Thursday, April 19, 2007

this is an extract from an upcoming split zine i'm doing with a friend of mine. my section is titled stroll. my friends, emily's, is called ticket to anywhere. enjoy

Missed photo 1. Prague

Kings Charles bridge, early evening, sun setting across the bridge, castle lighting up. I stand across from the bridge waiting for the light to change. Across from me two kids play soccer, the concrete outside the milk bar their field. They kick the ball back and forth until one of them dives to save the goal. I walk across the lights towards the bridge, as I pass them I smile at their guile and athleticism all the more so because there is no ball.

Missed photo 2. Tabor.

A cobbled stoned street outside a cafe. Mid afternoon, shadows of bikes. A couple stand talking to their friend the cafe owner. The guy is on the outside, the women on the inside. On the back of the womens bike there is a chair. It is occupied by a kid who would be two and a half at tops. The kid is reading the paper. He looks as if he's trying to figure the subtlties of string theory. Perplexed I watch for a couple of minutes before working past. As I do I cast a glance the kids' way... He's reading the cartoons.

Missed photo 3. The Lourve.

Under Delariox two kids sit with paper and crayons. A brother and sister of six and nine. The six year old has his back turned and is drawing pictures of cowboys and Indians. The cowboys are blowing off the Indians head. The girl is drawing the picture. The flag is at half mast purple and a green.

An art idea.

Naomi told us this story one day over the dinner table at CESTA in Tabor. The story goes as follows, a video artist from Canada got given a grant for a project from the Canadian Arts Council. The idea he had was to travel around the world as an expat Canadain filming all the locations he visited and then making a short doco about that. Well so that was the idea he told the Arts Council and that was the idea the Arts Council funded; in reality his idea was much much different. In reality he travelled around the world filming people waiting for aereoplanes clandestinely. This he did by using a hidden camera in his bag. He would film people sleeping in lounges, feet walking past, conversation between stranded passengers and lost travellers, yawning faces, tired faces, happy faces, laughing faces. This he did for six months without never once leaving the confines of an airport. (His methodology was land in one city, pay for the cheapest flight on standby then wait in the airport til that plane left repeating this at each subsequent airport.) when he finally arived back at Toronto airport the Canadian custom officers took him aside and questioned him in the deportation lounge for two days wondering where he had disappeared to. For the first day he refused to tell them what he had been doing, by the second day he changed tactics and decided that it was best if he told them what he had been doing and so he did. It was only after the Canadian custom officers saw the video footage that they believed him and let him go. That video footage has since been shown in the Guggenheim museum in New York and from Naomi's account has some of the most beautiful slow images in the world.

Monday, February 26, 2007

so looking through my files. discovered this. it was written six months ago for a zine i meant to finish but in typical fashion haven't gotten around to it yet. anyway with the year anniversay coming up it seems appropriate now.


One. One, two. One, two, three, three helicopters. One two three helicopters circle the sky. It’s three days until the Stolenwealth Games commence and these helicopters are meant to somehow make me feel happier, more peaceful and relaxed. Gees what kind of world are we living in when the sound of choppers circulating and keeping the air ‘free’ is meant to be a soothing sound. God I don’t know. I wonder whether there was this much security for the Olympics in Sydney, whether people fell asleep to the sound of airplanes and helicopters. I suppose I should get used to it but fuck that why should I get used to this paranoid country, this paranoid world… this paranoia within me. Why?

It’s four in the afternoon. Loud techno music is playing in the background as a couple of thousand people get their kicks off at Earthcore in the city. I’ve been sitting here in Kings Domain since 11. Today’s the first day of the indigenous protest camp. We were to meet under the statue of King George (extremely appropriate!) at 11 and set up camp from there. Of course the socialist couldn’t help but get their hands in the mix by selling their rags to everyone. I think I was sitting there for only maybe five minutes when I was accosted by a Trot or some fringe branch Marxist member hocking a newspaper. To make things easier they’d even printed out a little piece of paper telling me twhich issue had an article dealing with indigenous rights.

After sitting there for an hour a meeting was called where Clare Land and a legal advisor spoke about the issues surrounding the camp. About the new gazetting rules that meant the state government could excise any part of the city as a games site. And as such quell any protest or voices that ‘disrupt the enjoyment of others’, that present an alternative view to that of the state governments media and tourist angle and there excessive budget.

