Taste of a new sun, rain on my back, diamonds for eyes.

I've known a few dirty floors in my time.

This one though, technically belongs to me, as long as I keep paying for it. And seeing as I am about to stop paying, I'm about to give up ownership.

The dirt though, that's still mine.

And it's all that remains of the structure of that space, mapping out where things were, how it all pieced together. This little fort we built against the outside world. Back when it was "them" against "us", before I became "one of them" too. And "they" became...well, better than me somehow.

I've got to clean this floor, and I will. I'll come back to it, but not today. Today I evacuated town, packed up and shipped out.

And I was amazed at how little emotion that took.

Not because I'm heartless. But because that heart has been chipped away at for so long. Like a toilet wall in Detroit I remember, in a veterans bar. "Dirtiest toilet in America" the bartender proudly proclaims, talking about all the multitude of things that have been flung against it over the decades, and never cleaned off.

The walls of my heart have had so many doubts and insults thrown at them, that's pretty much what they look like. Changed minds, storms, confusing things. That's when the door isn't nailed shut.

It's not good to have a toilet for a heart. Take it from me.

But when it all came down, and I was read my rights, I felt a sense of calm descend. No more use for fighting, for shouting out all the reasons why I actually care. They all got returned to sender.

So I'm calm, as the police take me down, I'm calm in the cells, I sleep like a newborn...dreamless, and for about 2 hours.

And I'm calm when I get on the vessel to work, and again on the way back. And even when I walk into our fort and I see that person who used to be my compadre. I guess I got my calm back.

Calm, despite the strain tattooed on my face. I can feel it down deep. In the dark corners of my machine.

And even though I cried for the next few days, it was in a calm way. I accept how it is, I saw it coming for months. I guess I just hoped for a fork in the road, to take us somewhere better.

And so I packed up my life again, and put it in a truck again, and sent it off to the next place again.

And now I lay my head on a motel bed, sound of the highway in the distance, strange surroundings, new loneliness bubbling up.

But I accept it all...I've been here before, even though I have never been here.

This is the space we people go, to look at dusty patterns on floors, to mourn the death of what was a wonderful beast at times, to look at the horizon and resign ourselves to go looking for whatever is beyond it.

I ran into a fellow traveller, off to the side of the road. Their life had broken down, and they were out of ideas, scratching his head, looking at the steam and the fire. He was sold on the idea of getting out altogether, cashing in his winnings, checking out, you know.

And my burden was already so heavy I just clapped him on the back and wished him well, knowing I can't carry him or his burned out life right now.

I hope he lives, hope he finds a map with a place on it that piques his interest, Hope life sends him a spark in his sleep, and it warms up the cold parts so when he awakes he can keep pushing long enough to find a road that goes somewhere.

I found a road of my own, seems solid enough. No idea what's at the other end, but then, that's part of why I like this one so much.

I know what's behind me, and I don't like that. Maybe not knowing what's ahead will taste better, maybe it will leave me rested.

My heart beats solo, no other warmth next to me in my sleeping bag.

Strange and new.

The sun is on its way up...and that's not something I want to take for granted any more.

I'm heading right for it.


This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

History repeats all right! All the time long.

I wrote this on October 9, 2006, and it's still as true today as it was then...that must suggest something about my behaviour and choices, that's for sure:

I want a pair of eyes to look into. A pair of eyes that captivate me, that shine happiness on me, that want to see me. I want hands that I can hold, hands I can hold whenever they are by my side, wherever we are going. I want a voice that will tell me how it feels, what it thinks, what it wants. A voice that won't lie to me. A voice that doesn't tell me what I want to hear, but has the courage and self-belief to declare who it is to me, and be proud of it. I want a mind that thinks about what it is, and what it does, and its place in the world. I want a mind that wants to know who I really am, not a concept it makes for itself. A mind that can accept my love, instead of always thinking that I am just settling for less. I want ears that will hear me when I speak my truth. Ears that don't block me out, only to believe insecure or paranoid beliefs to make it easier to keep distance. And I want a body. A body that pines when it is not near to me, or at least thrills at the prospect of being near to me again. A body I can wrap up with my body, and hold close, and treasure for as long as I have a body to treasure it with. I want to be in love. And I want to trust that love, and know that even if things are hard, that if both people really love each other and want to understand each other and talk it through, they can. I want to trust, laugh, grow, and rise with someone.

And most of all, I want to lose that feeling I had until a week ago, that the person I was with wasn't truly in it. That all of their jealousy and paranoia was somehow my fault, when I was rock solid in my commitment to her, and had no intention of that changing. That I was to blame for their belief that I was emotionally unavailable, when the real situation was that they wouldn't let themself be loved by me.


