Dole / Dolour: An Allegory for the Fifth Corner of the World

σκότος ἐγένετο ἐπὶ πᾶσαν τὴν γῆν

In the evening
after work,
shadows fall
across the world.
And the city quiets
And calms itself.
And now the city is ours
The weak and broken ones
Come out to play
Take over the city.

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Went to the Top Gallery in the Salamanca Arts Centre, a small room torn brick, convict sandstone, rough wood. A room that echoes the cries of those worked to death in the old days. Drunk and trapped. The scrap heap. Dolour -- endless unhappiness. This seemed an more than suitable place for these particular art works.

I went, as an invite to see an exhibit of photographs by Liam James passed across my facebook feed. The exhibit was called “Dole / Dolour: An Allegory for the Fifth Corner of the World.” I was instantly intrigued by the title, and normally I do not like photography as art. This is simply my hang-up and I apologise to photographers the world over. For me too often it is simple point and click, a mechanical reproduction of an object, allowing no understanding of the maker, of the ideas behind the work.

With this exhibit more was involved. Not simple happy snapping, not facile photoshopping. The photographs were all well thought out and the artist seemed to have something to say, and to know what that was.

These are the photographers of a maker, rather than a reporter, or a decorator.

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Don’t be told what you want don’t be told what you need
There’s no future no future no future for you

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Dole / Dolour, sorrow, emptiness, no future for you. There is a time, about the age of twenty five, when many us, (those of us that think and do not just follow) come to the conclusion that all the word worlds of teachers and parents -- that one can be what you want, that is just takes perseverance and commitment -- were no more than big fat lies.

Work will not save us, love will not save us, our future dream is a shopping scheme.

A future rolling forward of endless cycles of waking up, coffee, work, lunch, work, Friday nights drinks down the local, all leading to the goal of self imposed debt bondage. Marriage, house, children. And finally pointless, stupid, inexorable death.

Liam faces this future squarely, without flinching. His wonderful, well staged, well coloured, crafted photos bring these feelings of relentless boredom, of pointlessness to our gaze. His works shows how all this drabness is wrapped up with a system of objectification. And how it is that many of us desire, more than anything, our own slavery, fighting as passionately for slavery as for liberation.

The subjects of his photos aret mostly young men and women, and they avert their eyes from the gaze of the (assuredly elder, assuredly judgmental) viewers, looking up, down or off in the distance. Looking one thousand yards past the viewers into a doleful future.

When the subjects do look at the viewer, it is with irritation, with anger.

The artist, in his statement, wants to search for a new national identity, this is an important goal, as all around a reinvigorated national identity of spite and fear rises. This triumphalism gives birth to, and counters the art works, sets the scene, frames the works, and holds us in it's embrace as we step outside the gallery, back into a world of objects, processes, statistics, and prices.

This is an interesting and provocative exhibit. An exhibit which on first glance appears simple, but over the days and nights will slowly chew into your brain and make you question the world of objects.

Dole / Dolour: An Allegory for the Fifth Corner of the World is on display until the end of the month, until 30 October. You can visit a web site that Liam James maintains.

Clothes, Clothes, Clothes. Music, Music, Music. Boys, Boys, Boys

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So being that sort of person, I first read about the new memoir by Viv Albertine, Clothes, Clothes, Clothes. Music, Music, Music. Boys, Boys, Boys, in a Guardian review, shortly after it was published by Faber & Faber in May of this year. After reading a few reviews I decided to see if my local library had a copy. I was pleased and annoyed that I would have to wait several weeks for my turn to read the book.

But why would I want to read such a memoir? When I was a young thing making the scene I loved The Slits, I found them to be a very interesting and brave band. So there was some nostalgia in my desire to read this. Also it is interesting to watch the turn of history. Much has changed since 1976, I thought it would be interesting to see this turn of history from the eyes of another.

The memoir is broken up, like an old fashioned record, into side 1 and side 2. Side 1 being her childhood, and youth including her time with The Slits. In this part she brings to life the grim recession of the late 70's to life. I did not live in England at the time, but rather in New England, which was going through similar economic and political crises. Albertine captures the excitement of punk, the turbulent feeling that we can make a difference, that we can change the world. More importantly she does not shy away from discussing the many contradictions, and cul-de-sacs of punk.

The book contains many amusing and interesting sketches of people I have seen, have heard, have heard of, but have never met. In these sketches we are able to see the true Romantic character of the punk ethos. Punk was the sting of the Romantic tail, struggling to bring to life the idea that enthusiasm can be more powerful than technical prowess. The final scattering of punk taught us a most important lesson, that in the end both talent and enthusiasm can be defeated by money.

Side 2 narrates Viv Albertine's life after The Slits broke up. This is a longer and more powerful section. With the breakup of the band, the author was plunged into poverty and despair. An example of how the music industry uses young people and then throws them onto the scrap heap. From here she tries to rebuild herself. As if to mock her youthful success, life generated a series of challenges. The sort of challenges we all face at one time or another. The second section of this book becomes a tale of miscarriages, ectopic pregnancies, IVF, cancer, broken marriages. A series of waiting rooms and examinations, where dignity and control are stripped away.

There is a terrible beauty in a much of this. For example, the description of the death of her father was moving and made me well up thinking of the pathetic hopelessness of life. The terrible waste.

Viv Albertine maintained the punk DIY attitude over the decades, rejecting the idea of a ghost writer. This creates a fascinating, almost voyeuristic, look into another persons broken mirror. Many of the reviews I have read describe this memoir as honest, “utter honesty” from the SMH, while the Guardian prefers “searing honesty.” Raising questions of honesty opens up a myriad of philosophical questions as to the nature of truth, questions I do not feel I am capable of answering. I will say that her account feels very sincere and honest, but as I was not there I have no way of verifying her account.

Unlike some of the subject matter, her writing style is not very taxing. The book is written in a very smooth, simple style. Laurence Sterne, author of that strange work of genius, described writing as, “but a different name for conversation.” In this autobiography Viv Albertine seems to take this idea to heart. This book feels almost like chatting with an old friend over a bottle of red.

What did I learn from this book? Behind every great woman is a man trying to hold her back. This modern proverb was amply exposed in this book. Sexual violence, barely hidden contempt, emotional blackmail, domestic violence. Here we can see her honesty, this book did not shy away from showing the truth of women's lives. This constant struggle that women face has changed, but not lessoned since (let us say) 1976; more subtle, maybe, but still all-encompassing.

In the end this book seems to me to be about losing one's self, standing naked before the mirror, and then finding one's self again. Definitely worth a read. This dot point history of contemporary life, this tale of a journey through life is deceptively easy to read; yet on this simple stage Albertine allows a variety of thoughts and arguments to bubble up to the the surface.

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The shitty shadow play

A friend whom I have never met, but only through the inernet, Ian Milliss wrote this article for the 250th anniversary issue of Art Monthly. Our digital dialogue has allowed me to develop respect and some sort of affection for his views and opinions. This article made me think about stuff, and I was at first going to reply with a witty internet sized one liner, but the more I thought the more words and ideas were vomited forth. So I guess you should read his article first, to get some context. Or not.

