if you could meet anyone who would it be?

if you could meet anyone who would it be? a commonly asked question by scene magazine in their section where they take pictures of randoms in the valley and enforce the popular-culture spanish-inquisition upon them.

my answer, Henry Miller. I was sitting around at home thismorning after realizing i didnt have to be at uni till 2, then suddenly had the urge to come to uni, go to the library and borrow out Henry Miller books...there's certain moments when only he can get accross to me.




















Its lame talking about someone no-one else in my circle seems to know anything about...except mel, and i think he scares her! And i've thought many times how incredible it is that one person can have a favourite "aritst", someone that they consider to be some kind of God, and others can have no idea who they are. I remember when i was in Paris i spent a lot of time tracking down painters i loved, walking around their old neighbourhoods, finding their houses, finding things and places they painted, and particularly finding where they were buried. To my amazement, i stumbled accross Amedeo Modiglianis' grave when wandering around the largest cemetary in Paris and was astounded. It was tucked in with all these others, barely enough room to stand near it without standing upon some other poor soul. How is this possible, i asked myself. How is it that people defame the graves of all those surrounding Jim Morrison (im not saying hes not amazing) and yet there is not even a foot around Modiglianis' grave to stand, or a flower, or a note? I left nothing, i realized that all the names on the stones surrounding me at the time of that thought probably belonged to people equally incredible.

















The moral of the story and its relevance to Henry Miller is two fold. His books are incredible, he was incredible, yet he was human. The more i read, the more i realise his stories are just that, stories! He was not really anything special, anything that incredibly different to us. He worked at Western Union for years whilst trying to write and failing, he married and lived a mundane existence in Brooklyn N.Y., he obcessed over women who did not even care he was there, or that were so preoccupied with their own worlds that they did not realize what they were missing, he treated a lot of people like crap! Sure, at times he had the Milleresque "dont care too much" attitude, that eternal detatchment and embracing of being "alone", but at the same time (and this is one of the reasons i love him so much) he is plunged into fits of self-doubt, or lonliness, or a need for control. The story that i am currently reading concerns a time when, a woman that dominates his books, whom he left his first wife for and continually speaks of, leaves him for another woman. Not in the usual running off one night and leaving a note fashion, the other woman moves in to his apartment and slowly he feels his grip on June falling...

The second part of my realisation is that i am astounded that i have not yet run into someone else who has even read any of his books, let alone seems to appreciate them as i do. Then i realize, as i did in that Paris cemetry, that when i look about me i see floors and floors of books, hundreds and hundreds of names that i have never heard of that other people around me feel they could not live with out!

Isn't it exciting...so much to read, see, do....

So heres a taste of Miller for those that do not yet know him, it is in no way a representation for his books are as random, scattered and yet flowing and connected as a day in your own life.

"I thought when i came upon her, that i was seizing hold of life...Instead i lost hold of life completely. I reached out for something to attach myself to - and i found nothing. But in reaching out, in the effort to grasp, to attach myself, left high and dry as i was, i nevertheless found something i had not looked for - myself!" (Tropic of Capricorn)

"This infernal waiting had been going on now for several weeks, not every night it is true, but intermittently, and with frequency that rasped his nerves. Down below, where the harbour expanded in a broad inky splash, there was peace...As he lifted the curtain aside to stare into the darkness he was seized with an inexplicable feeling of terror..."We are all of us alone, "he mumbled to himself, but even as he said it he could not help but feel that he was more alone that anyone else..."
"Atleast, he told himself, there was nothing definite to worry about. Wasn't there though? The more he endeavored to reassure himself, the more convinced he became that there lurked a sinisted misfortune whose reality and imminence was expressing itself in these tenuous, shadowy forebodings...Little comfort was there in the thought that the ordeal might be of limited duration. The question was whether it did not constitute but a prelude to a final, uninterrupted isolation...But there were explainations...? Yes, of explainations there was no end...The very fact that there were explainations required explaining..."
"So absorbed was he in his reverie that when suddenly he turned his head, saw her standing there at the threshold, he almost collapsed."

happy b-day ric

wow, what a loverly afternoon i had on Sunday. Thanks Ric, thanks for a bar tab, a bowls club to ourselves, dinner, and the grace of your presence. Renee's highlights: all of us girls claiming we will play bowls and then sitting around watching everyone else, Liams speech (tear-jerker), Ric in his new jacket (reow!), Mel winning pool? Free beer and being able to drink it again after my week of near-death flu symptoms!

I used to work at a bowls club and i forgot how cool it was. Well, at the time i was an impressionable 18 yearold who thought getting your RSA and doing a cocktail course would land you in some swanky bar in the East End of Adelaide. The naivety. I ended up in a lawn bowls club where the only cocktail i was mixing was a bloody mary (and that was the hardcore nannas)...or a lot of half-nip gin and tonics. Maybe there is a correlation between my time behind the bar at Salisbury bowls making Gin and Tonics, and my love of the stuff now. But this is all irrelevant.