This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Safe Forever...Gyroscope.

Quit analysing everything I say,
Stop policing me.
You have nothing on me,
Blank page, funny that.

Do you remember
every word I say?
Essentially, yes.
Now stare right back at me,
Blank faced, figured that.

Did it for you girl,
Did it for you,
Did it for you, Did it for.

Did it for you girl,
Did it for you,
Did it for you, Did it for.

Safe Forever, Forever...

Polaroids from the West...

I've got that choked up feeling, where you know you're going to lose it, and for whatever reason, you hold it back. Pfft, "whatever reason". Because you don't want that feeling to be real, you don't want to validate it. You don't want to admit that it's all coming down again. Different person, same result.

Same result.

Give me a minute, I can't hold this in.

The thing I hate about me is, I only have myself to blame for the way I'm feeling. I do the most stupid and ignorant things, and then resent myself for wanting sympathy from me. I'm in so much debt, I can't climb out. It's my fault. I know it is. I'm so fucked up, and for all my pontificating about how pathetic people are when we become "consumers", I adore spending money I don't have on things I don't need. I have so much shit, still in boxes, worthless to anyone else. Worthless to me too. Holding me down, pinning me down. But I can't throw it away, because it cost too much in the first place, and to be honest i don't technically own it.

It owns me.

I'd like to think I have learned my lesson there. I haven't bought anything since I realised, and I won't. I'm too scared to. So I guess that's positive.

But this isn't about that.

The fact I'm blogging this is significant. I don't have any real friends that aren't tens of thousands of kilometres away. All the people I love I are interstate. And I really need a friend right now.

Right now, when it's all coming home.

I'm so tired. All the time. I've been drained for years. And I try to put on this mask of being funny or interesting, but it's all a facade. I'm just tired, and I want to rest. I want to climb out of this trap I built for myself.

These traps.

I'm sick of being so forgiving. I put my faith in the wrong people. I know I'm doing it, but I think, "No, they deserve love", and "You wouldn't want them to give up on you". I think that, and they shit on me, and they make me feel like a rapist for supporting them and not giving up. For giving way more of myself than I ever had before. For putting all my eggs in one basket. I know. I did it. And then they shit on me again, and say it's all my fault because I knew they had issues, and if I didn't want to deal with those, I shouldn't have wasted their time.

All or nothing.

Whatever happened to being equal? Or some kind of balance?

How is it fair to abuse someone for not conforming to expectations you have, when you know it's not right or fair to expect those things? That's setting them up to fail, just so you can say to yourself, "See? I was right! I CAN'T trust anyone!" I'm failing a lot lately. I've discovered actually, there's no real way to win. And by "win", I mean, get some fucking peace and harmony.

Wow, it's all about them, and you can go cry to yourself on the internet about it, because you left all your friends on the other side of the country to be whipped by a stranger for a year.

But again, I did it, so I only have myself to blame.

I just had to believe they were different. That I could trust them because they were funny and cute. Because I hadn't yet seen how bulletproof and arrogant their other side is. How they have the proclivity toward self protection at all costs, while I'm already diving right in and loving being carefree and in love and unguarded, open, and at risk of losing everything again. Like a puppy in traffic.

Fucking idiot.

But i hate the thought of having armour. I want to be open and real, at least to the people that matter. I guess I have never lived 'safely', and it still doesn't sound much like life. I have been impulsive and pretty random in my decision making processes, and it's generally taken me to some pretty amazing places. But it's dragged me through the pits too, and I guess me writing this is finally my way of saying to myself "I know I am in the wrong situation". If they won't change, and it affects me this badly, it's time to wake up and realise that 9 months is more than long enough for an audition, and it's time for the next act.

I'm not saying I'm all that.

I don't even know why people like me, let alone why some have loved me. That's probably why it's so scary to let go. But sanity is more important than vanity.

One thing I have learned through all this is, it is never good to get angry. Because no matter how pent up and justified you feel screaming someone down when you're backed into a corner, YOU'RE THE ONE WHO WILL WILL CRY IN THE END.

Because all anger does, is it masks fear. It's the 'fight' in 'fight or flight'. It's one of natures ways to react to attack. but there is another one available to people who have the emotional maturity and strength to actually see it through, and that is 'reason'.

That means sitting down, and holding back the rage at being disrespected, and accused of (nothing), and the shock, and the disappointment that it's happening again, and the fear of what comes next, and the anger that you're still not going to get a chance to rest again tonight, and all of that. And just breathe deeply, and not giving in to those amazingly powerful emotions.

