there’s more sadness than happiness making up a life. if pressed i’d put the ratio at 70/30. but then maybe some of that 70% is simply emptiness, or boredom. it’s hard to tell. you choose what to remember though. i’ve been watching a lot of long-form tv shows that involve detectives and crime. the lyrics in this track were meant to echo that and use the language as an investigative lens, repeating the images of urgently garbled radio squad car directions, and fervent leading questions posed in stark interview room (usually a green palette). but i don’t think any of that comes through. not really.
my favourite sandy beach disappeared a while ago. now a vast expanse of mud. i mentioned it to julie & she said that’s just what rivers do. the river has taken away the beach, & at some point in the future it will replace it, maybe. maybe the same, maybe different.
there’s nothing metaphorical in this it was just some words we said to each other to pass time to fill the emptiness before other things.
twelve months into this & still learning.
these unknown vantages are
mine alone every thatch is a mark
of experience a weathering of trouble &
doubt if the muted palette is the world
each picket a page number & most
stray strokes evident measures of defiance
i’ll avoid place after place for all the reasons
sidestep obdurate satellite towns, my mind
ramshackle & functioning still as fire but
let’s figure on leaving that matrix secure
on a wood-fired early afternoon
secure as fiction
artwork – ‘across the reserve’ by matilda julian
each stitch was a body wound
you felt & traced years into like
an antique camcorder you peer
low & hard & inside
your fingerprints are all
over yourself in the end shaping
shapeliness beyond recognition
a wine bottle of veiled origins
we were known by the colour
of our hair but it’s always fleeting
speech marks effective tattoos
you’ll creep from the gloom like
a stationary china doll then
nothing will happen then
actions feel too simple too
open to interpretation then
artwork – ‘whisper my name’ by sarah mcewan
i drove through the night with nothing
else to think about / the speed-trap zone
into cowra & a massive roo stands counting trucks,
mulling over the headlong leap into something /
your overbite is now a varicose watermark
to my neck, this temporary tattoo appliqued
with a steady hand though, each tooth
a bright pinpoint of intent / rear-view mirrors
reveal the past or the future they just don’t
care i mean / watch my thinking dissolve
into a silly night-time daydream fusion &
there are outcomes dotting the sky, each
meteor shower line directing touch /
then / my cat angry at the lit window /
photos of you into the morning
kind of linking up your intensity even tho
it’s subject to being chill: can we please anyone?
six lines such abject bullshit: you tell me how to touch you
it’s enough of a new thing (& no you don’t have to do it now)
i walked out of my childhood house aching
for the hour home, to talk again
falling sick is falling into a pleasant & easy air of detachment. for a change i can drive to work without dwelling, mulling. realising ten minutes after the fact where i’ve been at. the flu seems to occupy some careful part of my brain that won’t leave the past or future alone, in perhaps a more effective way than prescription drugs. memory still exists but it’s elided, the substance of the footage slides into a mild haze, a wispy & dreamy slush pile of thought. the seasonal body invasion that is, yes, surely ‘going around’ leaves me free to operate at a slightly elevated level, above normal consciousness, observing the circular drift of cloud & the illusion of cold air paralleled in the sky’s colours, or something. i photograph it all – keeping my left hand on the wheel – & later edit for sharing. but the best bit is that an unexpected lapse in my hand’s steadiness creates an extra roil, an enhanced cloud curlicue. i go with this as a metaphor for something i haven’t discovered yet (like the people who like beautifully rendered slices of motivational text in a 1:1 ratio image, but who also like ironic commentaries on motivational text) everything is accidental, inconsistent, meaningless. but nevertheless beautiful & poignant. because why not. we catch a vision out of the corner of our eyes & hold onto it. something as simple as a shaft of ice blue sky against the late-early morning cumulus. or, particularly impractical shoes, a freeze-frame from behind, captured but untagged in someone else’s album.
continued investigations into the subject. media unspecific.