smile in melbourne again

pictures of you on my bedroom door:

nocturnes:
i met ford on the playground at school. one of his friends noticed my joan jett t-shirt and arranged a meeting for us on the blacktop. ford showed up in his staple outfit at the time—chucks, cutoffs with fishnets underneath, and maybe a frumpies t-shirt. the rest is history. a history of record shopping, mix tapes, all night jam sessions, and french fries. we both lived in backyard bungalows, but we spent most of our time at his. it had better atmosphere cuz he had painted murals of the need on his wall. i think the general impression was that we were boyfriends (or at least we'd get called faggots a lot when we were out together), but at the time it was simpler than sex and more like siblings. a kerouac/cassady kinda thing.

i'm thinking about all this cuz of last weekend. come to think of it, cuz of this weekend, too. intimate and affirming and blah blah blah (i say it this way cuz i'm pretty sure everyone who was there was feeling comparable feelings). staring at the sky. staring at the sun. all of a sudden i was reading we owe you nothing. a teenager again. i think max maybe said something about how this makes sense of our kin.

through ford i met a host of amazing musicians who still comprise the majority of melbourne's finest. these were kids who infamously had the adrenaline and naivete to channel iggy pop's 1970 cincinnati performance until the mic was cut on accounts of teenage obscenity. we'd stay out way late getting lost but just making it to shows by origami and ninetynine and cutting class the next day to go see movies and buy comic books.

i think the first i heard of was the crayon fields cuz ford had written a song about them called crayola sodomy (ford's solo project was fordinthetrees and mine was sweetyoungthing and together we were sparkle motion and i think we maybe played one show accidentally). geoff from the crayon fields also has this really good sideproject called sly hats. the sly hats record features jarrod and nisa of fabulous diamonds. but when i first met jarrod, he was still in oh! belgium with annie and raquel. annie is now a netherlands-based artist and raquel (who made her new york debut earlier this summer) went on to be in the crazy jemima jemima who ended up being based in berlin. now, though, she performs solo as fatti frances and collaboratively in a gazillion other projects. and last year i had the pleasure of finally meeting self-proclaimed adult baby guy blackman.

in other music-related news, i finally downloaded the entire fever ray record. so. this weekend. maybe you have the following and would like to collaborate?:
black underwear
candles
castanets/claves
incense
itunes visualizer
liquorice
makeup
slow strobe
tulle

looking at:
all tomorrow's parties - the film
are women paying for sexism laws?
at the centre of time
butt gay porn at the ace hotel
crystals hold super computer key
dossier journal: issue iii - interview with collier schorr & monika condrea
find a grave
german homo erotic art first half 20th century
golden suicides
sharon hayes
travis jeppesen - excerpt: the suiciders
jj
just what does make me 'me'?
lever house
my love is like a blue, blue rose
science to stop age clock at 50
swedes divided over bunny biofuel
us medical cannabis policy eased

listening to:
glasser
light asylum
little girls
parallels
tamaryn

nocturnes:
The mind's eye begins to see sharply when eyesight declines

I wank our cocks together, rock hard, I have to stop myself from getting hypnotized by it, I want there to be only two dicks, no difference, each one loving the other’s as much as his own, no more no less

But that's what most artists do, don't they? make art out of what they want so badly to forget or can no longer remember

I wanna make you mine, and it’s such a relief

Home becomes anywhere but. perhaps this is why home, for me, is always late, in the future tense, under renovation

Multiplication of the sensitive points

I park in the flowers

I sit enthroned on yr bed with the remote control in front of the big tv. we search ourselves. the demons

I am wearing a blue and regal cable knit sweater. you are naked entirely except for a pair of marine-blue converse hi-tops you are wearing without socks. I have scissors in my fifth pocket. I pull them out and pass them to you. you know what to do. you get on yr knees and press the blades against the scratchy cloth. drag them from my navel to my neck

