up out of the oceans of our collective ignorance, and stop endlessly and unnecesarily repeating the same pointless exercises in futility. You know what I'm talking about. The first evolution we crawled out of primordial ooze, and onto dry land. This second one we should shake ourselves free of the funk of post-industrial-post-post-modernist-slightly pre-apocalyptic modern living, and climb onto the pure shores of living in the here and now with all the relevant information. The majority of us don't need to be unhappy, but the majority of us don't stand much of a chance of escaping our unhappiness, because it's kinda foisted upon us. And because some of us chase after it a lot of the time. We don't understand that people were never meant to live like a lot of us do, crammed into cities, chasing after careers that have no meaning, because they are directly connected to nonexistent entities like 'the economy', and now even 'the internet'. Things that don't really exist, even though we feel them rudely pressing up against us in the elevator every now and then, or crushing us in some cases. A lot of people will be reading this thinking I'm speaking metaphorically/allegorically, and they're totally lost. Not lost to death, but rather to a life without life. Careers are meaningless, unless they bring something meaningful into life. And while I'm not trying to diss you or say you're dumb/stupid because you are a financial analyst for Sportsgirl, surely you must see that any deeper meaning (other then the satisfaction of seeing a task through and doing a good job at it) simply does not exist. So what's wrong with that? Well, nothing really. Jobs/careers don't need to be meaningful in and of themselves to be worthwhile. Except that in order to be a financial analyst for Sportsgirl, you're going to spend all of your time driving to/from work, being at work, or drinking yourself stupid after work to convince yourself that you have a social life, crammed in there amongst all that work and driving. And there's your life, right there. Having some meaning would be great, don't you think? We could learn a lot from Kerouac, and go for a trip up the Matterhorn, even if we don't make it all the way. He knew enough to know that it was the journey that mattered, the wisdom attained, the self knowledge. Not standing on the top and conquering it. Conquering is for Spaniards, Dutch, and British. Oh, and Mongolians.

"So what do you want me to do, doctor knoweverything?"

Good question, wish I knew. I'm good at seeing problems, but I'm not so good at unravelling those problems, namely because I can't for the life of me see how we as a species let ourselves get so tangled up in the first place. The majority of people in this world are unconscious. I know it because I used to be as well. It's not evil or anything. But it's a waste. It's a waste when there is so much more that it could be, and that getting there is free and available to most people (in the west anyway). It starts in your mind, and it radiates outward. And it attracts like minds, into loose social groups that have the capabilty to grow so big they actually stand half a chance of making quantifiable difference in culture as we know it. Make a nice dent in your Coke commercial. It starts, believe it or not, with a tv set. It starts with looking at it. But instead of anaesthetising yourself with it, you have to turn it on, you have to sit in front of it, and...


You have to watch the news, and Today Tonight, and A Current Affair, and every ad you can, and you have to battle them. You have to debunk them, you have to tell Naomi Robson that she's lying to your face, and that you know she is. (She knows she is too. She does it because it's her job, and she justifies it to herself by getting paid a lot, and by telling herself anyone with half a brain will see through it for themselves.) You have to translate ads and look for the fine print. You have to find the catch. You have to look past all the cute animals in the Optus commercials, and see the massive Ving Rhames looking motherfucker in the leather behind them, waiting to fuck your asshole right off your body, by conning you into a binding plan that offers you 5% of what they could easily offer you for the price you're paying, effectively nailing your feet to the floor, while telling you you're so lucky to be in on this limited offer, because you get this rad free iPod with the battery that will run out a week after your warranty expires, and will make Apple computers a nice profit when you and every other sucker that got in on the deal has to send them back to the States for a replacement battery, and pay for the priveledge, when consumers in the USA get it all for free thanks to a massive class action lawsuit that showed Apple what they were doing was wrong. But it's ok to con Australian consumers with the same deal, because our laws haven't caught up yet. You have to tell Hugh Jackman to fuck off with his offer for Foxtel, becauyse as much as it is paying for his sons education, it isn't doing anything for the rest of us.

Take a breath... We're surrounded by this mess, it's easier to opt out and join the mass populace, than to have to (heaven forbid) think, right?

Not really, no.

