Monday, November 14, 2005

Meandering.


WARNING: This post will contain even less structure than usual. Don't read it...seriously.

It's been a big few weeks, and it all caught up with me tonight. Anyone who knows me knows I'm not really all that social, but I do have my moments, and lately I've been making an effort.

To be honest I thought I'd be okay after I worked through the crushing guilt of breaking up with my ex. I felt so responsible and bad and greedy, but I'm now at peace with the fact that you just can't make everything work all the time, and that sometimes two people who are caring and decent and who think the world of each other just need to go their seperate ways, and that's life.

But I was wrong, of course. I'm not okay at all. I miss ten thousand things about this girl, and constantly worry about how she's feeling and if she's happy or not. I've come too far in parting to go back, and I'm proud of my resolve to not do the obvious and break off in stages (if you know what I mean, and you do). I've had to deal with the unexpected heartbreak of seeing her snuggling up to someone else, and force myself to not be a dick about it. Force myself to leave quietly and not do anything about it. Just move on, whatever that is.

But you know what? That's not really it.

Suddenly I'm single again, and I'm not good at being single. I need attention, i honestly do. If I'm in a relationship, then I'm good, but when I'm single, I kinda starve for affection. And I'm utterly starving right now.

It's spring, and pretty much everybody's horny. I have met probably 50 utterly stunning women this weekend alone, and was shocked at just how much I'd forgotten about interacting with the opposite sex, and also about my own personal feelings regarding myself.

Getting laid would not be a problem, but that's not what I want (for a change). I used to pursue sex like it was the antidote for my peculiar malady, that being, insecurity. It was such a stupid thing to do, and I totally regret every instance of it now. i would never go back to that meaninglessness. I used to meet someone new, think I was falling for them, and just run with those feelings. Then, I would begin to find out who it was I was crushing on, and what they were really like, as opposed to what they wanted me to see, and I would end up so put off by the reality of them, i'd just cut them clean out of my life. This usually happened after we had had sex, and the curtain that was tension and desire lifted to reveal the real person beneath (seldom what I wanted). I'm not sure I can actually see through that metaphorical curtain without having sex. It's like, desire/lust/whatever is so powerful, the only way to see past it is to have sex, and then you can get to the meat and potatoes of the personality beneath. So I 'experienced' a staggeringly enormous number of really beautiful looking and internally vacuuous/rude/stupid/disrespectful/mentally unstable women. Maybe it's just me, I don't know.

What I do know is, I'm sick of sex without a real connection first.

I said I'd met "probably 50
utterly stunning women this weekend", and I wasn't kidding. Some of my friends have a real problem meeting women. I'd say i do also, but if i was honest, I know I don't. I met, and talked to more people than I can remember names since Friday night, and I'm just amazed at the breadth of experience that lay waiting in those encounters. Operating under the knowledge that sex with me is a terrible idea, I simply tried to make friends. Holy Crap! making friends is WAY HARDER THAN GETTING LAID! I could bed 20 supermodels in the time it would take me to establish a meaningful connection with one average girl.

I met:

-Girls who talk so much about so little, that after 5 minutes, you're desperately coming up with excuses to leave. And I'm talking about devastatingly hot girls here.

-Girls who want to know what you do and if you're "anybody", before they will continue in conversation. I have found that being an integral icon in the Australian contemporary cultural landscape isn't all it's cracked up to be. I like to tell these types that I clean toilets, and watch them walk away, only to switch into full-on interested mode again if a mutual friend tells them things I have done that would actually appeal to them. Fuck every one of them.

-Girls who are so off their heads and out of control, conversation is futile.

-Girls who are really easy to talk to, and who say "I'm just going to the loo, wait for me here", and never make it back to wherever you are. Then, at the end of the night, when you're going home, who come up to you and say "Where did you go?"

In short, i experienced a lot of games.

I also was amazed to discover how many physically perfect looking women there are out there in Melbourne, who have such crippling (and totally imagined) insecurities, they make me look well adjusted. Women who I would immediately assume would have no interest in me in a million years, only to find they're thinking exactly the same thing I am. I seriously don't know how this works.