This speech lasted for ten, twenty, thirty I don’t know however minute it was. Anyway however long it was the speech took place and then we headed over to the site that had been chosen as the campsite, all a hundred metres away. Here, the two hundred or so of us ferals, punks, student, activists, whatever the fuck we are calling ourselves these days, sat in a circle and listened to speeches by Isobella Coe, Targan, Robbie and Marge Thorpe, Robert Corowa and Uncle Kevin welcoming us to the camp and to the sacred fire. At the end of the speeches we all rose from the circle and grabbed a branch of gum leaves from in front of us and put it on the fire. As we walked back to the circle the city become covered in smoke and the smell of eucalyptus travelled down the hill, releasing bunjl to spread his message. Even one of the police officers, whose intention was to put the fire out, walked hand in hand with Robert Cowora to put a branch on the fire.

Since the first smoking ceremony ended- around one- we’ve been sitting around waiting to hear news of whether we’re allowed to set up the camp. Namely whether we’re allowed to use pegs and where is the best place to put the tent to ensure that we don’t pierce the sprinkler system. Also we’ve been waiting to hear back from the rangers the more important news of whether or not the sprinkler system will be shut off. Apparently all will be told by mid afternoon.

To occupy time some of us have been handing out flyers to the crowd heading up to the myer music bowl for Earthcore. I think in the half an hour or so I was handing out flyers only two or three people grabbed them. Mostly people just ignored me and walked on by. I guess guilt holds them back. Or maybe they’re not interested, which is worse. I talk with one of the other guys who has been handing out the flyers. He says he’s experienced a similar thing of being stared straight through, of being accosted and ignored. I guess though that’s what we’re looking to experience, that this ignorance is what encourages us to continue putting ourselves out there. Eventually someone, some idea will spark and things will just hit off. I mean there is two hundred of us waiting to set up a protest camp so it’s not as if there’s no hope in this country, or as if we’re not attempting to forge our own paths.
Anyway so it’s four o’clock and I’m sitting here at King Domains listening to an argument between a couple of punks and one of the guys from Earthcore in the city. I want to interject and get involved but I’m enjoying playing the role of voyeur and eavesdropper from the moment. Chris- I hope, I think that’s his name- is sitting there telling the two punks about the paranoia in his head. How he fought in Iraq, how he fell asleep twenty miles south of Baghdad to the sounds of bombing, how as he walks through the streets of Melbourne he expects the buildings to explode any moment. He explains how he doesn’t understand the protests about the war in Iraq, whether we hate him or not, why there were so many people out on the streets, that when he learnt about the protest over in Iraq he was pissed off at this country and all on those on the streets. A point to which the punks reply is that they’re not attacking him personally but rather the system that sends them off to the war; that the anger of the people on the streets was anger at John Howard for sending them off to war, a war that this country doesn’t need to fight. That they don’t want to see a body lost for a fight that is not really ours to fight, in a struggle to appease and keep up some delusional relationship with a psychotic country.

A point to which Chris counteracts that he to hates John Howard for sending him to war and that he wishes he hadn’t even been in the army but since his dad had and his dad before that there was nothing else he could do. And well besides once you’re in the army you can’t leave without the risk of going to jail. That even if this is not a war we’re meant to be fighting that it’s still better to be on the side of America rather than against. That even though he hates Howard for sending him to Iraq that he still voted for him and still will in the future. An argument that infuriates the two punks as that is the problem, that as a country we don’t need to go into war. That we shouldn’t be siding with America, that it’s this siding that leaves us in situations like we are.

