pepper jack postlude

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Romeo Dear, Oscar Bravo

I must write this, in case. In case I don’t.

I don’t think I loved you. Smoke got in my eyes. It’s a childhood thing. Not getting what I wanted and not knowing or getting to know if I ever really wanted it anyway. Because you don’t belong to me, and you won’t.

So lets clink Harry Potter goblets of Stella and kiss in a red, dusty dream. Lets fuck on a bed of Ted’s hair and Sylvia’s bones. Let’s argue about a radio station that never existed. We’ll meet in Milton’s Paradise Lost, smiling without wrinkles at a groundhog sunrise we pretended wasn’t tempting, beautiful. And we’ll love the uncertain certainty of that sore orgasm that never happened because of timing. But we knew it would, eventually.

We’ll be the great pretenders like lonely boys and I’ll buy you twenty-dollar cigarettes in a service station on a cloud. You can pay me back in monopoly money. We’ll be as selfish as we proclaimed selfishly in the transit room we crashed without a skeleton key, once upon a time in never never land.

Lets pretend we both left with a six-pack. We booked a follow-up appointment. We understood the ending from two kilometres, a beer and a fag in.

But we didn’t. I took the wrong exit on the A1 and couldn’t afford the petrol anyway.

Echo Zulu Alpha Bravo Echo Tango Indigo Lima Hotel

 

Shiraz, Sunburn and Soil that is Red.

Ok, yes, I am alive. It was debatable as to whether I’d make it for a while there when I staggered off the plane at Perth Airport. Lovely Pilot told us passengers an hour before we arrived in Perth that we would be experiencing some turbulence but ‘nothing to be worried about.’ On hearing this, I not so discreetly scrambled around in my makeup bag like a junkie, for the four Temazepam my mother had kindly wrapped up in cling film and given to me hours before. Yes I hate flying. But after one of those darlings I was anyones. I waited at the baggage carousel in Perth for a good half hour for my suitcase which I vaguely knew was already on it’s way to my final destination – Karratha. I could hardly speak, let alone stand up. What a joke. Anyway, thank the lord for drugs and alcohol.

So this most welcome ‘off my head-ness’ allowed me to embark on the final leg of my journey to Karratha in a quite lovely haze of limp arms and cloudy thoughts. Before I knew it I was sat at the window seat (unheard of) munching on pastrami sandwiches and admiring the vast redness of ‘straya. I even took a photo to show everyone how ‘in the middle of butt fuck nowhere’ I was.

I have nothing really insightful to say about Karratha yet as I have spent most of my time reading, drinking and organising paperwork for this job I will hopefully be starting very soon. I did however go along with my Aunty, Uncle and cousin to a sausage sizzle on Saturday in Dampier where my gorgeous family volunteered and I spent most of my time holding down my very appropriate leopard print dress against the Western wind and sinking back vodka.

Lesson number one: Do not wear dresses in Karratha that are above the knee. The wind is a fucker.
Lesson number two: Sunbathing in Karratha for 30 minutes is equivalent to about two hours in the Gold Coast – wear sunscreen to avoid lobster head.

The 5 AM starts and hard grafting are imminent, however I’ve used these days to catch up with my gorgeous Aunt, Uncle and cousin. And also to write, read and think. A lot.

So … this is where I am. An easy 5, 486 KM drive from Gold Coast- pop over for a wine anytime!

Karratha is in the Pilbara region and Karratha in the local Aboriginal language means ‘Sacred Earth’ or ‘Gods Country.’ So not all bad news. In fact Karratha isn’t as bad as it may seem being so far away from everything. 35 degrees now, I haven’t seen a cloud in the sky since I’ve ben here, the beach isn’t too far away although I haven’t even been yet; it’s been a struggle to rise early after the gallons of wine I’ve been gulping down at night catching up with my beautiful Aunty. I’m very alike her in many ways which has meant lots of laughing and crying through the fog of expensive cigarettes and WA cleanskins Shiraz.

My paperwork is in for this job, I’m just waiting for the thumbs up; 60 hour weeks here I come. It’s quite the joke in the household at the moment as to how I will cope with these early starts. The last time I was up at 5 AM was last week because I hadn’t gone to bed.

Finished DBC Pierre’s Lights out in Wonderland – It’s some fast paced allegorical stuff. Hilarious at times: a cocaine and alcohol soused narrative reminding us of the decadent excesses of modern capitalism. The denouement? A fucked up Trimalchian banquet of unethical, illegal cuisine and general debauchery. Enjoyed it thoroughly, his writing style is enviable. And I’m not just saying that because I met him in Bali and think he has very sexy eyes. Interesting interview with him from last August with The Guardian if you click here; he talks about his other books and his mad life in general.