You see, these big companies rely on your money to remain viable. They need you. Sure, they act like they don't by making you wait 50 minutes when you call them to dispute the bill they sent you, that overcharges you by 25%. They act like they don't in all sorts of nifty ways. But they're only acting. Used to be a time when customer service was the best way to run a business. But business woke up one day, and realised that if you treat your customers like utter shit, they would feel small and powerless, and then you could take better advantage of them. You could bully them, and they would fold. And you could use the law to send them into a spiral of debt whenever you wanted, even if they didn't owe you anything. You could blacklist their credit rating.

So they did all that, and so much more, and eventually people took on the same mentality they took on with the Government 2 party system. If we don't sign with Telstra, we'll have to sign with Optus. Or AATP, or whoever. They are all the same.

Well, they are all the same, but you as a consumer don't need to sign with any of them. Do you want free calls, local and international? Get broadband, and use an application called Skype. "But you need a phone line to have broadband." No you don't. Wireless broadband is freely available all over the place right now, and even better- soon you won't even need that. You can get it down your power lines. If everyone did this, Telstra would be crippled, and they wouldn't be so cavalier and "fuck you, public!" about everything, would they? And once tech companies get a whiff of the public demand, we will have wireless internet protocols retrofitted to mobile phones, so all calls will be made over the internet, wirelessly, from a pda instead of a cellphone. Then Telstra will be dead.

Sounds great, right? Shame it will never happen.

Because all of the somnambulist hoi polloi out there in Australia will keep Telstra up and running, buying the latest mobiles with features they don't need (seriously people- a 1.5 mega pixel camera in your phone is just a cheap gimmick. Can't you see that?) on the latest plans, so they can take throwaway pictures of all their shitfaced friends at work drinks on Friday night. They'll do it in the same way they consume alcohol in such needless and destructive volumes, driving V8's and SUV's, smoking, and buying Kelly Clarkson and Tamara Jaber records. It's fun partying, isn't it? The ship's been sinking for 100 years, but it's ok- the radio is still on.

And that is why I say- "Go fuck yourselves Australia."

Actually, Frank Zappa kinda said it first, but you know what i mean. So forgive me if I don't play along and go apeshit when I see Johnny Knoxville, who is nothing more than a paid model with dialogue, in protracted product placement spots we call motion pictures. He's getting paid to sell you , and you're waiting in line to go down on him for the priveledge? Oh my God people! If someone doesn't have a 20-million dollar video and is singing about how horny they are, you don't want to dance to it any more. There are independent movie makers and actors and musicians and artists and poets and dancers out there who do nothing all day but think, plan, practice, and perfect their art. And you (generally) will never know about them, unless they turn into George Lucas or Spielberg (Like Lucas and Spielberg did). And if you do know about them, you won't care because Kyle Sandilands from Austereo didn't tell you they rock. And that's the bit that makes me laugh the most. If Kyle Sandilands tried to tell me anything at all, I'd punch him dead in the face. Who died and made that total nonentity a voice of the nation? His taste in music reads like a who's who of no talent in the top 40 charts, and yet he is the arbiter of style for our current selection of popular culture? He's got about as much soul as a Telstra exec. Not surprising really, seeing as they are both in the biz of moving units, and not of art at all.

If you're in Melbourne, go to Gertrude Street before 5, and check out the Artholes gallery, then go a few doors down to the Intruder gallery. Seriously, go look at some art. Some really fresh shit, today, before it turns up in a commercial for sneakers (and it so will). And listen to PBS or any other radio station that might introduce you to a band like The Shags, or Diamanda Galas, or The Drones, or Dr Dooom for fucks sake. Have you heard of Dead Frenchmen yet? Why not? The Melbourne Fringe Festival is on, you can't avoid theatre right now, but 95% of this city will cunningly find a way. Go to Russel Street in the city and buy some transexual porn DVD's for $10 each without the covers. Do anything, but make it different from usual. If you've got the balls to do it, and break out of your comfy little mold, you will never stop thanking me. You'll laugh more, you'll cry more, you'll confront yourself in ways you never knew existed, because real art is like that.