Because when I do, I turn into shit. And no one wants to be around shit. It doesn't matter how wronged i feel, I know I just can't give in any more. Because I'm the one who always ends up crying, and in case you're new to this blog, and for some unknown reason have read this far, I'm a 37 year old heavily tattooed ex stage tech for Metallica, not a 14 year old girl.

The chorus for 'Rise' by Public Image Limited has John Lydon repeating "Anger is an energy", and that has become a totemic theme within rock music. I think it was Rage against the machine that took that ball and ran with it.

But I think it should read "anger is the enemy", because as long as we are angry, we are self defeating. I am self defeating.

And when someone who is just praying for a friend to talk to right now, defeating myself doesn't follow much logic.

I want peace in my life, and I'm not going to get that by shouting. Plus, it's just emotionally retarded to do that, and I should know better.

I am, in fact, under attack from myself in those situations, regardless of external stimulus.

Too much destruction in my life, I need construction.

And if I'm not getting it from without, I need to create some within.

So thank you for listening, you've been very helpful.

I need to draw a new map...


This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Youthful exuberance, and the Sisters of Mercy- an exploration of the gradual breakdown of standards and expectations in regard to contemporary living.

I am the worst writer ever, because I am horrifically narcissistic, and say things like "If you don't know who The Sisters of Mercy are, then that's your problem".

I have been fired by many of your favourite magazines for this reason, although I'm still on the Xmas card list of most of the editors, and even am occasionally invited to dinner...

...on account of my genius, and supermodel girlfriend(s).

But all that really has nothing to do with this, "this", being either another revisionist history lesson/uninformed rant, or blessing from someone who has been everywhere and done everything, depending on how much you like me, and feel connected to concepts like 'the truth', 'facts', and 'objective reality'.

And so, to begin.

We all know we're dying. At least, we hide that thought away as far in the back cupboard of our mind, in the ventral pallidum- the 'reptilian brain', as it is known to people who spend too much time writing theses, and not enough time talking to sick people or buying things like apple tea.

To people like us, we call it the subconscious, and sometimes, the inner child. The thrust of this is, even though we know without a doubt, we are slowly breaking down, we deny that information to our conscious thoughts, otherwise we'd all be spending less on Blu-Ray players, and substantially more on private health cover and superannuation.

We concentrate on the here and now, which always presents itself as wildly more exciting than some dusty old future...besides, the (perhaps hypothetical instance of) you now is way more important than the (perhaps hypothetical instance of) you of tomorrow. I'm hungry right now. That's pretty urgent.

So we think about what we're going to do today, and write songs about how we want this moment to last forever, or how in sad songs we want yesterday back so we can do it better this time. I have never heard a song that says "I want a time machine so I can zam myself into the future, to 3 seconds before my death". Not unless we're talking suicide songs, and that, as they say, is a whole other thing.

And music is a great way to get across what I want to say to you.

If you have listened to the Sisters of Mercy (if you haven't, go do it now, and don't come back 'til you do), it's exceedingly obvious that those songs weren't written by sixteen year olds. Typically, sixteen year olds write songs about youth, and fighting things (the system, your rules, each other), and lust (they call it love, but we know better), the things that excite them (cars, sex, sex, and sex), and the things that depress them (not having a car, not having sex). All valid themes, and proven to be bankable also. The point though, is that there is much enthusiasm and energy inherent in these songs. Thoughts of eventual death are generally avoided in favour of passionate exhortations of life right now, or failing that, confronted head on, on the songwriters own terms, because that's the power of youth, and you're never gonna take it from (us) them.

The Sisters of Mercy, by way of comparison, sound like a band that know they're dying. Nine Inch Nails do too, but Trent Reznor clearly isn't taking it lying down. The voice of a life lived (lived with mental illness and a bad habit of not paying your band members), but life nonetheless.

I used to enjoy a lot of depressive music in my teenage years (Einsturzende Neubauten, Bauhaus, *Duran Duran), but now I find more that I identify with it (apart from Duran Duran, whos lyrics are completely unintelligible).

We all think our teenage years will last forever (and if you had a childhood like mine, you pray that they won't!), but 20's give way to 30's, and suddenly you wake up one day and realise that not only has everything changed, but that it wasn't even sudden, only your cognisance of it is. That lizard brain again, holding on to information your eyes really could have used before now, only your subconscious autopilot decided it was on a "need to know" basis.

And I don't just mean slowing metabolism/spreading waistlines, I mean actual attitudes and accepted modes of thought.

We change completely.

