Bardy-Doo!

Josh

17.03.05

You struck a deal with the devil and for a week he didn’t come to the table? Does he have a trident? Pointy? No, horns actually, does he...er…have them?

That sounds more like a tryst with a Christian than anything else. Sensory deprivation, that’s what it’s all about. Keeping calm, don’t feel and god will kiss your arse as you pass them pearly gates on your way out, Gidget. On a Dubbo highway. Its funny you should mention it, as Jude says he now buys dope from young Israeli boys, who are always carousing and wanting to impress their masculinity upon him, before any deal is done. He says it’s a long drawn out process…er…yawn. But the best grass.

Jewish boys. Middle Eastern men. Turkish boys.

Wog-boys busting out of their uniforms at the corner of Nicholson and Gertrude, I do believe. Their shirts undone three buttons, the strap of their bag dragging the material apart. Hairy-chested…

I’d drink Alex Dimitriades wog cum down my throat. Not a second thought. I can often be found late on a Wednesday watching Wild Side in bed. If you know what I mean…that Alex!

You can never know when the last fire is…um…er…I’ve always said that. Yes I have. Oh winter, we were talking about winter. (so it’s not the grey in his hair) Maybe, it is true, that I live in a part of the world where the weather is, shall we say, less predictable than most. But the last fire of the year, that there is a hard one to predict.

“Jees, y’d be goin’ Jean, to pick the last fire. Be a toughy!’

“Oo, yeah. Tough all right.”

I’m looking forward to you coming too! Me lovely. We’ll have slumber parties with jelly cakes and candles. (And wog-boys in boxer shorts so they are easy to handle) screaming at the first sun like a hyena, pilled to the eye-balls. First blood across the sky. Comatose on the couch. I can see it all. Reg keeps asking when you are coming. Months, months, I say. He’s not coming until the days get dark.

The buds on the trees all shooting into life, is as good an indication of last fire, as anything else.

Warm nights. Longer days. No rain. BBQ on the breeze. Tinnies at midnight.

20.03.05

The washing machine is warbling its sweet song, the house is lovely and quiet and I am stoned, stoned, stoned. Just me and my lovely mull. Just me and me lovely green. Just… that introduction propelled me to go and put some music on and pop the button on the kettle. So there you go, too much swooning. Oh, tea…hang on… talk amongst yourselves. The sound of footsteps walking away. The whistle on the kettle.  The clunk of the rolling machine. The kerthunk of the fridge door. Nearly done, you hear me call from a distance. Footsteps approaching. Lemon slice? Up close and loud. You jump back just a little with a small start.

Ah! It’s a lovely sunny day, now that I lift my head above the trenches and look out over the parapet. Well, look at that. Both eyes crack open. I went down to some street…gar, gar, gar, me head it is a spinnin’…and it was bright and there were people having a life. Walking about. Talking. Buying. Spending. Spend. Spend. Spend. But let’s not speak of such things. It scares me so.

I’ve had a shower and got dressed. There’s been too much lounging around in my underwear, squiffy-eyed, of late. Let me tell you! Or, in fact, let me not tell you. Sheepish look. Ah, look at that, the sky is blue. The birds are singing, everything is, indeed, green. And it’s a Sunday, I do believe. Jolly old, scrummy old Sunday. Not with quite the best jolly out-look as perhaps a Saturday, but laid back and gentle, permeated with a do-nothing kind of vibe, none the less. Oh! What does one do with a THC-soup brain skulduggery-been-up-to-no-good kind of weariness? Yes, quite agreeable. My tea tastes like walnuts? Curious? Put my feet up and don’t give a fuck kind of pompety-pooh kind of day. Yes, really. I do believe. Collapse in a harrumph in the middle of the lounge room.

I wish I really did have some god-damn lemon slice. Roar go my gastric juices at the though.

So back in the saddle for good old Uli. And it’s a relief to know he’s got no nasty pumpin’ around in there, apart from the obvious discharge you can see, natch. But five years? Some people have shorter lives than that, for g*d’s sake!  But good on him for effort. Praise and reward. Praise and reward.

Did I tell you that I went blackberry picking with Pete and Sean last weekend. Yes, yes, rolling hills, thickets, bonnets, baskets, checked picnic rugs, yes all of that. Well, Pete dropped in last night to deliver the conserve made from those very blackberries.

I just went and got bread so I could finally enjoy the conserve in its rightful setting and not just as shameful spoonfuls from the jar. I had to buy white hi-fibre, I’m cross. And as the board was cooking, I wondered about plunging the knife into the bright red elements and being done with it. (But I always think that if I look into a toaster) But instead I remained glassy-eyed and jumped just a touch at the audible click when it was done. And here I am, with the sweet taste of blackberries on my tongue.

Joint? Did you say?

Oh yes, lovely old, scrummy old blackberries, quite superior to lemons, I would say. Would you agree? A, shall we say, lemon slice couldn’t raise a whisker to Wild Blackberry Conserve. (We’re looking at having blackberry vines imported) Ada will not be happy to hear.

