Seeking Charlie

TWO SEVENTY FOUR.

admin — Sat, 28 Apr 2012 03:49:38 +0000

It was curious to think that the sky was the same for everybody, in Eurasia or Eastasia as well as here. And the people under the sky were also very much the same—everywhere, all over the world, hundreds or thousands of millions of people just like this, people ignorant of one another’s existence, held apart by walls of hatred and lies, and yet almost exactly the same—people who had never learned to think but were storing up in their hearts and bellies and muscles the power that would one day overturn the world.

- 1984

TWO SEVENTY THREE.

admin — Wed, 25 Apr 2012 10:49:31 +0000

Graveyard Series.

TWO SEVENTY TWO.

admin — Mon, 16 Apr 2012 04:53:49 +0000

TWO SEVENTY ONE.

admin — Mon, 26 Mar 2012 09:00:59 +0000

We were on a bridge in Paris in the summer of 1985. It was overcast. We leaned against the smooth stone rail and stared at the green water rolling on below. Your world had cleaved and then it paused, waiting to rearrange itself around whatever you chose next. I wanted to run away from what had come before. I tried to convince you to begin a new life with me in Paris, to shed our former selves and let something else course through us. I wanted us to crawl through that black chasm of your broken world and emerge, anonymous and new, in simple lives where I could cook you simple dinners and we could be together every day, like children playing a sweet game with no purpose save the game itself. I like to think you considered it before you laughed and said “What could I do? I’ve made myself unemployable.” I like to think that in that moment’s hesitation before our bold futures reclaimed us, we lived that simple life together all the way into our peaceful old ages, with a brood of grandchildren around us on a farm in the south of France, quietly going about our days, warm and complete like loaves of fresh bread, our small world filled with the aroma of patience and familiarity.

- Tina Redse’s letter to Steve Jobs

TWO SIXTY-SEVEN.

admin — Sat, 10 Dec 2011 00:49:33 +0000

Everyone says they have
changed
Wants to
change
Why doesn’t anyone
ever
want to be the same?

TWO SIXTY-SIX.

admin — Sat, 10 Dec 2011 00:36:00 +0000

Bones,
sinking like stones,
All that we fought for,
Homes,
places we’ve grown
All of us are done for.

TWO SIXTY-FIVE.

admin — Thu, 08 Dec 2011 06:12:28 +0000

TWO SIXTY-FOUR.

admin — Fri, 07 Oct 2011 02:26:08 +0000

We went swimming in the black water. The stars reflecting from the surface into our eyes like crystals. The phosphorescence glittered. Every movement an explosion of light, as if we were raising the sun from it’s sleep.

I am cutting pieces of skin away from me, wondering which parts are you and which parts are me.

I want to be blind to learn to appreciate sight.
Deaf to appreciate noise.

TWO SIXTY-THREE.

admin — Sun, 04 Sep 2011 03:45:14 +0000

TWO SIXTY TWO.

admin — Sat, 23 Jul 2011 11:09:56 +0000

End Product.

Let us descend into the blind world is scratched onto the bathroom wall in neat, black cursive. It is late, or early, and the cocaine someone gave you earlier has started to wear off and you are slowly aching. A dark shadow quickly passes and you turn but there is nothing there and your skin is covered in bumps and you have the urge to throw up.

Outside of the club seems colder than what it is. You look over at her and she has faint black lines down her cheeks where mascara tears have run. You think to yourself that you should say something. You think to yourself of all the somethings you should say and forget to say anything. Say nothing.

You drive south along the freeway and when you look into the rear-view mirror, your eyes meet the reflection of your own eyes and you shiver. They are slightly red and stand out from your tan and you contemplate whether you need a haircut. Your skin is covered in bumps again and you start to drive faster and for some reason, whatever reason, it is not the red eyes or the haircut or her mascara that you think about, it is black handwriting on the bathroom wall. Let us descend into the blind world.

For over a year you have been sleeping in her bed. On Valentines Day she gave you a rose carved out of chocolate, which you admittedly threw out. The inevitable break-up has circled so many times before that even when she calls to tell you to meet her, you can’t help but think that it is slightly manufactured. As you drive to the restaurant, you try to stay present, replay the happy mirage, the weekends spent up the coast, the cake she baked for you on your birthday, the scarf she knitted, when she let you fuck her in a phone box, the beginning slowly looping back to the end, to you standing there, to her crying, a cyclic sadness, a child dying, a tapeworm slowly feeding on itself.

The restaurant is cheap, run-down and empty and when you arrive you instantly feel that it is all a terrible mistake. You can see her through the glass and she is staring out into space with a confidence that makes you envious.

The waitress, a fat middle-aged woman with bad skin and an unfortunate face has her hair tied back clumsily and the laces of the runners she is wearing are noticeably stiff, as though they have never been untied. When you tell her that you are with the girl in the back booth, she simply stares.

You softly kiss her on the cheek and she smells faintly of vanilla. The fat waitress brings coffee and it is burnt but you drink it anyway. She orders a slice of lemon tart and you immediately feel sick and sad and sorry. A cold fire burns, seraphic, and suddenly illuminates the cafeteria and for a moment you can see yourself clearly. You remember the time you first made love to her, the white sheets almost instantly fading, turning transparent where the water hit from her hair, dissolving. You feel yourself coming undone, the knotted ropes of your sanity slowly unwinding. You want to cry. You want to crawl over the table and kiss her. You want to fuck her on the floor. You want to pour the burnt coffee through her hair and eat the lemon tart in her cunt and you want the fat waitress to watch and to like watching.

Have you ever loved me?

A bell cracks like rape and dully echoes.

You pretend you didn’t hear.

I said, have you ever loved me?

Don’t do this.

And she stares, empty, expressionless, the dark hair falling down into the eyes, a mess of broken poetry.

It’s a yes or no question. Like charades.

Seconds pass like lifetimes and everything slowly blurs, morphs into some hazy static that suddenly seems irrelevant and meaningless, as if the universe has contracted into something smaller and you have transcended.

When the No falls from your mouth it is atomic and unnoticed. Something sad touches your spine, a dull blade enters with a pain that you can’t exactly feel. You are suddenly very aware of your ribs, of how they hold your chest, and of how they suddenly seem lonely. You wonder what bone marrow tastes like, whether the world was a better place before they shot Lennon, and why people don’t admit they piss in pools. How much blood can you drink before you get sick and why aren’t all girls French and why can’t food be a pill that you take each morning.

At some point you say goodbye and leave, but you don’t remember paying and you don’t remember the road. The sun is high now and Kill City is awake and a bad Bob Dylan song, the only bad Bob Dylan song, is playing loudly.You reflect on the stretching asphalt, an electric maze connecting the suburbs of madness and void. The city suddenly appears to be empty and desolate and greasy and depressing. The cobble-stoned streets swarm with fruit flies and peyote-crazed killers seeking spare change in gutters. The angry nightmare is silent and the silence is deafening, back-thoughts quickly tripping over themselves. You reflect on poverty, on crime, on the body of the boy you knew in high school, quietly decomposing in the dirt under the white roses and it comes upon you, as if for the first time, that you are utterly alone. The dark reverie rings with something sad and yet strangely beautiful. You have arrived at the bottom of the ocean and wonder why you ever cared to swim.

TWO SIXTY ONE.

admin — Sun, 17 Jul 2011 10:21:30 +0000

TWO SIXTY.

admin — Sun, 17 Jul 2011 10:20:41 +0000

Only at the Quikky Pro.

TWO FIFTY NINE.

admin — Sun, 17 Jul 2011 09:45:02 +0000

super messy but whatevs.

TWO FIFTY EIGHT.

admin — Sat, 25 Jun 2011 00:30:29 +0000

I see creativity as a dark parasite living inside. Cutting tunnels in the cells and messing up the wiring. Sometimes in the head. Sometimes in the guts. Sometimes it seeps through the hands, morphs itself into some kind of liquid and moulds something before the eyes; words you don’t remember writing, a photograph without the frame.

Most of the time it buries itself, brooding in the dark space between heart and spleen. And you can’t do anything. You can’t write. You can’t eat. You can’t sleep. You can’t speak. You ache from your sick affliction, wishing that your star-crossed curse would drown itself in it’s own colourful mess.

Some people are normal. They are accountants or dentists and on weekends they play golf and wear sandals.

I wish I was one of those people.

TWO FIFTY SEVEN.

admin — Thu, 02 Jun 2011 01:47:23 +0000

Marius Roosendaal creates something ~~every day~~ most days. I’m digging.

msced.mariusroosendaal.com

TWO FIFTY SIX.

admin — Sat, 28 May 2011 05:10:29 +0000

TWO FIFTY THREE.

admin — Thu, 19 May 2011 05:51:18 +0000

I don’t know what you feel like
Ambushed on the road
stole your gold
You’re a rose
and you’re laughing now.
Everything that I own
Starts to pile up like bones
Like the walls of a prison
Later on the bed
Later on the bed
Later on the bed
Later on the bed
I don’t ever want to go to bed
You stay up for the fight
The champ goes down like a clown in the second round
I wish we’d had a better goodbye
Lie to all your friends
Lie to all your friends
Lie to all your friends
Lie to all your friends
Lie to all your friends
Lie to all your friends
Lie to all your friends

TWO FIFTY TWO.

admin — Wed, 04 May 2011 03:02:09 +0000

TWO FIFTY ONE.

admin — Mon, 02 May 2011 07:52:12 +0000

TWO FIFTY.

admin — Thu, 28 Apr 2011 03:46:43 +0000

TWO FORTY NINE.

admin — Sun, 24 Apr 2011 06:54:36 +0000

TWO FORTY FIVE.

admin — Mon, 14 Mar 2011 00:02:15 +0000

75 121.

The number of unique visitors to seekingcharlie in one year.

TWO FORTY TWO.

admin — Thu, 10 Mar 2011 11:49:09 +0000

TWO FORTY ONE.

admin — Thu, 10 Mar 2011 08:47:23 +0000

TWO THIRTY NINE.

admin — Mon, 07 Mar 2011 12:33:01 +0000

Colour me mother-fucking happy.

TWO THIRTY EIGHT.

admin — Thu, 24 Feb 2011 10:02:24 +0000

TWO THIRTY SEVEN.

admin — Fri, 04 Feb 2011 04:13:18 +0000

Sometimes I feel it. Sometimes. An offshore breeze. A southerly swell. Hear the cracking of the camera frames. The distant memory of something lost slowly coming back to me, slowly been found. And as suddenly as it came, it’s gone. Just a shooting star. Fleeting. Fading. Into darkness. Into nothing.

I want to capture something weird. Something dark. Something beautiful. Freeze it on film. I want to watch the paint bleed into the fabric. I want to be impressed. I want to be inspired. I want to write. I want to drain my organs onto a poster and pin it on a street. Crowded with people who wouldn’t notice. Crowded with people who wouldn’t care.

I remember it. I remember that feeling. Seeing a set of stairs in the city. The noise of a skate deck clearing a gap.The taste of salt. The sound of a violent wave – a hollow, crystal cavern shattering onto sand. The smell of acrylic. The feeling of new canvas under your fingers. The permanence of a polaroid. The carpet covered in clippings from all the magazines. Ink melting into the desk by the window with something lasting and perennial. Something that you appreciate for it’s simplicity. Something eternal.