Get down with the bones in the meat, I dare you. Be your own star. There's a hot catchphrase for you. Drop $20 on the street and walk away. Spend a night in jail for punching Kyle Sandilands in the face, or better still, get his girlfriend utterly shitfaced and fuck her in his car. Then ring up the Salvation Army and see if there's any way you can help them out one Saturday a month, feeding people who are starving or something. Think about your own body rotting and full of maggots, and then think about if you still really love your job. Walk somewhere. Push a 12 gauge needle right through the head of your penis. No, seriously...do it. It's just meat, it's gonna rot off one day anyway. Besides, if you clean it, in a week you'll never know you did it in the first place. And if you jerk off the same day you did it, you will come harder than you ever imagined possible. That's the power of contrast people, it's what happens when you take the road less travelled, stop being such a pussy, and give your body/mind/whatever something to marinate in. It's what happens when you're alive, and you're not so concerned with controlling everything. You have to struggle to be happy, did you even know that? Yin and yang, the jedi vs.sith, contrast contrast contrast.

Stop lining up to see movie stars and go make a movie. Because I would sincerely love to see it, and so would Cameron Diaz.

-this is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Monday, September 12, 2005

Poetry. is kool.

i have to confess -

EVERY SECOND, of every day, and especially of every night, i am waiting. i am waiting for this thing i believe, but i have never known for real. i have felt the total absence of it in your breath as it passes, the vacuum it leaves. i have seen it in others, i have seen others see it. they have moved through it like snakes in a fire, like bearings through oil, like her fingers as she smears you, so she can wear you to school. slowly, with their eyes closed, and with total purpose carved into every line of their faces, every atom of their auras. everything they are. i wait by my open window, and hold my breath at every sound, every voice. my heart pounds, my ears ring. my breath catches. i do it so often i can see in the dark. i hide like a pervert, raping every passer with my eyes. this whole city like a dirty tv screen. and sometimes i explore, i climb in, i go to look. to investigate. my ears pulling my eyes back into slits, so keen and ready for the moment. the moment when you pass through some invisible membrane, clear, but you can feel it. your skin tightens and relaxes, and suddenly you sweat and your eyes are wide, as your arm shoots out to grab at anything that will keep you balanced, as your knees weaken and your voice fails, like the first time you ever came, shocked that so much of you just came out of you, relieved to be free of the poison of your load that leaves you drained and exhalted all at once. and the air is dancing across your face, and you can feel every particle of each element of air, as it kisses you and twists away, looking over its shoulder at you like all of your best loves. like summer romance, like a prelude to murder. yeah, they dance through it. some people seem to live their whole lives in it. never waking up in the afternoon, and having to lie extremely still as you try to reconcile and remember who and where you are, and wishing you could squeeze back into the dream you just fell out of, whatever it was. the moment is when your ears pick up the faint boom boom boom like a heartbeat, that explodes when you pass, waves of bass slamming right through you, bringing news of the outside world to the most remote areas of your internal geography. and you know, for the first time in your whole entire life that this is what life is meant to be, the missing ingredient of your every breath so far, where you're proud and naked and shining like fireflies in an ice cave. and the air smells sweet but not too sweet, because the greatest things in this universe exist only in the faintest of traces. and gravity takes its hands from off your shoulders, and you breathe in more than you ever knew you could, and hold it in case you suddenly wake up. you see the moment every day. in an ad. or a movie, in a song. artists and actors holding it up like a flag on the peak of a mountain. showing you the shiny plastic phantom dildo that fucks you without ever really being there, like the economy, or a holy inquisition. like the metaphor of a metaphor. i caught a trace of a moment once in a while. girls in cars. the beginning of a road trip. a million dollars. but it never lasts, never stays. moments are evaporative, alcohol on hot stones. snowballs in hell. sperm in the sauna. not very nice after all. this is why you never want to find a second hand moment. living vicariously is a sad compromise to the hunt of your own fresh moment, even if you never actually find one. dream your own dreams. don't settle for licking up some ad execs old ones.

cats don't have a moment. they are sour and sleepy. they have no need for greatness, just the blood of small animals, the cries of mice. they ignore moments, because cats are evil, and human moments irrelevant. dogs, however, know. they don't have moments of their own, but they see them everywhere, and strain at the leash, to drag you closer to see.