I sit here watching all this, thriving on the intellectual argument. It reminds me of watching the Australian Open with my nan and pop, or sitting in class at uni laughing as lecturers argued amongst themselves (their theorists sitting on their shoulders like little devils/angels), or like two gazelles fighting in the plains of Kenya. It’s interesting but also headache inducing. After an hour or so the argument dies and Chris leaves heading down the hill into the city. I turn and talk to the two punks the look on our faces say it all. Here’s someone we’ve gotta free and it’s going to take more than an hour to free him and it’s going to split heads to do it. I’m glad I didn’t open my mouth because I probably wouldn’t have articulated everything as well as they did. Probably would have gotten infuriated. And besides truth be told I wouldn’t have remembered as much of what was going on.
It’s five o’clock now and we’ve just been told we can set up camp. The next hour or two is spent putting kitchens and fires in place and setting up the sound system for the week of festivities that have been planned. To set up the information tent, the medical centre, the barbie, our own tents, to collect enough leaves for the fire, for the daily smoking ceremony, to ensure that the spare blankets are ready to be used, that everyone can settle and buckle down for the next two weeks and wake up tomorrow ready to plan everything, ready to head on down to the yarra for the ANTAR stolenwealth protest that is taking place.

That night I fall asleep thinking of Chris and Iraq and the helicopters flying overhead and wonder what the next fortnight is going to be like. As I wake twice during the night once to a rehearsal of the opening ceremony and the screaming of woman for her partner to get his arse over, another to the sound of pouring rain I realise it’s going to be quite tiring but not nearly as full on a war as that in Iraq. We may be saturated and captured by media images, may be isolated and alienated and feel scared and paranoid from helicopters floating over head, from the glorification of violence on the screens in front of us, but at least we’re not over in Iraq or Afghanistan being put on the frontline for some false ideological battle. That we’re free to come and go as we like and that all we can do is attempt to free others no matter how much they try and stick to the centre. That we have to free ourselves and those around us, in spite of the habits that we’ve been indoctrinated into and which we so easily fall into, in spite of the headache inducing moments that come along with that.

Monday, February 05, 2007


For the past few months i've been haphazardly working on a zine entitled autosuggestion (after the joy division song). Owing to cost and other reasons the zine will be limited to 60 copies. At the moment its stalled owing to delays to do with waiting for others to get back pages to me. In other words normal, i guess, collaboration issues. That said it has been great and i love the idea of cutting and pasting and collating and putting together the zine. And love working with and seeing the way in which all these disparate and different pages and people have created something so beautiful. Even more given that the friend who's zine it is is of galavanting through the forests or the beaches of South america. Every time I look at the box or work a little on it I'm left thinking of him and the crazy and wierd and beautiful spaces he is visiting. This is an extract I've written for the zine. It's also the beginnings of another piece I still fantasise about writing. One in which all the buskers and street artists of melbourne are written about. Enjoy the article. If you get the chance check out phelixs site to: [i wish i could remember the way to link this here detail]


A Saturday afternoon in late April outside PSC, he stands cigarette in mouth talking to a passerby. His left hand outstretched pointing at one of his abstract paintings. He's offering an explanation of it to the couple before him. It's an attempt to draw a woman washing the dishes he says. An attempt to draw its beauty without it becoming too erotic, too sensual. I crouch on the ground listening in on this and wait to ask him questions about another one of his works - his blog. I only know of this man by the chalk address on the pavement A couple of minutes pass. I read about the nostalgia of Easter now that he's no longer Catholic. As I read I continue listening in on the conversation. The couple are from Ballarat and want to buy the painting so Pheelix invites them around to his studio tomorrow. They're only down in Melbourne for the day but thank him nevertheless. I sit and continue reading his blog. My mind is filling with questions. What are people's reactions? Was there a struggle when the games were on? What's more important the process or the final product? Does he see the blog medium as a way of breaking down the barriers around the artist? Is there a grander purpose to the blog? I look up and find him standing over me. I freeze momentarily trying to think of the best approach to take to asking him questions. The first query that springs to mind is about the Commonwealth Games. He says he avoided the city whilst the games were on - too many people, too many hassles and not enough room for the street artist to live. He mentions though that people would often express their anger when learning that their rates were being spent on cleaning up graffiti. The conversation shifts and I ask him about peoples reaction. He answers that he's experienced everything from joy and congratulations to outright hatred. I ask him where he thinks the hatred stems from. He doesn't offer an explanation, just annoyance over what he's doing and over his artwork. I glance down at the blog before me, no graphic sexual exploitation or acts of violence, just images of the banality of life. Of the struggle to eat, of riding the tram, of the search for love and the depths of loneliness. I guess people are terrified of the dull reality of their lives and enjoy hiding behind the sensationalist images of the world. The conversation switches again and I ask him about breaking down the barrier around the artist. For him art is a process. The notion of the artist working away for one ot two years to produce some work of art for others to look and theorize over angers him. Art should be open and fluid, it should be continuing everyday. The blog for instance is a year long project with each page eventually being sold to raise funds for a children's organisation. I stand and listen forgetting to mention how much of a good idea that sounds. A friend of his walks over with a coffee and our conversation ends. I grab a pen and paper from my bag and write down his address, I'll be sure to check out the website online on Monday. I put the pen and paper back in my bag, read a couple of pages and then head off to the tram stop to meet up with a friend for dinner.