What is this place? To listen, to look, to eat, to touch – without hearing, seeing, tasting, feeling. Devoid of the void that sparks the match inside. Empty of the fuel to burn. If not yet a flake, then fading. The paper flowers are dying. The iron sky is raining.

TWO THIRTY SIX.

admin — Sat, 22 Jan 2011 04:41:47 +0000

I gave away my 50mm lens for a while.
I guess I forgot how nice it is to have around.

TWO THIRTY FIVE.

admin — Sun, 16 Jan 2011 12:20:38 +0000

Love is like sky-diving from a plane at fourteen-thousand feet.

But better.

TWO THIRTY FOUR.

admin — Wed, 29 Dec 2010 02:19:58 +0000

TWO THIRTY THREE.

admin — Tue, 14 Dec 2010 12:13:54 +0000

I held your hat in my hand. Picked at the stitches, knowing. Knowing that dusk was settling, the sun rolling over into the tomorrow that would be my silent exit. My quiet escape into the shadows, the lights from my memory guiding me, like a ship to a cement shore.

I cried the first night. I wrote a sad poem. I wrapped myself in a blanket and listened to the walls reverberate as a couple fucked next door. Scream honey, how he likes it.

The coffee was better and the air was colder. Time drifted quickly and heavily. My head was caught in the hurricane that was the truth, piecing together the minutes that ever lead me to …and away.

I played the same songs. Kept my head up, watching for rain. The clouds scratched open by buildings, the warm smog swallowing the sky. A stranger in a suit cut off a piece of flesh as he passed. He had green eyes so I smiled and said You’re welcome. Come back any time. And won’t you bring a bigger knife? And won’t you cut a little deeper then?

The sand was covered in ice one morning. It cracked beneath my toes. I wished you were there to see it. I wished I wasn’t still wishing.

I found the polaroid. I found the poems. The bread crumbs of the dark path left behind me. The gentle sounds of the animals feasting, devouring away my trail. Empty walls filled with posters of empty eyes. Flaking shelves filled with flaking spines. Each page of scarred prose, a drop in the empty ocean that had dried up within me.

And then the blankets on beds grew lighter. The sun beamed higher. The mangos grew prouder. And the space got louder. The beat, a sub-concious mentor – beneath my ribs and left of centre.

I found the glue to fill the cracks.
Dots on my mind-map to mark my tracks.
I found the camera.
I found the pen.
I turned the calendar.
I turned the calendar again.

Nouveau départ.

TWO THIRTY TWO.

admin — Mon, 13 Dec 2010 11:11:45 +0000

TWO THIRTY ONE.

admin — Sun, 12 Dec 2010 10:19:49 +0000

this is what designers do when their boyfriends are away….or maybe it’s just me.

TWO THIRTY.

admin — Sun, 12 Dec 2010 07:33:09 +0000

TWO TWENTY NINE.

admin — Fri, 19 Nov 2010 00:07:02 +0000

I woke up in the dark, not knowing where I was. The window panes were trembling, tree branches moaning in the wind. The haunting silence of morning, darkness fading into dawn. It felt like home in Winter…but it wasn’t.

TWO TWENTY EIGHT.

admin — Wed, 17 Nov 2010 10:22:00 +0000

There isn’t anyone more deserving for the damn Oakley job than Luke Okay. Believe the hype and vote for him:

CLICK HERE!

TWO TWENTY SEVEN.

admin — Fri, 12 Nov 2010 10:00:34 +0000

Whether it’s the coffee or the cold, sometimes your heart just longs for Melbourne. Empty alleys, bleeding ink and secrets of midnight criminals. The sharp air that hits your lungs with a cold force, almost electric. Second-hand book stores tucked away in damp corners. An unpaid tram ticket to an unmade bed. A generation lost in coffee shops and record stores. A generation found in lust and debt. Nirvana playing through a cracked speaker smeared in red lipstick, twenty years too late.

TWO TWENTY SIX.

admin — Fri, 05 Nov 2010 09:52:42 +0000

I felt your nails digging into my back as you were inside me. As if you were trying to cut a space for you to seep into. Trying to get under my skin.

I bit your neck. Your face. Your bottom lip. Wanting to taste blood. As if maybe that would make it real. Make it human. Feel you running in my veins.

Glitter where the moonlight hits phosphorescence. A satin sheet of water, broken between the dead of night.

Holding a rough cut diamond, watching the light reflect in different sides. Wanting to keep it, out of greed or lust. Wanting to throw it away.

Walls covered in chipped paint and memories. Pillow cases, drowned in the perfume of the charade. And the knowledge. The simple knowledge. That even diamonds eventually fade.

Tasting with a time limit. Wondering how many moments are left. The blood clotting. The rain stopping. A peach. Ripening. Sweetening. Rotting.

Between the feathers and clouds together, but neither flight nor view.

TWO TWENTY FIVE.

admin — Wed, 03 Nov 2010 08:04:58 +0000

Alive forever Andy.

TWO TWENTY FOUR.

admin — Wed, 27 Oct 2010 00:27:26 +0000

TWO TWENTY THREE.

admin — Mon, 25 Oct 2010 07:39:57 +0000

TWO TWENTY TWO.

admin — Sun, 24 Oct 2010 07:10:51 +0000

Maybe you’re just losing your creativity.

I don’t think it’s that.

Then what is it?

I think I’m sick of humanity.

TWO TWENTY ONE.

admin — Sun, 24 Oct 2010 06:53:43 +0000

TWO TWENTY.

admin — Sun, 24 Oct 2010 06:38:49 +0000

TWO NINETEEN.

admin — Sun, 24 Oct 2010 06:36:13 +0000

TWO EIGHTEEN.

admin — Wed, 20 Oct 2010 12:17:30 +0000

TWO SEVENTEEN.

admin — Sun, 17 Oct 2010 03:08:37 +0000

TWO SIXTEEN.

admin — Wed, 13 Oct 2010 05:04:05 +0000

TWO FIFTEEN.

admin — Sun, 10 Oct 2010 07:19:26 +0000

So, like, what did you do today Ang?

TWO FOURTEEN.

admin — Tue, 28 Sep 2010 01:24:36 +0000

I LIKE TO DESIGN THINGS.

TWO THIRTEEN.

admin — Fri, 24 Sep 2010 00:09:44 +0000

TWO TWELVE.

admin — Thu, 23 Sep 2010 12:25:16 +0000

And sometimes I see me
on my
bedroom floor
with you
laughing.
Waiting for the tide
to drop
waiting.
Hear your
alarm
ringing.
I found the
polaroid
but I lost the
feeling.
Thinking
of you
whispering
the first time
that I was
killing
you
and me
smiling
unaware
that it would be
you
who did the
killing.

A scar is only a faint memory of an old wound.
The sealed happy ending to a gaping terrible mess.

TWO ELEVEN.

admin — Thu, 23 Sep 2010 10:57:09 +0000

The xx.

This album is like going back in time and spending all Saturday night making out with the boy you secretly pined for all through high school. It’s sexy in a non-icky way. Like Barry White for people who didn’t lose their virginity until they were 22. 4 stars.

TWO TEN.

admin — Wed, 22 Sep 2010 00:18:31 +0000

But here is a picture I made.

TWO ZERO NINE.

admin — Tue, 21 Sep 2010 10:47:33 +0000

Self-indulgent contemplation as the days start filtering down. The end of the year starts swinging around. You can see Summer in Spring if you look hard enough.

Another year down. Twenty years down. How many straws are there left to draw?

You read the letters that say April in the corner and you almost wonder how someone could copy your handwriting so damn well.

TWO ZERO EIGHT.

admin — Sun, 12 Sep 2010 06:13:50 +0000

Pointed planets out to you in the sky, as we lay. Heads tilted back, lost in the stars. Disjointed words making all the more sense in our reverie. Not even one feeling, nor want, nor lust. An emptiness. A purity of mind that made me believe. Made me believe in the shooting star we had become. However fleeting.

An hour hand striking the number one. A curtain closing. A tomorrow built on the faded glimpses of yesterday.

And a letter that I would never send, left on the desk of some other realm within which our bodies walked and talked and acted out the lie. Playing the card of strangers and hiding the hands of fate that had enveloped us in some other alternate universe. Wound up in each other on some other plane, pretending that what was happening wasn’t really happening. The truth melted into the hallucination we had created.

Lost in the desert, wishing for the mirage to render whole, yet watching it slowly fade.

TWO ZERO SEVEN.

admin — Sun, 12 Sep 2010 03:39:34 +0000

A REVIEW FOR SPOOK MAGAZINE

On Thursday night Luxe Studios was transformed into a mecca for all Sydney art-lovers. Down one side of the contemporary space ran a wall, adorned with twelve portraits. Down the opposite side ran tables supporting free alcohol. In the middle stood sixty people, frequenting between both sides of the building, in support of Bonds latest made2share range.

The concept was simple. Take the universality of borrowed boyfriend tees and mass produce a line of unisex threads. A range of, mostly monochrome, loose tees and slacks, designed to blur the lines between gender constructs and make it more than okay to parade around in your girlfriend’s pyjama pants. Awesome.

To acclaim the ideal, Bonds teamed up with Vice to scope out the greatest guy/girl duos within the creative realms of photography, film, art, fashion and music. What prevailed was a photographic exhibition – a series of self-portraits snapped of the duos wearing identical outfits from the latest range. The stellar Eastern Sydney Studio was permeated with all fashion-savvy mortals alike, some genuinely interested in the art, some more interested in the opportunity to get wasted between beautiful people.

With too many girls wearing thick coke bottle glasses and too many guys wearing v-necks exposing well-lathered pectoral cleavage, it seemed that androgyny was already a socially accepted anomaly among Sydney’s hipsters. One girl looked like a blonde Daniel Radcliffe, adorned in Tweed and actually holding a copy of the latest Nylon issue. Girls wearing faux-fur hats circled the room, maintaining hydration levels with plastic cups of vodka tonic. A girl/guy model duo toured the room in a matching Bonds outfit, smiling and generally looking awkward. There was also a lot of red lipstick.

All in all, clean faces were stretched with smiles of straight white teeth in commemoration of both fabric and canvas delights. It seems Bonds have appealed to those who spend a little too much time in borrowed boyfriend blazers, with a line of cute pieces designed to liberate all inner cross-dresser tendencies – tongue in chic!

TWO ZERO SIX.

admin — Sat, 04 Sep 2010 23:45:53 +0000

“I feel very drawn to you. I feel like I want to keep sharing with you and experience more of life with you. You excite me, and it is not just because you are new. There is something else. I feel like your universe is vast with very little, on or only very faint, limitations and structures. When I look into your eyes I feel myself falling in. I am also aware that there is more to relationships than feelings and I am interested and open to learning about how compatible we are through experience. I may be wrong, but I actually feel that there is some kind of self-created destiny that is with you that feels right to experience. Like my life is a river and the current is naturally taking me in your direction.”

