Oct 15


All I want are dark horizons. Weaving tunnels. The deep, black abyss. All I want is distance. Vulcanalia, Bacchanalia, and on and on. There were things I thought I’d never say out loud. But maybe I’ll say them. Maybe I will breathe them out. Maybe, maybe. Maybe I will settle down with those things, snuggle up. Maybe I will lie next to them. Lie under them. Maybe I will fill them up, feed them up. Let them climb out, let them tear my jaw off, let them put my eyes out. Rend, annihilate. Destroy. Maybe.
Maybe it’s those fuzzy guitars talking. Maybe it’s that single bead of sweat, that careful talk of fantasy. Or the boots. The hat? The the the. Maybe.
But. I mean. If you can listen to the blues and if you can drink whisky and if you can spend your days by the beach; if you can spend your nights laughing; if you can feel nostalgia and promise all at once; and if you can remain unchanged through it all, well… I don’t know. I don’t know what you are. I don’t know what you’re made of.
Some ugly stone. Some rotten gem. Some fable. Some lie.
But, ah, Hephaestus. Ah, Kentucky. Ahhhh, the mighty Delta. What have we here!
An unfurling petal. The flower that never blooms. The bundled essence of the sun, clenched in tiny fists. A poem by Naruda.
And now. Today. Here I am. I’m here. I’m hunched over. I’m scribbling away. The loves I’ve always had rush back to me. Let me tell you this: You can reconstruct any damn thing you want. And you can tear any damn thing down. You can write the same sentence over and over again. In pencil, in pen. You can, but don’t. Light a match, spit your mantra, let it burn. Walk on out. And if you feel that habitual turning towards… If you feel that inevitable drift… You go find Big Mama Thornton. You go find Howard, you go find King. You go find that hand-clap, that one perfect dimple, that soft, wet hum. You go find what you need.

Oct 15




i don’t have much to say. need more time. need more sleep. need more camera. need more start up. need more party band. need more plane ticket. need more brownie. need more robot arm. need more head transplant. need more boots. need more word. need more ear. need more fireball.

don’t be mad




when there is this stunning woman who sometimes stands so close to you that you stop breathing for a second. and one day she sits down and stretches out like a cat. and she grins, and pauses, and there is this curious air of expectation. and, finally, when she speaks, it is to say some supremely dumb shit. i mean, she is sharing this big truth; the central truth of her world, in fact. she holds out her palm and she places this truth right there in her hand and she offers it to you. and it’s mental waste. it’s fucking garbage. steaming, dripping garbage.


you gotta look into her face. look around her perfect jaw, look past her marshmellow mouth (even as the corners quirk, keep lookin’). look right up into her cobain blue eyes and just say: no. FUCK, no. god damn. i’m out.

real talk. i can’t take this kind of shit anymore. i can’t take bad ideas. i can’t take weak arguments. i can’t take blind mysticism. not fer nothin’.

the tenets of 2015 are to never waste time. to never go unknown. so. all you gotta do is forget the sun on her skin. forget what yoga did to her arms. forget that one piece of hair. close your eyes. remember that moment — that moment of ultimate truth.

and fucking laugh.

Sep 15

i love to

look back.

i love to return to my mad ramblings, my howls, my barbs. all those days i called foul.

that’s how i’ve spent my night.

ah, what thorough sadness. i am unable to fully recall it. i remember how it sounded, i remember what i thought, but i cannot summon that horror back into me.

maybe people will find their way here by typing their quiet fears into google, as i did. maybe they will ask: how do i breathe? how do i

and their typing will fall off, because they will lose the will or the hope to ask questions. they will heave, instead. they will rage or break or howl.

keep at it, my little kindred. the world will sort you out. your heart will sort you out. you rage, you break, you howl. it is the way.

me, i worked hard. i worked so hard. i wanted to deal. i wanted to grapple with it all and accept it all and be good and kind and honest and to let life know me. i wanted to speak and be understood. i worked hard for a while, and then i plateaued. here’s me, writing to you from the plateau. it’s even out here.

but. i’m working hard on working hard again. as of this line, right now. that old chestnut. i’m working on it.

and you know, while reading back tonight i kept finding this sentence: return to the work. return to the work. everyday, return to the work.



Jul 15


i sort of broke my car.

i’ve been looking at new cars. most of the ones i want are in sydney. and if i go back there, what happens? i keep imagining visiting my old house. is that weird? i want to walk down my street a little bit. i want to buy a magnum from the corner store. i want to ride my bike by the river and go shopping in marrickville. i never really liked sydney, but i miss my house a lot. and my little routines. sometimes i miss that feeling i had. that unruffled, flat-line comfort. sometimes it makes me choke.