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The shitty shadow play of a shitty world, so a pal of mine in Canberra called the art scene and the local artists. This is caused by the global fordism of art, as Ian so clearly points out. The idea that Disney will buy out the museyrooms is a dystopian fantasy that sadly can become true, if we do not keep on guard. (One only has to look over the history of the cinema, and the banal state of publishing in the Anglosphere, to see the danger will are facing.) Indeed David Walsh refers to MONA as a subversive adult Disneyland, and much as I admire and appreciate the gallery one has to ask the question, how subversive a can a Disneyland, adult or otherwise, become. Is the goal of art to titillate and 'shock' with walls of vaginas, and smears of poo? Or is the goal of art to, in simplistic terms, try to make us better people, to try to make us see the world though the eyes of pure childhood playfulness anew? We have only a tenuous grasp on life, and we should not settle on facile blandness.

The mass production of art combined with, not a lack of talent, but rather a lack of ideology. Indeed ideology seems to be a dirty word these days, but to me it is nothing more than an attempt to bring things together, and attempt to make sense of the contradictions of internal world versus external world. A gathering together of threads, going way way back to the PIE *weid- meaning to see.

Too many people, schooled as they are in the vapid world of witty one liners and the constant fear of any authentic activity take ideology to mean little more than impractical thinking about things. Not really understanding that there is more to life than the constant one sided pragmatic jumping from one crisis to the next with not understanding as to how all things are interconnected and come together. Art is seen as apart from politics, apart from our interpersonal relationships, apart from the choices we make as consumer. Of course like all things human ideology can become perverted, and can become a hindrance to thinking and activity, but this is why the critical activity must also be turned inward, one must constantly question oneself. So when new experiences, new ways of seeing arise they must be integrated into one's ideology.

We can see this negative understanding of ideology clearly in recent critiques of the green party, who are constantly assailed for having principles and a policy they are not willing to throw overboard at the first opportunity. This can be summed up with a quote from Michael Danby, the federal member for Melbourne Ports, reported in the cesspit of pretend pragmatism vexnews

'The Greens have discredited themselves with many inner-city voters I talk with every day by voting with the Liberals on asylum seekers. Frankly I’ve been struck by the magnitude of the criticism I hear of their self-indulgent and viciously ideological position on asylum seekers, that is costing lives.'

While I do not like to see the Greens on the side of the LNP, it is wrong and a misunderstanding to say the Green Party voted with the liberals. They voted as they saw fit, in a way that they felt was true to their positions and policies. On the other hand the liberals in a choreographed display of populist vengeance (who can forget the staged spectacle of Joe Hockey and his histrionic welling up at the idea of  sending unaccompanied children to Malaysia, while at the same time cynically supporting the idea of turning back boats) voted in a way that would bring maximum disruption to the government, regardless of any ideology the LNP may have.

But I digress, for it is late and I am tired and a bit tipsy.

Art should be part of this trying to make sense of the world, and while I do not disagree with the idea that the world is in many ways unknowable and in constant flux,  one has to also admit that the world is repeatable and in many ways can be known. This can be seen in the simple act of cooking dinner, I apply heat the water boils, I apply a knife to the carrot and it cuts, I add yeast to flour and the dough rises.

One day art in the future will dissolve, and this process is beginning,. This can be readily seen with our street art, as well as the space created by the internet. When this day comes art will be simply a part of everyday life, and there will no longer be a need for the priestly caste of critics to mediate and tell us what is pure and what is impure. Conversation will become inclusive. The conversation will no longer be the purposeful obfuscation using silver dollar words. The conversation will no longer spew forth from one sided two faced confusers with a weak grasp of the ideas of thinkers such as Derrida. The weakness and shallowness of these types of posers support their ideas with a firm grasp on the language and tropes of the arts bureaucracy and ways to job the system. Everyone will be an artist precisely because there will be no artists in a festive echo of Lenin's idea that one day the lowest clerk will be able to run the affairs of the state. Art and humanity will be free and human activity will be seen for what it can be, a type of play, a thing of joy, and not a hammer with which to batter the other in vain attempts to gain control and dominance. Art will be enjoyed for it's 'spiritual value', not it's exchange value. Art will become integrated into life, and indeed ones life itself will become art. To me this should be the aspiration of all artists. 

With usura hath no man a house of good stone
each block cut smooth and well fitting that design might cover their face,
with usura
hath no man a painted paradise on his church wall

Gallifrey Falls!

Dream Factory Manifesto

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How can we speak of a dream factory?

Socialism?

Capitalism?

Classless Society?

What are our dreams? A better life, a life of co-operation, of working together.

What is a factory? A place to work, where things are made. From Blombos Cave to the Apple plants in the Special Economic Zones of the People's Republic of China, we come together to make things. Man woman young old black white. Work is what unites us, the coming together to work. Work must become play.

Even deeper work ((think elastically) and the complex of changes (social and physiologically) and feedbacks involved) created us.

Does work create language? Have women always done the bulk of the work? Did women create language?

Factory from the Latin factor. a maker, a doer, performer, perpetrator, one who strikes the ball.

We need to turn away from the dystopian narrative. We need to create utopias - we can write of utopia and mock the plutocrats.

Thomas Moore brought the word Utopia into being. The idea is old, older than the name, think of the utopian farces of Aristophones. In Cloud Cuckoo Land, Pisthetaerus chases away the poet, the town planner, the inspector, the oracle peddler, the law mason.

Pisthetaerus becomes like a God.

Utopia; what is the meaning? It could be outopia - no place, or it could be eutopia, good place. Does it matter? Moore gives us only utopia, teasing us or misunderstanding? Culture arises equally from the fact of not remembering the quote correctly as it does the note perfect recital.

Tales and myths, or so I am told, are powerful emotional tools that pass culture and morality down the ages. Let us not pass down the morality of our parents, of the police man, or an edginess that actually dulls.

Reject bourgeois concepts of conflict in literature! Let us build to our own climaxes!

I am not naive, but I seek to become naive.

Johnny Rotten sang "There is no future", it was implied but not understood, unless you make it yourself.

He also sang, "Your future dream is a shopping scheme." Let us write, let us spew, let us draw, let us extrude, sing, scream, paint, cry, act, shout, perform, build our dreams. For ourselves.

No more tales of junkie lusers - realistic and gritty as they may be, they only reinforce the power of Kapital over us, they only reinforce our alienation.

Reject the cult of violence and death. we are, our children are fed a steady diet of death, let us say enuf. Choose (as George Michael quaintly said) Life. Real active live work, as opposed to the concentration of dead labour.

Work going back the generations - something done, deed, action - weorc, worc, werkan, werk, verk, warc, werah, werk, gawaurki, vareza, ergon, orgia, gorc, verziu, vargas, vragu, waurkjan, wyrcan, wrikan, wrecan, yrka - and PIE *werg-. Also an urge, THE HUMAN URGE.

Do not be wishy-washy.

If you want to be cynical, do it properly, give up all wealth and possessions, live in a wine cask, do not eat meat, and see the knife as your friendly doctor.

If you wish to be a skeptic, again do it properly, doubt all things, even your own thoughts and experiences. Walk with friends who will save you from the cliff.

To create to make to do to act to play to dream. To struggle to win.