To bring this into a personal perspective, since moving across the country, and leaving behind so much of what had thus far made me me, I could no longer rely on established social networks for jobs, housing, etc. Starting again meant I could no longer jump on a tour and work for whichever band was doing a run at that time, I had to actually go and physically look for jobs. And by jobs, I mean, working at a fashion label, or customising mining vehicles, or front desk at a modelling agency. Real jobs, not rock and roll jobs. Start at 9 and finish at 5 jobs. Or 6 and 4. Jobs where the fact you have worked for Metallica doesn't really impress anyone, where they're more concerned if you had worked for Hamilton and Murray, or Country Road.

I haven't.

And I have found myself so preoccupied with just doing these jobs (with the incredible demands they place on your RAM, and even your personal time), that I have sacrificed the very desires and passions that directed me to move here and start again in the first place.

I have become 'This Corrosion' (Sisters of Mercy), when I used to be 'Wild Nights, Hot'n'Crazy Days' (Judas Priest). I sit in dumbfounded silence contemplating how I ever managed to start a band, or write a song, or even stay awake after 11pm. And I mourn the freedom I used to have, to do these things and to feel like I was actually living, as opposed to just getting by. I identify with Bruce Springsteen, which when I was a kid would have made me feel dirty.

Living like this has dropped my expectations of life, but in a surprise move by my awareness, I realise it has dropped them down...to normal levels! A place I realise they have never been before.

When I was in my 20's, I was perfectly happy sleeping in a room with 20 friends every night, paying $20 a week rent, and anything left over on drugs. Girlfriends would feed me, you could shower at the city library, life was pretty awesome, because it was so simple.

I couldn't live like that again.

I need more now. Things like security, and money, and a house with all the regular house things like showers and locking doors. That means a serious job, which eats serious time and energy. It means paying off debts I've had since the dawn of time, it means not acting impulsively and walking out of a job because you have decided you just don't like it any more, even though to be honest, that's what I'm used to.

And why have I decided I need all of this now?

Because I can see what old age will be like if I don't, and I'm considering that future me a lot more than the present me, if that makes sense. I'm not invincible any more, I know "this summer (won't) last forever".

I've turned establishment.

Yeah sure, I have more tattoos than Chopper Read, and all that goes with it, but turned I have. Otherwise I would turn into the real Chopper Read, and one of him is more than enough, believe me.

And with all that need, comes more pressure. And with all that pressure comes more worry, and with more worry comes more depression, and slowing down, and getting old, and dying early, and that's life. But it's life where you get to do it in a house, rather than out on the street or an emergency room floor. And the establishment likes it, because they're selling you stuff, and the economy likes it, for the same reason, and the old money likes it because it keeps you poor and out of their country clubs, and the new money likes it because it makes them feel special, and the kids like it because they have something to rebel against, and everybody likes it apart from those of us who are doing it.

No wonder we stash that truth as far back as we can...it's enough to make you read Nietsche!

That pressure loaded fear, makes me finally realise why people I have known ate so much shit from abusive bosses, or worked with people no one could like, or travelled so far every day to average jobs they hated...because they were terrified if they didn't, they would lose everything. God-awful credit ratings like neon signs over their heads, fragile and constantly in danger from thrown staplers and supervisors employer protected temper tantrums. Even if they're wrong, you're the one who has to empty out your desk and walk out.

Guys or girls with a responsibility to their partner, who can't just say "Fuck it", or they face being single as well as unemployed. People with mortgages, car repayments, course fees.

I realise now how golden I had it in the past, because I didn't have to worry about any of that. And sure, I was hungry a lot, and slept in some very dodgy places on a regular basis, but at least when you're on the bottom, you can't fall further.

You can't fall further.

I'll be marinating on this...


This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

*This is an example of exceptionally dry humour. No offence intended to actual Duran Duran fans.

Absence makes the heart forget what it was originally looking for...

I've been away again, for way too long, and once again, I'm thinking I should spend more time writing.

Not for my old fans, who I either never hear from, or have all added me on facebook.

But for me.

I need to write the things I do, and although I don't do it for attention, it is nice to feel like people hear you, or you're a part of something bigger.

But most of all, it's because for some reason I can't fathom, I let my beliefs fall by the wayside, and kinda let myself submit to someone elses needs/wants/demands. I used to be quite direct regarding my boundaries, but for the last 8 months, I've let who I am be dictated to me, which is never healthy or right.

So for better or worse I have a million bottled up words and stories inside me, and I recognise the need and the correctness in letting those parts of me have a voice and exist, in this, my corner of the internet.

I like my words, and I like to come back to them (some more than others!), and read them with fresh eyes. I think they should have the opportunity to find like minded friends. I even think they can make the occasional day better, or night more amusing.

I sometimes think in quite small bursts, and I write that way too. Sometimes the greater meaning is implied and contained in a hint or a suggestion, without the need for a novel.

