The world according to Ricky Gervais.

"I don't know what happiness is but it's definitely NOT just going with the flow. Going with the flow, for Christ sake? Don't ever go with the flow. Stop the flow, go against the flow, start the flow, but don't under any circumstance just go with the flow. It may ruffle a few feathers, but some people's feathers need a little ruffling. And remember: just because someone is offended doesn't mean they're in the right."


© Rich Hardcastle

Read the entire article here

Peter Temple via Jack Irish

He can write. The man can.

From the novel Black Tide by Peter Temple, soon to be made into a telemovie starring Guy Pearce.

Oh, That Way Madness Lies

A friend recently asked me if I have a “list” of dating non-negotiables.

I can’t remember my exact reaction but it was probably somewhere between a cringe and a guffaw. To me, the idea of making a checklist of desirable qualities seems prescriptive and calculating. It takes the one thing in my life that I approach spontaneously and instinctively, without much thought for my well-being or future, and turns it into something controlled, angst-ridden, and safe… which is how I handle almost every other aspect of my life.

So when it comes to men, I don't have a type. Or a set of requirements that must be met.

But.

There are some things I find very difficult to resist…

Like checked shirts. Blue eyes. Black-framed glasses, and bed hair.
Tattoos.
Hyper-intelligence.
Extensive music knowledge and a Penguin classic beside the bed.
Being good with children. Old-fashioned manners. The ability to fix computers or cars.
The courage to sometimes tell me what to do.
An uncontrollable urge to throwdown(1). 

Any one of these things in someone will immediately get my attention. A handful may start to overtake my thoughts. But all these things in one person aren't perfection, they're madness.

So no, I have no list.
But... if a man in a check shirt and messy hair, with tattoos and glasses, doing the cryptic crossword with a Bulgakov sticking out of his bag on the way to a gig, were to stop and open a door for me?

Well, I may just disappear forever.


1. throwdown
an act of sexual passion in which one of the persons involved is so overwhelmed with the urge to makeout/hookup/have sex with the other person that he or she loses control, taking passionate, almost aggressive charge, and intensely makes out with the other. this act may involve pushing someone against the wall or onto a bed and may also include grabbing of the face and hair.
Source

One day...

 
Portia Nelson (1920-2001)
I have carried this around with me since 1997.

Train Song...

Traveling north, traveling north to find you
Train wheels beating, wind in my eyes
Don't even know what I'll find when I get to you
Call out your name love don't be surprised

It's so many miles and so long since I've left you
Don't even know what I'll find when I get to you
But suddenly now I know where I belong
It's many hundred miles and it won't be long

Nothing at all in my head to say to you
Only the beat of the train I'm on
Nothing I've learned all my life on the way to you
One day our love was over and gone

It's so many miles and so long since I've met you
Don't even know what I'll say when I get to you
But suddenly now I know where I belong
It's many hundred miles and it won't be long

What will I do if there's someone there with you?
Maybe someone you've always known
How do I know I can come and give to you
Love with no warning and find you alone?

It's so many miles and so long since I've met you
Don't even know what I'll find when I get to you
But suddenly now I know where I belong
It's many hundred miles and it won't be long

For my birthday I would like...

full-body hugs, Aesop products, the end of animal suffering, Body Type tattoo books, clear skin, gin & tonics, no anxiety, the DJ to play Moloko, a self-cleaning room, all my friends within arms length, this book, love.

Thankyou.