Be realistic, the graffito spoke to me, demand the impossible. The Dream Factory. The space where we build our dreams. A place of work and struggle.

A lifetime of compulsion. A dream of play. Two or three days a week at most, maybe a week in every six. Child care at the work place, schools serving breakfast and lunch, helpful police men and women dressed in natty grey uniforms with pink piping, passing out condoms, and directions to lost tourists, lovely and unarmed.

Philosophy has only interpreted the world, the point is to change it. Is not art a mode of philosophy? Is not art a love of wisdom, a way of interacting with the world. The point of art is to change the world.

Hoi aristoi kai hoi polloi

Friday was a typical indecisive Lower Derventio sort of day, sweeping showers chased off in the arvo by a southerly change. The clouds ran off. Replaced with a squinting sun and blue sky shy time. Pup deep sea diver footed fell cheap as poms bowled twisters and lobs. Pick pack pock puck. Lilbet street jags a cold syllogistic knife thrust from down below the water into past the townie hall and the Victorian mourning style layer cake GPO. Went on an art trail

Up the hill into the depths of the local cool scene side of town and lots of tidy little shops and cafes and wine bars commingling with the old long term time rickety shop fronts. The theme of our discussion.

For commerce and art bedded down strong in the old sleepy redneck imagined Hobart town. Diamond dogs barked by the river at the opening of the new gallery, at great cost, with an adventurous festival of art and music over the town ways. But we are not to concern ourselves with mona at the moment, for a more simple street art time was to be invented. Forty some odd shops up the mainline north south access allowagreed to allow local artists to decorate shop windows, to aerosol resolved neglected brick falling downs. Competing the smell of oil and burnt metal, of hot chip oil and curry and the grunt of internal combustion, and this afternoon sun squinty and crying. While down Bellrive Marsh and Bollinger set upon smacking a record ninth wicket partnership. A shout in the street, Stephen said, shrugging his shoulders.

It would be hard to do justice to all the various art works which were exhibited on this walk up window shopping front windows lilbet street. And with such a large amounts of work there was to be no arching narrative to unit all the works, aside from the obvious patterns created as the works are to be revealed in a serial manner. To the grand pattern making animal this is more than enough. I did not take down names, either of the artist or the works, this is only to be a collage of sights and thoughts which past as I walked the works.

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So around and about hung a loss collection of punks and teddies and hipsters and bohoed and all the other cliches hurled about. The sun was warm and in the shadows it was cool. The street itself as the gallery in the laughternoon setting sun and the songs of traffic and community as a undulating background musical hall. Diving right in. Playground paintings of the memories of long gone childhood. A good crowd showed and walked and talked and made a rolling democratic community. The surrealist walking about and chance juxtaposition. Water lilies cut and shape formed plastic recycled plastic cups vast waste of bottled water while the world dies of thirst Cornell style constructions of oddment boxes. Desire and Mystery. Sleepy record shop window diorama of sleepy eyes. Installations and ease on down paintings and drawings and cartoons and found objects and murals a fat and wide range of activities all resettled in a living breathing gallery. Locals wending the blustery change crowd of maybe 40 or more art types. Central Oz scenic splashy of bold colour orange below the strength sapping sun. Skate crowd shop graffiti art works displayed thin tiny splatter of dots creating a new life under the works. Lilbeth street rises from the water line to the ramshackle tattered all but falling around old curiosity shop old buildings. And a chatter of network. The steeple of the brick dusty church thrustpoints into the skyways. Acrylic computer screens and thematic human enthronements all in one way or another auto biographic splendour it all coheres pyre epiphany what we have built all about our selves and the way in which we iterate. A common element. Photosphere. The random groupings as ideas and concerning around come to the surface. Again I think of Nadja of the walk around. Cycles of decay and rebirth. Don't follow fashion hand made dresses watch the parking meters individual. Another form of making and of communicating colour line and all such like. Kelp instruments full ghostlier church, and the found the glanced at and found in the corner of the reflected glass or best of all reflected off the shallow side of the gutter puddle. And beauty resides in the accidental. One more vine rises from the floor an auto bio tile. County woman's gift shop. Naive displays of shop keepers and the curious jumble of this and that. Fine line paintings of birds and empty phonies bulky and mute and built area rounding. Built up worlds of imaginations insubstantial as a cyclone, naive as a child. Avatars of polly chars. Turkish daylight prison head of little guys in prison. Knives and Tats. Cardboard proscenium depths of city silhouettes. Cider gum print lavish french clocks. Nature nurture destruction of tas and tanguy biomorphic and all closed in antique seller. Imagined house of impassible angles. Stairs growing out of the rock the gallery of all outdoorsy becomes the art itself. Plasticine skull reconstructions. Carpet cop it shop photoshopped images and fish feet. Rock and roll blaring jokers beer garden. Graffito wall aerosol paintings quiet back alley parking lot midnight toking spot. IDE stripped bare. Found children wild uncensored genius drawings. Postered porn images. Colonials confronting tramping the bush twelve feet tall wall. Blood shot eyed and distorted cartoon pix of hot rod dudes. Painting the same image over again and repetition is to our age and apache hair. Reflections of images the images fractal sexuality repetition as recollection to the greeks half ten years after. Chronos and Gnosis. Jewels in choc shop winda rich lush flora tas in the bottlo. Reflecting dances of shards of light dancing across the sleek and smooth parked surface of the cream appointed auto. Reused fabric painted. Parthenon collage. Edwardian PO impossible paintings earthy yellow brown. Slipping into the early evening let us get our supper bartime.

This is no more than a quick overview of a listing of the many works of art. And any emphasis put on a work or an artist, or not as the case may be has less to do with my interest or enjoyment of any pieces of work , but more has to do with my agility to get a good look at the works, chatting, not being able to hear and the like. In all it was a splendid idea and one that there should be repeated. The walk, the series of chance meetings, and of the various introductions to the pieces worked to inspire imaginings. It is always nice to see art in the community. People are more open and accepting of art and difference than one may assume from the media. There are a great many forces at work in our age that seek to create division and misunderstanding. Anything, like this art walk, which seeks to combine and create understanding should be supported in anyway that one is able.

Drifters Cafe & Caritas Poetry Event

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Sharp windy, slow setting night walking.

Saturday last, I went out into the city, to the Drifters Internet
Cafe. Nestled off the side street down stairs the market dock
Salamanca shade of Wellington side of town. A relaxed venue for
listening to a poet. Poetry for Pakistan, a fund raiser for the
Caritas Pakistan Flood Appeal. A series of readings had been organised
for the appeal, but this was the only one I could attend. I was lucky
to be able to make it to this reading. More formless than planned out
this document is my attempt to understand what I learnt about the
event.

Ghosts of the Galapagos; the poetry of flight. A series of new lyrics
by Paul Healy. Fog lifting revealing panta, revealing all things, the
picton bridge, the blue heron. I arrived late, mid poem, and began to
quiet sit and poured myself a glass of water. And set myself to
listen. And ordered a cup of chai, frothy in the modern style with a
shake of cinnamon on top. High vaulted and perfumed poetry.