Jun 15


i guess if i could tell you anything, it would be this: hold fast. there will be a day you wake up and notice the sun. there will be a day you don’t cry. there will be a day that starts and ends with you feeling half-built — but built, at least. not crumbling, not fractured.

things will still be strange. her phantoms will surround you. and you’ll still get all those little shocks; those little reminders that it’s just you now. you’ll never feel like you understand. you’ll never KNOW. but you won’t have to. you won’t need anything, anymore.

and i can tell you this: spit out everything inside you. let it go. keep spitting and shouting and raging until you feel something shift. there will be a moment of change. a moment of acceptance. when you’ve said everything you want to say, and when you’ve heard every answer, there will be a point. maybe you’ll hear what you needed to hear. maybe you’ll hear its absence. but there will be a point when you step out of that melancholic limbo and you lift your head.

that lone wolf in you will wake up. you will take your own hand. everything will be okay.

i hope that you will have the chance for gratitude. i hope that you will be able to look back and say ‘yea gods, what a gift you have given me’. it helps, very much. because even if the last day was a horrible mistake, even if you wasted one week too many, even if some cosmic prank was had at your expense, recognising that this beautiful thing was yours for so long… it can mend a lot of tears.

there were no answers for me. but to have had it, ever? and for so long? to have known those things for so many years? that’s everything you could wish for. maybe some people don’t get that. maybe they don’t get 2000 days of knowing, without one doubt, that some good, kind person sees them and loves them very much.

yea, gods. what a gift you have given me.


and there are still beautiful things.

they can fill some part of you with their beauty. like. there is a function in this world whose rate of change is equal to its own output at every point. i can’t tell you how that made me feel when i first thought it through. it’s nuclear. this is a tiny, little fact! it just presents itself! it is available to us at no cost, and how divine? how wonderful? it is transplanetary. it is solar.

and triangles. the euclidean constraint. built by ratios. bound every day in the same way. crazy. if you can’t prove something with a triangle, you’re full of shit. and circles. my god. x^2+y^2. really? REALLY.

there are still beautiful things. and i am pleased they are beautiful. i am pleased there is black magic and dark days and hard choices and soft landings. i am pleased i had what i had. i am pleased i am pleased i am pleased.

and if i could tell you anything, whoever you are, it would be that you will be pleased too. shit, maybe you won’t be happy. but one day, you’ll see something beautiful. you will sit up. you will stop sobbing. your chest will ache less. your throat will open. you will be able to hear people talk again. you will feel like the world welcomes you. you will hold your own hand. you will be okay.

it’s not infallible. you’ll snap in and out of it. but the point is, you’ll snap out. no matter who you lost, or what you lost, or how. no matter what. you’ll snap out. that’s what i’d tell you.

oh. and get enough sleep. don’t drink too much. go to the beach. hug your friend because he always makes time for you. kiss your dog’s little nose. take baths. do whatever the fuck you want, often. find that dusty you.

i’d tell you that too.

Jun 15


What sort of diary should I like mine to be? Something loose-knit and yet not slovenly, so elastic that it will embrace anything, solemn, slight or beautiful, that comes into my mind. I should like it to resemble some deep old desk or capacious hold-all, in which one flings a mass of odds and ends without looking them through. I should like to come back, after a year or two, and find that the collection had sorted itself and refined itself and coalesced, as such deposits so mysteriously do, into a mould, transparent enough to reflect the light of our life, and yet steady, tranquil compounds with the aloofness of a work of art. The main requisite, I think, on reading my old volumes, is not to play the part of a censor, but to write as the mood comes or of anything whatever; since I was curious to find how I went for things put in haphazard, and found the significance to lie where I never saw it at the time.

V. Woolf

Jun 15


what a giant day. what a week of days. and this? elephantine. fraught.

some peace in the afternoon.

at 2am, release.

freed from hope. stung.

it is bitter. it is sweet.

at 3am, just bitter.

Jun 15


i do feel i am unknowable. i do feel i am some distance apart from things. that it takes a lot for me to be otherwise. i do feel warmth for people. i feel joy for them. i feel deeply hurt. deeply angered. deeply loyal. i feel things, maybe in excess, but they never make it across. they never get back. maybe i consume them as i go. maybe i don’t. maybe i should learn how to cry more or take better laughing photos or stare deeper, longer. maybe i don’t scream enough. maybe i am not connected to my face. maybe something is loose. or missing. or broken. because i feel things but people never know, and they are hungry for it. they are mad for it. they want more, always. they don’t care how deep it is, they want it to be visible. they want someone who spills over with unconsidered expression. they want only the raw and violent and explicit. but all i have is this quiet, private yen. for the people around me, for the world, for everything. all i have are these facts. that i love you, that so many names make me smile, that i am happy for you, that i am a hulking fury. godzilla. et cetera.

i do feel i am unknowable. and i don’t mind. i have learned to celebrate myself. i have learned to say, yes, i am unknowable. but i am good in there. i am earnest. i make wishes every day. i imagine things. i say thank you when the sky is blue. i wonder about it all. i really want the best for you, whoever you are. i cherish the people who are kind. i work hard to be less punitive, less harsh, less defensive. i try to feel my embarrassment. i try to be vulnerable. there is a whirl in me. there is a lot happening in there, no matter who knows.

