No food this entry, instead quotidian odds and ends on rye – some chicken soup for the wandering eye.
(Be warned, it got stuck to the bottom of the deadpan so it’s kind of dry with not much to chew on. If you take it with a grain of salt it might be more palatable, but chances are that by the end your eyes will be glazed and your mind tenderised.)
The pressure cooker of a housing situation I was in has cooled significantly and our formerly cheap-as-chips abode is now a rental property. My measure of housemates has been halved and often I find myself marinating unhappily in unexpected silence. If the circumstances had been different I might be pretty chuffed at the legroom, but even so I’m still pleased that we weren’t all quite thrown from the frying pan into the fire, and that those licked by the flames seem medium rare rather than well done. (I think this is where my cooking puns will run out. I was trying to work in “simmering” somewhere, but the time has passed.)
With this increased housing security everything seems to have become messier, maybe because we remaining three can leave stuff around without fear of them becoming collateral in some sort of drunken musical rampage. There are more things in the house, too. Knowing we won’t have to move anytime soon my propensity to hoard is beginning to ooze out. (Mostly through my ears, strangely.)
I bought a new bedspread which made me very happy, the exact degree of happy then in turn making me quite sad. Things are getting a little bit nice around here, and I think deep down I fear them reaching that catastrophic event horizon of static comfort, where everything is still and overstuffed.
I have had dreams about Tupperware and washing dishes.
It seems my brain is disintegrating in the most embarrassing manner possible.
These are Father’s Day/birthday presents for my dad. A diecast cowboy from ’71 for nostalgia, a horribly caricatured Japanese soldier for the guilty humour and a volume of 1943 propaganda masquerading as an account of allied forces’ involvement in Papua New Guinea for the heartstrings (as pulled through the branches of the family tree).
As light trails are a shortcut to aesthetically pleasing photography, I now present to you Mr. L Smith, flinging poi like some socked-and-thonged god at a 21st. He fell into a bush he was pissing in later that night. It was funny.
This man likes contact microphones and is famous for playing glass with his mouth. He performed at a certain young fuckwit’s artspace using a knife as a needle to extract sounds from some 45s.
In the discussion afterwards he spoke about the tactility of sounds on vinyl. Of unlocking the intangible in the physical. Of fucking with technologies and function spatially. At times his words would catch, or he would talk too fast.
Briefly a little flame of inspiration flickered in my chest. It was warm.
An old housemate lives in a tumble down squat a few streets away. There's no lock on the door, so we invited ourselves in and made his room beautiful.
The light fitting fell out when we tried to attach stuff to it, and now I'm worried he'll electrocute himself and die. On top of the bottle of piss he was keeping next to his bed, which would just be embarrassing.