A simple quiet venue, with a small attentive crowd. I was at once
swept up with the flow of the poets words, his skill at 'making', his
simple and confident reading style. As advertised the poetry was a
series of lyrics around the theme of flight, about bird flight. This
ordinary, everyday idea separated itself and allowed multicoloured
ideas to flourish.

I was, with the poem about the lame gull who was able to gain the
choicest food, struck with the scientific cold harded factual manner,
in that compassion may not be the best reaction in many a natural
relationship. The human desire to place our values, and with good
intentions to intervene is not always the best course of action.

Songs of loss and desolation, of joy and astonishment. A dialogue of
nature and a lesson in what is being done in our state. A tale of
chemical warfare in the forests and Tasmanian devil facial tumours in a
poem called simply '1080'.

Everywhere images of the wonder and of the erotic generative spirit of
nature. Will to Power, nature struggling to create and manifest across
many forms. From the rushing diving collared sparrow hawk making a
kill, to the blue heron still on blue rock shading the water to tempt
the little fish, to the unlikely pigeon in some plot of dead land
neither bush nor city highlighted in a ray of setting sunlight, to
clinking currawongs in the Styx Valley sounding like far off church
bells, the images of flight blended with a scientific understanding of
the environment, and created a strong series of lyrics.

The poet confessed his surprise at some poems which seemed to come all
at once, as if formed from the ether. This is of course the result of
study, and practising technique. Leave the reader hanging, the poet
offered as advice, using his own work for examples. Add a strong grasp
of the English tradition, and a love of the classic forms of
poetry. The comparison thoughts that sprang to my mind while words
described the spine tailed swift flying 5000 feet in the sky and
'rides the summer thunder wall', of course was Hopkins, followed by
the ol' Will-of-Wisp Yeats. Scrambled into the forgotten linkages of
the Heraclitian Gyre.

A poem about the Pied Butcher Bird described the harmony of white and
black and gray camouflage colouring, there is a unity in
diversity. Pied Beauty and a similar eye for natural detail as
Hopkins, and while I can not agree with the poet's program of reviving
the classical forms of English poetry, I will agree that the study of
poetry is worthwhile as an end in itself. A rigorous understanding
and appreciation of the various forms of poetry, allow vast fields of
poetic imagination and inspiration to spring to life. Ripe fruit for
the poet to feast upon. Even for the experimental poets it must be
accepted that 'no verse is free', and for all poets that creation is
social creation.

So while there was a strong spiritual element that I could not agree
with, I am only too happy to quote Lenin, “Intelligent idealism is
nearer to intelligent materialism than is stupid materialism." and
leave the subject closed.

Listening to the ABC local radio in the morning, I was at once struck
with the passion and pleased to hear the poet speak of the importance
of supporting young poets, and the need to create a space for young
poets. This is to me very important and if I can add a slogan to the
argument, it would be 'More mentors, Fewer English Teachers.' While I
readily accept that poetry comes in many shapes and sizes, and is
indeed a raw creative purgation involving language, practised by a
wide and diverse section of society, I do find it amusing to hear
academics discuss other academics as having a 'demotic voice.' Allow
me to step off my soap hobby horse box, and commend Paul Healy as a
poet, and even more importantly as a mentor.

Gallery Opening

Echoing church bells clang out five
End of work week ending the day.
Out they pour from shops and walls,
Work sites, to queue the pub bars,
Cash point, hole in the wall.

Daylight of children
Wide parliament tour
And museum wanderings.
With the setting of the sun
With the rising of the wind
I wandered old shop town shore front
Factory warehouses transformed.
Flowing tide climbing the stairs.
Old grain silo segmented homes.
Working harbour view. Side step
The head feeding night dark park.
Splashing beef blood red wine entry.
The newly moved gallery home.

And an exhibit of two young local artists was being opened at
the Colville Gallery. Still new to town, I thought it worthwhile
to investigate. And I am glad that I did.

Aquinas taught that art must have three elements to be
beautiful, Integritas, Consontia & Claritas. These are sometimes
defined as Wholeness, Harmony & Radiance. Wholeness and harmony
seem to be easily understood in relation to a work of art, and
it is Claritas - Radiance that is more problematic. Claritas
must be the ineffable and must refer to something internal
and organic being emitted from the work under consideration.

This construction seems however to lead us into a circle of
confusion. To be beautiful the work must radiate. But what
is to be radiated, and how? Maybe we can find a more easily
grasped concept in the works of the Victorian English critic
and oft named hedonist, Walter Horatio Pater. For in his
masterly work on the Renaissance, besides leading young men
astray, he used the concept of a 'lovely strangeness.' After
the storms and stresses of modernism, our age should not find
the idea of strangeness in art to be too confronting. Beauty,
after all, will be convulsive or it will not be at all.

In the works on display we can get an idea of both the
strangeness and the loveliness. The works of Matthew Armstrong
were all landscapes of our naturally artificial world. However
none contained any images of people, only the tatters and
droppings of humanity. All of his works were set in a twilight
atmosphere. These two facts worked to inspire a charming feeling
of wonderment in the viewer, raising questions rather than
offering boxed answers. Is this meant to be set in the rising of
dawn, or the passing of the day, does the lonely country road
beckon one forward with the sky glowing home fires of love and
affection, or does this road and this sky lead us into certain
oblivion? This allowing and encouraging the viewer to supply
elements to the work is to me an important element of any art.
For to tie up all the loose ends and offer up final denouement
is the work of a mind too caught up in the dominant bourgeois
shop keeper error, where all things fetter under a certain type
rational control and all stories come complete with closure.

Turning to the other wall, we see the works of Chris Bennett,
again a young local artist. Chris' work does not have the
metaphysical twilight blue palate of Matthew's work. But
his works equally emitted the lovely strangeness, were
equally concerned with light and tensions unresolved. In
contradistinction to Matthew's Chris' works all included human
figures, with most of his figures questioning the viewer. In
'The Lull' a couple sat together and ninety degrees apart in a
room lit by an external light. These paintings for the most part
were works of the inside, of humanity's built environments. In
'11PM' a questioning face appeared as an apparition from a
darkness vaguely reminiscent of Rembrandt shadowy world. The
'Indistinct Horizon' was almost a fugue in in black and
white, an individual sitting on a public bench looking over
an endless sea and sky pregnant with pure white nothingness,
while a silhouetted trash can turns into a possible momento
mori tombstone.

Both artists had very solid technique and understanding of
composition, so the elements of wholeness and harmony can
be easily seen, whether in the rich dark green detail of
the obscured row of plants in the foreground of Matthew's
painting 'The Domain', or in the slight and powerful blue
brush strokes touches on the bottom of the lamp post in the
'Indistinct Horizon'. The question than revolves around the
idea of claritas, which we see that both artists were able
to radiate a lovely strangeness, charming and compelling the
viewer to engage with the works on display.

In all I can only hope that both artists have long and fruitful
careers and I will look forward to seeing more such pieces.

In Vino Veritas

Went to a poetry reading, four local poets all prize winners, all published. A fine winter's day which began with poetry and ending with infection. Read on if you dare!


The imagination in search of a fabulous world is autonomous and unconfined!

---

We got a baby sitter and so we able to go out on a Sunday afternoon,
with no children, like a big person.