I'm starting to realise beautiful people are in plentiful supply here, but the beautiful (inside) people are a lot harder to uncover.

My worst experience of the weekend was meeting...well, let's leave her name out of it, shall we? Just this once.

I met a fashion editor at a houseparty in Collingwood, full of fashion and other creative types. We started talking totally naturally, and after a few minutes, it felt like we were in our own bubble, and no-one else really existed much. We talked about all kinds of things, and I really enjoyed her. She seemed to be feeling the same way, and I was feeling so happy that maybe I had actually found myself an exciting new friend. She had to leave, and she said "I really hope we bump into each other again", and then she just kinda stood there. I thought leaving it to chance wasn't really something I was that at peace with, so I suggested maybe we should swap numbers. She seemed into this, and I was heavily relieved when she said "Make sure you call me please".

Good sign.

I sent her a text message today, just to say "Thanks", and "I had fun", you know. And about 5 hours later I received the most cursory of replies, which left me in no doubt that whatever was happening last night, also stopped happening last night. Time to delete her number, and leave her alone.

So much for doing the right thing, hey?

I shouldn't care, but I do. No doubt I should be a lot thicker skinned about my weekend, but like most things, it really bothers me. If I had wanted to fuck some exotic brunette on the bonnet of a car, i could have. If I wanted to do the same thing, only in a bed, and with someone who i have been extremely attracted to for more than a year now, i had full permission to do so. If I wanted to get jiggy in the toilets of a bar or club, I had 8 offers, in 5 different venues, and one further offer on the dancefloor at Pony. When it rains, it fucking pours. But instead of any of that, i try to make friends, and I can't even do that.

As usual, I havo no clear idea what I'm trying to say here. Or who I'm saying it to. I keep meeting people who read this thing (Hi Dom! Hi Shane!), and as much as I'm glad there are people out there getting something out of it, and wanting to keep coming back, it's so scary, because this is my actual life, and I live it, and it involves real people and places and emotions and experiences, not just abstractions. I can hurt people with this thing if I'm not careful. And i can definitely say too much about my own personal experiences too. But fuck it. I have always been determined to be real, and that's what I'm doing. If people want to tune out and come back when i attempt humour, then that's cool. Maybe someone will read this, and it will make some sense to them, and we can both feel like we're not freaks, but just 2 honest people with the same feeling about something, adrift in a world full of apparent somnambulists. Or maybe I just need to do it for me, and the rest of you can cut me some slack for today, so I can have some "me time".

Also it has come to my attention that because of my previous 'love 'em and leave 'em' ways, I have developed a cult following of scorned women who like to talk to each other about how horrible I am (as if they don't have problems/issues of their own to address), and to try to warn others away from me, as if it actually works like that.

1. If I dumped you and never looked back, it's because I couldn't find anything there to respect. If you're waiting for an apology, you can fuck yourselves. Stop focussing on me, and either get on with your lives, or take a look at yourselves, where half the the problems actually lie.

2. When you gossip about me, it gets back to me. And counter to your intentions, it just gives me this big badass reputation, that women absolutely adore, and need to try to unravel for themselves. You're trying to set it up so no-one will want to talk to me ever again, but all that's happening is you're making me this unfeasibly (and undeservedly) attractive proposition that women cannot resist. You're getting me sex, and I don't even want it anymore. How can you not see this?

Anyway, I started this thing out by talking about how all these experiences have caught up with me, so I should finish with that.

I fully understand that I am an animal that is ruled by my insecurities, and my fears. Anything I have ever achieved was certainly rooted in a fear of not achieving it, or of needing to impress somebody, somewhere.

I am scared of the life choice I have made, of living with no money most of the time, of subsisting, so I have time to be creative. Being creative has got me archived and played on the radio and all sorts of cool shit, but it didn't buy me a house, and it won't provide for me when i start to get old. I'm 34 years old, and I'm flatting with 24 year olds. Personally, i like living how i do, but I am fully aware that in their minds, no matter how great we get on, I'm the "old guy", and that freaks the shit out of me. Good luck if I ever need to find another flat. it's so hard already, and the older I get, the worse it will be. There's no way I'll be able to do it when i hit 40, but I have no other alternative either.