the reasons why

That night on Russell St when you offered me your jacket, even though you were only wearing a T-shirt underneath
The evening you took my hand and kissed my fingers after I told you something sad about myself, even though we'd only known eachother a couple hours
That time you lay back on your bed with your eyes closed and played your guitar for me
The way you gently, relentlessly and passionately challenged my views on religion and God every time we met
How you would mimic my voice whenever I said anything you thought was cute
The time you used a whole tray of ice on my body to slowly cool me down, in the hot bedroom of your house during that never-ending, Perth Summer
The text message you sent me when I was living in New York that said I was the coolest girl ever to breathe the mix of gases that enables a human to live on this planet
The cupcake you bought me that I never got to eat
That day I forgot my lunch and you made me a toasted cheese sandwich and brought it all the way into the city on the train so that I wouldn't go hungry
The time you dragged me through your front door and into your bedroom, leaving your friends standing in the hallway, because you couldn't wait another minute to have sex with me
The YouTube video you made me
That heartbreaking day we spent together after our awful choice that you somehow made into something wonderful and fun and full of joy
The way you would prepare my dinner every Saturday night, while I was sleeping, to help me get ready for work
That horrible night you got blindingly drunk and called me saying you'd kill yourself if I didn't go out with you
The flower you left on my windscreen after I broke your heart

I don't love you any more.
But I did.
For a moment, a few months, years.
And these are the reasons why.
Thankyou.

fruit trees in bloom..

"The world is a den of thieves and night is falling. Evil breaks its chains and runs through the world like a mad dog. The poison affects us all. No one escapes, not even our children. So it shall be. Therefore let us be happy while we are happy. Let us be kind, generous, affectionate and good. It is necessary, and not at all shameful, to take pleasure in the little world. Good food, gentle smiles, fruit trees in bloom, waltzes."
— Ingmar Bergman

Fanny and Alexander (1982)

My heart belongs to

It takes a lot to win my heart. This'll pretty much do it.

Lentil Pie

4 tins lentils
lots-of-mushrooms (1 brown bag)
1 carrot
2 sticks celery
1 zucchini
1 head broccoli
1 tin diced tomatos
clove of garlic
1 tub tomato paste (the yoghurt-tub ones)
1/2 - 1 cup of stock made with vegemite (nutritional yeast'll do if you're in the US)
splash of red wine
bit of soy sauce
salt pepper etc.
10 sheets of puff pastry - UNsweetened.

In a seriously big pot cook the mushies in oil and garlic till soft. Add all the other vegies (finely chopped for god's sake!) except the lentils. Simmer in vegemite stock and soy, with wine, till soft (this takes ages).

IMPORTANT!!!! Be careful not to add too much stock/wine/sauce. It's a pie, not a soup.

Add tinned tomatoes. Cook a bit more.
Finally add drained lentils and tomato paste and more vegemite stock/soy/wine till it tastes goooood.

Line a greased pie dish (a big one, this is a lot of pie you're dealing with) with puff pastry. Put in oven, which you've had the foresight to preheat to 180C, for 5-10 minutes till it puffs. Take it out. Spoon in the filling and fold edges of pastry in. Lay more pastry on top, tucking down the sides of the tray. Make some cool shapes in the top. Put in oven for another 5 - 10 minutes. DON'T BURN IT!

Take it out. Get a plate. Eat the shit out of it.

Obralem Dziemnaga

Polish-Australian wonder-brothers Jacek Koman & Tomek Koman with a very special guest star in a short film promoting the upcoming Melbourne International Film Festival.

No points for recognising the guest - whose pronunciation, in Polish, of "I peeled a potato" sounds something like "I beeled a bodado" - but kudos if you can name the band for which Jacek is the front-man.

Tuna Cat

Feeling hungry?

Me too...

Bite-sized LA observations

It's my last morning in LA and the US and I'm sitting at Urth Cafe on Melrose, surrounded by Asian tourists and attractive people trying to look like they are somebody worth recognising.

My half serve of tuna salad is huge but at least the oil is a drizzle rather than a pour, and it's good.

And my coffee?
Nice coffee art in the foam. Cup is hot to the touch rather than scalding, which means that had I not asked for it extra hot it would've been brought out tepid. Slightly on the sweet side, either due to sweet soy milk or sweet beans, and slightly more bitter than I'd like. But by American standards altogether drinkable. On second sip it's actually too sweet, but whatever, I'm in LA.