If you get it, I hope you like it, or are inspired, or challenged by it.

Because these are my paintings, these are my grand works, and although they're constructed entirely of words piled upon each other, the design is mine, and they each house a different purpose.

I'm standing on a lonely mountain, after a long hard climb, and it's raining words if you stand there.


This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

The future...

"The future...!" (Said by Orson Welles in that big, classy voice of his). Oh, it's one exciting-as place allright!

It's where cures for breast cancer, the death of impermanence, and killer robots that can speak fluent mandarin Chinese all hang out.
It's where mass production of fully electric cars by the major manufacturers is hiding. It's where the end of this sentence is (was!)

That's the god thing about the future. You can just sit back and wait for it, and it's sure to roll up eventually. You just have to be patient. Some people worry about the future, to which I say "Don't worry, it will be along presently!" Makes sense, right? Not like some people, who wait their whole lives for the past to come back, or who want "this moment to last forever". That doesn't sound so good.

I get bored easily.

I loved Def Leppard in the 80's (apart from the ridiculous lyrics of course), and I even like them once in a while right now. But listening to them non-stop from the 80's to now would have been a bit tedious. If I was still enjoying my first kiss, I think I'd be more than a little frustrated by now, but having said that, if I was still having my first orgasm, I'd be retarded to object to it. That's one of those exceptions you occasionally hear about. But on the whole, I think it's great that the future comes along an gves us all new orgasms to have. I mean, experiences.

When I was a depressed teenager, I wrote a song called "The future has yet to hurt us". Clearly, I wasn't getting laid a lot back then. But fast forward a few years, and a bazillion orgasms later, and I'm generally a lot happier.

If they administered orgasms in hospitals, society in general would a be a lot happier too (although it's hard enough to get a bed already!) The massive poplularity of naughty nurses video titles attests to the demand of this valuable public service. Who knows? Maybe in the future...but I digress.

The thing about the future, the real thing, that has nothing to do with sex or technology (seriously, why bother reading any further?!), is that it comes.

Nothing will stop it from coming, apart from your death, and then it will only stop coming for you. Besides, in that case I dare say you'll be past caring.

This is more advice to myself really but if you can squeeze some juice out of it to, go right ahead...

I have this idea in my mind (where all my ideas come from), a daydream almost, where, it's the future, and I am happy, and everything is all right. And that's nice. But my experience from the past tells me everything won't be all right, unless I make it all right.

And so I know that lovely vision of the future won't come to pass without a lot of effort and attention.

So maybe there is some juice in that for all of us after all?

We people tend to just hope and believe the world and society and culture will change despite us doing just as we do, in the same way we all believed we were going to be famous for something, just by sitting at homer playing Atari. You feel me, right?

Gandhi said "Be the change you wish to see in the world", and like most things, he was right. We're so lazy. Let's get Orson Welles back to say it for emphasis:

"You're so lazy, people of the earth!"

So let's avoid that situation where we're stuck listening to Def Leppard for ever, and change the record, and do a little work, and grow a little, and watch as everything around us gets so much better, so much sooner.

Anything that just falls in your lap is just worthless anyway...easy come, easy go. If you worked for it and made it happen, it's ridiculously meaningful. Nature is sick like that.

So the next time I'm lying on my bed, dreaming about the future, where everything is nice, someone please remind me to get off my ass and go practice, or save some money instead of spending it on nothing really, so that in the future I'll have some skill, and I won't have starved to death.

Or even better, so I can just lie on my bed and daydream, about the future.

Some say laziness is simply resting before you need to, that it's a form of organisation. And I guess they're right, if by "organisation", they mean gambling.

I'm not the gambling kind, so I think I'll maybe just listen to Gandhi, and be the hange I want to see in the world.

See you all in the future.



This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

c(her sigh) = λ.f

She looks like a runner, who has been bundled into the back of a van, given a hairstyle and a nice dress, and unleashed upon the unsuspecting town.

She is straightforward and pretty, without the slightest hint of artifice. Her handbag has so many sequins on it, it looks as if it's in the process of being teleported out of here.

She was standing on the traffic island in the middle of the road, holding a pile of books to her chest, chewing the top left corner of one either absent mindedly, or in an attempt to look cute. Or hungry.

Her head tilted to the left, eyes cast upward, lashes heavy and fake.

She sighed, I sighed.

Dual doppler effects, out of phase with one another, as we passed and that's that.



This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Gemma.

