Number 29 - July 2003

The night before last I saw an angel made of glass, with water flowing over it's body like overshaken champagne from a bottle. It pointed to the phone, and it rang.

It was Gran, and she said she was coughing up blood.

So at one in the morning, the house sprung into life, mum and dad drove off, and ambulance was called. Apparently Gran had fluid on the lungs, and if she hadn't gotten the medical attention right away, she probably would have died. She's in intesive care now, getting better. She should be coming out of hospital soon.

I lay in the bath thinking that night/morning. It was an odd time for all of us.

I went for an adventure today. I went to the Melbourne Botanic Gardens. It was cold and windy, and empty. The herb garden was shriveled and dead, and I was alone. I went into one of the wooden huts and had memories I hadn't felt in years.

I also went to Federation Square, and boy does it suck. Some influential art student discovered the triangle, big deal. The cobbles you can feel through your shoes, it's quite uncomfortable.

Over the Citylink bit of the South Eastern Arterial, it looked like all the cars were descending into hell, cause of the orange light in the tunnel. The sweet smell of earth was coming from Olympic Park, as they dug and updated it for the Commonwealth Games (probably). I wanted McDonalds for lunch, but I lacked the confidence to get any today. I crossed a bridge that gave me some perspective. It looked like a gateway into Melbourne. You'd think so, as it leads to a building, but the actual path goes right into a series of walls. It's not arty or intentional, it's really like that. Reality led me into a brick wall, typical.

Reaching Flinders Street Station at 12, I decided to go home. There was nothing else I could do in the city. I like being a free spirit, but a free spirit who knows what to do. So I snapped back home like an elastic band.

I spotted Stella Angelico, Casey Stone and Simone Toussaint in Frankston. None of them recognised me. I'm probably not worth the effort of recognising. Do I look that different? They don't.

I need a manager. I need a manager for my writing/drawing/music/whatever else I happen to sprout. I'm stretched too thin creatively. All over the place like cheap sticking plaster. All this business business is driving me to despair and writers block. Business broke up the Beatles, and you know it.

Speaking of losing money, I went shopping today. I went looking for a Morrissey CD. Sanity had never heard of him, this other store had section devoted to him - with nothing in it. Good ol' JB hi fi had a whole two of his CDs, so I bought a Smiths compilation instead. Typical me, typical me, typical me... (Listening to it now)

It was funny in JB Hi fi. Everyones into Radiohead. All their albums everywhere, flowing gracelessly out of stands, advertisements saying that the stores recommend Radiohead. It was scary. Everyones selling out. Everyone but me, cause I don't have the stomach or the adernal glands for it.

Did I mention I need a manager?

I'm going to go an adventure tomorrow. I don't know where I'm going, and I don't know if I'm coming back. If I do, I'll have a new book with me. That or tetanus, who knows?

My minds slipping from one medium to another. I want to write, but only music comes out. It's frustrating but strangely satisfying.

I've done 3 songs in as many days - "A Night of the Watchmen", which sounds like a rave hosted by 80's goths who discover the meaning of life halfway through the song, "EonHobo 3000" which is this minimalist piece of junk that sounds like someone cleaning pots and pans in space for about a minute, and this weird novelty song called "Roundie", with Deans voice looping round and round with some nice jazzy drum machines, though I think it sounds a bit country and western.