i just bought a brand new apple G5, with a flat panel monitor, and a bunch of other nifty shit.
i slowly unwrapped it, sitting in total silence, the tearing of plastic and my curses as i tried to unlock the boxes the only sound.
i did it because i wanted to see if it really would make me feel better.
i did it to see if all that shiny aluminium and white plastic could induce in me some kind of relevatory and numinous experience.
my afternnon life as the side of a bus.
as the life giving energy of an ad for a machine.
i plugged it all together...slowly and evenly...like it was holy.
and when i turned it on, i waited with baited breath for the door to blow right off its hinges in a shower of splinters, and the whole world to suddenly come shuddering into my room and ears and eyes, choking me and pinning me down with all of its force and majesty and complicated molecules and gases.
making me its bitch, taking me without a trace of tenderness or love. making me want more.
making me need it.
beg for it.
maybe i expected too much, i don't know.
i hoped it would fill me with inspiration, and i would break the seal off my writers block, and the colours and forms and shapes would flow faster and faster into a an orgiastic melange of all that i am. i hoped it would eat the scab, right in front of me.
and i would sweat and breathe harder and bite my lip til it bleeds, frantically typing and clicking and scrolling the canvas bigger and bigger suddenly standing and throwing the keyboard through the air with both hands and swinging it punching random keys as art manifested itself despite me, using me like i was its willing one night stand, giving my flesh and my fluids for the greater good of art and liberty and pure expression and magnificence.
knowing i would never amount to anything, giving up my bones so the art could feed.
peeling me back and exposing me.
reading my diary.
because true honesty has to hurt.
it has to it has.
but as beautiful as it looks, its corporate logo luminescing just like the bible says it did in eden,
i wasn't transported miraculously into the private club where rich consumers go to die.
still on the outer fenceline, looking at pare nirvana from across the highway.
from across the mini-put and the shopping mall.
from the dumpster behind avis and 7-11.
from the abandoned hatchback on the edge of the spiritual ghetto.
too far away to even smell.
cut the juice.

This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Doors of Perception, Literary Drug Fiends, and a Musical Cure- All.

I've been on a reading marathon this month. I've been in bed with the flu for ages, and there's nothing better than getting stuck into a book to pass the time between nose-blows and pill-swallows. So far I've consumed 'The Dharma Bums' by Kerouac, 'The Idiot' by Dostoyevsky, 'In Memoriam to Identity' by Kathy Acker, 'Survivor', by Chuck Palaniuk, 'Nostromo', by Joseph Conrad, and about five others I have returned, and can no longer remember.

So I've been marinating on words and sentences, and books and blogs, and about just what it is that makes serial confessors of us all, out to tell the real story about what it was like to lie on the couch and watch tv all Tuesday night, and how we felt and what we thought. Some of us want to show off, because we're insecure, and we think if people saw what we get up to (and with whom), that we'd be universally loved. Some of us fake it, and imitate those who i just described. Some of us are bored shitless and want to just talk to someone, even if it's post/reply/reply. Some of us want to help others, with the benefit of our knowledge. Like "Don't watch the movie 'Closer' with your partner. Just don't. Pandora's box is actually a digi-pak." Some of us are asking for help. Some of us are a bit of all I have mentioned, spiced up with a dash of something extra, to keep it individual.

I'm a bit of everything. I offer and ask for help. I like to show off, and I wear my insecurity on my sleeve. I know I definitely like telling stories. But I'm not in a position where I post when I don't want to. I do this for me alone now, and it feels a lot better that way. One of my ultra-famous blog friends sent me an email the other day cursing the expectations having a popular blog can put on one. She'll work it out though, she's one of the smarter ones.

I've found my favourite posts have been totally overlooked, with nary a comment between them, when some of the most unthought out, 'please the fans', lowest common demominator posts have garnered the blog equivalent of critical applause. I scratch my head to that. Now I know how Jim Morrison felt...no wonder S.J.X. calls me The Lizard King.

Speaking of 'The Doors of Perception', I just read that too. I'm Aldous Huxley's number one fanboy, I think he's incredible. I just about blew my pants off with joy when i read how he thinks we petrify the Universe with our words. Because it's true. Not that it's necessarily a bad thing...I look at it as 'verbal photographs'. If you want to relay to someone a visual experience, we pile words on each other to attempt to recapture the moment in a code that they can decipher internally, hopefully imagining something approximating what you saw in their own minds.