There are some ridiculously overdone girls here, with ridiculously cute white Maltese terriers who look like they've never felt the bliss of mud on the paws. And a dozen tables of glamorous tourists from Hong Kong with a Luis Vuitton on the back of every chair. And girls with blondest blonde hair set in perfect salon curls clipping past in white jeans and Manolo lookalikes carrying scripts with the title page facing outwards.

A young model in trainers and no make-up just arrived accompanied by two Italian greyhounds and a man with dyed black hair who I thought was her father until she called him "honey". We strike up a conversation over restless canines and he reveals to me the tawdry secret of the dogs' relationship; Primo is Angie's father and brother, but due to their impeccable pedigree she is genetically flawless. I try to prevent my mind from straying towards the nature of Primo and Angie's owners' relationship.
They offer me a bite of their green tea tiramisu and it is phenomenal. I barely manage to resist ordering an entire slice once they leave.

There's a couple dudes at a table opposite talking through the funding plan for a new Queer-Eye-for-the-Straight-Guy-meets-dating-show and three Valley girls above me discussing whether to wear shorts or jeans out on Saturday night. The sky is perfect blue and everything is washed in sunlight and all around me people are throwing about phrases like "best-cased scenario" and "the bottom line" and I can see how a person could come to this city and never, ever leave.

One Night in New York via iPhone

I am the green bubbles.
Nick is the grey.
9pm to 1:45am.
Enjoy.

*NFT = Not For Tourists guidebook

*undertake = understand

*New York = Empire State of Mind

What it feels like when the weight comes back

I'm not yet ready to write honestly about Anorexia and the deathly, transcendence of it. But if I were, I might say something like this..

- Marya Hornbacher

Australian Citizenship Test

Please complete and submit results.

On Evil

Am I, in actual fact, a bad person? I've carried this self-label for as long as I can remember and it was only two years ago that someone was finally able, after much work on both our parts, to convince me otherwise.

But maybe they were wrong and the seven-year-old me was right. Maybe I simply am a bad person. The embodiment of evil, so to speak. Because what is evil if not someone who is consistently and irreparably bad? Someone who makes others cry, who lets down and hurts their parents, who is mean, spiteful, envious and lazy. Who manipulates for personal gain and lies and cheats and steals. Who has never loved.

But isn't everyone one or all of these things at some point in their life?
Well, yes. Of course. But is it possible that I am these things more often than most?

And why? I don't choose to hurt people. I never chose to have loose morals. I didn't decide to be a c*nt. It's just the way I turned out. Or came out. It's been consistently and torturously beyond my means to change it. And God I've tried. I've tried and tried and tried till the trying has become a song stuck in my head for all eternity.
I'm so very tired of it.

And so perhaps I'm not a good person who sometimes makes mistakes. Perhaps, even though it smacks of melodrama, I am actually the modern definition of evil. I do believe it may be true. It is possible. I may quite simply be bad. And this being the case, perhaps I should just accept it and do my best to protect the world from the harm of me. Shut myself away from friendships and family and meaningful interactions to prevent any further pain.

And the fact that I'm writing this here - that I'm actually admitting this openly to whoever it is that will read this - scares me. Because it makes it feel true. As if it were a confession. Which it isn't, really. Because there is a part of me, the part that is gentle and light and caring and warm and so-very-full-of-love-and-wanting-to-be-loved that it breaks my heart a little each day, which still believes that I am fundamentally a good and beautiful person. And it desperately wants me to keep trying to be good. To keep trying to exorcise the evil. To keep seeking joy.

But damn it if it wouldn't be easier to just have this guy throw some holy water my way:

A letter to Janelle Monáe

Dear Janelle Monáe,

I love you.

I have watched this video 15 times tonight.

That bit at 1:37, just after you sing the line "I was made to believe there's something wrong with me" and you turn to someone off camera and say "I'm gonna cry" while laughing, breaks my heart.

I wish I could dance like you.
Or have the tenacity to be who you are in the industry in which you make your living.

But it makes me happy just watching.
x


WORDS:
So you think I'm alone?
But being alone's the only way to be
When you step outside
You spend life fighting for your sanity

This is a cold war
You better know what you're fighting for
This is a cold war
Do you know what you're fighting for?