Finished Kazuo Ishiguro’s The Remains of the Day last night too. I don’t know if it was the transition from Pierre’s frantic odyssey to Ishiguro’s slow moving subtlety symbolic of main character ‘Stevens’ but it took me a while to get going with it. Ultimately it was a sad love story, employing WWI and WWII as the political framework revealing the implications of duty and loyalty and how they often become the reason we miss out on love, in hindsight. My favourite line is where he assumes we have all the time in the world to sort our shit out, but in reality we don’t. We become so blasé until it’s too late –

‘one had available a never-ending number of days, months, years in which to sort out the vagaries of one’s relationship with Miss Kenton; an infinite number of further opportunities in which to remedy the effect of this or that misunderstanding’

He then goes on to say he was too presumptuous and now everything is ‘forever irredeemable.’ He left it too late.

So go forth my friends and say or do that something you keep putting off! I’m about to do the same. My roots are fading and the hair dye awaits; it may be the difference between acquiring a rich miner husband tonight at the Tambray or not.

I think i just heard Virginia Woolf turn over in her grave.

Melbourne Cup, Dylan Thomas & Annie Hall

It’s probably not very often you see those names and event in one title but alas Melbourne Cup is here and the Gold Coast Turf Club will be awash with fake tan and fascinators! I was supposed to be amidst the fun today but one more paper for Honours will no doubt keep me chained to a high back computer chair in the computer lab at Uni all day. Brilliant. I was really hoping to be like the lady below today.

 

 

 

 

 

Marieke Hardy tweeted this article she wrote last year on Melbourne Cup and I have to say I feel a bit ashamed of going to the actual one in Melbourne a couple of years ago after reading this …
http://www.abc.net.au/unleashed/40668.html

You must be thinking what has this got to do with Dylan Thomas, or Annie Hall? Well I’ve never seen Annie Hall before so watched it last night with about 3 cups of tea and 4 fucking cookies which I was totally conned into buying from Coles – anyhow, loved it. Annie Hall that is. And Woody Allen is hilarious. The whole awkward reality of love in the movie reminded me of The Way We Were, of course Woody Allen’s got ‘nowt’ on Robert Redford; he’s possibly the most beautiful man I’ve seen on screen. Apart from Elvis of course.

I know Vogue has wanked over the Annie Hall style for years but I really did fall in love with the blazer/red flower ensemble in one of the bar scenes where she sings. I can’t find a picture of it now but I will endeavour to rock that look when I’m not heading to 45 degree heat.

 

 

 

 

 

And Dylan Thomas you ask? Also watched The Edge of Love for the second time last night. You know the one, with the Kiera Knightley, Matthew Rhys and Sienna Miller love triangle. Set in London and then in Wales in WWII. Matthew Rhys plays Dylan Thomas; I think he’s brilliant. Sienna plays Thomas’s wife Caitlin Macnamara (Thomas) and Kiera plays Thomas’s childhood sweetheart. I loved it, again, but then I’m the most cynical romantic you’ll ever meet. And the styling, oh god. It makes me want to jump on the next plane home to England, whack on some wellys and a floral tea dress and run around the countryside smoking fags and reading poetry aloud on top of a windy hill.

Dylan Thomas and Caitlin Macnamara – apparently their marriage was a stormy alcohol fuelled affair and when Caitlin was called up and told Dylan was dying, she flew to America and on arrival said: ‘Is the bloody man dead yet?’ Classic.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And now for the rich BBC version I can’t help but adore …

 

 

 

 

 

 

The red coat? I know.

OK I’ll finish with one of Thomas’s poems. I really love this one.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas

‘just another Sunday morning call’

dragged to the Turf Club Markets at 8 AM today albeit not kicking and screaming when I remembered how good and cheap the avocados are, and the coffee, and the delicious japanese vegetarian pancakes that my housemate Bobby Sunflower (not his real name) and I devour on a weekly basis whilst checking out the hot dads.


OK, Friday night was brilliant – TALENT IMPLIED 2011 launch (beautiful picture above by the gorgeous Sommer Tothill). One of my fellow Bali-goers Terranette (not her real name) came over around 3pm with a bottle of red which we happily consumed on the back patio before heading to Mermaid Tavern for another wine and then on to Gov’s for the event.

Of course i had to read first, forgetting that at some point I’d told Sally Breen – the wondrous woman that makes it all happen – that I would MC. Not wanting to look the fool I pretended to remember telling her and suggested that i would just read the editors note from the book (which i wrote anyway) and all was fine, thank the lord.

So when you put a bunch of writers in a room and the wine is only $3 a pop, its imaginable the state we can get into. Whilst chatting outside to my fellow blogger Ira McGuire i bent down to retrieve phone from handbag that was leaning against the wall – i put it there i swear – but of course said bag was actually a plant growing out the side of the venue. What a nob. Had a few of us in hysterics for some time.