Bare autumnal invasive trees
Wide Gershwin afternoon wintery
Hillside of milk cows dry hillside
Rolling champagne bubbling wide
Irrawaddy ditches tufts
Of grass navy comms rebuffed.

How did we waste our time? Off to the Mount Majura Winery to see (hear
maybe) four poets, as part of the Majura Poetry Readings, 'Verse in
the Vines'.

There were, as I said four poets. John Leonard, Lesly Lebkowicz,
P.S. Cottier and Paul Magee.

First off the rank was John Leonard, who read from some of his books,
published and yet to be published. He read from some of his books
including 'Jesus in Kashmir' and 'Braided Lands'.

According to his website his works have "a definite political
philosophy, a green perspective on a wasteful, self-deluded
first-world populace, who, having trashed an entire planet in less
than six generations, now want ‘security’". He read a few poems, and
to be honest I did not notice his poetry being particularly political,
green or otherwise. But as all things are political, why even make the
distinction.

With the thoughts of the 'stone perfect embodiment of stoniness' of
the 'spotless butterfly wings' rambling my noodle, I could only think
that his work was in that school of modern Australian poetry that
seemed to want simple words conveying simple to comprehend
ideas. There is, of course, nothing wrong with this paradigm, but it
is not mine. I stand with Joyce, who when confronted by Wyndham Lewis'
criticism of the fussy additions of a Gothic cathedral, replied
(something to the effect of), this is where my work begins. I want a
poetry that is exuberant (even rhetorical) and fun, that fears not
recursive convolutions or embellishments or fussy additions.

I much prefer the later convulsions of the Ezuveristy, than the stark
Amygist Bunting shaving of inversions and superfluity in sonnet 87 to
a simple direct.

"Farewell! Thou art too dear for my possessing;
And like enough thou know'st thy estimate."

Simple. Clear and not meant for publication.

Simple words simply used for honesty, to sway the reader.

For myself, I do delight in the dense Heralcitian obscurity of the
Fifth Decade of the Cantos, or Finnegans Wake. (And let the common
reader be damned).

A review of a review.

The next poet was P.S. Cottier, who writes slightly fabulous socially
aware poetry, involving the reality of suddenly being middle aged, (a
description I can heartily endorse!), and being 'too late for
Wimbledon, I made a poetic racket'.

Coincidentally the Canberra Times (July 25 2009) had a review of the
this poet. She has recently published a book entitled 'The Glass
Violin', and it was this work that was reviewed in the Times. Within
this review we see the idea of simple words used simply in the
review. The title poem of the book contains the lines.

"deep susurrus of Sibelius makes
aurorae in the dingy room".

The review uses this as a example of straining too hard. This
calibration confused and disappointed me. What is expected from poets
in Australia these days? Maybe a thin list of monosyllables that do not
in any way strain the reader or force them to the dictionary? I am
not sure. I prefer my motto to be along of the lines of 'that if
something is not hard it is not worth doing'. As well the image of the
aurorae in the dingy room, echos Kit Marlowe and infinite riches in a
little room. (Which happily contains the side effect of going up and
down at the same time.) The reviewer than went on to criticise Cottier
for being strident in her poems, 'The Catalogue of Australia's
Military Operations", and "Chatter overheard in cafes"

The catalogue was not much more than a list of the names of the
operations that the Australian Army has been involved in. From the
Sudan, the first of our overseas wars, to 'again azure guards Sudan.'
This really seemed to be no overt attack on the honour of our fighting
diggers, rather a simple list jumbled up slightly and forged into a
poem. Strident? This word can be taken as little more than a sexist
code word. A simple google search for strident women will reinforce
this, but let us leave our discussion with teh reminder that what is
forceful for men is strident for women. (Strident = Offensively loud
and insistent, harsh, jarring).

Following on was Lesley Lebkowicz, who read for us an amusing 'slice
of life' tall tale anecdote of Australians teasing upper class
Englishmen. She then read some poems of a collection she had on the
Petrov affair. As Russia awaits with a rapists assurance, this was a
puzzling piece to me. I was not what was meant and why would she even
bother to write this, but I shall withhold judgement as I am not
familiar with the entire piece.

The readings were rounded off by Paul Magee, and he read among other
things some poems that included his translations from the Aeneid, as
well as a mocking reference to Pound's 'The Metro'.

In general it was a pleasant, if none too inspiring afternoon's
diversion. I must agree with the half remembered quote that every poem
I hear (or read) teaches me something. The works all had strong
technique, and compared to the poetry slams, which are my preferred
medium, were of a more even quality. Unlike a slam there was little in
the work of a strong emotional power, and the standard of deliver was
weak. Both forms are correct and both have strengths and weaknesses. I
must confess to my enjoyment of the ephemeral hurly burly of the slam
over the calmness of in vino veritas, in aqua sanitas.

And then we went home, to find our little boy was vomiting. So was
unleashed 5 days of hell, as a 'tummy' bug tore through the household
like Glen McGrath through a trembling English XI.

The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom

Post number 100. I guess that says something about my stubborn perseverance in the face of constant ignoring :-)

---

Funny old day, funny old life. Started in the morning. Woke up got the kids breakfast, and sat down to check my emails. This was followed by a quick check of the news. An article jumped right out at me, a leading midwife in England said something to the effect that women need to toughen up and not have pain relief in childbirth.

A short goggle search and some surfing later, and it was found out
that the article was poorly written and out of context. Indeed the
midwife was questioning the hospital systems over reliance on
technical fixes, as the birth process is more and more taylorised and turned into a production line. This post seemed to be a much more sensible discussion to me.

Even Tracey Spicer felt the need to speak out trivializing the report with an inane anecdote about her childhood, and some vague narrow evidence based only on her personal experience.

Like Pavlovian dogs responding to high pitched whistle of our spectacle masters vast hordes of bloggers hit the netwaves and gave us hundreds of comments by the end of the day. Reminding me once again that there is no darkness but ignorance.

And near the end of the day I watched a documentary on children made
orphans by the cyclone in Burma. Choking back tears my wife said, 'It puts into perspective the petty bourgeois women who complain when the doctor will not give an epidural in the first instance.' Crying over the hopeless children on the television I had no alternative but to agree with her.

In between all that I went into work, and made some utilities to
support our monitoring application. Log rolling, password changer,
nothing too brain burning - but things that had to be done.

And then I found my notebook from a recent poetry reading I went to
at the National Library of Australia (NLA)

On July 4 I went to 'An Afternoon of Poetry' a launch of two new CDs
published by the River Road Poetry Series. Scissors, Fire, Paper, Water is the 12th volume. The first volume having been produced in December of 2007. In the words of Carol Jenkins the publisher, 'I set out, on a whim, to put together a collection of poems that played a game of Scissors, Fire, Paper,Water.' We were to hear some selections from this piece, as well as volume 14 'Coffee with Miles' by Geoff Page.

This is a very commendable project, it is great to see someone willing to do this sort of work, when it seems obvious that money can not be a main determinate in the series.

The latest volume was described, quite evocatively, as being a living thing that one puts on, much like a jacket lined with field mice.

