You never get burnt

I had a dream that I was Audrey Tatou in Priceless, climbing an impossibly steep hill in a dark tunnel, in impossibly high heels. I reached an opening in the side of the tunnel and was enticed through.
I was in a wide valley lit by late afternoon's golden light, covered in green pastures and dotted with the occasional animal. The only sign of human habitation was the shed through which I had apparently just come. Some pigs were nearby grazing. A girl was sitting on a fence and she said to me,
"You know, it's always sunny here but you never get burnt. I've been here for five years and I haven't got sunburnt once! Weird, eh."
I considered for a moment that I may have actually died and gone to heaven.
A passing hippy in an old station wagon drifted by, playing music on a zither, and the pigs, the girl, the hippy and I sang a strange and beautiful song. By the time the song was finished the valley was gone, the world was ordinary and I was embarrassed because I had just been singing to a couple of pigs, whom I now had to dice up and put in a bowl.

I woke up an hour earlier than normal, longing for that perfect valley, walked the dog, and posted this blog.

Search like a magpie, hoard like a dragon

Costume Cave sale haul:
3 pairs of colourful sandshoes
1 pair of tall purple lace up boots
1 pair of high heeled sandels
1 pair red knickerbockers
1 petticoat
1 baby pink full length jumpsuit
3 shirts - 1 stripey, 1 white and Victorian, 1 blue
1 purple jumper
1 green cardigan
1 hat I'll never wear
1 green, black and orange cocktail dress

I have been playing dress ups and wearing purple. I've never worn or liked purple before but I find myself suddenly attracted to it.
The sale was crowded and stuffy, full of clothes and people frantically flicking through the racks to get to the goodies before anyone else did. Lots of people I knew there, we had half-attentive catch ups as we hunted through the clothes. Sharon, the infamous proprietor, was almost wearing an old flannel shirt and khaki overalls, but the overalls were much too big and missing a strap - hence the 'almost'. I felt a bit greedy grabbing all 3 pairs of sandshoes - but I have been searching for a replacement for my beloved turquoise ones for several years now, so I snatched them while the going was good. Brightly coloured sandshoes are hard to find.

I'm not a consumerist I swear - but there's nothing like 15 items of clothing for $15 to make you feel satisfied inside.

Bullshit and the Emperor

Several people have told me that the naturally ideal size for a group or community is between 150-200 people. Any more and it gets hard to humanise everyone and any less and it gets claustrophobic. I think the people that told me this had reliable sources, like anthropological studies or something, or at least they told me they did. Anyway, what do you know, I have 195 friends on facebook and haven't added anyone for a while, so this proves the point beyond ANY doubt.

Someone I know - name no names - has 800 facebook friends. It kind of decreases the value of being one of them once you find that out.

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Man, you'd think in a small, friendly, underground artistic community where no one really gets paid much or enjoys any kind of fame to speak of - like one we've got in Wellington, for example - that there'd be less incidents of dickiness, arrogance, preciousness, exclusiveness, backstabbing, delusions of greatness, bullshit, blah and bullshit.
Isn't that shit supposed to be reserved for places where there's actually the potential to make lots of money and win bajillions of fans, rather than merely impress your mates and get a good review in the Capital Times?
Apparently not.
Just a general observation.
It gets a little nauseating after a while.

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Bonaparte - yes yes yes!

I mean we all knew that already, right, but I've just been watching some videos of his on the net and got reminded of it. Something strange going on with the politics of it, especially 'Anti Anti' (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3vkE5Xs5omA), it's almost weary, like we've been saying this shit for decades now and they're not listening and the message is getting a little hollow. Not to accuse him of being politically lightweight though, he seems to be using the politics of punk as a tool to make a deeper point.

At least I hope he is, it does seem a bit fluffy sometimes, and you do wonder - does this guy really give a shit, or is this just one more piece of decorative apathy? But if nothing else, Bonaparte captures the zeitgeist unnervingly well - when the world is crumbling, what else can you do but dance.

I was going to interview this cat when he was here a few months ago for Salient, or something along those lines. We were going to get on like a house on fire and get drunk together, and he'd invite me to come visit him in Berlin and introduce me to all his cool friends. But I never got round to it.

I really should be more proactive in abusing the power of the press to hang out with musicians I like.

I, hospo drone

Working full time. It feels like being sucked down a drainpipe, and as I look up I can see my part-time-working and unemployed friends still socialising, jamming, laughing and chatting away just like I used to, but they're getting more distant by the second as I spiral down in to drone land.

On the chance occasion that I manage to get out of my suburb and see my friends, I always seem to wind up talking about work. Sure, work is interesting, but not nearly as interesting as I find a million other things in this world - yet I can never seem to remember what those things are. I keep on forgetting that I even do stuff other than work, like play music or paint or write or talk to people. The person that was performing in a musical just over a month a go seems like a distant creature.
I am becoming boring.

There is one good thing: a night out is about ten times more fun when you only have one a fortnight.


The city is changing. Black Note, Espressoholic, Webb Street, Valve, The Cuba Street Carnival; these things are all gone, or not what they used to be. I feel somewhat indignant that no one thought to consult with me about taking away my haunts of the last couple of years. It's like someone is stealing my home. I feel cheated and I feel old. I even find myself grumbling about the latest facebook layout change.

Though, of course, things are changing constantly, every day, and it doesn't pay to attach yourself to anything; I know this. But without attachment how can you love? How can you even feel anything if you're not in some way dedicated to your life, or someone else, or some thing?

But about the city: I think this means it's time to leave. These things are really not so important as I make them out to be, it's just that they've swelled to occupy most of my current limited universe. My geographic world seems to define the limits of my mental world. I need more space.

Are you ever ashamed when you look back over a page of writing and all you can see are the short black dashes of the capital 'I's? I must make this interesting, talk about things other than myself - politics, the economy, human rights abuses, you. But really, self-reflection seems to lead to the most bloggable material; the prettiest sentences and most articulate musings. Maybe when I've analysed and exposed my soul sufficiently - if that should ever happen - I'll get round to writing something relevant to the rest of the world.