She backs a boat with the precision of a surgeon wielding a scalpel,
Slicing through skin that is warm, but impervious to the nervous system’s warning.
And she is oblivious to the effect that this has on my all too anaesthetised heart.
I pass under sugar bush road
Blasting songs of the unrequited
And passing by the honey pot
Doe Paoro sounds about right –
With her rhythmic pulse of bass
Her slow love lyrics untethered
As the setting sun strokes my face.
cannot advance fairly
when we give speeches
at a race that drowns
the nations choices
always was,
always will be
white fellas voices.
It has been a year and 23 days since I posted. The last post was about missing my Da. He has been dead for a year and about 50 days. I have written a lot about grief before, but never before have I spent so much time in grief, and not writing. It was unexpected but I lost my voice.
It is hard to return to this page, and this stage in my life. I do not know how to make my very disparate interests cohesive. I don’t spend much time looking for new graffiti these days. I don’t even take photos of all that I find. I love podcasts about Blockchain. I fall asleep listening to youtube clips about Sophia, Hanson Robotics AI pop star.
It aches to labour on my grief too long and so I instead I distract myself. I have discovered Juggling the Jenkins. I use Pinterest more and Facebook less. I wonder if smart glass shares would be a profitable investment. I have a wallet full of cryptocurrency but since I upgraded my iPhone, have lost access to it. My Google Authenticator needs to be authenticated.
So that is the nutshell and I am in it. Maybe my new brand is new things. Pop culture. Let’s see what I come up with. In the meantime, here are some photographs of stuff.
I’m a Tanita Tikarim song
Her dulcet sadness
Haunting me
And in my head I sing along
“I think of you”:
And as I breath – I think of you,
And if I walk – I think of you,
I’ll fake a smile – and think of you,
Or fall asleep – still dream of you.
I know you were my biggest fan,
My friend and now and then
I’m calm enough again
– and think of you.
If I cry once it’s not enough,
If I try not to it’s too much,
And I’m not strong enough
To miss you yet,
Can’t settled on it yet,
And I can’t contemplate
You gone and yet I do.
The final 70 metres,
The track straight
Duty free imagery
Teasing me
I look at her:
Three days
Three dozen hours
Finish line:
Auto reply –
Leaving
Help me say the words
That she irons out the worry
That was there since forever
And that he never
Needs to care
Cos she is there.
I wish I was a stoner, because I just realised that I don’t know of a word to describe the experience of knowing a word, yet being unable to define what it means.
Trust a bigot to get me writing again. Hi, how have you been? So Margaret Court, hey? What the fuck???? I have to say, this is not going to be a rant of outrage, I actually feel sorry for her. First, she thinks her ‘frequent flying’ haul has some kind of pull and will cause Qantas to stand up and take notice. Second, she has misread the public sentiment. Third, she is hate filled in an climate of anti-Trumpist desire for change, love and tolerance.
My limited understanding of the industry in which Qantas has – surprisingly – thrived is that they do not make the dosh from the bums on seats. They are not a little pop-up start-up business begging customers to buy their $5.00 fake cactii. So the rules of ‘the customer is always right’ do not strictly apply, well not to the most obvious customer, the passenger. If it did, I wouldn’t be shoving my 20 inch ass into 16 inch seats. So error number one, Margaret, nobody at Qantas cares if you stop flying.
On the misread of the public: Sure, there are people who agree with her. And my (admittedly left leaning) local public ridicule them equally. It is no secret that stoopid people are the most biased. It is also no secret that there is a body of evidence suggesting those most homophobic are homosexual. So whoops, Margaret you just stumbled upon how to be uniformly hated by smart people, whilst simultaneously making people go ‘hmmmmmm’.
Finally, how utterly fucking sad for her. Truly. Think about the image of that English grandma and her trans male grandson on Youtube, talking about their love and adoration for each other. Think about the unity of thousands at marriage equality marches internationally. Think about the Yarra Town Hall public notice that refugees are welcome. I do not think I am going out on a limb to suggest that love and acceptance, as well as tolerance, make lovers a wee bit happier than haters.
I have to go out now, with my wife, our marriage being legal in Canada, but not here. We are going to have a pub meal in a Bogansville sleepy town where the bakery supports One Nation. But where, overwhelmingly, the locals hate the bakery. And fully embrace the lezzies.
So suffer in ya jocks, Margaret. When you recover from the bitch slap you are universally receiving, I accept, and tolerate you, and wish only love and acceptance for you. You silly twat.
It passes,
It promises,
It gives rise to –
And rules it all out.
It bastardises the truth,
And resets all the rules,
It plays havoc with hearts,
Messes with our minds,
And wreaks of the inevitable:
Until so relentless is it’s rhythm
That we all fall in line behind it.