The event was in a conference room on level four of the NLA. Max
Harris looked angry penguin frail and old across the room. What would his judgement of the crowd of about 60 to 75 people (it was not more than 90) and the poems we heard?

The first reader was Stephen Edgar, a Sydney based poet. He started with a piece of 'languid ease' entitled "Red Sea", a poem of luck that seemed to lead us into a 'blind of ubiquity'. Nocturnal was next, a poem of 'midnight loss', after the death of a loved one. A tight and powerful piece, dealing with a subject we often do not want to have to face in our modern sanitised deathless world.

Inspired in part by the Ken Burns series on the American Civil War
was 'Sun Pictorial' this had an image of 'beauty of Baghdad' which
confused me, and made it seem as if the author was impressed by the
American shock and awe campaign.

And then he finished off with a childhood memory poem, 'In Summer
Wind' where radios murmured repetitively on a hot listless Sunday
afternoon.

Martin Langford came next and he spoke about how nature is made up of
not of words, but more than words, and some things I imagine which can not even be spoken.

Anecdotal, a slice of life passing away, a story of a WWII refugee come to live with the weird mob down under. Slowly, (what had he left?), but to murder himself with cigarettes.

Cezanne and Brahms and someone else I missed drinking in a beer garden overlooking the Hawkesbury River, yarning 'bout how this planet needs kindness. However after listening to his poems my mind sparked William Blake, the tigers of wrath are wiser than the horses of instruction.

Maybe old Ezra was right (without the antisemitism and fascism), maybe history and economics and the role of banking et alli are important topics for the poet.

On the far wall Jean Campbell midwife to 'the babe is wise'. Her legs crossed, her hat red, her gloves lace. Detached she looked vaguely out the window, holding up half of heaven, yet only hold one third of the poets places this afternoon.

Judith Beveridge followed, described as 'never a word out of place'
fine praise indeed!

Saffron Pickers, inspired by the events in Iraq, stories in
newspapers. 150 000 stamen to get a kilo of spice. Again there seemed to be no explicit tying of the back breaking poverty and never ending labour of the poor to the creation of fabulous exotic luxury goods. I know it is often hard to judge a poem correctly in this sort of venue, so I could be mistaken or have misunderstood, that is possible.

Mother & Child contrasted the child 'cascades of laughter' with the
sadness felt by the mother. Hopelessness hidden within a nature poem
cataloging the birds of the Australian suburbs, Magpies, Indian
Mynahs, Cockatoos.

A poem called Rain, which was unsurprisingly about rain. 'Rustling
like silk', 'loquacious rain' like a 'leaf mist' of grain.


And rounding off her section with 'Appaloosa' in the mist and the rain
she has 'always loved the word appaloosa'.

As the event wore on, I could not fault any of the poets for their
grasp of various poetic forms and technical understanding of the craft of poetry. As each one of us can only, as Aristotle says, know our own experience; I seek something else. Having grown up around the various slams and such like readings I want a bit more excitement, a bit more word play and derring-do in my poetry. There is a desire to create accessible poetry, but I stand in opposition to such an idea. People have always loved poetry and are surrounded by poetry in much of their day to day life, even if they may not always feel this fact. It seems to me that many poets fight a fight for accessibility that does not in fact exist. If there is any less love of poetry, it is the academic poetry that is filled with nice words and thin subject matter that the working people do not relate to. Working class culture is closer to matter and closer to the transcendental animal nature of human existence. Indeed for many of us the daily trip to work could well be the last time we get to say good bye to our children. (2000 deaths a year in the workplace.)


Mark Tredinnick read some of his luxuriant post modern bucolics, harking back while looking forward. Again we had the idea of the mind beneath the mind, of nature that exists as a terrible serene destructive counterpoint to our technical culture of failed words, and failed processes and ruined lives. Rivers run from swerve of shore to bend of bay before language.

Cicadas surface after 14 years, what intelligence, what will to power drives them out of ground to climb and shriek far into the
nights. What intelligence is in the cherry pip? What admixture of
marijuana and over the counter pain killers lead to the palace of wisdom?

Some images of God and more rain, and glib geometric Canberra.

The publisher Carol Jenkins read a couple of poems, one about child
fighters in Columbia, 'Trading in Small Arms' which while admirably
drawing attention to the plight of the child soldier could have gone
further in making her critique. This was followed by 'PET Facts'. This was a self confessed nerd poem which sent a rolling chuckle through the audience.

The final poet for the afternoon Geoff Page read. He started by
setting up a false dichotomy between performance and literary poets,
which to my thinking was a bad omen. All poems are about death, and
sunflower hallucinations and illusion and photo fallin' setting up a breath and death dialectic of rhyme, scrapping the lizards offa the texas trees. Or maybe some jazz poems about having a cup of joe with maybe slow silent way too cool Miles Davis mystic cool with the mad ones crossing a rain soaked angry negro rosy colored dawn street in maybe Providence or angry fix hipster Hartford, hands deep thrust into rough strong fabric trousers. angelheaded hipsters burning panorama of East St. Louis Toodle-oo.

All within Canberra's glib geometry? Quite a few poems, and by now I
have all but lost my note taking skills, and let the words flow riverrun between the Epicurean swerve. What have we, Beyond Good and Evil is a world that is hurtling into no future of unimaginable violence, and these poets, some of the most published, most awarded in the country can not get much above the shouting level of the agnostic. Surely the kindness we are to show the planet has to be more desperate than this.

I fear God's entropy and our own time wasting.

What could I see from all this? A technical understanding, an
infatuation with nature poems, and with being accessible, coupled with an almost total disregard for the political events which overwhelm working people the world over. If these are some of the 'best and brightest' of the Australian poetry scene, then viva la revolucion.

Symbols of the Dreaming from the Chaos Void

Went to the launch of an exhibit at the Belconnen Gallery in the
surprising named Belconnen Community Centre .

The exhibit was of a young artist by the name of Joabie Lovett. As
described by Professor Margot Neale (ANU), in her opening remarks, his
work has a singularity and integrity which one often fails to see
these days. There is a sense of the work being done for the pleasure
of the artist. Here we must pause for a moment to understand and
describe the pleasure of life as being the understanding and self
expansion of the self. So to rephrase the sentence. There is the
feeling that the work is being done for the personal understanding and
expansion of the artist. This seems to be a prime motive.

This is to be commended. There is no pandering to market or public
fads. The work itself can be described as a catalouge of a spirtual
journey. This is a wide ranging and catholic journey. Striding over
Buddihst, Christan, Hebrew, Egyptian, Hindu and of of course
Indigenous spirtulaity and iconography. The canvas is seen as a flat
surface for story telling (like the blank page for the poet), not so
much a mirror, or a creation of perpective illusion.

There is much to see and think about, there is much to admire. The dot
painted and cross hatched backgrounds are layered with simple yet
powerful images and painted words that extend the narrative. The use
of color was at times subtle, at other times exuberant, but never was
a unfriendly effect created.

As each of us can only speak from our experince, I was disturbed by
the godleness of the exhibit. I feel that a strong beauty and art can
be found by looking over the wide tradtion and picking the persons and
ideas that sought to free us from all idealism and into a word pure
world of nature where human history and nature again can become
one.