TWO ZERO FIVE.

admin — Sat, 04 Sep 2010 14:37:55 +0000

Her body was throbbing with the remnants of cheap vodka and a DJ set that she couldn’t remember. The lady behind the desk stared at her with a look somewhere between sympathy and disgust – the kind shot at fat girls when they walk past in high-waisted jeans. Her eyes, thick with old clumpy mascara, made out a badge pinned to a Qantas jacket, stamped with the name Sandra.

Where are you off to today?

The airport was flooding with the transition of darkness to light, a blaring sunrise hitting the open panes, smeared with the hands of awe-struck children trying to catch a glimpse of a plane pushing off a runway. A croak of a cheese grater to vocal chords:

Gold Coast.

Her ears were pounding with a noise that she couldn’t distinguish between grinding beans at a nearby cafe or a seperating cranium. She contemplated the latter, before her senses melted with the former. A smooth wave of caffeine roast hitting a heroin-like vein, numbing the holes left in her head from murdered cells, her brain sitting like a block of swiss cheese.

Do you have your Itinerary with you?

Ang Smith. 5:40. Gold Coast.

Sandra’s fake nails hitting a keyboard – darts to remaining neurons.

I’m sorry, I can’t seem to find your name. Are you sure you’re on the 5:40 flight?

A deep sigh.

I’m sure.

Suitcase wheels hitting cold tiles. A kid crying. Ten kids crying.

Nope. You’re not on the 5:20, nor are you on any of the Gold Coast flights today. Are you sure you’ve got the right dates?

An immediate desire to take a pen and play Patrick Bateman on Sandra’s insides, slowly subdued by a breath of air filtered with the sweet smell of pseudo-cardiovascular disease or McDonald’s french fries.

And a sudden painful epiphany. A light-bulb smashing and a left cheek reddening with a slap of stupidity.

Fuck! Sydney! I live in Sydney! I’m flying to Sydney!

Sandra stamped with confusion. Perfectly maintained eyebrows furrowing with a ‘what the fuck’ expression and peach-glossed lips breaking into the controlled politeness that gets her paid each week.

Um…Don’t worry. This thing…um…happens all the time..Ha..Ha..Let’s check the Sydney 5:20, shall we?

A nervous system prickling. Obscenities hitting synapses and a chemical flood of ‘You. Fucking. Idiot’ flowing between her heavily-dehydrated system. Sandra’s voice of sweetness intruding the argument raging between sub-conscious egos.

I’ve found your reservation.

Oh…Um…Good. Great…I don’t think I should ever drink again…Ha.

You have, however, missed your check-in by seven minutes.

Oh….Shit…Ha…Well, that’s okay, I guess…Ha.

The next flight is in two hours and eleven minutes.

Ha..Things could be worse…Ha.

You also will have to pay a late-fee of $112.

That’s fine. Now when does the bar open, exactly?

TWO ZERO FOUR.

admin — Fri, 03 Sep 2010 07:20:29 +0000

TWO ZERO THREE.

admin — Tue, 31 Aug 2010 02:26:56 +0000

M.G. is God.

TWO ZERO TWO.

admin — Mon, 30 Aug 2010 00:30:39 +0000

TWO ZERO ONE.

admin — Sat, 28 Aug 2010 12:57:28 +0000

A sharp breeze hits skin. Winter clawing, reluctant to fade and step aside for Spring.

Let’s sit in the car.

Yeah.

Kurt Cobain’s voice fills empty holes in the broken communication. The void of contemplation where mind and mouth work separately. Where speech struggles to keep up with thought. Where the physical reality is lost to a mental battle, and all concentration and analysis is diverted inward. And with each stab of echoing emptiness, a million neurons crackle, fizz, disintegrate and are reborn. An unheard explosion of two haywire brains, now running rampant with the unsolved questions paired between them. The silence becomes deafening as skin morphs into sandpaper.

What do you think of me?

The lips start easing into it, remembering the lost art of speech. The tongue slurs to bide time, allowing the brain to construct an answer, honest but restrained. Too much will cause suffocation. Too little and all interest will be lost. Everything is censored.

The eyes are black liquid, speckled with hints of glitter – where street lights are reflected in the glass of pupils. Doors to the buzzing world spinning behind them. Where all feeling and subconscious meets the conscious, and nothing can be hidden. Maps to the mind locked in focus, and the immediate feeling of submersing in water. Of falling.

I like you.

The short halt of breath met by screaming insecurities. All alarm bells blaring the impossibility. The stupidity. The indecent. The profane. The crooked. The wrong. And the dead air cut with the voice of a Vietnamese flick-knife.

What happens next?

It hasn’t been written yet.

TWO HUNDRED.

admin — Sat, 28 Aug 2010 02:13:25 +0000

grinding hands
of changing clocks
marigolds
and forget-me-nots
seasons changing
feelings fading
feelings changing
feet straying
lucid dreams
fraying seams
seems
seems
visceral

ONE NINETY NINE.

admin — Wed, 25 Aug 2010 23:38:30 +0000

New threads have hit the shelves !!

ONE NINETY EIGHT.

admin — Mon, 23 Aug 2010 10:26:09 +0000

I JUST WANT TO LET YOU ALL KNOW, THAT WHEN YOU ASK ME TO TEACH YOU HOW TO USE AN ADOBE PROGRAM YOU ACTUALLY MAKE ME WANT TO TAKE THE CORD OF MY MAC AND HANG MYSELF….

ONE NINETY SEVEN.

admin — Sat, 21 Aug 2010 07:30:32 +0000

It is sometime around midnight on a Thursday, and we are whispering because everyone is asleep. We are drinking white wine that is very warm and smoking cigarettes that are very hot. You are talking about someone who talks too much about writing and my hearing is fading in and out because I am vaguely interested in the conversation I have had with you several times before. You write and you don’t like people who write and talk about their writing to other writers. Yes, I get it honey.

You smoke two cigarettes in the time it takes me to smoke one and I realise I am attracted to people for the wrong reasons. The wine is very hot but it is a Thursday at midnight and it is easy to drink. I think of the girl you were standing with at the club earlier and I am surprised that I feel the need to compete with her, because I know that the only time I am ever interested in you is when I think you are not interested in me. I contemplate and accept that there is a part of me that deeply digs masochism and I promise myself that tomorrow I will buy a self-help book. I drink some more wine and smile and tune back into the part where you are talking about something even remotely philosophical and I am saying ‘wow. so deep’ and immediately feeling sick in myself.

I am finding it weird that when you kiss me it doesn’t seem new even though we have only fucked a few times before. It is all familiar and I want to WANT to fuck you but when I close my eyes I am thinking of fucking someone else and I am telling you that I can’t do this and I am telling me that I need therapy or another cigarette. You are saying something about my body and I am thinking it is funny how men react when they can’t get laid, and what level they will sink to in order to get laid and I am smiling to myself because I know you aren’t going to get laid and it makes me feel as though I have the upper-hand in whatever the relationship is that exists between us.

In the morning it is not weird or awkward, or maybe it is and I am too tired to realise or care. I am reading the article you wrote and I am thinking it is good and thinking that I shouldn’t tell you how good it is because I know you like to be told how good you are and I don’t want to give you the satisfaction of feeling good about yourself. It is 8am and I have to work and I am unsure if I want to have a surf or drink coffee or have cocaine but am certain that I won’t do two of those three things right now. I get coffee because the surf is flat and I don’t even know where you can get cocaine at 8am on a Friday. An hour passes at work where I make no evident progress on the eight design projects I am meant to have done, but instead I look at blogs of weird girls and am inspired by their great ability to steal photos from other sites and paste them onto a page and describe it as some kind of creative expression of themselves even though they do not know who took the photo or what the photo means but they like it anyway because they saw it on the VICE website which is so totally in these days.

I drink more coffee and I feel like fucking you, and for some reason I am thinking of messaging you saying that I want to fuck you which doesn’t even make sense because a few hours earlier I did not want to fuck you. I don’t message you and instead I Youtube Baptism by Crystal Castles because I am yet to download it onto my phone and I listen to it four times consecutively and it makes me feel like putting all of my clothes into my car and moving to somewhere that I’ve never even heard of. When I walk through the door to my house I instantly feel great because I see the Ralph Lauren sheets on my bed and for a minute I can convince myself that I have somehow succeeded in whatever it is that people who buy Ralph Lauren sheets do. I find a piece of paper that I have written something on and I tell myself that it is terrible before I realise that it is a shopping list.

ONE NINETY SIX.

admin — Sat, 21 Aug 2010 04:38:36 +0000

ONE NINETY FIVE.

admin — Sat, 21 Aug 2010 04:26:25 +0000

You never cease to amaze me Ang.

The erratic nature that your life seems to possess. You never stop you never slow, I can never keep up. I love that about you, your story expands quicker than ice over a lake in -40 degrees. You’re here and then you are there, his story with you has begun no sooner than it has ceased, things happen and you stop them happening and yet…the undercurrent holds onto things and hurls them at you once you thought they were gone. You still leave me in a state of awe, alot. You still have me wondering sometimes if I know you at all.

ONE NINETY FOUR.

admin — Thu, 19 Aug 2010 02:48:41 +0000

samuelpartaix.blogspot.com

ONE NINETY THREE.

admin — Wed, 18 Aug 2010 10:24:03 +0000

Capricorn, Virgo is one of your very best matches and one that very often has soulmate potential. Astrologically speaking, it’s difficult to find a better match between two signs than the one created when Capricorn pairs up with Virgo. Your dispositions are similar enough that you’ll intrinsically understand each other, yet different enough to always be exciting. This is also a partner who you’re very likely to find both physically and mentally appealing. You’ll love your partners reliability, precision, detail oriented mind and constant drive for perfection. Just as some relationships drain your self confidence, this is one which will increase it. This is a partner who will consistently approve of the ambition and determination which you bring to a relationship.

FUCK MY LIFE.

ONE NINETY TWO.

admin — Wed, 18 Aug 2010 02:15:40 +0000

ONE NINETY ONE.

admin — Tue, 17 Aug 2010 09:07:05 +0000

Inspiration is one thing. To steal is another. Thieving someone’s writing is a self-admitted “I ain’t original”. It stems from a feeling of inadequacy and the petty desire to impress.

To be blunt: I know you’re reading this you fucking slag and if you post any more of my shit on your blog and claim it as your own I will personally write to every surfing Editor in the industry and ruin whatever future it is that you think you have.

Get a fucking life, develop your own perspective and stop stealing mine.

ONE NINETY.

admin — Mon, 16 Aug 2010 02:40:09 +0000

Yesterday I listened to Justice on repeat and covered a canvas with a naked girl. A girl who didn’t quite know whether she was Catholic or not. Then I ran out of paint.

The surf was terrible. The clothes on the line weren’t drying and I started reading American Psycho again.

I want to stab you to death and play around with your blood. (So fab!)

I felt a little ill and thought maybe it was because I hadn’t taken a photo in three weeks. I picked up my camera and it all felt weird and wrong – like having sex with an ex. I put the camera back down and considered throwing it out. I thought about Coastalwatch and Vaughn asking Brittany about me. Read STAB. Considered marrying Wade. Threw the canvas of the girl out.

I went through a box of old letters and polaroids. Deleted four hundred pages of a story. Started the article on Blake Myers that was meant to be finished six days ago. Applied for a degree that I knew I would get into because the mark required was twenty-four points lower than the one I received. Asked myself if I really wanted to study again. Looked at a map of L.A. Looked at a map of New York. Drank some wine and got the canvas back.