Saturday, February 03, 2007

Notes are Theories, theories are notes.

so i've been thinking about guilt a lot lately and wondering where it fits into my life . as anyone who knows me will know i have a preoccupation with guilt, a preoccupation that is worse than any catholic you'll have meet and i haven't even been to a church service a day in my life. wierd? i know! lately it's been bugging more often than not and i've been wondering how i came to let myself be ruled by such a murky and cloudy emotion and mood as guilt. how i allowed myself to rational it has part of some white mans burden. i've been thinking about it and came up with a couple of little theories or thoughts about guilt. there just thoughts and will be left as that. nothing less or more.


In analysing my guilt i've come to realise that a lot of it is actually paranoid or imagined guilt. that a lot of it stems from my worry and concern about pleasing other people and what i think they feel or should feel. of course naturally no one feels how i feel and no one feels how i imagine they should and so when that happens i'm left with a hole to fill and well this hole is guilt. and over time this whole becomes increasingly filled until it's overflowing and i'm left with this dark murky cloud surrounding me.


having been involved around the fringes of activist circles and politics for a couple of years i'm often left wondering how much of politics and society is based on creating feelings of guilt and worthlessness in others. that as activist our motivation came from the assumption that other people don't think or feel that way and they need to be made to feel guilty about that. the probably with this then comes if this is the sole motivation of a persons action then they may never give there all or give up some of that control and power.


Essentially I see Guilt as a control mechanism implemented or instrumented by the Judeao-Christian western world i live in. It's an institution that runs as deep now as it did 2000 years ago when christ died even though the capitialist society in which we live is meant to be secular. we learn to act guilty or feel guilty because we are told that this or that is not right and when we do something that flags those constructed walls of emotion we fill this with guilt.

so there you go some notes on a theory of guilt.
read them. there's more to think and rework. what's yr take on the topic?

Wednesday, January 24, 2007

The following is a review I found that I thought you all might like. The review originally appeared in Heart attack 32. For those who know heart attack is a punk hardcore scene from the states; for those who don't you do now. Having heard and seen these guys live I can attest for the quality of the music although the review itself is a tad pretentious.


What is there to say about Xenophobic Xylophones that can't be said in a noisy chaotic mess of dismembered bodies and brains. The music on this tape is so discordant and chaotic that it feels like being sucked into the midst of a boeing 747 engine slowly. XX (as their fans call them) are a three piece hailing from the city of Melbourne Australia. G. Cunt, J. Coward and T. Liar as they call themselves play music that make The Locust sound like The Beach Boys. Fourteen songs clocking in at 5 minutes and forty five seconds (comes on 12 minute tape- both sides the same, one in mono, one in stereo) and with songs like PLASTIC PEOPLE, WITH US, WE GOT HIM XX are definitely worth shelling out the $2 (Australian!) for the cassette tape.

contact details: 45 Thretren Street Brunswick East Melbourne Australia 3061

To prove the genius of XX I've transcribed the lyrics from the cassette tape. I would scan them but my scanners kinda broken. Enjoy the lyrical energy that is G. Cunt.



Plastic people everywhere
Plastic people in the sky
and in the street
and on the tram
plastic people every fucken where
plastic people why won't you die!
plastic people DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE


(repeat adinfitum until we die)


Ner ner ner ner ner
ner ner ner ner ner
you're it you're it you're it
haha haha haha haha
didya hear we got him!
we got him!
we got him!
you're next!