I hadn't known her long, so I thought it was super nice when Gemma offered me not only a much needed last minute ride to the airport, but a couple of hundred dollars contingency money as a loan. I thought the least I could do was pay for her parking, so I bought a ticket, and was just on my way back to the car when the roof collapsed. Her car split in half, spilling Gem out onto the parking structure floor, still strapped into her bucket seat, blood soaking her sweatshirt, a look of utter shock on her face.

She was sobbing between rushed breaths, clutching her ATM card to her chest.

"What's your pin number?" I asked hurriedly, afraid she was going to die before I got that money. "My what?" she spluttered blood all over her handbag. "Your pin number...I'm late for my flight!"

Finally understanding the gravity of the situation, she offered "0000..." then she breathed out red mist and passed away, before I had the chance to congratulate her on how straight gangsta her pin number is.


This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Bitch style.

Joel had one of those 'New York City' vibes, where, while it looks like all the disparate elements of clothing were brought together by pure happenstance, or a rather un-pecuniary lifestyle situation, you've just gotta know that there are four very serious years of art school behind it.

That U.S.S Nimitz cap with the gold embroidery, that grey tee shirt that says "Osaka wee wees", with the Adidas tracksuit top over it, the brown corduroy pants and white hi top Reebok pump sneakers (worn without a trace of irony), the floppy hair peeking out from the cap in all the wrong places -all on purpose. Sort of like when a mad scientist comes up with a new bio weapon...it kinda leaves you wondering why, what was wrong with the selection of bio weapons we already had? But you're not meant to know why, and neither am I. If we knew, we'd have been to art school too, and all the corners and lofts of the East Village reserved for people who aren't you also. That's just how these things go. That's the kind of street level shit advertisng execs fantasize about penetrating....ad porn. The kind of deal that can't be bought, and one of the few Universal items (along with music, art, and writing) that keep frustrated people with money frustrated and outside the boundary. It's a code, and it says "Whatevz, basically".

Oh, they know how to spell. They just don't want to.

Ice cold.

But it's not without its "chinks in the armour" as they say. Because as much as you're not welcome, and they don't care what you think, they only feel that way as long as there are other people trying to get in. If that flow of interest stops, you'd be amazed at how quickly the code, the style, the impenetrable exclusivity goes out the window. You'd be amazed at how quickly they start to resemble human people again, only "plus arrogance" (said with a French accent), and the usual "Get fucked" (no exclamation mark), as if they came up with it first. Nothing lasts forever, especially pubescent (or post pubescent -pubescent) attempts at genre defying.

Stuntmen of fashion. Gladiators set loose in a media coliseum constructed entirely of 80's downtown art galleries, armed with dressmaking scissors, bolts of fabric for shields, and starring the general public as 'the hungry lions'. Albeit, gladiators wearing original 'Walkman' personal cassette players. But why not, right? There's no point turning a zeitgeist on its head in any subtle way. That's not going to impress anybody, and the social sheep would probably mill right by it. You have to charge in there, all guns blazing (naked, preferably), and do as much damage as possible, lest Vivienne Westwood and Malcolm McLaren send you a stern joint email. And no one wants that. Not even for the novelty of it.

If you want to start your own thing, you don't say "please".

The general idea is to get as many people simultaneously saying "What the fuck?!" as possible. Then you know you're onto something. When you've got the people talking about it on the train to work in the morning, and especially when the Italians hear about it after it has already happened, and can't co-opt it without looking like thieves and rapists, which of course they are.

That's what "couture" means. When you throw a "haute" before it, it just means you do it all a bit more ruthlessly than everybody else. It means you have AMBITION. "Tres dangereuse".

Do you see now?

the kids are smarter than they look. Even if they have no conscious idea of what they're doing, or why they're doing it, they know. Like a puppy knows its Mother, or a root knows to dig for moisture, the kids know acting mildly retarded will pay off in spades (for some of them anyway).

And the rest can look cool by association (or just plain retarded, depending on whose eyes you're viewing them through). They even write it "retraded" now, like it's theirs because they changed the spelling, and you can't have it, and if you call someone a retrad and you're over 25, you're a fuck.

You had no idea, did you? It's a lot of work, being awesome. Endless coffees and late night drinking sessions, planning, spending of parents money, and politics. Oh, the politics! Where gossip holds far more water than boring old facts. And the fall out hits you like a late night nosebleed, where your shot at being somebody has ended because someone above you didn't like the way you glanced at their sex du jour.

And the effect is so devastating, the damage so complete, you leave art school feeling like Dresden, and go and actually make a name for yourself doing something worthwhile, like actual art. Which perversely is the only strangle hold the rich and influential have over the kids -the real money flavoured art world, legitimacy, and all new levels of backstabbing and bullshit. The big time!

Anyway, that's the look Joel was rocking.

Bitch style.