Some shots of Gov’s – rad venue:

The night was fabulous anyhow, everyone read superbly. Jimmy from Jimmy and the Saints and the Sinners sang beautifully and i had to stop myself from crying when he sang ‘I dont wanna set the world on fire – I just want to start a flame in your heart’ Mummy used to lullaby me to sleep with that song when i was very little and I’ve never heard it sung before.

We partied on back at Sal’s place with a mixture of us students and Gov’s crew.

Then the ones left standing (Timmy was being propped up) came back to mine and Ads, Ash and I stayed up till dawn which is around the time I thought it would be a smashing idea to climb the tree in the back garden – not shortly after I remembered I was scared of heights and Ads kindly helped me down, what a gent.

So as it’s my last Sunday in Queensland for a while, Mummy and Stepdaddy are driving down from Brisbane, Moët’s in the fridge, we’re going for lunch and drinks at Alto’s. Their tapas is pretty sexy.

Flights are booked for Friday morning, Karratha here i come!

PS. I’m a published writer now! as well as a tree-climbing, plant/bag mistaking piss head.

Language is wine upon the lips.

Virginia Woolf

the launch is upon us …

Top of the mornin’ to ya. The only reason I’m awake before 8am is because my darling roommate Tony came in with coffee a short while ago and told me to get up ‘you lazy bitch’ – love him!

At last, the day of the launch of TALENT IMPLIED 2011 which will be featuring my first published story along with 15 other wonderful pieces from students – including my good friends and fellow Bali-goers, Sommer Tothill, Antonio Ruffino and Adam Narnst, not forgetting the fabulous Ira McGuire and Belinda Hilton who’s poem Four Letters, Three Words won the POETRY IN FILM FESTIVAL – PIFF2011 – meaning her poem was this years framework for all films, how fucking rad – Well done again Belinda!

OK back to me. Don’t have the BOOK THAT I’M IN yet but the wonderful person who makes this happen – Sally Breen – has sent us the book jacket cover which I will share with you now.

Pretty sexy isn’t she? The front cover photograph is also by a student who was a finalist for the Public Art Prize; original photography from students competition. The finalists are on show above the cafe at the Gold Coast Arts Centre for a whole year I’m pretty sure.

Anyhow – on to more pressing matters, what the fuck am I going to wear tonight? Whatever it is I will post on here before I go (have downloaded blog app – technology retardation is slowly disintegrating). Should probably print my story out and practise reading it. Feels strange because I wrote it over 2 years ago, but good news is, the piece I wrote whilst on Writing Retreat with Frank Moorhouse has been chosen for next year’s TALENT IMPLIED 2012. That piece is called The Simple Life and I read it at the Brisbane Writers Festival for ‘Writers on the Make’ where my mother and stepfather turned up and I had to avoid all eye contact with them when I got to the part about an American guy’s purple cock and a columbian porn star’s dark nipples. I asked them afterwards if they enjoyed my reading and my mother said ‘well it’s not our cup of tea darling but we are very proud of you.’ God love ’em.

Ok before I go, remember that crap article I posted from Carolyn Webb ‘Bali: Why bother?’ Well cool man Stuart wrote a response via travelfish.org, its great, read it! I especially like this part:

‘But you didn’t bother to make the effort to see or experience any of this, Carolyn. You visited Ubud across the Writers and Readers Festival, when, not surprisingly, there are a lot of visitors. You didn’t like it. But rather than get up and find some of the gems that have had people falling in love with Bali since the 1920s, you decided to opt for a lazy cheap shot raving about dildos, touts and serial killers.’

Remember remember TONIGHT:
Talent Implied Launch 2011
6.30pm Gov’s Espresso
2459 Gold Coast Highway, Gold Coast, Australia 4218

Come along and support me and my fellow emerging writers and lets get pissed!



A new day … a new tale.

So after a night at the beautiful Sally Breen’s guzzling ciggies, wine and late night anecdotes – I am still here after spending a couple of hours on the cold tiles of her bathroom in the early hours of the morning – those dreaded spins again!

Anyhow, we have mentally vomited all over this, frankly, horrific article by Carolyn Webb …

http://www.theage.com.au/travel/travel-news/bali-why-bother-20111024-1mfiz.html

After volunteering at the Ubud Writers and Readers Festival which is mentioned in this article (I MC’ed for Alexander McCall Smith) and spending over 2 weeks in the glorious place that is Ubud, I can’t begin to articulate how culturally insensitive Carolyn Webb is in this article but of course I will – when I’m not sat at my friend’s table in last nights clothes devouring lifesaving coffee – so please read so we can uniformly devise a marvellous plan to shed some light on Carolyn Webb’s blatant ignorance of culture, tradition and appreciation of one of the best towns I’ve ever visited.

Before I go and wash my wine-reeking body here is the link to afore mentioned Sally Breen’s fucking fantastic memoir, published by Harper Collins, The Casuals.

 

 

READ IT!