Coffee and Cigarettes

There isn't much time as I must go and flyer in twenty minutes. The air is warm and wet, like when you put a wet towel over your head and lie in the sun by the pool for too long. Melbourne was supposed to be cold. I didn't buy an expensive jacket just to carry it around with me all the time dammit.

In 2006 I came here. I was at The Trades Hall one night. Cold night. We were all sitting at a long bench table, drinking $4.00 pints of Mountain Goat. There were multiple jazz cigarettes being passed around. A ragtime band played and a gorgeous woman dancing on our table. I remember Xavier, Horabin and I looking at eachother. Awesome. That was a moment. A point. We felt like the lords of our creation.

In 2008 I have had many more of those moments and I haven't even been here a week. The festival is magic. There is no way else to put it. In my previous post I wrote about a perfect moment. The conditions being just right for that moment to exist. Here the conditions are ripe.

A man could live in a place like this. A man could be happy with his lot no matter how large or small.

I have ten minutes left.

I have another week and a half here in the place of Melbourne. I have to admit that at the rate I am going that prospect does exhaust me somewhat. But, there are more exciting things coming. More shows to see. More places to go. Trades Hall awaits. Improv awaits. Krispy Kreme awaits.
I have eight minutes left. But by the time I proof read, pack up and walk down the the Town Hall it will be time to get to work. The conditions are ripe. The Lords are waiting.

I Drink Your Milkshake

One day I was walking on James st in Northbridge. I was passing that nightclub next to the Brass Monkey. One of those nightclubs that kept changing it's name every three months. It was TIME for a while then something else, then DV8. Who calls a nightclub DV8 and isn't the kind of person that sits in the park and stares at women passing for 6 hours? I ask you. It was like someone just had alot of money from our recent Boom and just went "Fuck it, I'm going to make a club so that I don't have to sit in the park. I'll make them come here. Then we can stare at them and get them drunk". Awesome. I don't know about you but I when I come into Port from fighting badguys I would definitely go to Northbridge - more importantly - I want to go to the one that has painted my flag right across their club, then tried to paint over it, only to do half of it and then leave it so that there is just white and red stripes - the Swiss sailors love that shit.

Anyway, I digress. I was walking past DV8 or whatever the fuck it was called at that point. What do the owners think?

"Business isn't so great Sampson. What should we do?"
"Change the name, that'll fix our monetary woes"

Awesomeness.

Anyway, I digress. I was walking past that place that I love and there was a promotional poster for some HipHop night, Presumably on at the HipHop Capital of Australia DV8 or whatever the fuck it was called at that point. In true HipHop style there was a pretty lady (I say "Pretty lady" with my generic European accent in my head as I type it... Pretty lady... Gets me everytime).

Anyway, I digress. But not really if you think about it. Actually you don't need to think about it because it is quite obvious that I wasn't digressing then, I just said it to fill up time and feel better about how much I wrote today. Well Done Ben!

Anyway, I digress. At that precise moment a young man was skate boarding and he stopped at the poster. I stopped. He looked at the poster. And without looking to see if someone was looking he reached up and touched the pretty lady (Oh Edwardo) on her 2 dimenional breast. The man; who shall be called Faceman from now on, then mumbled something and took off leaving nothing but a confused Ben and a felt up poster.

Then. the other day I was standing at a bus stop waiting for it's namesake to come, when the same thing happened again. Sans Faceman and his crazy skateboard antics of course. This time this older guy; who shall now be called Mr Catcher Fellowgood, was standing next to the advertisement - which was for Sultana Bran or some shit - looked at the poster, then proceeded to reach and grab the glassy 2 dimensional breast of the chick who was happier and more successful because she ate Sultana Bran or some shit. He didn't even care if someone was watching. Which they were. They being me.

Is there something that these ladies of advertising are offering that I am not aware of?Mr Fellowgood, Faceman, if youby some cosmic transaction stumble upon and read my fair internets page you should be ashamed of yourselves. Those ladies didn't do anything except try to inform you about what was going on and all you did was tarnish their good reputation and disrespect them by copping a feel. Now if you excuse me, I am going to touch pictures of myself... I think I even freaked myself out when I said that.

Anyway, I digress.

Fire at Heart

Another piece of old white fence is sacrificed to the fire. The drink; a mixture of grains and dry ginger ale. Laughter and talk. The Chalk Circle is over and I need to pack. A moment. A perfect one. I smile and laugh, drunkenly. It's been too long between. Laughter and talk. Perfect.

I awake hydrophilic. Stomach hates me. Head hates me. Totally worth it. The long shower is fitting. The shower that you lean your head on the tiles and let the water wash over you. The rhythm of the shower. I need to brush my teeth.