This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Full speed behind!

I used to write 3 blog posts a day sometimes...now it's one every 3 months! I guess the big news is: I moved to Perth. There are mountains of money here, so with no real idea, and Tom Waits' "Goin' Out West" in my heart, I flew out here and reinvented myself...in a town I don't honestly think deserves to be called a 'city'.

I didn't look back, but I'm starting to now.

Getting up at 5.30 a.m. for work all week is definitely against my religion...I have to remind myself every morning why I'm here. What's my motivation? And I'm sad and ashamed to say- it's "money".

I'm focussed on paying off the tens of thousands of dollars of debt you get when you pretend you're young and free, and can tour the planet indefinitely playing music in places like Toronto, or Istanbul, or Prague, or fucking Bucharest, instead of working like everybody else.

I'm buying modular lounge suites and refrigerators that are worth more than a family car, and plants shopping on the weekend. I bought my girl an electronic drum kit, that sits in one of our 3 spare rooms along with the computers, and the space reserved for the treadmill (maybe next week). I have a lot of nice things, and no time to enjoy them.

That's a lot unlike me.

When I left New Zealand around 8 years ago, I promised I wouldn't "just leave" anywhere again...that I'd say goodbye to everyone, and spend some time with them all, but I didn't. People still assume I'm back there, just like usual. I wonder which of them will die first? And how many years will it be before I find out, when reminiscing with an old acquaintance? So I can blog about their finer points, and regret doing what I'm doing right this minute, namely, not talking to them.

I've deinitely seen the sheep divided from the goats, so to speak...who my real friends are. That becomes clearer every day.

















Sheep.























Goats.

And tonight I realised how much I let my day to day over here interfere with my self image. Being the new kid, having no history, not meaning anything to anyone..it all makes a substantial dent in ones arrogance. And that's ok.

What's not ok is forgetting all the good things I like about myself, instead of limiting my self image to: "auto fitter", or "entrepeneur", or "modelling agency bookings desk pilot". I'm not any of those things, even though I have been doing all 3.

Maybe no one else likes it, but I'm proud of my writing. I get a great deal out of it, and I'm going to further embarass myself by saying I don't for the life of me understand why I don't get more recognition than I do for it. Sure, this post is not unlike lancing a boil, but I definitely have a few finer moments. Don't I?

I wish I had more energy. I wish I could stay awake longer, so I could do all the things I want to do, instead of stare at the 52 inch lcd TV and matching Blu Ray player in exhausted shock every evening.

I know that if I'm ever going to have the life I dream about, I have to start building it now. And that involves things like "learning Spanish", "learning how to cook", "making friends"...all the things I suck at. Badly.

37 is a little late to reinvent yourself I think, and for that reason, I'm glad I didn't do it later. Although I know as soon as I make the money I want here, set up a couple of new enterprises, and either sell them off as going concerns, or employ management to run them in my absence, I'll go again.

Back to Melbourne?

Not on your life...it's a slightly larger village than Wellington, NZ was! I'm done with the cities of Australia.

I don't know where in the world is next. I have been most places, and I can't see myself settling in any of them, which I think is natures way of telling me to travel more til I do.

Next stop: Latin America (thus the Spanish, but hopefully not Portuguese as well)!

Guess I'll have to factor that into my ridiculously large wall planner.


This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Being Sabine...

One of the great things about being evil, is that you get to posess people. Anyone you like. Whenever.

I know it's a commonly placed misconception that only demons and the devil can do these things, but that's not the case at all. God made it abundantly clear that you are either good, or you are evil. You can't be both. There are no increments of evil. Satan is no eviler than I am, he just saw a ripping good opportunity before the rest of us and went for it. So now you know, if you piss me off, I can totallly posess you, and make you do inumerable embarrassing things in public, the memories of which will horrify and torment you til the day you die in shame and isolation. If you don't piss me off, maybe we can go bowling or something. Who knows? That's another great thing about being evil- you can do what you want, whenever you want to.

Being evil rocks.

I still remember my first possession quite clearly. It was a bit like an acid trip actually, in that I was looking at the same reality, just through different eyes. Of course, it had to be a woman. A really fine woman. And yes, the first thing I did as her was masturbate. This turned out to be quite odd for two reasons. One, I possessed her the moment I saw her on the tram, and it felt less evil and more just plain weird to furiously finger my newly acquired mons venus with all of those university students watching, and a couple of others offering their assistance. I should have saved that experience for when I was at home, alone, in retrospect.