It's amazing how 'static' words, ie: they don't move once you've uttered them, can represent moving things. If I say I was riding my chopper through Fitzroy today (I wasn't), you picture the wheels turning, things going by, me looking intensely rad, all that good stuff. The words don't move, but they give you a verbal jumping off point. from which to recreate the complexity of the scene in your own mind. Or how someone can write a joke 500 years ago, and you can read it today, get it, and laugh. Someone who is long dead came along and made you laugh. I love that. So as much as Huxley kinda curses words out, as a poor alternative to real experience, if you weren't there to see the experience in the first instance, then they have to do. And they do okay, otherwise people would never have bought 'The Lord of the Rings' trilogy, or even 'The War of the Worlds' double album (which kicked major amounts of ass back in the 80's).

Right, so words don't measure up to actual experience. Nothing controversial there. Words and pictures would get you a step closer, and sound and pictures even closer still. I never understood people who said "turn off the tv and read a book". I always thought we should throw out our books and just get better tv. Don't get me wrong, i dig the personal experience of reading. But I never got into the fact that when you read, you are basically hypnotizing yourself (that's why you get sleepy dum-dum!), by moving your eyes back and forward, back and forward, baaaaack aaaand forwaaaard...

All tv should be 3-d, and there should be a maths channel, a history channel, all those channels, so you could learn about important things, while eating froot loops on the sofa. People totally get off on nature and documentary shows, and travel shows, and anything that basically takes them on an adventure out of the lounge room, and into the world at large. I like those shows where they recreate the pyramids, and dinosaurs, and proto-mammals, and Studio 54. If there was a 'how maths works' channel, I'd be glued to it 24/7. because as far as I'm concerned, maths is the deepest and most unknowable entity in the Universe. Coz I can't do it. My girl is like a 12'th-dan black belt Sifu of maths, and she could kick your ass off by telling you all about the different types of triangles there are, over breakfast. I know there's an equilateral, and an isoscoles, and that's about it. But Sunny could tell you all of them (like that 'scalene' one i know nothing about), and what they're good for, no problem. That's why she's my girl, and you're not. I know all the girls out there are kicking themselves right now, rue-ing the day they walked out on maths class.

There is another girl in my life right now, and I want to introduce you all to her. Her name is Sally Seltmann, and she's the singer/writer of a musical experience called 'New Buffalo'. Now, before all you indie music nazi motherfuckers out there tell me she's been around for ages, and blah blah blah, i already know that. But like all the best things in this world, i didn't love it until it had worked on me for a few months. First song i heard was called 'Recovery', and they had it on tv here in Australia. I thought it was great at first, and I would hum it to myself whenever I was doing the dishes or cleaning the toilet. I like a clean toilet, so we're pretty much talking every day here. Anyways, I was recording a demo with my band du jour (Disgraceland) last week, and my friend Toby-Wan Kenobi loaned me a cd of theirs called 'About Last Night'. The first track was called '16 Beats', and it is easily my favourite song of 2005, hands down (even if it was released in 2001). It's so innocent and naive, yet fully knowing, infused with rainbows and glaciers and ponies and warm sweaters and beech trees and synthesizers with colouring books and pop magazines all over them. It's the aural equivalent of falling in love for the first time, on a farm on Lake Michigan, in a room with fake timber formica panelling all over the walls, under a brown corduroy blanket, with pink bubblegum on it. God alone knows why magazine editors ask me to review cd's for them, but they do. Apparently she's from Melbourne, and works with the drummer from the Dirty Three, Jens Lekman, Tim Simenon (Bomb The Bass), Rae Howell, Beth Orton, and her husband Darren Seltmann from The Avalanches. No wonder I like it so much.

I am utterly devastated to recall New Buffalo played the Northcote Social Club recently, and I didn't go and profess my neverending and undying love to she-who's-name-I-am-yet-to-Google. It's probably just as well, it could be a little frightening having some 6 foot 2 tattooed longhair trying to goose you in the ass when you're trying to sing a song in front of paying customers. I wouldn't really do that. I'm a gentleman.

Anyway, go listen to 'About Last Night', and buy it, and shut your eyes and enjoy what could have been if Chan Marshall from Cat Power had been given a Nord Lead instead of a guitar, and schizophrenic dementia.

In other news, today is a very special day of celebration, as I have finally, after three long years, paid off my computer.

This post is coming to you freehold, without taxation, and with luv 4 eva...from your friend in Australia -

-this is knifey, from 'the internet'.