I have a place that I need to go to but I'm not in any hurry. I need to pack. This year seems to be learning. I'm really enjoying this year. I think she and I are going to get on just fine. I think we should go steady. Did I wake up with all my clothes still on this morning? I must have been drunk. I have been getting very drunk recently. I blame the grains. Last night was brilliant. One of those nights that everything comes together. Like a perfect storm or jacket or flat white. I look around the circle which the fire is at heart. This is what my life should be; friends, fire and music. Last night was brilliant.

If I met with my younger self I think he'd be happy to see me. Granted he may be a bit pissed off with 2002 and 2003. But with good reason. I think he'd be happy with what he would become. I am. Sure there are many things I want, have, need to do to better myself and rightly so. But at the moment, at the young stage of this Rat. I think it is off to a very good start.

Thanks for reading this Blog, I realise it isn't the most entertaining thing in the world and you could be watching reruns of House. But you have chosen to take a small amount of time to read over the nonsensical ramblings of a small man who will undoubedly grow up to be a crazy old small man. But really who could think of a better way to be. Laughter and talk.

I need to pack.

Projection on to Plaster

Its 1:00am, my computer fan sounds like someone is breathing on a mirror so they can write a message, a message that will fade away and disappear. But this sound doesn't, it stays. The message stays. The bulb is too strong. Even the dull mother-of-pearl light shade cannot stem its unrelenting stream. My fingers smell of onion. The rich smell of Ben fills my room, everyone has a smell. It's chemistry.

As I get older I seem to be becoming more and more disappointed with who I become. Yet this doesn't seem to worry me. It's inevitable. The child that you were will always be twice the man you are now. That's why I always remember back with a grin. Yes, there were bad days just like there are now; the time me and a kid from the Cricket team I was on were messing about in the car and his finger got caught in the door, and no matter how much I yelled and how much he screamed no one seemed to hear. No one seemed to care. That was not a good day. Nor was the day I was running through the big concrete pipes we had in the play ground and a friend tripped me up by accident. I cried. The lad who was chasing me cried. My friend said sorry. Yet I chose to blame it on the lad who was chasing me. I knew it was my own fault, yet I blamed it on him. For some reason I still harbour a great shame about that incident. The boy's crying, helpless face still burnt into my mind like a bright light in closed eyes. A bright unrelenting stream. Though these were not the proudest moment of my childhood, the best moments far outweigh and outlast the worst. I wish I could remember the kid from the Cricket team's name.

As I said, it is not the disappointment in myself that worries me, or even upsets me. I only hope that one day I will redeem myself in the eyes of all. But I know that will never happen. There will always be that one person. The one who I was insensitive to, the one who didn't like that sarcastic tone, the one who didn't click, the one who didn't like my smell, my chemistry. I have yet to meet a person who has not hurt anyone in some manner or level or sensibility.

Here in lies the contraction.

To be disappointed in friends. That is the worst. It upsets me so that I have no fantastic story, no quirky metaphor, nothing to show for it. Nothing but a noisy computer fan that is about to end it's secret little message in the mirror.

Reckoner

The couch's right arm is torn, empty bottles and a fold out rocking chair; the weave tired and frayed. A mural on the wall next to it; a small word in the right hand corner where the fibro meets the concrete reads Vortex. I call it my Extra Dimensional Portal. I don't know who created the Portal, nor do I dare use it. Waking up to a knock on the door late at night. I open it and there stands a man dressed in a white cube and a pyramid for a hat. He looks at me wide eyed and lets out a tone. In Cube Man speak this is hello, but I don't know because I don't speak Cube Man speak. I sigh, bleary "You must go back. You don't belong here. You must return" Cube Man looks sad, but I can't be sure because I don't know how Cube Man shows his feelings. He returns to Cube World. One day I will go through the portal, one day I will visit Cube World and no one will be able to understand me because they don't speak my speech or read how I feel, but I will go anyway. I go because I am curious, I go because I think it will be fun, however confusing, however frustrating, however scary.

I have made mistakes in my life, I have disappointed people, hurt people, angered people, yelled at people, made people sad. Sometimes I realise this, sometimes I am ignorant or oblivious to this, sometimes I don't care, sometimes I do. I realised later that I have hurt the Cube Man, I realise that he will go home and tell his Cube Wife and Cube Brothers and Cube Sisters that beyond the Portal is a small half naked young man that speaks in croaks and staggers, a young man that even after extending the olive branch of peace and salutations pointed to what he called his Extra Dimensional Portal and grunted in an unknown tongue for him to leave. At first the Cube man was unsure, maybe it was a question, maybe a jubilation. But even though he did not speak my speech or know my ways, even he; the Cube Man, the explorer, the brave one, even he knew. Even he was hurt, and I realised.

I have hurt some people, whether they be Cube or not. For that I apologise. Sometimes I have said sorry and not meant it or felt begrudged or pressured or forced by guilt or circumstance. But I am sorry. Not for personal redemption or to curry favour. But because I am.

Sorry Cube Man. The day I go to the Cube World I hope you can forgive me.