The moral of my story...let's go to Toowong West Bowls club more often. We can all buy some white trainers (i saw some nice posters on the walls of the clubhouse), knitted white vests, and a sexy wide-brim hats. We can all become members and potentially win a grand every Wednesday (Clare had a great scheme where we would all sign up and make TWBC our new regular and turnup every wednesday and therefore increase our collective chances of getting the dough). Somehow, i can learn how to be good at pool and enter the free pool comp and potentially win a carton of beer! We can all delight in crazy-cheap beer and surprisingly attractive bar staff. There's more...but really, do you need more reasons.

It'll be like secret life of us, you know how that made lawn-bowls cool, that and crackerjack. Except we dont live down South, or sleep with eachother (that much), or live in apartments? But now the grace period between "playing bowls because they do it on secret life" and "playing bowls cause its fucking sweet" is large enough for us to claim that we're not copying the T.V.

p.s. check this guy out...look at the determination! i wanna be him some day!!!

WAR

We live in turbulent times. H-bombs in North Korea, George Bush, and MISKIN ST! Thats right people, welcome a new warlord to the scene, well not just one, a whole HOUSE full of them (though most are surprisingly neutral). It all began one starry eve, when the jolly kids from Woodstock were off for an hour of power at the local drinking hole when, upon walking down the hill, we are accousted by a strange figure in black. The infamous Simon, of Miskin, joined us for our walk but with evil intentions. I did not hear a lot of the early kauffufel but, upon returning home later that eve, i find a threatening note nailed to our backdoor.





















So thats it, its war. And

thus the turmoil begins.

Days of abuse are all we know now, our property stolen, our power switched off, our doors smeared with vegemite, our front entrance covered in indescriminate foodstuffs, our names shamed by passers by...when will it end.

The consensus of late however, is that the issue really isnt that simple. All Miskiners are not to blame, only their corrupt leader. Toby has done his best to keep it fun, and brings gifts of Elvis and Iceland, and sets up the UN endorsed Bank of Heron Island to ensure happy trade of resources continues. The Dong is keeping it neutral in a way that makes the ex-queen of neutrality (me, in the risk days) look like a flaming red! and i dont know about the other boys, i think theyre not that grey. And on the Woodstock side of the fence, i admit, i was in for a bit of fun in the beginning. But only the Rusty Spoon, practical joking kind of fun, not the egging houses and smearing vegemite fun. So, again, the house is a divided nation and slowly it seems, the followers are moving away from their general, Goff.

Lets hope these two can sort it out before anyone else loses anything?

like the toilet, the blog is working again

The toilet is becoming a characterizing feature of Woodstock! Maybe its the house trying to give that festival atmosphere, where one must either pee in a bush or walk a couple of hundred meters to get to a dirty, scary toilet somewhere in the wilderness. Or maybe its just the fact that we have been cursed by the toilet fairy! For those who dont understand, i shall tell you tale or two:

INCIDENT ONE:
Party time, with the culprits photo taken by Mel immediately before the event (see below, Jimmy with a bottle of champagne). The fable tells that Jimmy, in the state we were all in, took his bottle with him to the loo and ended up dropping it on the rim. Smash, Tingle, Flush, SCREAM, Drip. This is the string of events to follow. The side of the bowl was taken out, and so, on flushing, the flusher is sprayed by a one-meter horizontal wave of toilet water! mmm...so, a sign is made, to warn of the serious nature of the toilet malfunction, but people seem to think we are lieing, or its some kind of sick joke. No kids, the joke was on anyone who i saw from then on at the party with wet trouser legs!BAHAHAHA! For visuals see Antons video (you might have to watch his rambling for a while to see it!)

http://vids.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=vids.individual&videoid=1217530225

so, following the party, if one wanted to pee in the comfort of a room or use a toilet for other purposes one had to walk down to Miskin and use the fabled Bathroom of Filth (for details see the miskin blog). Hmmm...no offense guys, you saved my life, but EWW. Jim is an angel though, and he got it promptly fixed after the weekend.

INCIDENT TWO:
In quite a state after Friday night i awake to nature calling and tottle off to the toiley to...well, you know. To my surprise, the ground feels a littel wobblier than usual, but for those who have walked on our floor you know its always a bit dodgy and for those who saw me on Thursday through Friday you would really expect my stance to be a little wobbly to begin with. So, business as usualy till i im thrown on the ground and the toilet comes off its hinges since the floor below it is collapsing! "Fuck!" i yell, whislt trying to put it back and praying that my pathetic efforts make it usable. Fingers crossed, i flush, i pray, I GET SOAKED! worse than before, now our porcelian water-feature hoses all the way around, there is no escape for the unsuspecting (or suspecting) bystander!

So, again, we mission to Miskin to service our bodily functions and continually swear under our breaths when, hungover and in desperate need to pee, we confront the "SERIOUSLY OUT OF ORDER" sign on the door!

I hope its fixed when i get home, it was funny at first, but now its getting old!