sheets and succubi

The rain is sheeting down. Hey where did that metaphor come from and how does it work?

It's probably nautical (sheets meaning rigging ropes) but I think more of gauzy or filmy sheets when I think of rain. Like the filmy nightgown of a pursuing succubus in a crypto lesbian vampire flick. Geez I had to go and ruin the moment with some smart arsed pop reference. Believe me, my subconscious is full of seductive succubi, but who can blame a lad when his mother's favourite bible passage stars The Whore of Babylon riding the many headed beast ?

Back to rain & filmy sheets. I guess rain drops are obvious parrallels to the atomic substrate of things. Maybe thats why i find rain calming - it hints at the ultimate fluidity of things - the buzzy jumpy little atoms inside everything - we're not so trapped, microscopically speaking by the meat solid illusion of our bodies, the iron bed, the bed side table lampness of things. It was the Colonel in the dining room with the candlestick. Brain headline: Rain dilutes world.

Couldnt find a mirror in my boat to check if my opshop coat looked ok. i took photos of myself armslength with my phone. with my felt delivery driver style cap and jacket i looked, with my gaunt cheeks and frown like an out of work depression era cannery worker from dustbowl america.

at the club i lurked artfully and made subtle dance insinuations. mindful of local sensibility. i met people who remembered me playing for the footy club. a girl said your dad died she said mine did too. a girl hugged me and said well done for riding the unicycle. random but nice. i was offered a smoke. i felt very tired and a bit overloaded as i havent been around people much. i went home when i should. someone grabbed for my cap but i shrugged to the inside they missed i hate that. i made it home with my wallet and keys. thats all i feel okay, wise enough to survive, just. marginal. i still love to dance.

10 hole Diatonic Blues Harmonica

Now that I really am old man river, I thought I'd better get myself a 10 hole Diatonic Harmonica in the key of E. I also notice that I am following my own blog. I'm not sure how that happened.

It's Friday 26 November 2010 years after the approximate birth of a charismatic nomadic Gallilean preacher. I live on a boat. I'm more free than I think. Let this thing roll. I'm ready for what comes next. What's going to happen. Come on. Bring it.

I'm going to buy some neat shorts at the op shop. Tonight I'm going to dance.

Swimmer's ear

If the lineation is a little off, the syntax skewed, jesus, I couldn't even spell skewed, have I got it right? It's because I make all my posts from a credit-card- sized samsung mobile phone.

The props are pretty much the same every time, blinds flapping, sunlight falling down in squares and rectangles, rumpled sheets, a milk crate full of novels - lengths of plywood, and building materials stacked at the back - anyhow the props are the same - the hawks outside, sometimes even a gorgeously muscular monitor lizard creeping past my window - it's a metre long.

My boat isn't finished yet - I'm feeling like I just want this transition phase over with - I want the boat fully furnished - damn I want places to PUT things. A place for my shirts and shorts, a place for books, I want to be able to collect things and display them.

I want to elaborate on this life of mine. In short, I want to line my nest.

Yesterday I screwed on a double layer of Hardiflex fire-resistant sheeting with an air-gap in between. This will serve as a heat restistant structure on which to mount my bio ethanol firebox/fireplace.

I don't have a computer at the moment. I really need one. Really.

I'm feeling paranoid and combative. It's partially frustration that I'm not doing what I need to be doing, writing, creating, emoting. And it's partly not having money enough to go travelling the river. It's partly being stuck in a small town for the next couple of months. It's partly being harassed by a government job agency which are trying to coerce me into attending interviews even though I've voluntarily removed myself from the government allowance (I was briefly on it during a gap in harvest seasons - while building the boat) I sent them a gorgeously erratic email last night, in which I purposely kept lapsing into the third person, eg... he has been seeking legal advice...or should you force these inappropriate and coercive measures upon him, he will, blah blah blah... yeah, crazy huh.

Everybody fears a crazy man...worked for mohammed ali... What have I got to lose? If I play this game too well...

I forgot to mention the swimmers ear. I can barely hear a thing. I went in to the chemist and said I've got swimmers ear, I said this could be quite handy, what, what did you say WHAT?

I have two or three days off and I think I might head back to Waikerie and pick up some Hardiflex panel which i'll need as backing to the firebox of the ethanol burning heater I'm going to install on my shanty boat.

It's windy. The hawks are up and about. I can see a butterfly against the blue. It's white.

A tugboat with party goers just passed. The heavy wash threw my boat around for a few seconds.

The blinds are flapping. There's a stripe of sunlight on my bedsheet.
I'd better get going.

Keats or The Marquis

This will be short as my neck is, um truncated (sic) a little compressed, a locked solid spinal unit.

Have been painting again, and that's why. Reaching up to paint; the head inclined, arms raised, a pressure is placed on the neck.

The blinds are flapping. It's hot. I'm naked which is quite usual on a hot day. I swim nude a lot. The word is a good one.

Nude: The flow of information the body recieves unmediated by bunched cloth and false modesty. It's a word as unapologetic as 'bald' or boob. Maybe even Bob.

These short words suit my mood. My mood is: leather bar. I'm a rock star fetish model in a photo shoot, I'm debauched as Keats would have been if he'd lived in the 21st century.

I bet, that behind all the staid pastoral verse there lay a huge inner life that he never showed anybody. And as Douglas Coupland wrote, these days all those poets would probably be in leather bars.

It's evening. The sky is turning white.

yesterday's left over karma

It's hot. my shirt has dobs of plaster on it. I've roused myself after this mornings unexpected call to work, to doing some repair work to the paintwork. Yesterday i felt tired and paranoid and all the speedboats and radios and barbecue families were making me feel lonely so i steamed the two hours back to Terry's boat ramp. Campers had left beer bottles and trash. I had tea with my sister Sharon. We argued about the Bible she said if you read it you'd believe it. She said you probably dont even remember it, I said I read it from cover to cover every year for ten years of my adult life, I know it as well as anybody. What's genesis 12 verse 7 say? She didnt know. I asked her what she thought of the behaviour of her god in the book of Job. I said the normal term we have for someone who would off handedly torture someone over a bet is "psychotic killer'. In the book of Job satan bets god he can't crack Job's faith so god tortures him physically, destroys his house, crop, sons, & wives. The conversation riled me.