I'm devastated that for all the effort and the sleepless nights and the practice and whatever else, that I haven't produced more and better art/music/writing/etc... I feel like such a fraud getting so much attention for basically defacing a street sign and being a graff artist. When I die, I want to leave a couple of albums behind that people generally respect, and that add to the cultural landscape. Not just some rock music that rocks and not much else. I wish I was better.

I am sick of hating myself. I am sick of feeling dirty, even when I have just stepped out of the shower, when I'm near someone beautiful. I'm sick of feeling like so many people are better than me, for no reason i can put my finger on. I'm sick of always being on the outside, even when I'm around friends, because I'm different to everyone I know. I'm sick of people just not gettting me, why I don't drink, why I don't drive cars if I can help it, like it's all so alien and freaky, when it's just sensible. i'm sick of feeling like I am superior to most people every time I leave the house and see how people act and what they do. I'm so insecure, and yet I'm this raving egotist. I'm sick of being baffled and utterly confused by the simplest things. Mainly people. I'm scared I'm getting left behind by culture, and no matter how hip i think I am, I am actually this 80's metal throwback who is only good for novelty value. I'm sick of not understanding the appeal of getting utterly shitfaced and smoking and smashing bottles and being a trashy piece of shit every time you're in public. I'm scared of finding out that I am as ugly and undesirable as I think I am. I'm scared of being left behind. I'm scared I don't matter.

I guess this post was really really for me, I can't imagine anyone enjoying reading it. I stopped writing in my diary about a year ago, and I've felt overdue for an emotional custard fight with myself, so I guess this was it. I guess I needed to confess.

I guess I wanted to say: Hey world, I think you absolutely stink, and you're wrong, and nasty, and self-centred, and counter to anything intelligent or reasonable, and i see it, and I'm disgusted by it, and you know what? I'm just the same. And I'm disgusted by me also.

And I know I don't deserve any real shot at happiness, but I'm praying that whatever runs the Universe will have their hands full, and some will just slip through a crack and get to me. Because I can't keep operating with a heart this heavy, and I don't want to give up right now.

But I also know regardless of what I may want, there is a part of me that takes control after a while of feeling this way, and it says "Enough", and it makes my decisions for me, and one of those decisions is going to be me wiping myself out, and getting off the ride.

I'm not trying to be controversial, and I'm not after sympathy. For that reason I'm going to disable comments, because I'm not asking for reassurance or anything at all from you. I'm just admitting my real feelings.

I'm not just a cartoon character that occasionly drops something funny on a blog. I'm a real person. I'm feeling pain, I'm confused, I'm lonely and sad, I'm angry, dissapointed, scared, you name it. And that's just right at this minute.

I don't know who you are, or where you are, or what you're thinking of any of this. And I guess I never will.

But if there is one thing I could get you to leave my blog with, it's this:

I hope you understand how important respect is. I hope you see that if there was enough respect or consideration in this world, we would all be so much better than we are. If we dropped the fucking masks and dared to be real, life would blow our minds. That's it.

Now excuse me, I'm going to go hug my dog.


This is knifey, from 'the internet'.



Thursday, November 10, 2005

Freeze me in Carbonite, Jabba!

Seeing as I'm a notorious multi-poster, please have a look at this if you haven't already, and you like being sexy and rad like I am.

As if this wasn't enough, I received yet another message from a party interested in squirrelling away even more of my life.

This time, it isn't 'art', it's...wait for it...THIS VERY BLOG !!!

And even more crazy, mine is the first blog the National Film and Sound Archive are archiving for their collection...ever! Exclamation marks!!!!

And to think, I was gonna delete this sucker.

Here's the highlights...

_______________________________________________

The National Film and Sound Archive, aims to build a comprehensive
collection representing all aspects of Australia’s film, television,
sound and related industries to ensure that Australians have access to
this part of their cultural heritage now and in the future. The Archive
has traditionally collected items in physical formats, but it is also
committed to preserving electronic publications of lasting cultural
value.