We don't want no e around here
you need that to spell race
no c or a either so what we're really saying is
xnophobi ntionl nthm

Sunday, January 21, 2007


A housemate (bullshit as my best friend so rightly dubbed him) once said that i live to much in my imagination. As easy as it is to admit: it's true. I tend to live a lot in my head; tend to think that it's enough to come up with all these crazy ideas; that it's the idea more then the actuality of the idea that's important. Sometimes I think that it makes for frustration on other peoples behalf as I start one thing and never finish it, as i tell friends of ideas that i want to do. It also causes problems at work where I get caught in daydreams making imaginary orchestras out of stone fruit pips instead of doing the dishes or finding hairclips that have fallen under beds. In order to sort out my mind and life I've posted fifteen project ideas i have (there's more hence the part 1 part). I'm posting them here (rather than writing them on a piece of paper and putting them in a drawer) because if I have an auidence here I'm more likely to do it. Plus I'm wanting suggestions as to what ideas are good, bad or stupid and lame. So if you read this and you have suggestions let me know. Um okay so yeah on with the show.



1. DIY HOUSEGIGS A BOOK: As i've written before DIY HOUSEGIGS is a network i've been involved in here in melbourne for the last year and a half. Recently I've come up with the idea of writing a book on the history of housegigs in melbourne. I plan on starting with the garage scene of the 60's, moving through the little band scene of the late 70's, the emergence of pubculture in the 80's, the hardcore and punk and rave scenes of the 90's through to the housegig scene now. I've started the research but have stalled a little. Question is i'm wondering if it's a good idea or not?

2. NIMBUS: Started below. Nimbus is to be a novel about a group of flinders street punks and wannabes here in melbourne. Have begun the started and have a few other sections just don't know where to go considering that it's going to be dark dark dark and thus might be too depressing to read.

3. PUBLIC ART GUIDE: Melbourne is full of lots of public art. Hundred odd scupltures in the cbd itself. Theres Larry the dog a sculpture that was stolen by someone in 1995, had a float of it made for moomba in 1996 in attempt to flush it out which was unsuccesful, recasted in 1998 when more money was donated by a generous philathrapist and then bolted down to a different site on the corner of Swanston and Collins street. Have started it by collecting photos and carrying out research. Don't know how much time it will take. Possibility of getting grant money from city council makes it appealing. Need to research relevance of it. Whatcha think good or bad idea?

4. MERRI CREEK AUDIO TOUR: Merri Creek is a small creek that runs through the northern suburbs of melbourne. It has a bike track that hundreds of people use a day. Along the way there are farms, schools, grafitti, and little placards giving a brief over view of the creek and the history of the region. The idea is to make a more extensive study of the history of the area. Recollecting tales of what it was like when the Aboriginals lived off it. How much it's changed in the last 150 years of Melbournes development. Idea is to make an audio cd of this tales so that riders could listen to it as they rode along the creek. Or alternatively to get more signs and photographs posted along the way at wider locations. It's still in the formation stage although have read a bit about the merri creek and walked along it and should try and see whether i can get grants for it or not.

5. STROLL/TICKET ANYWHERE: A travel zine with a good close friend Emily. The zine is to be a split of my travels through europe in june/july 2005 and of emily's travels from the same time. Have started writing it and emily has finished her half and sent it across to me. I've been slack and haven't finished/started mine because of the fear that my writing will be too serious. that they're really old memories and but going to read as quite cold and stale because of that. Also because I've been too lazy and become preoccupied with a whole heap of other stuff.

6. LOOKING ELSEWHERE: A zine of most of the writing on here plus another one or two fictional and journalistic type pieces. Have cut and pasted in simplistic manner a few of them and have made a file to print out just afraid it's too self indulgent and not that good and don't have enough spare money to publish the hundred or so copies i want to make.

7. MY ZINESHOEBOX: An online resource for zinemakers throughout all of Australia. Collaborative effort between a friend Rachel and I. Have a small resource section, have started constructing the site. Also in talk with making it part of and expanding it that way. Just waiting for Rachel to get back from Tassie so we can put final touches to it and let it become part of the undergrowth family.

8. MISCELLANOUS: 200 300 odd photographs of abstract images taken from a year or two ago. Also photos for DIYhousegigs website and of camp soveriegnty and other images of the city and whatnot. Afraid to set up market and sell, will people buy them or think they are crap? Whole heap of poems should send off somewhere maybe?

