Dorothy Parker's 'Two-Volume Novel'

The sun's gone dim, and
The moon's turned black;
For I loved him, and
He didn't love back.
- Dorothy Parker (August 22, 1893 - June 7, 1967)


Oh, fuck it.
- Richard Watts (July 6, 1967 - ????)

Reflections and fractures

The last couple of weeks have pretty much sucked, I have to say. Work's been a nightmare: we had to publish not one, but two issues of the paper in one week; indeed, within a day of each other, in order to be able to publish a paper next week, in the lead-up to New Year's Eve. Simultaneously, I've also been working on a 64-page magazine which we're publishing in early January.

To say that I've been stressed would be an understatement.

On top of which, I've been finalising the appointment of a new General Manager for Melbourne Fringe, and trying to arrange to get home for a couple of days over Christmas, which isn't going to happen now that I've agreed to co-host Summer Breakfast on 3RRR for the next two weeks, starting this Monday.

I really must learn to say no sometime.

On top of all that, a colleague's partner was killed in a motorbike accident last week (I went to the wake today) which if nothing else puts some of my own personal dramas into context, and helps me realise how insignificant they are.

I didn't go to the Meredith Music Festival with Glen, Darren and the boys because I had to go to a wedding instead, for an old friend who's been living in the UK for five years, with whom I haven't really kept in touch. It was a very, very Catholic wedding, which quite frankly left me cold - there was nothing of the couple in it at all.

And right now it's a Saturday night at 1:20am, I have only $45 to last me through until Thursday; I have no drugs to power me through the next few days; and I really dislike Christmas.

Oh yeah, and I'm missing the Irish mate I befriended earlier this year, and who I've hung out with almost every weekend since we met. I had hopes of romance, it became a bromance, and then - I hope - has developed into what I hope will be a solid, long-term friendship. But yeah, right now I miss my drinking partner because he's at home in Ireland until late January.

What a depressing post this is. Normal service will resume as soon as possible.

And now, a message from our sponsor

Ahem.

Cough, cough.

PLEASE GO AND HUG SOMEONE THAT YOU LOVE: especially if you've not told them how you feel about them in the last 48 hours.

This community service announcement was brought to you by flu, alcohol and loneliness.

Meanwhile...

Of course, life's not all about seeing unique and memorable theatre and cinema productions, is it? No, there's also going to see Circus Oz on their penultimate night of their current season; and catching up with old friends for dinner (hi Martin!); and going to the truly excellent Guggenheim exhibition at NGVI again; and visiting the Glasshouse; and going on out dates than turn out not to be dates...

Me and the Irishman are just friends, I learned, after we spent Saturday night hanging out again, which is cool in one way, given that we seem to have cut out the smalltalk phase of getting to know each other and delved straight into some pretty heavy and frank conversations; and hey, I can always do with a good new friend who I bonded with straight away.

On the other hand, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. I could have gone a new boyfriend, you know? Oh well, at least I kept my hopes under appropriate restraint this time, rather than getting worked up and consequently collapsing in a sobbing funk.

*sigh*

So, these plenty more fish in the sea I keep hearing about. Someone care to explain just where the hell exactly they are? And son't say Ireland, 'cause I so definitely can't afford the time or the money for a holiday right now...

Good stuff

Cherry Rock on Sunday, AC/DC Lane. The joys of Digger and the Pussycats, the always-awesome Dynamo! (even though they don't have an exclamation mark as part of their name I always think they should) and many more. Vodka in abundance. Excellent conversation. Felt like a bit of a spare wheel from time to time, tagging along with different people at different times, as none of my closest friends were there, but still had heaps of fun. Forced myself to leave at a civilised hour too, just before 8pm, as I had work tomorrow and knew it would be way too easy to stay out til all hours, especially as I had the offer of my name of the door at Dirty Sanchez, a bunch of maniacs who do strange, gross, painful and hilarious things to and with their bodies. Think Jackass but with Welsh accents.

In the Shadows of Opulence: an installation at Seventh Gallery in Gertrude Street by Charlotte Amos, Betra Fraval and Skye Kennewell that the artists describe as "an exploration of excess and desire. Like a museum object, the installation stands, a dark and romantic void pregnant with promise and anticipation." It's certainly dark, like a goth's dream of a Victorian -era parlour during a period of mourning, whose grief glitters like gold, but transmutes everything it touches to ebony. Showing until May 19. Check out Melinda Ballard's Grandeur/Mortality in Gallery 2 while you're there.

My life has become a Smiths' song

"If you're so funny
then why are you on your own tonight?
and if you're so clever
why are you on your own tonight?
if you're so very entertaining
why are you on your own tonight?
and if you're so terribly good-looking
then why do you sleep alone tonight?
because tonight is just like any other night"

- The Smiths, 'I Know It's Over', The Queen Is Dead

To quote Bluebottle, "Thinks".

I think I want to buy someone flowers.
I think I want someone to buy me flowers.
I think that hacking off the sex organs of plants and placing them in a vase is either perverse or delicious, or possibly both.
I think that when David Attenborough dies, I will not weep; I will bawl my eyes out.
I think that having a sense of wonder about the world is more important than wondering what pointless luxury to spend your next pay cheque on.
I think that raising children is a privilege that too many people take for granted.
I think that art tells me more about life than television ever will.
I think that John Howard is a political genius, which makes his decision to use his power to divide people, instead of uniting them, all the more despicable.
I think that laughter is more important than a flag.
I think that snuggles and whispers and late night kisses beat even the best sex hands down.
I think I want to buy someone flowers.
I think I want to buy someone flowers.