PANDORA, Australia’s Web Archive, was set up by the National Library of
Australia in 1996 to enable the archiving and provision of long-term
access to online Australian publications (including those dealing with
our audio-visual industries). The Archive is one of a number of
partners associated with the National Library in this project.
Additional information about PANDORA can be found on the Library's server
at: http://pandora.nla.gov.au/index.html

We would like to include http://www.knifey-knifeyard.blogspot.com/ in the
PANDORA Archive and I would be grateful if you would let me know whether
you are willing to permit us to do so, that is, grant us a licence under
the Copyright Act 1968, to copy your web site into the Archive and to
provide public online access to it via the Internet. This means that you
would grant the National Film and Sound Archive and National Library
permission to retain your publication in the Archive and to provide
public access to it in perpetuity. We assume that in granting permission
all contributors to your publication are informed and in agreement that
their work will be archived in PANDORA. If you are not the person with
authority to give permission, could you please advise us who is.

[For serials and integrating titles: We would like to re-archive your
publication periodically to record significant additions and changes.]

There are some benefits to you as a publisher in having your web site
archived in this way. If you grant us a copyright licence, The Archive
(through the National Library) will take the necessary preservation
action to keep your publication accessible as hardware and software
changes over time. The National Library will catalogue your publication
onto the National Bibliographic Database (a database of catalogue records
shared by over 1,100 Australian libraries). This will increase awareness
of your site among researchers using either catalogue.

_______________________________________________

Not only am I part of your cultural heritage Australia, I get to be inside Pandora's box!!! (Don't you just adore ancient Greek/technology jokes?)

There's a running joke in my house now, whenever I go to the toilet or throw something in the trash, my housemates say "Wait, I'll just call Canberra to make sure they don't need to archive it".

It's fun being knifey lately...

Seeing as I have totally assed up my formatting on this page, is there anybody out there with some HTML knowledge, who could help me clean it up? It's for the nation, you understand. Very important.


This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

We Are Go !!!



My ride...the Aluminium Falcon.


Our colours...'cept they're black and white.

The bikes are finally on the road, and our membership is swelling, so if you want in on the next big thing, email me , and join up with the Black Phantoms!

Tee shirts and hoodies are available in black and white, so hit us up if you want some of that action also.

We are customising bikes for anyone who wants it, our whole focus is to show V8 loving Australia (and the world) just how mega radnacious you can be while styling around on a pushbike (with a 300-watt sound system).

I am gathering names for a mailing list, so if you want to come along to our meets and waterfront BBQ's etc, you can know when and where. You're welcome even without a ride.

And if you want a custom chopper made up for you, you know who to see.

Come be a chopper pilot, and let's show the world how much fun you can have on 2 wheels!!!

http://www.myspace.com/blackphantoms

http://www.cafepress.com/knifeyland

email: blackphantoms@gmail.com



This is knifey, from 'the internet'.



Thursday, November 03, 2005

Eat My Shorts, Mr Burns.

So there I was, thinking about the economy. I don't know anything about the economy, other then the fact that there is not one part of the economy that is visible to the naked eye, that you can point at and say "Look! It's the economy!" It's like this many-tentacled beast that has an appendage in every office/business/home/wallet/you-name-it, and yet no one can see it. It exists, but you have to take it on faith. If you lose faith, it actually runs away, and the stock market crashes, and people get very uptight about all the money they lost, yet had never actually seen either.

And I thought about how companies merge, and become more profitable. And then i realised celebrities also merge and become more profitable, like whenever a celeb has a new movie coming out, they have to be rumoured (by their publicists) to be in a hot romance with the other co-star. It's just another merger, of their brand, and some other brand, for a time, for symbiotic pecuniary gain.

AND THEN I thought, hey...what about if celebrities and product brands merged also? Like, instead of just promoting a product, actually BECOMING the product in a sense...merging with it? Like, Jennifer Garnier. Or Fiona Apple iPod. Or K-MARTin Luther King.

And then I realised I have no idea how this 'life thing' is meant to work...