and that is mostly enough. but sometimes there are exceptions. sometimes there are conversations that surround me. sometimes there are moments. sometimes there are people. i feel pulled in. i feel known. i feel like someone has reached across and touched my wrist and smiled at me and said, ‘yes, i know, me too.’

and they are revelatory. they are significant. for a second, i am not alien. separate. i’m in there, i’m under it and part of it and it’s easy. it’s singular and rare and important.

so it doesn’t matter if those seconds were real. it doesn’t matter if the moment or the conversation meant something different to someone else. it doesn’t matter if the person never knew. not really. what matters is i got to feel it at the time. i got to borrow it for a while.


it occurs to me that i can do this in two ways. as i am, or better. as i am would turn ugly. it would be spiteful, vengeful. it would be petty. i think. i fear? i am convinced. i am betrayed. deep down. that is all it takes to release my blacker spirit. as i say, i am a fury. i am godzilla.

but that’s not what i want. i want to grow bigger, to step back and witness. to see this as a fable from some earlier version of myself. i want to expand and overcome. i want to be genuine. i want to drip with good will. i want to opt out. i want to mock no one, i want to hate no one. i want to be unchained.

i asked my friend how she was doing, how it was all going for her. she said, ‘i am still trying to get up off the floor.’ and i thought. you know. let me get us some bean bags and some lemonade. yes. i know. me too.

Jun 15

6 weeks later and

the things that rip at me are strange. i find them strange. non-entities in a 6-year movement now fill me with sore spots.

the little island in the kitchen. it’s just where i used to leave my keys. it was the first thing i’d look past when i walked in. the place i dropped my mail. i didn’t even notice it then. now it sits in a spare room and any time i see it, i howl. i crumble.

the grocery store. and certain arrangements of items. apricot ripples, rice wheels, fruit straps. whittaker’s coconut slab. spray-on deodorant AND roll-on deodorant. and. just. those aisles, walking them in that pattern. it doesn’t matter that i’m in a different state. they’re the same aisles. it’s always sunday night.

green tea after dinner. singlets in the cold. fuzzy sick slippers.

that particular hand soap. that particular body wash.

finding our router. our towels. our little wicker fucking baskets.

just things, things that meant nothing. things that now feel heavy and important. and lost. things i can’t take anymore. things i mourn.

i guess rituals are important. i guess they prop up all the moments. and they exist even in the very small. the minutiae of life. and i guess that’s where things build up, outside of the grand gestures and the top level. so it makes sense, but i never prepared for this. for a long arc of sadness, yes. for a horrible desolation. an ache. a sorrow. for a panic that drifts in with the darkness. yes, yes, yes. yes. but these tiny things? i didn’t see them coming.

and they gouge at something different. that was my life. you know. all these little things. they happened again and again and i loved them too. i loved them without knowing it. and i lost them without knowing it. and. well. now i don’t.. i don’t know.

i’m glad it’s still kind, and decent, and honest. i’m glad there is still loyalty and gratitude and this great depth of love. we are ending things in the manner with which we enjoyed them. but that was my life. and no matter how right we are, no matter how gentle… that was my life. and it is gone now.



Apr 15


I must worry now, I guess, that when I listen to beautiful music, someone will die. Or they will try to. They will move towards death, or be moved. It will come towards them. I will see sunlight filtered through the wood, I will see the blues and the greens and the golden glow in technicolour hue, and they will inch down the passage.

I wonder sometimes why I can be overcome like that. How can you go — in a moment, a slim and nothing moment — from your state of natural equilibrium, your relative comfort, your composure… from all that, straight to faithless, haunted. There is nothing, and then there arrives a brutality on your senses, a loss. A crumpling. With just a string, or a whistle, you fly back there, and the light filters through the wood, and there are blues and greens and that straw-gold glow, and the song finishes, and your friend is no more.

People try to convince me all the time that there is a veil around me, that I am awash in the light and love of my ancestors. That we all are. That there is proof. That we can attribute our wins to those we’ve lost. That it was my grandfather, my great grandmother, who kept me safe, got me home, made me smile. People I loved, and miss. People that meant a lot to me, but who are gone now. And I let everyone talk, I laugh with them, I mirror their excitement. They tell me their stories, about balloons, about lights, or smells, or coins. I listen and I go with them and I hope they are okay. But I am untouched. I don’t see it. I can’t see my way to it, to any of it. It is not there for me. It just… isn’t.

But some days. Some days I wish it were there. I wish I could see it. I wish that I could be told there is cancer and I could feel assured that someone would handle it. I wish I could believe that there exists in this world, still, the quiet power of my grandfather. That my kind, little nana still sings her sweet songs.

Instead it is just us, and it is uncertainty, and it is the idea we will all be lonely one day, we will all be without our mum, we will all lose our dad. There is cancer and there is loss and there is beautiful music to store it all in.