ONE EIGHTY NINE.

admin — Sat, 14 Aug 2010 07:39:22 +0000

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZzkmNPGG4qk]

Maybe I could write something to persuade you. Or maybe you could just believe me when I said it was dope and click the fucking thing.

ONE EIGHTY EIGHT.

admin — Fri, 13 Aug 2010 00:10:33 +0000

ONE EIGHTY SEVEN.

admin — Tue, 10 Aug 2010 10:58:40 +0000

New Bondi pad. You my boy Jed Smith !!

ONE EIGHTY SIX.

admin — Sat, 07 Aug 2010 06:15:42 +0000

He had an immediate air of confidence and walked with a subtle arrogance – as if his ego was a light that he didn’t know whether to flick on or off. He ordered drinks without asking for my preference because he had that sense of the world that made him think he was right about everything. When the waitress handed me a glass of white wine, I figured maybe he was.

He talked about his job because he was proud of his position. He liked the feeling of power that came with a fruitful career and enjoyed the idea of wealth. He was heavily opinionated, but had the experience to back it up. He only spoke of countries that he had been to, because he thought it was stupid to talk about those that he hadn’t. Like a virgin talking about sex, he thought the pleasure of life came only through first-hand experience and as such he had travelled extensively.

He had achieved a lot in his twenty-four years and I was surprised at myself when I realised I wasn’t any more impressed. There was an emptiness that I couldn’t understand and he seemed like one big contradiction. Underneath his suit was a sleeve of tattoos and I couldn’t work out which side of him was the lie, as if two people were wound up in the one body, arguing over who got to wear the face tonight. I felt myself watching the words roll out of his mouth with instant cynicism and I kept sipping at wine so as to keep my mouth closed. I wanted to scream ‘cut the bullshit, sweetheart’ but I thought of all the girls who would gladly take up my chair and told myself that maybe I was just too damned shallow.

Always listen to your gut. And if something seems like it’s too good to be true, it usually is.

ONE EIGHTY FIVE.

admin — Thu, 05 Aug 2010 06:25:42 +0000

You started getting moody on me
pretty soon we’d argue
And the ruder you got
the more beautiful you got to me
And who woulda even knew
that who woulda even thought possibly
Cupid could shoot another one
of them God damn darts at me

ONE EIGHTY FOUR.

admin — Wed, 04 Aug 2010 08:44:11 +0000

I put some words on some rectangles to demonstrate my vocabulary.

ONE EIGHTY THREE.

admin — Wed, 04 Aug 2010 03:33:10 +0000

I am fucking you, Tania, so that you’ll stay fucked - Henry Miller

ONE EIGHTY TWO.

admin — Sun, 01 Aug 2010 23:20:46 +0000

Maybe I should have been a lawyer. I have the persuasive skills of a bank merchant and the reasoning of a car salesman. These combined have only been put to use convincing friends into believing that half a sack of goon through a beer bong is a great plan for a Sunday eve.

And yes, Kings Cross sounds like a great idea!

And yes, I would normally steer clear of that 151 shot, but it’s a Sunday and I’m already so blind that I may as well have it. Heck, why don’t you give me two!

“Let’s have Xanax and coffee for breakfast, baby”

“Ang, where did you learn to be such a trashbag?”

“Troy Makin!”

ONE EIGHTY ONE.

admin — Sun, 01 Aug 2010 05:39:43 +0000

I walked up to her boyfriend and said:

‘Yo man. You’re girlfriend is amazing…like…sooo amazzinnggg’

I had a fairly decent grip on his shoulders – as if I was trying to shake the fact into him. That was the first time I met her. I don’t remember any of it because I’d washed down 2 pills with straight vodka at 9am. Sweet youth and summer festivals.

If I had a dollar for every person that ever said I was crazy, I’d be drinking gin and juice and dancing to crystal castles in my gold-encrusted mansion. All the people I had ever loved were crazy. And most of them were so nuts that they thought they were completely sane – which made them even crazier than initially predicted. I knew myself well enough to know that it was the imbalanced brain that appealed to me, because conversations with ‘normal’ people lacked the ability to hold my interest, because ‘normal’ people were boring and ‘normal’ people were often terrible in bed.

Caitlin Priday was as crazy as they come. Attractive with an intoxicating laugh, a witty intelligence and a pair of amazing breasts that made you think God was in a damn good mood the day of her conception. Yet out of spite, or fear of creating a creature too perfect, He cursed her with a lack of self-control and an emotional balance that went up and down, faster and more frequently than a hooker’s hips. For every one minute of smiling ecstasy, came two minutes of boiling blood frustration. For every two minutes of anger, came three minutes of dark depression. Hidden behind her outer beauty was an inner rollercoaster of feeling, and it was this constant battle of emotion that deemed her a ‘head case’.

In judgement, I always made an imaginary list in my head of the positive and negative points of someone’s personality. If the positive side out-weighed the negative, the relationship was on good terms. For as long as I had known her, Caitlin’s positive side had always taken rule over the negative, and only once or twice had it ever came close to equaling each other. In short, I had expressed more feeling towards her of admiration than what I had of murder.

Flaws were a given in any human and the quicker I could find someone’s faults, the easier I slept at night, knowing what I would have to deal with. Had a new lover cheated on their ex-girlfriend, I could prepare myself for a lack of loyalty. Had they spent a lot of time in nightclubs, I saw it as an arrow pointing out a possible drug dependency. When I became close to someone, I was seeking the cracks long before the smooth edges. This way of perception didn’t keep me from trusting the wrong people, but it meant that I wasn’t so surprised when they did fuck me over. And I had learnt that everyone would fuck me over eventually – in the same way that I would probably fuck everyone over too at some stage. It was what happened after the ‘fucking over’ that I cared about. If they tried to make up for lost ground, I was willing to forgive. If they tried to justify the error of their actions with excuses or didn’t bother trying to justify at all and just ignored the whole situation together, I forgot about them and said ‘karma’s gonna get you’ to myself whenever their name came up in conversation. It seemed the older I got on, the more content I became with the fact that humanity was a truly horrible fate for the face of the Earth, but there was some good that went on within it – you just had to look hard enough.

When I first became friends with Caitlin, everyone warned me that she was crazy. And the more time that passed, the more I realised that ‘everyone’ represented a group of people who were stuck in a small coastal town designed for the aged and the addicted. A town that held zero prospect for all the squandered potential kept within its’ walls. And ‘everyone’ was so quick to spit ‘crazy’ and ‘head noise’ while they lived in the same house they’d lived in since their birth, fucked the same people who they didn’t love, worked the same job that they didn’t like to make enough money to go on an overseas trip that they would never actually go on because they were too scared to jump off the fucked-up loop that they were running on.

To me it seemed like one big joke. But hey, maybe I’m fucking crazy?

ONE EIGHTY.

admin — Sun, 01 Aug 2010 03:30:39 +0000

I hate the idea of promoting consumerism or trying to advertise, but I think everyone should get their hands on the latest issue of Surfing World – if only for the Sam McIntosh article by Doherty. Steal it from your mate, secretly read it in the newsagent, kill someone. Whatever road of acquisition you choose to take will be worth it, guaranteed.

note: seekingcharlie holds no responsibility for charges of theft or murder…but can point you in the direction of brilliant legal aid, if needed.

ONE SEVENTY NINE.

admin — Fri, 30 Jul 2010 05:21:22 +0000

ONE SEVENTY EIGHT.

admin — Tue, 27 Jul 2010 07:33:33 +0000

ONE SEVENTY EIGHT.

admin — Mon, 26 Jul 2010 11:26:34 +0000

And he said

I think you should stay in bed, babe. It’s 2am.

And she thought

Somewhere out there, is a man who will let me play my piano whenever I damn well please.

ONE SEVENTY SEVEN.

admin — Mon, 26 Jul 2010 00:10:42 +0000

must.
stop.
listening.
to.
crystal.
castles.

ONE SEVENTY SIX.

admin — Sat, 24 Jul 2010 06:11:29 +0000

All addiction comes through void. Fill a hole with enough shit, and you expect the fucker to subside. Cocaine. Coffee. Sex. Money. It’s all the same when you really stop and think about it.

Never seen it break like that before – never seen it since. It was at maybe one or two. Dark grey clouds. Dark green water. 3ft. Bigger on the sets. And empty. Everyone was at school. Everyone was at work. Except me. And after a little while, you. You’d already taken time from me. Now you were taking my fucking waves too.

Chewing cardboard. Two hours passed and I felt cheated. Thought of trying to get a refund, but it didn’t come with a receipt. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Then:

Hey, the rainbow following my hand is so awesome.
Why isn’t this working?
Man, look at the little flames on the ends of my fingers. And look at those dolphins in the leaves over there.
Oh, I see what’s going on here.

Lasted nine hours. Listened to trains in my head. Never doing acid again.

BANG.
What the fuck was that?
BANG.
Guys, shut-up for a second.
BANG.
Glass flying everywhere.
Someone swearing.
Mooey climbing out of the window he just smashed.
Eyes closed.
Stumbling.
Definitely don’t owe him $40 anymore.

Woke up in a toilet cubicle. A nurse screaming at me from above. Mia. Mia. Answer me Mia!

Why the fuck do I have a hospital band on my wrist?
Drink spiked with horse tranquiliser.

Why the fuck is my arm pouring blood?
Pulled the drip straight out of your arm.

And why the fuck is she calling me Mia?
Fake I.D means technically you are Mia Robinson.

It was right in all the wrong ways. Vodka and beer and conversations of people who surfed better and conversations of people who wrote tighter. And there was more vodka and there was more beer. And there was a smile and there was a stare. And I guess I could see where the train was heading – I just didn’t know where the fuck to get off.

ONE SEVENTY FIVE.

admin — Sat, 24 Jul 2010 05:57:19 +0000

ONE SEVENTY FOUR.

admin — Fri, 23 Jul 2010 00:51:33 +0000

dream guy.

ONE SEVENTY THREE.

admin — Wed, 21 Jul 2010 13:28:45 +0000

CP posted a blog about her day at Good Vibes. A nice little tale of amphetamines and sunshine.

It made me remember my own Good Vibes experience, which fell short in a recount of bliss.

Technically, I paid 100 bones to be stalked.

Awesome.

ONE SEVENTY TWO.

admin — Wed, 21 Jul 2010 05:32:08 +0000

Today began as a day like any other. I bypassed a terribly small surf for coffee and cereal and the last chapter of a very good book. There was nothing special that separated it and maybe the normality of it was what was so deceiving.

At 2:07pm I was offered a job. In Los Angeles. In America…

ONE SEVENTY ONE.

admin — Wed, 21 Jul 2010 00:15:25 +0000

so you can look at a life better than your own….

www.proxynoise.com

ONE SEVENTY.

admin — Tue, 20 Jul 2010 13:51:41 +0000

My boss had offered me the day off. In fifteen minutes I had booked a plane ticket. Some call it spontaneity. I just call it living.

I had learnt through my short list of travels, that you could feel each city just by walking the pavements. Melbourne was how my fifteen year old self had remembered it, but with the difference that I was five years on. The buildings didn’t seem so large. The noise didn’t seem so over-whelming. The city didn’t seem so far.