9. ALONE: A story with images. The start of the story is online below. Plan on making it a zine with images accompany the piece. Don't know whether writings any good and where the story is heading.

10. MUSIC: Have loads of lyrics and tunes and ideas for songs just haven't learnt the skills of how to play music properly and with actual chords and notes yet. Am jamming with a friend tomorrow which will be melancholic noise since that's what our souls together write. lyrical sample of works below:

refrain for a song: "we don't have to be cynical
we don't have to rule the world
open up your eyes and realise
tomorrows not the same."

thought but not started:

1. TRANSFERENCE: Sci fi story set in the future. Don't want to ruin to much yet but think Philip K. Dick crossed with William Gibson and Greg Bear and you'll get the idea. This is brief because if I talk to much about it it will ruin the thematics of the idea.

2. AND SO HE SPEAKS: A cartoon version of Neitszche thus spoke zarathustra with Zarathustra cast as a purple rabbit who comes down into the city to talk then becomes famous gets shoved on tv before leaving and heading out into the outskirts of town where he dies in the wasteland there. Problems: still have to finish reading the book. Don't know fuck all about cartooning. Afraid it just stupid eltist pretentious shite.

3. AXE: A short film animation of the life as an axe. An axe grows up and gets excited about the first time it becomes able to chop down a tree. The intimacy and enjoyment of the blade counting through the tree makes ffor an exhausting day and loads of enjoyment for the axe. Eventually the axe gets replaced by a chainswa and then by bulldozers until there's no trees and the family has to leave the axe to rust in the sun and rain.

4. A DOCUMENTARY NOVEL (working title): This idea is four years old. Plan on writing a documenatry novel about an artist warehouse in melbourne. There will be artworks, a cd, photographs of the exhibitions held there, sculptures, works. Difficulty and problems arise in that every piece I write will be written and created by me. Thus it seems to be completely ego driven and self-indulgent and am wondering whether it's all worth it or not. Whether it's a waste of paper considering that it's going to be a Pynchon/ Foster Wallace size coffee book.

5. UNDERGROUND: A kids book storie written about a family of ants and insects set in the dirt underground. Follows how the family gets decimated by kids who capture one of their family members and they set out on a rescue attempt to get their family member back.

okay will post more ideas in future. maybe rework and add some colours to this site by posting photos and whatnot tomorrow.


Thursday, January 18, 2007

been awhile since i've posted. life outside of this blog and head have taken control and am travelling on that journey. it's fun and confusing and disorientating and i probably should get back into the swing of sitting here and writing some more. did rediscover an old poem that has been edited by my friend michael farrell. other than that i've been debating with myself over whether i'm more inclined to monogamy, polygamy or whether i should just go asexual and live and write all my fantasies out here and share them with the world. i guess i'm not really asexual if i've made out with people and slept with them but there's still the fear of commiting to one person/ one moment and dealing with the fact that committing to one thing means that i miss out on a range of potential experiences. maybe that's the beauty and the role the net and myspace/blogs play we can live vicarously through others and the others know it.

alternatively maybe i am just like every other predominately straight guy a committment phobic arsehole? maybe i'm more married to the idea of control and power and privelege than i like to think and pretend? maybe i'm just being too honest and harsh on myself and too scared of following my heart through? maybe i'm just over rationalising? maybe i'm on a course trying to alienate everyone so i can be left alone by myself to wallow in self pity and to live out a dark and violent heart. to place the blame on the world as a means of not taking responsibility for my own actions. maybe i'm really self centred and narcissitic like all wannabe artists? maybe i'm just full of shit and should just shut the fuck up? maybe i'm to aware of the fact that ultimately every moment ends and can never be recaptured and i'm living in permanent mourning over this? i don't fucken know. this is so nihilistic and confusing it's infruiating but i guess at least it's honest. enjoy the poem. fuck the preamble.

THE COMFORT OF WORDS (two portraits)

I lie
in bed,
rain dripping
down the
a world where
Sara is not
heart broken
and I am not
the arsehole who
broke it.

I lie
with pillow
my legs
waiting for
them to
become hot
and sticky.