There was a crazy guy on my tram today, gibbering away to himself for the full half hour. At least, I thought he was, but as I got off, I heard him say "Melbourne girls are crazy, you've got to have a Ferrari before they'll even look at you!" It was then that I realised that man was a genius, and I wished I could have sat at his feet and soaked up some more of his ethanol-fuelled wisdom. He knew how life works. Me though? I have no idea.

I have friends and acquaintances who are quite rich in the financial sense, but they're not very happy. And I have lots of poor friends and acquaintances who are not very happy also. I know all kinds of people from all walks of life, and whether they are Bono from U2, or Vanessa the hot news agency girl in North Melbourne, none of them have "found what they're looking for".

Metaphysical questions surrounding the nature of what life is, and how we fit into it all have bothered us for countless centuries (by "us" of course, I mean ancient Greeks and annoying Philosophy undergrads). And although there are many advertised snake oils to remedy the confusion, there still evades us one unifying, binding, sensible cure for all people, all of the time.

Most of us here on planet Terra have no idea what it is we're looking for anyway. Most of us have no idea this planet is actually called Terra either. Most of us think it's called 'Earth', but it isn't. Just ask anyone who isn't from here.

So I've been thinking through many years, just what is it that will finally make me happy?

I went through all the usual phases, and a few others besides. I even spearheaded/pioneered a couple of phases, which not only shows you my age, but how immensely rad I am also.

In order to address this question, I had to sit down (believe me, this helps), and think of all the times I've been happiest in my life. The results were quite astounding. I realised I have been happy in or on the ocean more times than in any other location, second only to forests and deserts (both arctic and arid). Nightclubs and bars didn't even figure in my equations, although they did rate rather highly when considering places I have been most confused and/or bored. Without exception, my happiest times were when i was alone.

The happiest times were, by and large, the simplest times. When I was close to nature, when I had animals around me, when I could swim or climb or be alone in the wide and distant places of the world. But I also realised that pulling a Grizzly Adams and staying out in the wilderness wasn't going to work as a lasting cure. The reason I like it out in the world so much, is because I'm a city kid, and I live most of my life in very tight spaces in various 'downtowns'. Seeing the stars is like a full-on novelty for me. Yin and yang, just like always.

After many years of post-acid comedown introspection, and listening to Depeche Mode on cassette, I realised the thing that makes me most sad in the world is the possibility of not mattering. You can tell how egotistically wrapped up in my self I am, because I used the word "possibility". Ha ha! What a jerk! Anyway, it's true. I'm terrified (or rather my ego is) of embracing the reality of my (and everyones) existence, namely, that we as individuals, and as a race, and even as an evolutionary scale, are just the faintest prelude to a shadow of an echo of a blip on an immensely big galactic radar, and that in another blip, we, and everything we know, will be gone, and gone forever.

No one will remember us, and there will be no one to do the remembering. Even the pyramids will be gone, and the oceans will be empty, and no number of iPod nano's, or internet porn files can save us from the inevitability of nonexistence.

Picture it with me. Look at something. Anything. Look at it, and imagine that in a hundred or a thousand or a million years, it will not exist any more. It will be dust. Picture that happening before your eyes. Good. Now picture the thing next to it doing the same. Then everything in the room. Then the room, and the house, and your hand, and you, and your pets, and everything in your area. It's a hard thing to do, because this world is all we know. It's why death is so shocking. It's like the grim reaper comes riding up, and pushes your face into a carcass saying "Breathe deep human! It's reality!" We're all toast, and so is everything on earth, when we reach the breaking of the world, when it all gets swallowed up by Sol, our sun.

Even the dust will disappear, and not be.

And no, I don't like it. I don't like the fact that six months after I die, no one's going to be sitting around going "Life sucks without knifey". It hurts my ego. It's what seperates me from the animals (along with opposable thumbs). And so it came to me that the thing that could possibly make me most happy is, wait for it: eternal fame.