Melbourne is a great city. The architecture is world-class. The coffee is perfect. The food is cheap. And the air is always fresh and crisp with the bite of a southern breeze. It is a great city and I didn’t have to put in much effort to find something inspiring. An old house. A painted alley. A lemon tree in the street.

I would like to write more about it, but I feel my experience would be inaccurate. I enjoyed time in Melbourne very much, though I was not infatuated with it, in the way that people had predicted me to become. The short time that I did spend within its concrete walls, was time spent wondering why I wasn’t feeling a connection. Time spent wondering why I didn’t care to take out my camera too much, because I didn’t feel that there was much to see.

There is only so much you can learn about a place in three days. And three days is never enough to fall out of love, and fall back in with something new. Melbourne was Mia’s city. Melbourne was Caitlin’s city. And in this way, Melbourne was not my city. Melbourne was always someone else’s city. It harboured someone else’s house. Someone else’s job. Someone else’s dreams.

The return flight was quick and I read Henry Miller on the plane. I surfed Tamarama and I sat at my favourite cafe’ in Bondi and wrote this:

Melbourne is a city I would fuck. Sydney is a city I would make love to.

ONE SIXTY NINE.

admin — Tue, 20 Jul 2010 12:25:45 +0000

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t6-vb20srZI&]

fuck yessssss !!!

ONE SIXTY EIGHT.

admin — Tue, 20 Jul 2010 03:29:24 +0000

shout-out to the six people who have messaged me telling me to update seekingcharlie.

dedication.

ONE SIXTY SEVEN.

admin — Thu, 15 Jul 2010 05:04:12 +0000

ONE SIXTY SIX.

admin — Thu, 15 Jul 2010 04:06:41 +0000

ONE SIXTY FIVE.

admin — Wed, 14 Jul 2010 02:41:51 +0000

AN INTERVIEW FOR SPOOK MAG.

You placed your pupils here to read about something. Maybe something that would make you smile. Maybe something that would dampen your panties a little. But I ain’t gonna kid ya. All you’re going to get from reading this is a gut full of grief. You’re gonna feel angry. You’re gonna feel sad. But most of all you’re gonna feel envious. Because as someone who gets paid to shoot the greatest fucking rock stars on the planet, a key contributor to Artrocker Magazine and a featured talent in Rolling Stone, Kelli Morris has a better job than you…and there ain’t nothin’ you can do about it.

Where did it all begin?
I grew up in Perth, WA and always enjoyed music. I had a lot of friends in bands, and started taking my camera along to gigs. I studied photography at TAFE for 3 years, and by the time I finished, I was really keen to get out and see the world. I travelled around Europe for five years, keeping London as a home-base and slowly moved through the stages.

What was Europe like?
I was young. Really young. And to have experienced all of that, at such an age, it was insane. My photography wasn’t my main focus – it was more the desire to see that part of the world. To see and live in a different world. I was working part-time in a studio, this great prestige studio, and each day was an exciting mystery of seeing what celebrity was going to walk through the doors. Jimmy Page. Ozzie Osbourne. Paul McCartney. It became more of timing toilet breaks right, so I could bump into people in the hallways.

You’ve played a pretty major part in Artrocker Magazine. How did that come about?
I had a friend who helped out with Artrocker, so I got a foot in the door that way. I started shooting at the bigger festivals. I shot at LoveBox, with Blondie. The B52’s. Morrissey. People that I had looked up to as a kid. God’s almost. And it would be so hard. Here I am, standing before these people. Metres away. And it was almost as though I couldn’t hear their music, because I was so wrapped up in capturing the right moment. I was lost in the composition, the lighting. All the little details that make a great photo.

How many frames would you be shooting?
When I first started, it was like gun-fire. My finger wouldn’t leave the shutter out of fear. This absolute terrifying fear that I’d miss something. But you grow in that way. You learn to wait. You learn to predict the right moments.

You’ve racked up a fair list of talent. Can you pick a favourite set that you’ve photographed?
It’s so hard to choose! I recently worked with Super Wild Horses for their new debut album, shooting from behind the scenes of their video clips, which was really cool. It ended up being more of a girl’s weekend away with a camera in my hand, than a standard job.

Inspiration. Who gets you all hot and steamy inside?
A lot of the time I’ll just see a single photo, a great photo, and it will move me more than flicking through a particular photographer’s gallery. Tony Mott is great. Annie Leibovitz is awesome, sure. But often, it’s just a single little frame that will hit home.

Everyone can be a photographer today. Discuss.
It’s definitely more of a challenge. Photography was once a process and very few people had the patience to work within it. Now everything is instant, everything is accessible and everyone can do it. Bands don’t have money, they have friends. And it’s cheaper to team up a willing friend with a camera, than to pay for someone who actually knows what they’re doing. It’s great to see more people doing it. It’s great to see people developing the passion. But it becomes harder to demonstrate the value. It becomes harder to convince people that what you’re doing is actually worth something.

You’re living in Melbourne now. How’s life?
I’ve been here for about eighteen months. It’s a level of in-between, I guess. Not as full-on as Europe. Not as laid-back as Perth. Melbourne is a great city. It’s a flexible city and you don’t have to specialise in one area. It welcomes you into different arenas. I love it, but it’s hard having to build up your contacts again. No-one cares about your background. Everyone can have a great website. Everyone can have an amazing portfolio. But if you don’t have the connections to get a chance to show it off, you’ve got nothing. You’re just another person with a camera.

What is photography to you?
It’s life. I mean, it’s my complete life. I never considered anything else. I just naturally moved into it. I love the freedom of it. That I’m capturing these great memories, and that I’m getting paid to do something I love. And I don’t think I’ll be an old Grandma in the front row shooting bands. But I’ll have all the photos to look back on and remember.

What would you say to the kids aspiring to steal your job?
Keep shooting. It’s the only way you learn. The more you do it, the better you get. Some days you’ll want to turn off your alarm and stay in bed. It’s too dam easy to stay in bed in this profession. Keep shooting. Keep knocking on doors. Keep slogging it out. It’s all worth it in the end.

ONE SIXTY FOUR.

admin — Tue, 13 Jul 2010 13:25:57 +0000

10:43pmCaitlin
i don’t get people
what happened to all the great loves i’ve read about
and been designed to believe are real

10:44pmMe
they were written for a different world honey
a different time

10:45pmCaitlin
but why
hollywood designs us to believe he’s out there
what if he’s not?

10:46pmMe
you believe in hollywood ?
love is out there
it ain’t in hollywood, but it’s out there

10:47pmCaitlin
then why is it so hard for me to find?

10:49pmMe
because everything of value comes through pain.
like tattoos

10:49pmCaitlin
haha

ONE SIXTY THREE.

admin — Mon, 12 Jul 2010 08:22:56 +0000

It ain’t rocket science, honey.

RVCA = VISION WITHOUT FINANCIAL BACKING.

BILLABONG = FINANCIAL BACKING.

RVCA + BILLABONG = VISION WITH FINANCIAL BACKING.

Billabong WON’T change RVCA’s image, because that would be fucking stupid (which BB isn’t). Look to Nixon for proof – still producing tidy watches etc, all under the BB blanket.

It IS a decent move. And if you stop buying RVCA’s shit, based on who owns the company, rather than the actual merch, you’re an idiot.

End rant.

ONE SIXTY TWO.

admin — Sun, 11 Jul 2010 09:16:27 +0000

A SELF-ABSORBED REVIEW OF THE DRIFTWOOD DRONES.

They were meant to start at ten. It was thirty-four minutes after ten, and I was drinking out of a teapot in World Bar waiting. I couldn’t be sure on the alcohol content in the teapot, but combined with the previous bottle of red, I was drunk. He was even worse, and our conversation blurred, while we waited.

I don’t really miss Byron.
Don’t you miss the culture?
Byron has no culture.
Byron? I thought you said Bondi.

He was definitely worse.

At sometime around eleven, we stumbled up the stairs to the third level and pushed through the crowd, which wasn’t really a crowd. Maybe forty people. They had started, and it was loud and everyone smiled and slowly swayed. He copped a stiletto to his left Nike, and I had to look in the opposite direction to hide the fact that I couldn’t stop laughing at his misfortune. There was a round of shots at some point, and after that, we squeezed to the front of the set, through the alternative scene that had filtered the room.

The band was very young, and it was obvious. Five kids with the poor fashion of Centrelink payments and the patchy facial hair of a manhood that is yet to completely arrive. There was a song about love, but it was sung with the naivety of a teenage lust – as though his heart wasn’t really in it. I liked them more for this. The front of youth fitted the Velvet Undeground-esque sound – a psychedelic trance that spurred on all the best memories of being fifteen and free. It was slow and yet uplifting – a mesmerising distortion that I decided would go nicely with weed and a blank canvas to paint weird things on.

Three stars.

ONE SIXTY ONE.

admin — Sun, 11 Jul 2010 06:53:46 +0000

Four girls in Brazilian bikinis, surfing empty Iluka in Summer. Sometimes I think I dreamt that day. Because how did we have such perfect surf all to ourselves? It was a Tuesday, and we had flagged school. And every wave we caught, we had to make a fucked up seal noise to each other. There was another guy there for a little while. But I think being surrounded by four girls in Brazilian bikinis, making seal noises, on a Tuesday in Summer might have being over-whelming and he paddled in. Mia bought a suitcase of clothes at the op-shop. Hannah ate herself sick with chocolate paddle-pops. Jana started crying because she couldn’t stop laughing. And I think I wrote about it in a journal which I would later throw out in frustration, and then find again and post on the internet.

Kinda funny how everything changes.

ONE SIXTY ONE.

admin — Sun, 11 Jul 2010 04:48:44 +0000

ONE SIXTY.

admin — Sat, 10 Jul 2010 23:56:50 +0000

luke okay at tamarama/
maybe one of the raddest humans i have ever met/
but he’s still a fucking lemon/
hahahaha/

ONE FIFTY NINE.

admin — Fri, 09 Jul 2010 06:07:55 +0000

Quite the surprise for one to open their internet bank account on a friday morning and realise that they were fourty-five grand richer – had I done acid last night, unaware? Maybe a cocaine trip to a Star City poker table? Fuck, I couldn’t even be sure.

For a solid seventeen minutes, I contemplated catching a one way plane to France. Or should I fly into Spain for the World Cup? Eitherway, I was going somewhere. I had said ‘fuck the job’. I had said ‘fuck the lover’. I had even said ‘fuck packing’ - 45 thousand bones was surely enough for a fairly deece wardrobe of threads.

But alas, my adventure was short-lived. Thank-you Commonwealth Bank for calling me and confirming some kind of mistake. You have fucked me sideways with the tease of a lifetime.

Awesome.

ONE FIFTY EIGHT.

admin — Thu, 08 Jul 2010 01:08:28 +0000

holyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy mkhaiduhaijhslkjsljseilijalie !!!