But that is just my personal feeling, and like the vast majority of
white people in Australia I have lived a life of relative
privilege. If anyone was to ask I would tell them to stop by the
Belconnen Gallery and judge for yourself, even if you were an old
school atheist like myself, you would find much in the exhibit to
captivate and exicte the imigination.

A Gutful of Art

Closing in on one hundred posts. So we shall move on. These are some of the events I have been to.

---

Went to two different events in the last few days. The first one on
Friday Evening (June 26 2009) was the normal poetry slam held at the
Front Cafe. Compared to last months infamous, woman's only, reading the joint was packed out, indeed I felt claustrophobic and had to step outside into the early winter evening to get some space.

The usual gang of poets descended like locusts devouring and
spewing out all manner of words. I hung about for about half of the
evening, chatting with assorted people, drinking a few beers, before
the discomfort of the large crowd in the small venue got the
better of me, and I left. Sad to say that the crowd was so large that it became difficult to hear some of the readers.

A friend from my work came along and we both enjoyed the
evening. As the rhymes and riddims spread across the room, special
attention was drawn to Anthony's declamation of the bus voucher.
Leading to (or following from), discussions of the Platonic ideal and the language of object oriented programming OOP, and the naming and ordering of found poetry.

Which for no obvious reason raises an interesting question. Compared to last month's relatively poor turnout, what gives? Knowing Julian fairly well, at least in his guise as a poetry Svengali, I can vouch for his commitment to being inclusive in who is allowed to read. Is this even a problem, an issue? Are we all to blame, are we blameless? Are we thrown and lost in the maelstrom? Do we lack the understanding to crawl ourselves unto the earthly paradise?

Paradise bower bird males gathering shiny Moriarty blue objects,
building preening dancing stages. Is this biology, simple chemistry and little else? Are poets only looking for the pleasure that matter brings? Of course (everyone says) there is more to the creation of art than Werther's sturm und sorrow drang. Confronting naked lunch at the end of the fork? If not now when?

One does not have to look very long or hard (pun intended??) to find many instances and discussions of the unifying of sexual and creative energy.

My love talks of the intimidating stance and speech of the men
poets, I can not fault her argument. As part of the problem...

---

On Monday I went to Smith's Books for a book launch of local poet, Fiona McIlory. The book was launched by Green Party member Ms Caroline
Le Couteur MLA. Praise was given to small business as being members of the community, and how money spent at small business stayed in the community. This is all very true, but also is the fact that giant oaks grow from tiny acorns. There is an intelligence within the exploitive relationship which wishes to unfold itself.

Touching accessible poems of life and love and loss.

One tiny bit stuck a sore point with me. In a poem, which I did
not catch the title of, comment was made of using Vista to access the internet, facebook, GetUp et al. Surely in this day and age of solid, easy (relatively) to install GUN/Linux distributions, no right thinking progressive person or organinsation can justify using Micr$oft products.

• Freedom 0: The freedom to run the program for any purpose.


• Freedom 1: The freedom to study and modify the program.


• Freedom 2: The freedom to copy the program so you can help your neighbor.


• Freedom 3: The freedom to improve the program, and release your improvements to the public, so that the whole community benefits.

And then some songs were sung by the poet. And then I had to dash off into the night. The bookends of my weekend. Friday and Monday night.

It's a Heavy Rain...

I went out last weekend, (weekend of March 13 2009.) Had some drinks, met up with some pals, heard some music, and heard some new tall tale, cock and bull stories. All in all an unexciting, pleasant evening. (had a notebook with me, taking notes like a mossad agent).


From obsessive readings of Pound, I have learned abrupt, almost nonsensical changes of mood, place, tense etc. This piece is lousy with s sort of damned quantum jumping.


I have tried to jam pack this piece full of shite & onions.


Some parts are from the letters of a certain young sailor who used the moniker of E**** M****. Quite a bit is pillaged from the B__d of A__n.


An overwhelming question, that does no ask what is it, is the questions of poetical transcendence or visionary power through a "long, intimidating, immense and rational derangement of all the senses."


Drugs alcohol etc all do this. But so too obscuring nyx and our sign posted civitas. The sounds of the automated world, the nightmare glare destroying the zodiac. The hypnocritical power of epilepsy music, constant emotions of rhythm, falling from the open trance doors of the clubs splicing sounds onto the pavement.

---

Ennui

A very pretty salon 
With a piano

Sun light smashes
    On white wet tea leaves
A rainbow spans the East.

A continuous
Spectrum Quantized
Multicoloured arc
    Red on the outside
    Violet inside.
Rainbow apex will form
Roughly 42 degrees 
    Above the location 
    The antisolar point

Science tells me this.
Empirical. Repeatable.
The conditions to predict 
A rainbow I know and I can
        Then
Point out to the children
Where a rainbow will be...
    Any less precious?
Aphrodisias space
Dual Banded Alexander.






Kicks & Beatings

We are looked after by
    Four poor ships boys
Scurvying the night
Crusty letting out the air
Of four wheel Drive tyres
Shutting down petrol
    These dirty bludging 
    Throw away children
    Are the one who will...
And these children that you spit on
Immune to your consultations
Ecstatic feral ones you despise
        Whose training consists of 
        Kicks and Beatings

Murderous of public
Cursing a rout of rebels
Opinion air ways Rage

THE RABBLEMENT:
    Whoreson beetle-headed
    Flap-ear'd knaves!
    Rascals senesless villains
    Caterpillars lentil-fed knaves

    Away,  
    You whoreson upright rabbits 
    Away! 

    Loggerheads, rascals.
    Malt horse drudges.
    Dogs! I will Blast
    And give 'em all a
    Great galloping 
    Dose of 'ows your farder...

    Hang, cur! hang
    Insolent noisemaker! 
    How now Brown cow...
    You whoreson peasant!
    Where have you been these 
        Two days loitering?

RABBLE OF MODERATION:
Rebels, traitors; (let us) scourge
With haughty arms 
This hateful name.

All this carry-on   
    Tut tut...
(What hempen home-spuns 
    Have we swaggering here)
        They seem to do their
        Cause more harm than 
            Good.

And so to arms, victorious father,
To quell the rebels and their complices
I assure you it makes
Them remarkably obedient
Think, thy slave man rebels
And by thy virtue
Set them into confounding odds
That beasts may have the world 
    In empire!






Nausea 

Bunches of blossoms 
Bloom the corded branch
Butter shiny after the rain
Arousing all insect manner 
Winged and crawling...
    Dark to the West
    Glowing
        A man running
I was, I am
Horribly sea sick

Empty Bus Station
Lonely of an evening
Reflected blank windows
Office Block. Brutal.

Dense fagends of saliva agenda.
What matters the orthodontist?
Who is inconvenienced, hindered,
Annoyed? Car tyres let down.
    One billion One dollar a day.
    Three billion Two Fifty a day.
I really miss the comforts of home

Mysterious brown thighs
Of breakfast and long narcotic
Languor Workday Afternoon
Whiskey soda water and ice
Crushed.

Small silvereyed birds
Chorus unseen. An umbrella doubles
As a cane. Coughing Spitting
Shaking the ground for support.