I tried academia (and hated it). Apart from the truckloads of sex I managed to hook up in lecture theatres and study halls, it was a total waste of time. I went post grad...honours, masters, doctorate...less and less hot sex the further I went, and at the end of it I have a qualification and a skill set that makes me eminently unemployable in all career fields except teaching English in Japan (which I have done, and plan to do again soon). The one upshot of my 6 years as a student is when I go to the doctors, and the people in the waiting room are looking at me like I'm a filthy gang member from Detroit, and the doctor comes out and says "Hello, Dr Vanderwerff." That part fucking RULES! Yeah, that's right bitches...I'm a motherfucking doctor. Woo-hoo.

What works is when I'm at a gallery opening, and I'm interviewing the artist for whatever European art magazine I'm writing for that week, and the artist turns around and says "Wait...YOU"RE knifey?!" I love it when I'm bowling and the guy from Rolling Stone comes up and talks to me about whatever I wrote here in this blog. I love it when I'm on a tram listening to the two cute girls in the next seat talking about an interview I did, or a poster I made, or...whatever. I know it's considered crude and uncultured, but I love people loving what I do, knowing who I am, considering me a contributing part of the culture at large, and thinking that I matter, because it all means I EXIST, and I'M NOT INVISIBLE, and I'M AS IMPORTANT AS EVERYONE ELSE.

Insecure? ALWAYS!!!

I would like it very much if people came to my funeral (genuinely giving a shit optional). I would like it very much if after I die, people remembered me, and felt I had something to contribute with my life. I would like it very very very much if in five thousand years, knifey was in the history books, and my name was recorded for all human time as part of this world, and worth remembering. "Mummy, who was Ned Kelly?" "Mummy, who were Bourke and Wills?" "Mummy, who was 'knifey from the internet'?"

And that's why this week was so great, and why I am so happy.

Because it's happened. I have entered the history books, and best of all, no one had to get hurt!

I got contacted, and met with two people from Canberra on Friday, who have officially asked me to contribute an art work to the National Archive of Australia. So for as long as there is an 'Australia' on planet Terra, there will also be a 'knifey'. Look Mum, I'm famous!

To the best of my knowledge, I am the only graff artist to have ever been asked, so I'm extra chuffed, both for me, and for the credibility of street artists as a group. At least, that's what I say here. I really only care about me. Me. Me. ME. ME. Me.

I remember when I was thirteen, my art teacher (Mr Burns) sat me down and told me I didn't have an artistic bone in my body, and that I would never amount to anything at all. God bless our teachers. Anyway, my thoughts are with him tonight, as he agonises over the deeper meanings of each new painting he produces, and languishes in bohemian galleries that are so amazing and cool no one ever goes to them, or even knows where they are. And I think "Man, were you wrong! Clearly at least one of my bones is artistic...maybe even more!"

I like this 'being a serious artist' thing...hope no one finds out I'm a total fraud. Now I want at least one piece to be exhibited at The National Gallery of Victoria, and I can just kiss my own ass with pride and satisfaction. Oh, and get a top 10 album in the USA.

God I love dreams!

Anyway, all is not perfect in knifeyland right now. As some of you already know, my beautiful and amazing girl and I have parted the ways (let's call it 'artistic differences') after 8 crazy and intense months, so if anyone wants to throw some chocolate cake my way, you know where to find me. By 'chocolate cake', I actually mean 'chocolate cake'. I take cake very seriously...it is one of the few groupings of words I use that aren't a euphemism for sex. I plan on getting very fat and hairy (like Jim Morrison), and acting like I'm ok and fine and good, when clearly I'm not.

Also, my dog has a major flatulence problem, and it's making me very sad (and ill). She's got a great personality, unfortunately her anus is the embodiment of pure evil, so please include her colon and sphincter areas in your prayers tonight. If we can "bind it in the name of Jesus", I know I'll feel a lot better about sleeping in the same room as her.

Thank you brothers and sisters...


This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

*FAST BREAKING NEWS!*

I am at the public library posting this, as I don't have the interbet at home nowadays...anyway, no more than 2 feet away from me an unusually flatulent old Asian man is letting rip with the loudest most wet sounding pants trumpets I have heard in a long time (worse than my dogs!). Either he's deaf, or he just doesn't give a fuck. Either way he's totally gangsta, and I'm gonna leave him to it...unless it smells.

4 eva.