ONE FIFTY SEVEN.

admin — Tue, 06 Jul 2010 12:03:35 +0000

I was sitting at a table in an apartment in Cronulla, wondering why it always worked out, that the more alcohol I drank, the better I played cards. I was really fucking drunk and there was a phone call and there was a girl crying, and there was something about a boy and something about a car and I told her to call me back when she could make sense, knowing too well that two litres of goon in the blood ain’t the greatest recipe for sobriety. And sure enough she would ring and she would whisper and between her stifled tears and the words rolling from her tongue, my whole world would melt into a blurry haze of the static you see on television screens. And I would mumble something back and I would hang-up and I would stand up from a table in an apartment in Cronulla and I would walk outside and draw a breath to fill my empty lungs. And for a while everything would exist very quietly, and nothing would seem to be real or whole – and I would enter a solitary space of semi-dream, where my mind would argue the possibility of something so impossible. And the girl would ring again too. Maybe half an hour later. And she would say something about it all getting worse. And I would think, “honey, how the fuck could anything get any more worse?” And she would say something about another car and something about another boy and I would nod my head and think, “Ah, that’s how”.

30 months today Matty. Still seems like yesterday.

ONE FIFTY SIX.

admin — Mon, 05 Jul 2010 11:43:52 +0000

For Anders.

Dusk was a curtain closing on the horizon. That is but one sure certainty – if not the only one. For to recall and recount and rewrite, maybe I would not be entirely accurate or truthful. And how would you ever know what the truth was, to argue against it? I could write a story for you here. But ultimately it would be a story that did not happen and as such I would be lying. And there ain’t nothing in this life, that I hate more than a liar. So for now, my words document no great story, no great event, and thus possess no great appeal. They are just words.

The City is cement and glass. Posters and crime and cigarettes and corner-stores and dirty windows. A big fat aching chasm of nothing. And in this nothing, you are nothing. You are as important as the poster pinned to the footpath, advertising cheap booze and a shit band that never made it, nor ever had the potential to make it. You are two legs racing a crowd and an ever-ticking clock. You are a pavement, stained with last night’s vomit and blood. You are a cigarette butt in a gutter, who’s only destiny and fate and purpose was to turn perfect cells to cancer. And still, as night takes hold over day, as the darkness slowly settles, the switches are slowly flicked on, and the city is speckled in light. And the lights burn. And the lights burn, brilliantly. And somehow, the great nothingness doesn’t look so bad. And you listen to some music, and you photograph some streets, and you find a bookstore that your small mind could never even conjure up in dream – all the while wondering, why you had to enter smoke to see.

ONE FIFTY FIVE.

admin — Mon, 05 Jul 2010 09:58:45 +0000

ONE FIFTY FOUR.

admin — Fri, 02 Jul 2010 07:11:51 +0000

A poster I designed for SPOOK mag/
Super creepy/

ONE FIFTY THREE.

admin — Thu, 01 Jul 2010 02:21:15 +0000

ONE FIFTY TWO.

admin — Thu, 01 Jul 2010 00:53:13 +0000

And I know that you’re a sucker/
for anything acoustic/
But when I say let’s keep in touch/
I really mean I wish that you’d grow up/
This is the first song for your mixtape/
It’s short just like your temper/
but somewhat golden like the afternoons we used to spend/
before you got too cool/

ONE FIFTY ONE.

admin — Wed, 30 Jun 2010 07:50:39 +0000

so matty dee owns massesmasses.com that i sometimes write for/
and today he totally got to interview chuck bass/
fuck my fucking life/

ONE FIFTY.

admin — Tue, 29 Jun 2010 12:01:19 +0000

lip ring = ten thousand points.

ONE FORTY NINE.

admin — Tue, 29 Jun 2010 11:11:24 +0000

It was cold and very late. Or early? Sometime around 1am. You were sleeping. And me being me, I was not. I went to get water, and as I got back under the covers you woke. We whispered a little. Small conversation bereft of any real substance.

Why can’t you sleep?
Oh, I don’t sleep so well.

I wondered what else you would grow to learn of me.

The room glowed with the light of a full moon and the black silhouettes of trees outside stood still; stationary in the dead air of the night. It was not long before you were asleep again and when your breathing had slowed, I knew you had passed through the consciousness of reality, and entered dream.

We slept at opposite sides of the bed that night, divided by awkwardness or the confusion of trying to understand what the other was wanting or expecting. What it really meant that we were there together. I think back and wonder if it was the harsh breath of history blowing through the window that kept us apart.

I really wish we had listened.

ONE FORTY EIGHT.

admin — Tue, 29 Jun 2010 08:39:59 +0000

two photos/
one rectangle/
one circle/
a line/
and a fight club quote/
five minutes of my life gone/

ONE FORTY SEVEN.

admin — Mon, 28 Jun 2010 23:47:31 +0000

pretty much what the surf was like today/
small, fun and freaking cold./
but seriously/
how rad is alaska!!/

ONE FORTY SIX.

admin — Sun, 27 Jun 2010 09:59:28 +0000

11th commandment: thou shalt not speak of how good bruns bar was breaking, to those who no longer live there.

ONE FORTY FIVE.

admin — Sun, 27 Jun 2010 03:33:53 +0000

It has something to do with the neurons in the brain. And that they are far too overly active for their own good. It is a well-documented illness among creative people, writers in particular. A restless mind, over-analysing small trivialities of meaningless and destroying any hope of a regular sleeping pattern. Most often it is cured by an inner stability. Security of the heart has brought sleep in the past. So has an exhaustion fueled by alcohol and drugs. But more than anything, it can be eased by some form of expression. A release to a chemical mishap in the wiring. So now, at 1am, I write. And pray that I shall meet sleep sooner or later. Oh, insomnia my old friend. Look how very far we have come together.

He was my favourite. Not the best, but my favourite. Maybe because there was never any illusion and I knew how wrong we were from the beginning. There is an appeal to the truth, when it presents itself immediately. Before all fantasies and dreams can take hold of your heart, and rip the fucking thing to pieces when none ever prevail. After all, how many fantasies really do exist out of our own heads?

There was a consistency that I liked. And we were so similar, intellectually, that it was as though I had run into myself. And when we argued, I would want to scream at his stubbornness, only to realise that it was not his nature, in itself, that pushed me – it was that his nature was exactly mine too. I was ultimately fucking another version of me, and if I wasn’t happy, then that reflected poorly on me as a person. For how much can one ever really loathe themselves?

In hindsight those months were good, and maybe I’m writing this now, because I’m sensing déjà vu. Because I feel as though I’ve been here before. And isn’t that what fate has tried to teach me all year? That the people I left in the past, were put there for a reason. A desolate decision. That it was against the boundaries of moral correctness that they should continue to hold a place in my life in the future. And look how they’ve all come back. And most of all look at how I’ve let them all come back. I almost wish my mother never taught me that all can be forgiven. And that forgiveness was the road to humility. And at 1.27am I have surely just had my greatest enlightenment for 2010.

That I can still see ghosts of the past, and they can continue to haunt. But no matter how much life and love I give, they are dead souls, hollowed out beyond recognition. And I can never really bring them back. And in continuing to try, and to forgive and to be the better person I was brought up to be, I am ultimately nearing my own ordination. That my love was returned to me with destruction, and now not only do I see you dead, but I’m dead just like you. Now tell me Sweetheart, how does it really feel, knowing you’ve sent us both six feet under?

Maybe I’ve been reading too much Henry Miller.

ONE FORTY FOUR.

admin — Sat, 26 Jun 2010 09:32:54 +0000

ANG V.S VU CLOTHING.

ONE FORTY THREE.

admin — Sat, 26 Jun 2010 05:23:00 +0000

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q7aOWIFgIZQ]

this would be the track to my life/
by far, my fav song/

ONE FORTY TWO.

admin — Fri, 25 Jun 2010 11:35:44 +0000

I FUCKING LOVE THIS CITY !!!

ONE FORTY ONE.

admin — Thu, 24 Jun 2010 01:17:37 +0000

ONE FORTY.

admin — Tue, 22 Jun 2010 06:40:48 +0000

Hi Ang,
I am having alot of trouble manipulating graphics.
I am designing in Paint.
Do you have any suggestions?
Yours Sincerely
Karen.

Hi Karen,
Paint?
I suggest you neck yourself.
Kind Regards
A

ONE THIRTY NINE.

admin — Tue, 22 Jun 2010 06:13:38 +0000

been digging this blog lately/

www.seereditions.com

ONE THIRTY EIGHT.

admin — Sun, 20 Jun 2010 11:46:40 +0000

I had money and time and I figured both things always come in handy when one wants to get lost, although often half the fun comes from having none of either – nothing is more of an adventure than an empty pocket. I got lost anyway.

I walked long streets with my neck tilted back, staring at the towers covering the sky. I liked the reflection of the glass, the way the light hit the gaps in between, the flickering of blue from television sets forty stories high. I walked past a girl hunched over, crying in the gutter. Her hair was quite long and hung down her back, brunette and I was dead certain it was Hannah. I started walking towards her, then saw the throbbing veins in her arms and stopped. She looked up at me and started rocking back and forth, laughing with a crooked smile. I walked the other way, felt my spine split into shivers.

I had no real plan, no goal and at every intersection, I judged which footpath looked the best visually, and that was the one I would follow. I found a second-hand book store, but when I saw the Twilight series in the literature section, I lost all respect and left. If Hemingway saw that shit, he would have surely put the shotgun to his head again.

Night was sinking in and with it came the cold. In Chinatown I ate soup and wrote on serviettes with a purple pen I found on the ground. The words were terrible. The soup was worse.

In Darlinghurst I went to a poetry reading. I listened to four people and I left. Seemed to me that modern poetry was a million adjectives with no meaning. But what the fuck did I know about poetry anyway?

It was ten o’clock and I didn’t want to go home. I drank coffee and watched some kids skate a set of stairs for a while. I bummed a cigarette off a guy walking past. I ended up buying a packet and instantly regretted the decision. I smoked four cigarettes in an hour and I don’t really know why.

A cute guy lent me a lighter, and he asked if I wanted to come to a gallery around the corner. I figured rape or murder, then he handed me a flyer for the art show with his arm covered in ink and laughed and said he wasn’t a creep. I believed him. We were handed glasses of cheap red on the door and I walked around the space, dumbfounded with inspiration. He introduced me to people he knew but didn’t really know, and each face I became acquainted with seemed to radiate some kind of brilliance. Maybe it was the unfamiliarity.

There was more wine and I wandered off to the empty end of the gallery, open-jawed at the canvases. I was drunk and I didn’t know if it was the alcohol or the art. He walked up behind me and whispered in my ear ‘life imitates art far more than art imitates life’. I said ‘Oscar Wilde’ and he laughed, and said he was impressed and I thought to myself ‘that was a fucking easy one honey’.

We got tea and played noughts and crosses on napkins and I lost every fucking time. I had a flashback of you for a second, and I hated you even more than what I already did. Then he told me Fante was a fraud and Bukowski was a liar, and I didn’t know if I should kiss him or kill him.

He lived.

I think.

ONE THIRTY SEVEN.

admin — Sun, 20 Jun 2010 09:52:58 +0000

ONE THIRTY SIX.

admin — Wed, 16 Jun 2010 10:24:08 +0000

dion: you still seeing that guy?

A: oh no silly. that’s been over for a while.

dion: good. he sounded mentally fucked.

A: ha. you have no idea.