Yes, so…ar… where were we?  Emeralds. Apparently the world’s most precious stone. Who’d have thought? Mushrooms? Best sautéed with a little butter. Um? Er? Bandicoots? Run! Apple dumplings. What I would give for a good plate of apple dumplings. A place like that would be a land mark. National heritage list, or something. Easy boys on a Saturday night. Now that’s living. The sea lapping at your feet as the first warmth of day touches your face, Sunday morning. Blood stains down your shirt, which are not able to be explained. Bottle tops that aren’t twist-tops at all, you learn to your detriment, as the skin shreds away from your hand. The smell of puppies on the grass under the standard roses. Nothing actually mattered at that moment, the single pinnacle of stresslessness in your life and it happened when you were four on the front lawn back at home and you missed it. Life’s just like that.

The smell of damp dope in a warm room. Brut. The taste of cum on your tongue. The shattered wreckage of another marriage strewn at your feet.

Scampering home with Brazilian contraband, as the sun glints and sparkles in the dark window for the very first time. A cool breeze that tosses the curtains just so. Stonkered and beat, thinking you don’t have the energy to get up and pick the pieces of tissue off your hands, cock and mouth. Your feet are blissfully asleep.

I’ve pulled my dick so hard it’s sore. Just thought I’d share that with you.

Nothing left to do?

There’s a quiet hum, somewhere off in the distance like there’s people around, quite possibly at work, in a field some place, just over Gertrude Street, perhaps.

I made out with the Greek boy so passionately, he spoofed big white globs all over my stomach. Woo-hoo! He’s pretty when he does that.

I’m nearly out of dope, this is where my world comes crashing in on me. I’m really just smoking it for the nicotine, now, I readily agree. So about 10am Monday morning, things should be real ugly, let me tell you! Big sigh. A very gentle quake. Nothing, on the what’s it scale.

Tuesday I will be a monster, not nice to be near.

Big sigh. If only I could capture this moment and bottle it up and sip at it in the other moments. Guzzle, guzzle. No, it’s mine. It’s mine. Mine. Mine! Everybody would be after your happy moment. You have it bottled, word would get around. You not be able to sleep at night for the fires burning in the street and the drip, drip, drip of poison that accompanied them. Me. No, me. Give it to me. I’m desperate!

In a chanting circle around your house.

Ah, fond memories, as Reg would say.

Did I tell you I got a message from her a week ago, she’s now away a week longer than she anticipated, saying she was lying on a beach so she knew that I would understand that she wasn’t rushing home any time soon. (She’s soooo Sydney, on the quiet) So who knows what she is up to? Not complaining mind you. A little solitude is good for the soul. It makes me darker than normal, I love it. Visible shiver.

But I don’t have a beech or surf, or even wind in my hair, I’ve got a lazy old, piddly po, Sunday afternoon. With a joint. Did you say a joint? Yes, yes, let’s shall.

Just me and the cat keeping the home fires burning at this end. Great companions cats.

“Did you say something?”

“No.”

You know where you stand.

Perhaps I might have a snooze.

Thank god there are no chocolate biscuits in the house. Just the mention of them makes me crazy. Nayhh!!! I get goose-bumps.

Oh, you gotta laugh! He, he, he. Though. Tingle all the way down my curvaceous spine. Lick my paw.

Blackberries are, in deed, good this time of year.

Probably got something to do with the sun. Nah, it’s more likely to be a direct result of the international war on terror.

‘Corse…stupid me!

Doh!

Odyssey! There you go. I do believe that was the first time.

Thanks for joining me.

Big smile.

Yes, yes, I know. I can go now. Okay. Thanks.

I might have fish and chips for dinner. So much for my girlish figure.

If I could just actually move, now, we’d get on so much better. Nah. Zip. Zilch! Perhaps I’ll just sit here. Stare at the screen. I could just about reach the mouse. No, I think I could. Nudge it with my elbow. I’m a shut-in named Anne, here is my story. I’ve got a pencil in my mouth. No, it’s quite comfortable, thanks.

I do believe I had fish and chips for dinner last Sunday night.

Funny old world, now isn’t it?

And in the end all any of us ever feels is disappointment, anyway.

My fish and chips are so hot, I can hardly hold them. The new title to my biography.

Sunday afternoon, you gotta love it!

Yes, I just popped out and got them. (So you know this ain’t going to end any time soon) Did you miss me?

You don’t get extras with fish and chips any more. You know, when you were young. Oh gosh, you might get an extra potato cake. Or if the fish was particularly small, you might get three. Well, you don’t get that now. That’s all I’m saying. No, that’s all. No, I wasn’t having a go at you. What attitude? I don’t have attitude. Hey mate, I think you need to chill just a little.

Nudge, nudge. Wink. Here. Puff on this. The green one. Take the green one!

Well, it’s gotta be a disappointment, ain’t it. You’re done. Over! It’s all behind you, the whole bloody lot. Nothing more. No. All you might get is a man running on the edges of a pad, flicked to make him move, as a wrap up before you finally slip away. Apparently. You gotta be disappointed with that? I knew I should have had the fish and not the chicken. Unless you’re Princess fucking Di or something, the life she led…but then I reckon you’d still be going to come up with a better emotion than she would have been feeling. If you know what I mean. Like afterwards. On that French road.

Oh, the dopes run out. Bugger!

The ashtray is on fire.

Christian