The second reason it was weird is because pretty much as soon as she got herself going, so to speak, all she could think about was how much she really needed some cock. The irony wasn't lost on me, in that I had plenty of cock, only it was still firmly connected to my other body. I certainly didn't like the thought of anyone elses cock, but as much as it would have been relatively easy to mount my real body on the opposite seat, and fuck myself as it were, that would amount to rape, and I wasn't going there.

I may be evil, but I'm nice about it.

Come to think of it, it was also a bit odd to climax, and not have anythiong come shooting out of me, aside from the obligatory "Ooh's!" and "Ahh's!". It was nothing short of gross to catch her saying "Daddy" too. This host clearly wasn't a stranger to the ways of evil herself. It felt nothing short of alien, to walk past myself, as she got off the tram as well.

Once she got home, she checked her wallet, and saw with satisfaction that her name was Sabine Dyer, and she was a columnist for Vogue. Not bad at all. She jumped on the internet and downloaded a reasonably awesome picture of me, and submitted it to her editor, along with a piece on how I am the future of fashion in this country. Then she had a relaxing bath, and watched her boobs poking out from below the bubbles. The kinds of things women generally take for granted.

So what was different? Well, walking for one. The way Sabines legs rolled off her hips was amazing. She felt a lot taller than I am, even though she's not. I did keep freaking out and wondering where all my tattoos had gone though.

And she was very gentle. Just touching things felt new. Drinking a glass of water was almost sexual. The way she would gently grasp the glass, her skin soft and responsive, and raise it to her lips. She would slide the rim of the glass over her bottom lip, until it rested on the tip of her tongue. And the water would slide over her tongue, and into her throat in little sips, her perfect lips pouting as she swallowed. Contrast this to the way I drink- I generally just aim the glass toward the general area of my face and throw the liquid at it. It works most of the time, even if it does feel a little like drowning.

Being Sabine was like a holiday in zero gravity.

I could feel sensations again that as a guy, I had long stopped feeling. After a couple of days I also felt the beginnings of one particular sensation I had no desire to get to know. That's when I left.

I wrote her a note, and left it on her fridge door. It said "Sabine- the reason you have a hazy memory of the last few days is because you possessed by pure evil. The bad news is- you have gained 2 kilograms. The good news is- you have stopped smoking! Don't forget to bring the washing in later...looks like rain".

It was quite educational to see how men stuttered, fell over, and crashed their cars as she passed. Also, how women were super-nice until her back was turned. I loved having a flat stomach, and naturally straight hair. Crying for no reason wasn't much fun. I felt bad for making her eat too much.

Speaking of which, when I left Sabine, and rejoined my body, I found I had been locked up at the psych ward. Apparently leaving your body on a number 57 tram with an expired ticket, covered in 2 days worth of excrement, and with an erection, is frowned upon by society. Had it been a St Kilda tram, no one would have noticed, but like I said before, it was all pretty spur of the moment.

I eventually explained that someone had slipped something into my drink, and that I was very sorry for all the fuss, and they let me go.

I caught a tram home in my freshly laundered clothing, and halfway up the tram, was Sabine.

She was smiling, and looking out the window. What was she looking at? Well I really couldn't tell you. Because the blind was closed.

Keep an eye out for me in Vogue.


This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Digging you up again.

I remember the way you used to smile.
It would start cautiously, like a thought, and a moment after, it would break like a wave, and wash over everyone.
Your eyes would flash, your teeth equally white.
Everyone wanted you but you.
And I'm so sorry you died.

I remember the way you used to laugh.
It would crack open like a pop can, filling the air with mirth and infecting all in attendance in the same way a virus does, only much faster moving, and a great deal more welcome.
Like if Gucci did virii- designer malaise.
But you didn't laugh when you wore your last tie.
And I'm so sorry you died.

I remember, most of all, your warmth.
Your easy company, your gentle peace. The way you could transmit contentedness like a radio wave, so all the people in your vicinity could tune in and roll on your emotional selection.
You were a beacon of calm in an otherwise tempestuous sea.
And I'm so sorry you died.

I remember you all again tonight, from straight out of the blue.
I was doing laundry when it occurred to me, that smile, that laugh, that warmth.
And I felt so guilty, for not thinking of you all more often.
I was occupying myself with life...with the thing you all lack, and can never have again.

I don't know where any of you are buried, I doubt I'll ever stand at your graves.
So this choking, rising lump inside stays with me like take out. I can have it at home.

A convenient kind of desperate loss, a no-fuss kind of mourning.

And the worst part is, I think that if you were all alive, we'd probably have drifted long apart by now...we wouldn't talk, or stay in touch. And so, just as in the past, I wouldn't know your respective grief.

Leaving you open once again, to die at your own hands.

I am so very sorry, that you died.


This is knifey, from 'the internet'.