ONE THIRTY FIVE.

admin — Wed, 16 Jun 2010 04:41:28 +0000

what are you designing today?

a porn site.

you’re fucking kidding.

honey, i really ain’t.

ONE THIRTY FOUR.

admin — Wed, 16 Jun 2010 03:00:49 +0000

this is war/
every line is about/
who i don’t wanna write about anymore/
hope you come down with something/
they can’t diagnose/
don’t have the cure for/
holding on to your grudge/
oh its so hard to have someone to love/
and keeping quiet is hard/
cause you cant keep a secret/
if it never was a secret to start/
at least pretend you didn’t wanna get caught/

ONE THIRTY THREE.

admin — Tue, 15 Jun 2010 11:32:46 +0000

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R1n9kMaws-Y]

this guy should get the coin/
so close/

ONE THIRTY TWO.

admin — Tue, 15 Jun 2010 11:11:45 +0000

11 ways to pass the time with insomnia/

ONE THIRTY ONE.

admin — Tue, 15 Jun 2010 06:59:37 +0000

click on it/
you won’t regret/

ONE THIRTY.

admin — Tue, 15 Jun 2010 04:17:58 +0000

and then i got asked to do my dream interview/
and i realised i gotta start making some new dreams/
because everything i wrote down two years ago/
has already came true/
fuck/
yes/
lords of dogtown!/

ONE TWENTY NINE

admin — Sat, 12 Jun 2010 01:42:56 +0000

mike do i have an innocent face?

huh?

i was talking to that guy and he told me i had an innocent face.

ang, you have the most uninnocent face of anyone i have ever met.

what about if i smile like this?

…..you’re pure fucking evil.

ONE TWENTY EIGHT.

admin — Thu, 10 Jun 2010 10:03:23 +0000

an ad i designed for spook magazine/
to be featured in the latest renegades empire magazine/

ONE TWENTY SEVEN.

admin — Wed, 09 Jun 2010 11:40:29 +0000

one day i’ll meet someone i love more than my magazines/
one day…./

ONE TWENTY SIX.

admin — Wed, 09 Jun 2010 10:14:17 +0000

It was somewhere near the beginning. You had only stayed a few nights. Maybe three or four. My light bulb had blown then. And we were laying in bed, talking by candlelight. You kept complaining about the cold and I asked if you would come swimming in the ocean baths with me. The water was black and when I dived in, you screamed shark and I started crying. I stole your clothes and you followed me home naked. We spent many midnights like that. The memories in my head, play in gold and glimmer. With some kind of stupid contentment. And I think of words like ‘love’ and ‘forever’. And I think of all good things eventually fading. But more than anything, I think of how quickly you said yes.

- from words I wrote a long time ago.

ONE TWENTY FIVE.

admin — Tue, 08 Jun 2010 10:33:55 +0000

this one’s something special/
this one’s just like dynamite/

ONE TWENTY FOUR.

admin — Mon, 07 Jun 2010 12:50:04 +0000

what do you want?

what do you mean what do i want?

well it seems like you’re always thinking about something.

im not thinking about anything.

then why can’t you sleep?

because im thinking about everything.

ONE TWENTY THREE.

admin — Mon, 07 Jun 2010 11:27:19 +0000

all im going to say is…/
these were the worst photos i took/
the rest were sold/
just imagine/

ONE TWENTY TWO

admin — Fri, 04 Jun 2010 23:12:32 +0000

last night i came home with twenty two bones in my pocket/
and a piece of paper with a phone number/
there is no name/
i have just written ‘badass’ next to it/
vodka, you’re fucking killing me/

ONE TWENTY ONE

admin — Thu, 03 Jun 2010 12:13:16 +0000

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SLLlSDpdPdE]

id ravish to this song/

ONE TWENTY.

admin — Thu, 03 Jun 2010 11:22:06 +0000

i do know one thing though/
bitches they come they go/
saturday through sunday, monday/
monday through sunday/
yo/

ONE NINETEEN.

admin — Thu, 03 Jun 2010 08:38:40 +0000

ONE HUNDRED + EIGHTEEN.

admin — Thu, 03 Jun 2010 08:01:27 +0000

dam you jed for letting me sync my iphone to your itunes/
i now talk like a legit gangster/

ONE HUNDRED + SEVENTEEN.

admin — Wed, 02 Jun 2010 08:10:18 +0000

just when i think i’ve lost all fucking faith/
frank chimero, i don’t know who the fuck you are/
but i want to meet more people like you/

work.frankchimero.com

ONE HUNDRED + SIXTEEN.

admin — Tue, 01 Jun 2010 08:59:37 +0000

[vimeo 12164728]

home boys get freaky/
ang spends solid half hour crying with laughter at dj/
“im not racist”/
classic/

ONE HUNDRED + FIFTEEN

admin — Tue, 01 Jun 2010 07:33:40 +0000

i love getting paid to draw kicks all day/

ONE HUNDRED + FOURTEEN.

admin — Tue, 01 Jun 2010 03:38:41 +0000

yeah dad i got another parking fine.

for fuck’s sake ang. how many times do you think i can talk your way out of it?

dude, the surf was amazing!

you’re inability to park in the right fucking places is amazing.

ONE HUNDRED + THIRTEEN.

admin — Mon, 31 May 2010 12:23:36 +0000

buy my 70-200mm/2.8 ang ??

fuck yes! how much?

$1200?

frothing!

you shoot canon don’t you?

FML !

ONE HUNDRED + TWELVE.

admin — Mon, 31 May 2010 05:26:42 +0000

its unforgivable when melbourne is like this/
horrible and overcast/
not quite cold enough/
yet a bite still reigns/
somehow something dirty lingers/
something prods and pokes and fools me into thinking/
i’m not satisfied/
that i’m waiting for something/
i’m not/
i’m not one of those millions that feels like they’re waiting for their life to begin/
i know that it is now that every moment is precious/
but this weather/
it bends and pulls at my resolve/
at my stubborn content/
it whispers stagnation/
i grit my teeth and think of the mountains/
the air outside of the city/
today i tried/
i broke my routine and i picked somewhere far on the map/
i got on the train and i found myself in some random seaside town/
the unforgivable grey sky glaring at me/
i walked and walked/
but the sight of the distant looming skyscrapers haunted my steps/
giants shadows/
not far enough/
not far enough, i whispered as i trudged/
dodging smeared dog shit/
and attempting to evade the lingering stench of sewerage/
don’t get me wrong/
i love the city/
i love anonymity/
i love the concrete jigsaw towering and spiraling around me/
like some great creature/
but sometimes/
i crave the smells of the wet earth, the rotting leaf litter, the forest/
i crave the untouched shore of some unknown patch of sand/
the salt and bite of the southern ocean and slap in the face/
i think of your tears on friday night/
how vulnerable and small you sounded/
how i forget/
that, that is you/
just as much as your strength and wit are/
and it is just as beautiful/
that you are human/
just like me/
sometimes i get sick of being brave/
of being hard and strong/
i know you know/
what it is that i mean/
so i will say no more/
i love you/
have a beautiful day/

- MR

ONE HUNDRED + ELEVEN.

admin — Sun, 30 May 2010 12:47:14 +0000

id rather die a headcase than a liar/

ONE HUNDRED + TEN.

admin — Sun, 30 May 2010 09:22:59 +0000

if you run a blog through wordpress/
you can see the sites that people have come to your blog from/
you can even see what people have googled to get to your site/
today one of you sick fucks googled ‘seventy year old horny ladies’/
sure enough, if you type that shit in google/
seekingcharlie comes up/
i don’t know if im impressed or disgusted/
i just can’t stop laughing/

ONE HUNDRED + NINE.

admin — Sun, 30 May 2010 07:23:33 +0000

ONE HUNDRED + SEVEN.

admin — Sat, 29 May 2010 12:34:32 +0000

ONE HUNDRED + SIX.

admin — Sat, 29 May 2010 08:11:17 +0000

so what great vision is this/
to sail amongst the vast indifference/
accept a trail to hollow senses/
where only tragedy breaks the numbness/
so what great epiphany, will spell out beneath my feet?/
chain my wrists and admit defeat/
imprisoned by ‘the clarity’/
so is this desitny, a doubtful life, feeling empty?/
worst of all to make me guilty/
blindest of the blind, telling me to see/

- carpathian

ONE HUNDRED + FIVE.

admin — Tue, 25 May 2010 03:13:04 +0000

navel-gazing

click it/
dare ya/

ONE HUNDRED + TWO.

admin — Fri, 21 May 2010 03:41:40 +0000

lindsay turner sends me daily links of inspiration/
they always go down well with coffee and an open mind/

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4SmGhRDgvhw&feature=player_embedded]

ONE HUNDRED + ONE.

admin — Thu, 20 May 2010 10:41:54 +0000

the end of an era/

ONE HUNDRED.

admin — Thu, 20 May 2010 09:58:59 +0000

i know what they don’t wanna tell you/
just hope you’re heaven-sent/
and you’re hell-proof/
i walk up in the world/
and cut the lights off/
and confidence is a stain/
they can’t wipe off/
my word is my pride/
but wisdom is bleak/
and that’s a word from the wise/
served to survive/
murdered and bribed/
and when it got too heavy/
i put my burdens aside/
so i could pick the world up/
and i’ma drop it on your fucking head/

NINETY-NINE.

admin — Thu, 20 May 2010 06:41:42 +0000

i buy new journals all the time/
telling myself that i gotta start keeping one/
i hold out for a few days/
then i tear most of the shit out/
and give it a home in a nearby bin/
i found this in one/

It is a miserable day on the Gold Coast. You are tired and you drink coffee and wait. The beach is empty and it is raining lightly. Your leather jacket is too hot. Singlet alone is too cold. Camera battery is low and you are ill-prepared for the first day of the Quiksilver Pro. You have forgotten paper and pen and scribble on stolen serviettes. Dane Reynolds sits nearby. He is wearing a blue cotton shirt with long sleeves. He looks nervous. You wonder if he even cares. Charlie Smith is perched on the balcony of the surf club, overlooking the break. He has a notebook in his hands, a white shirt on his back, and he is writing something fabulous that people will say is homosexual when it is posted on STAB. The waves are not ‘dream tour’ worthy. There are small walls pulsing through, though they have little power and you know Dane does not like this as you watch him fidgeting. Does he care?

NINETY-EIGHT.

admin — Thu, 20 May 2010 02:36:30 +0000

so about 70 posts ago, i chucked up some photos/
i’ve searched the rusty team so many times, trying to work out who the fuck it was i was shooting/
turns out its matt chapel!/

[vimeo 11864847]

nineteen

NINETY-SEVEN.

admin — Thu, 20 May 2010 02:13:39 +0000

newtown/

NINETY-SIX.

admin — Tue, 18 May 2010 05:31:19 +0000

‘yo ang, you totally haven’t sent anything in for the mag?’