Radiant Nemesis

Shining Adrasteia
Black glowing laneway.
    Nyx bare deadly dreams
    Nyx bore the implacable 
Executrix, lover of hooded
Bloody sanded fighters.
    Old, ancient, old
    Long before the gods...

Squalid cord of dirty mirrors
Sloppy spilling of college age
Friends of the band 
BrokenDown old 
Half rail way 
Shot gun house.







All Art is Art

Swinging bare iron mips
Of trenchtown roots rock
Sea & Sky always the Same

The cooling after rain 
Of outside. It's Stupid. Slow
And Fuzzy.
    I wont die for your lies
    Mother Fucker
    I wont die for your greed
        For you failures for your
        Power tripping
    Mutha Fucker
    
I wont kill for your lies
    Mother Fucker
    I wont kill for your greed
        For you failures for your
        Power tripping
    Mutha Fucka






Porco Dio

The constant electronic
Metronome flash of security
Hypnotised W/ music sounds
Of one hundred conversations
One thundered luvers dramas
Metal porcelain Nick 
The Stripper shells
Ecstatic porcine jugs
Fill flame shabby ideas
Upon the shelved walls
Piss pot toby mugs into
Down his hatch one more...
Last bunk bush rail outta town
Phornographic flash and echo
Far truck thunder. A rational 
Disordering - take apart
Put hence together senses
Sonic boom blast room box
Lift lit with pale stinkly 
Mobile fone LED. The moon 
Lint courting noble fire 
Fly Lighting doodle bug
Phrenzy. Six nose Ate
Coopers Gaurning the
Buttress oil rum drunk
Daemons padrone. I etch
The lost bunch multiple
Drammes of lite disordered
Sensations of beaming and
Followed hard upon by shadow
Toddle and balance lost
Following her bat wing ass
Door her long hare swaying
Full 85% moon tat waxing
Or more and the harsh
Mudern Lite... 






And
This evening 
The sea 
Was 

More phosphorescent
Than usual...
    The boat seemed to be plunging
        A SEA OF FIRE.

It was quite 

Beautiful.

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Feb 2009 SLAM @ The Front

Went to the Front Cafe for the monthly poetry reading/slam,
the first slam for 2009. Actually was quite nice fun night out 'cause there were a hole heap of new faces and verses.

Omar won (again!).

A new poet started off the evening with a wondrous poem about the stages of womanhood. A powerful piece, which if she had stayed and allowed the poem to be 'judged', would have doubtless won a prize. Alternating spoken word and snatches of thin sung chorus lines, which worked to link the stages, this was the sort of work which makes one ashamed to be a man. A sharp biting work on familial and sexual relations of power. (unfortunately i was not prepared with pen and notebook to take notes, so i can not remember her name) Some other new faces, and faces not heard for several months.

It is a universally accepted truism that art is a religion and that the museums are the cathedrals for this religion. If we follow this metaphor into a conceit we can see the front gallery as being a consoling chapel.

Moving (beer in hand) into the adjoining gallery. Three artists were on show entitled 'Three in a row'.

"Three lines are necessary to enclose any space and three dimensions are required to form a solid"

The catalog stated:
"There is unity, oneness and harmony, in our concepts, manifested in our work in the shapes of eggs, circles and dream lines.
Individually our work is fundamental, original, and primal.
Our work shown together as a whole is elemental and organic" I could not disagree with these statements, and the unity is shown in all the works.

However I would have to say that the "unity is a complete interpenetration rather than a mere harmony".

One wall was filled with works of drawn eggs. Simple, still on the white canvas a thin red wash crossing the front of the piece, very simple and very powerful, calm and mediative like a Zen painting or a Rothko.

There were too few textile pieces by Lyndy Roslyn Delian which were of a very high standard, as fitting so important an artist.

Some prints were on display which subtly captured the organic shapes of the Australian environment. (I enjoyed trying to pick out the species of plant represented in these monochromatic collages.)

And my favourite of the exhibit, were some small pieces made out of glass. Like fantastic maps to a unknowable city, they captured my attention with the simple radiance of the creations. As was true of all of the objects in this exhibit, these glass works created an meditative air. And as the catalog spoke of harmony and unity and of a spiritual connection and quality, one can only say that all of the works in this exhibit succeeded. Even if like myself, you hold a more materialist view of nature, it is hard not to be moved by the mediative quietude created by this exhibit.

Following on from this evening of humbling art the mass was called to order. The readings, like in a dissenting church, were all from the laity.

i read some stuff - some of which may have been posted before - but now they are posted again in a different format.

---

Poem One: (It's 1977 and i hope i go to heaven, ive been too long on the dole and i can't work no more) (The mystical revelations of Crasstafari)


The Welfare State

Cause all property is theft
Cause all poverty is theft
Or y cunt dem drakies unterstate
Weeeeee stolet fairdinks an squire

The black state awe wite pauper
Blanknife salted feta pepper
She strands the waide open systhyme
Frails downdy do onto her kneeck


Do they owe us a living?
Course they do
Course they fucking do

---

Poem Two: (Another day at work, and i wish i could die)
Parking Lot

Voiceless tatters of paper, bits
Of confettied leaves vortext
Across the grim (picture of our future)
Parking lot. Slight mist of dust raised
Brown mixing shattered underfoot drought
Dry grass flowering. Hot - It shall not
Rain, the wind from northwest bays.
My heart is empty. Our lives are empty
Alien. No more, no more, evermore.

Futile.
Ugly and futile is this world.

She sighing gulfed away the ice
Melted gin and tonic one desperate
After drunkenness veil of anonymity.

---

Poem three: (For Patrick White)
She sometimes wished she were dead
Riding on the bus after work
On the way home, with smashing
Slashing lighting crashing the middle
Distance. In this twilight of dusk,
Ach! she thought one can have these
Sentimental ideas, these silly adolescent
Ideas. Fearful of home with her uncaring
Husband and piled bills and tasks
Of cooking cleaning maybe she thought
This idea is not so silly after all.
Listening to them on the bus, inane
Chatterings of sneezing and sniffing
And coughing on the bus with mobile
Phones and plans for the weekend (plans
She knew went no further than getting
Drunk) Overlistening to them
She felt like a spy - like a spy
Who wished only simply coldly to die.

---

Poem four: (a mash up - or just an old fashioned collage - cutting it old skool)

Remember to Kick It Over

Emancipate yourself!
From mind forg'd mental
Manacles of Slavery.

Stef, she tapped her head,
Her forehead, with her hand.
It is here we must kill
Both Rome and Babylon.

Faces in the street
From marks of Trenchtown
Ghetto woe to Gaza's white
Phosphorus tv bombs.
To London's charter'd street
To the beat of weary feet.

In here, again she tapped
Her forehead, inhaling deep.
Speed thin sheen of sweat.

She inhaled and coughed...
Can I see another's woe
And not be in sorrow too?

Emancipate yourself!
From mind forg'd mental
Manacles of Slavery.

It is here we must kill
Both Rome and Babylon.

---

And then i were done and 'twas time for transubstantiation. i spent the rest of night (and part of the mourning) transmuting beer into pretense and forgetting the banal hum drum of working life. SUBSTANTIA EST FURTUM.