I'M STOPPING WASHING MY DIRTY LAUNDRY IN PRIVATE

Our first year we end up one inside the other the evening of the twenty-fourth. we go into each other's arms. electric erections. I smile above you, my not great teeth a little spaced and pointed. we kiss. we take a taxi. I don't have a car, a poorboy obviously

I play with my thoughts, hoping they'll conquer my nightmare of not being able to bring my obsessions to life, as all artists fear. I fear it now, now as I try to make hours into matter, speaking to past scenes by letting the demons play. but fail or not, how good, how rewarding it is to not mind the day passing into night, while in the company of a master I clear out the remains of a home

looking at:
bad memories written with lasers
british military style
children can imagine away pain
dsm revision petition
5-hydroxytryptophan
gossip girl - s03e05
green spaces improve health
ira koers
la roux - bulletproof (acoustic)
l-dopa
brendan lott
magnetic electricity discovered
neal medlyn
obama: letting down gay supporters?
obama to end military gay policy
russian stars urge gay acceptance
shame boosts hand-washing rate
six scents
sweet sorrow for german boy thief
veggie spider shuns meat diet
vicar who raped young boys jailed
whitehot magazine - christian siekmeier interviewed by travis jeppesen
youth cannot live without web

listening to:
dominant legs
jad fair and teenage fanclub - near to you
fever ray - here before
fever ray - stranger than kindness
billie holiday - say it isn't so
monarchy
plastic operator
that ghost
wild nothing
zola jesus

nocturnes:
this used to be where i'd leave from (this used to be my playground). now it's where i return (to). and i have to walk east from the train in the morning, so it's a blinding walk into the sun. i'm 16 and clueless and driving in a whiteout snowstorm. sometimes you think you either rake the coals or you get to livin, but, like everything else, sometimes, more often than not, they're the same thing.

life and then death? no. life is full of manifestations of the impermanence of itself. and i'm not just talking about la petite mort here. i mean everything. nothing lasts but the channel itself. so take lesson. ask the angels, and MOVE. all that slips out of yr hand first passes through it. and some things that drop are worth picking up again, over and over again. but already you run up against problems like what's worth unbounded by time? stability vs precarity is a false dichotomy. better to think in terms of silver slivers. shards. either you got a bunch of little pieces or you got less but bigger. either way, both reflect the same thing.

looking at:
a baby wolf with neon bones
andrea crews
asteroid collision less likely
big cat entertainment, inc.
french minister in boy sex row
girls - true love will find you in the end
goxxip - in concert on npr
travis jeppesen - friday i'm in love (or gg allin hails a cab)
most wanted sex offender found
new ring detected around saturn
patti smith - gloria (live on snl)
space clown hosts global show
mathias sterner
young adults anxiety overload
you're a racist

listening to:
ali love
frankie and the outs
life without buildings
woven bones

nocturnes:
these silent blondes,
they were so special,
they had a quality,
a quiet masculinity

a lack of pretense.

late nights, early mornings with hiccups
tried to call last night, sure i messed it up
in a blur, which was a blur of enthusiasm

should be in bed, but decided to stay up
might be the best of sinking piss
and fucking away one’s life
if i went without, i'm sure i'd be asleep

team dresch!
ipod is switched on to the world
hand grenade

feel like rolling around on the floor
listening to comet gain with a bottle of gin
or jumping over high barbed-wire fences
listening to dyke punk—cue the third sex

try to track down some need
hot penis
happiness, no one would agree.

looking at:
artek + comme des garçon - standard
BIRDSONG PUBLICITY PHOTOS
encyclopedia of homosexuality
entertaining mr. sloane
florsheim by duckie brown
humör
oliver peoples
stephan schneider
weak species
werkplaats typografie
wood wood

listening to:
former ghosts
garbage - thirteen
lake
nirvana - scoff
roxy music - in every dream home a heartache
talk normal

kiss me again: the life + legacy of arthur russell