If you wanna be free?
Below the ground's the only place to be
Cause in this life
You spend time running from depravity

This is a cold war
Do you know what you're fighting for?
This is a cold war
You better know what you're fighting for
...

Bring wings to the weak and bring grace to the strong
May all evil stumble as it flies in the world
All the tribes comes and the mighty will crumble
We must brave this night and have faith in love

I'm trying to find my peace
I was made to believe there's something wrong with me
And it hurts my heart
Lord have mercy, ain't it plain to see?

This is a cold war
You better know what you're fighting for
This is a cold war
Do you know what you're fighting for?

KELLINDO!

Do you know it's a cold, cold war?
Do you, do you,do you?

Bye, bye, bye, bye
Don't you cry when I say goodbye

read to me i love you

I should be working on a script, but I’m not.
I’m sitting here typing to myself, and you, because I’m overcome with the need to connect with someone.

I’ve been busy.

I have a new job. A real job. That I’m not qualified for but which I got anyway. And which I’m ridiculously good at. At a desk with a computer and a new wardrobe of clothes that can, if you squint, pass for conservative but are really just longer/looser/duller/neater versions of what I already own, worn without coloured socks and other accoutrements. 

I’m also working on a play. An Australian premiere of a new translation of a classic play. The one with the orchard and the rich folk who lose all their money and cry about it. By the Russian guy who hated the theatre and died of TB.
I have a lead role; the one who cries the most and feels unwanted and doesn’t get the guy in the end… What a stretch.

And finally, I’m Assistant Director to someone I greatly admire, who is famous, on a play that he wrote, which is being performed by a highly respected theatre company. And although this actually means I’m assisting the director, not assisting with directing, it’s still a wonderful opportunity, which I created for myself through sheer determination and a shitload of temerity.

BUT.
Whilst all these things are wondrous and blissful and point to my ability to get things done and disregard obstacles others would consider insurmountable, I’ve been feeling lost and disconsolate. And the theatre work, which I’m usually so desperate for, is turning me in on myself and forcing me deeper into my own head, my bedroom, my bed.
Why?
I don’t know.

But I do know I’ve been feeling so lonely it’s eating me alive and all I want to do is disappear into a crowd so big I’ll never find my way out, and where it’s never dark, and where it’s never quiet.

Or maybe that’s my own idea of hell.

Or Tokyo.

I don’t know.

But I do know that if I don't pull myself out of this inevitable descent into the mire of self-pity and melancholia, things could get very bad. Worse even than they have in the past. Because this time there is no cause for my retreat and therefore it cannot be rationalised away.

So to aid in my recovery, I leave myself, and you, with this. It's not particularly cool, but it's bittersweet beautiful and that's kind of how I'm feeling right now.

Why the Arts Matter

"We believe that the arts are important because they change lives.
 

Art is one of the key ways we have as a culture of seeing ourselves, and of seeing our relations to the world.  Encounters with art - as school students, in further education, as adults - whether they take place in museums and galleries, theatres, concert halls, village halls, street corners, websites or in any of the many many other places that art has made its own -have the possibility to awaken us to new experiences, pleasures and questions.
 

Art is often talked of in terms of affirmation and celebration and just for the record, we have nothing at all against these things. But we're also proud of the role art has to challenge, to provoke and to question. Those experiences are the ones that stay with us - and for us make the most powerful argument for supporting the arts. A healthy society is one that has doubts and disputes, uncertainties and divisions - how we cope with those things, how we give space to discussing and dealing with them is the mark of our success.
 

Art has a double centre - it asks that we look closely at the world we are living in - that we see it, for what it is, with all of its joys, complexities and all of its problems. At the same time art asks us to dream of another space - to imagine things as otherwise, to step outside the limits of our day to day.
 

Art and tolerance go together.
 

Cuts to the arts are cuts to the imagination."

 
Tim Etchells. September 2010.

Source: Forced Entertainment