‘maybe because i think you’re mag is fucking boring’

NINETY-FIVE.

admin — Thu, 13 May 2010 07:27:35 +0000

god my fingers burn/
now when i think of touching your hair /
you have changed so much that i dont know/
if i can call you and tell you i care/

NINETY-FOUR.

admin — Thu, 13 May 2010 01:25:33 +0000

NINETY-TWO.

admin — Mon, 10 May 2010 09:59:54 +0000

7:52pmMia
ahahahaha
i want to be a squirrel
i love your life

Me
i want to be some kind of bird
fly the world

7:53pmMia
yeah. albatross are my fav, but they partner for life
it would be terrible to have ur partner die
they just die of broken hearts

Me
I think i am an albatross

7:54pmMia
ahahahaha
i knew you would say that

NINETY-ONE.

admin — Sun, 09 May 2010 09:37:29 +0000

“When I am out among people I am uncomfortable. They speak and have enthusiasms that are not a part of me. And yet it is when I am with them that I feel strongest. I get this idea: if they can exist on just these fragments of things, then I can exist too. But it is when I am alone and all comparisons must fall upon a comparison of myself against the walls, against breathing, against history, against my end, that the odd things begin to happen. I am evidently a weak man. I have tried to go to the bible, to the philosophers, to the poets, but for me, somehow, they have missed the point. They are talking about something else entirely. So long ago I stopped reading. I found some small help in drinking, gambling and sex, and in this way I was much like any man in the community, the city, the nation; the only different being that I did not care to “succeed”. I did not want a family, a home, a respectable job and so forth. So there I was: neither and intellectual, an artist; nor did I have the saving roots of the common man. I hung like something labeled in between, and I guess, yes, that is the beginning of insanity” – The Blanket (Bukowski)

NINETY-ONE.

admin — Sat, 08 May 2010 02:34:01 +0000

i ain’t one for preachin’/
but this mag is easily one of the best designed/
like, ever!/
www.lodownmagazine.com

NINETY.

admin — Fri, 07 May 2010 10:51:10 +0000

it is truly beautiful. the air is cold and in the mornings the light hits the tiny waves so the spray glitters perfectly. it is impossible to ride these waves, yet people try. mostly because they are dedicated and stupid and they do not have images of iluka in their heads. the coffee is cheap and the cups are large and they are always handed to you by a homosexual man with clear ray-bans and a colgate smile. i like this city.

EIGHTY-NINE.

admin — Tue, 04 May 2010 08:20:32 +0000

repeat after me/
i am free/
it’s nice to let go/

EIGHTY-EIGHT.

admin — Sun, 02 May 2010 10:00:26 +0000

happy birthday moo cow!

EIGHTY-SEVEN.

admin — Sun, 02 May 2010 09:24:22 +0000

EIGHTY-SIX.

admin — Fri, 30 Apr 2010 05:38:59 +0000

EIGHTY-FIVE.

admin — Tue, 27 Apr 2010 06:23:21 +0000

today i fell in love with my camera all over again/

EIGHTY-FOUR.

admin — Mon, 26 Apr 2010 02:04:45 +0000

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ns0-1qI-p2M]

Wade Goodall might have been bred on the Sunshine Coast.
He might have liked it until he got too big for the waves.
He might be homeless.
His possessions might be in a shed.
He might have slept at his parents’ house last night.
He might have spent some time in the States.
He might have liked the Mexican food made by real Mexicans.
He might have hated the traffic.
He might like his caffeine hit to be strong.
He might have it black with one sugar.
He might have insomnia.
He might start seeing weird shit after staring at his ceiling for five hours.
He might have hit the reef at Chopes.
He might have busted an artery in his brain.
He might have hated Brazil.
He might have liked New York.
He might hate ‘Flight of the Pheonix’.
He might hate surfing Noosa and Snapper.
He might hate Ed Hardy and Unit threads.
He might hate munfred pudding guts (fat kids in tight jeans).
He might hate self-portrait facebook photos taken in mirrors.
He might eat raw satay chicken in Kuta at 4am.
He might smoke when he’s angry.
He might smoke when he’s wasted.
He might smoke when the techno comes on.
He might smoke when he’s in a city.
His preferred lung cancer catalyst might be Winfield Blues.

Wade Goodall might surf better than you.
No, there’s no doubt on that one.
He definitely surfs better than you

EIGHTY-TWO.

admin — Sat, 24 Apr 2010 10:24:56 +0000

this is my most favourite blog ever/
(and i ain’t easily impressed)/
blake makes killer videos/
nanda makes killer drawings of hot naked girls/
be inspired/

kidswithtalons.com

EIGHTY-ONE.

admin — Fri, 23 Apr 2010 05:31:24 +0000

custom-made font/
took me ages/

EIGHTY.

admin — Fri, 23 Apr 2010 05:03:09 +0000

SEVENTY-NINE.

admin — Thu, 22 Apr 2010 12:30:43 +0000

dead inside/

SEVENTY-EIGHT.

admin — Thu, 22 Apr 2010 09:54:24 +0000

if anyone has a left medium churchill fin that they want to give me/
that would be fucking dope/

SEVENTY-SEVEN.

admin — Wed, 21 Apr 2010 02:56:04 +0000

you probably shouldn’t skate the billabong mini-ramp in the rain/
i think my wrist is broken in seven places/

SEVENTY-SIX.

admin — Mon, 19 Apr 2010 22:38:55 +0000

I ran into Chase Burns at Splendour, before I was too fucked up to see. He was wearing black straight legs and a beanie, but he walked with a certain style that made even his leopard-print inspired shirt look decent. I guess it was the Melbourne in his veins.

Two weeks later, Chase wrote me a message, asking if I’d be interested in writing a porn script for him. It wasn’t an avenue I’d considered my literary legs taking me down, but a fair conversation of Arthouse meets adult film unfolded. It got me thinking. To an ordinary twenty-three year old male, porn was porn. To a twenty-three year old filmmaker, porn was art. This is what went down.

What’s on your bed side table?
A few empty bottles of 24 year old Chivas Regel scotch and nasal delivery spray for those long cold nights. Some moisturiser and used tissues also.

What’s in your bed side drawer?
A wide arrange of lubricants and used sheaths. I keep them as trophies (a proud collection of 3 used).

What initially attracted you to film-making?
Surf porn you mean? Well I used to surf myself but now it’s better to sweat in the sun and keep my eyes on the young talent from the shore. Yeah I used to silently beat off to my own surfing talents, pausing the bottom turns on the…well bottom.

Are there other aspects of film making that you would still like to explore?
Yes, I would like to get into critter cams. Maybe put a camera on the back of someone dirty like Matthew Johns.

Favourite non-related porn flick to get you psyched?
Eyes wide shut. It makes me feel weird and curious.

Most absurd?
I always get my kicks on the first porn I ever watched. My parents had some family tapes with birthdays and Christmas’ on them. When I was eight, I decided to watch one of them to the very end. The family footage crackled and finished. I thought ‘okay it’s the end’ and leaned over to press eject. But then the screen fizzled and cleared to reveal my first encounter of a woman sucking a ten inch penis. I have never been the same.

WHY TAPE OVER PORN WITH FAMILY VIDOES MUMMA? WHY?
It’s such a shame. It was a good porno too.

Any specific genre of adult films that you would like to pursue?
Yes, there isn’t a dangerous exotic animal film out yet. I heard rumours that Steve Irwin was going to release something of the sort, but passed away while practising on a ray. They don’t like it from behind I believe. I miss you Steve.

As director, how would your fantasy porn flick play out?
Well I would love to start the film in the jungle. Four girls running away from a stampede of horny, sex-driven African animals. The women have ripped safari clothes and those silly little safari hats. They each get caught by a dangerous animal…. rhino, tiger, crocodile and maybe something quirky like a meerkat. The meerkat one can be group action and the rest is rape.

Soundtrack?
The sound track to Lion King would be suitable. Romantic even.

Do you think porn has changed the way we think about sex?
Yeah it has. In the industry, there’s so many pretty young ladies getting their sex on and getting good money. So many in fact, that single boys looking for sex aren’t getting anything because they want it for free (except for Cheeky Monkeys in Byron Bay – there’splenty of diseased back-packing vaginas for free there). Anyway, now these boys have no choice but to pay for porn to release their sexual tension. So it’s a healthy business. Sex, cameras and people like me watching = $$.

Is there a difference between porn for guys and girls?
Girls are super competitive when it comes to looking sexy. They are comparing themselves to the girls in movies. They see a girl giving a German Shepard a blow job, they go out and raise the bar to a Great Dane. Guys are happy sitting on their Lazyboys, fiddling with themselves and going to sleep.

Cezar Capone offered Sarah Palin 2mil to appear in an adult film. Who would you offer 2million to appear?
Miley Cyrus…I know. I know she is too young. But hey, STAB are getting into preteen girls so why not me? Disney will be pissed, but they will come to an agreement if I add in a few of the kooky characters from the classics like Donald Duck and Goofy.

+ + + +

Chase Burns makes rad movies/
you can watch them for free at his new blog/
bookmark it, save it, whatevs/
chaseburns.tumblr.com

SEVENTY-FIVE.

admin — Mon, 19 Apr 2010 10:40:54 +0000

i’d write something here/
but i know you’d see/
you’ve even taken/
my own fucking blog from me/

SEVENTY-FOUR.

admin — Sun, 18 Apr 2010 05:01:10 +0000

my sister got married/
i played wedding photographer/

SEVENTY-THREE.

admin — Mon, 12 Apr 2010 05:06:37 +0000

I don’t understand why Mick Fanning is so pissed at Chas Smith for calling him boring.
Mick Fanning IS boring.

SEVENTY-TWO.

admin — Sat, 10 Apr 2010 03:25:37 +0000

so who’s gonna love you now baby?

SEVENTY.

admin — Thu, 08 Apr 2010 10:27:06 +0000

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qA-UqKAv1rE]

this makes me want to grab my credit card and bail/

SIXTY-NINE.

admin — Thu, 08 Apr 2010 08:30:20 +0000

SIXTY-EIGHT.

admin — Tue, 06 Apr 2010 12:07:23 +0000

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=asNbeOBZaTs&feature=related]

you’re thinking ‘who the fuck is this kid?’/
his name is andy/
he has a growth-hormone condition/
he is not a kid/
he is old/
he is a comedian/
and he is my hero/

SIXTY-SEVEN.

admin — Tue, 06 Apr 2010 10:49:15 +0000

[vimeo="http://vimeo.com/5319920"> http://vimeo.com/5319920]

SIXTY-SIX.

admin — Tue, 06 Apr 2010 09:49:58 +0000

today/

SIXTY-FIVE.

admin — Mon, 05 Apr 2010 11:48:55 +0000

mike jennings is one of my most favourite humans/
he is a writer/
he is from melbourne/
he has good hair/
this is our new side project/

liketotesdef.wordpress.com

SIXTY-FOUR.

admin — Mon, 05 Apr 2010 10:08:20 +0000

all-good-people-fly-kites.html

SIXTY-THREE.

admin — Mon, 05 Apr 2010 09:53:59 +0000

ill give someone $100 if they can cure my writer’s block/
im not kidding/

SIXTY-TWO.

admin — Mon, 05 Apr 2010 09:20:46 +0000

met up with nafe and aye-ron in byron/

SIXTY-ONE.

admin — Sat, 03 Apr 2010 05:28:23 +0000

wrote more postcards than hooks/
i read more maps than books/
feel like every chance to leave/
is another chance i should’ve took/
every minute is a mile/
i’ve never felt so hollow/
i’m an old abandoned church/
with broken pews and empty aisles/

- brand new