Ruby Street

You’ve rippled in currents promised within wild limits drowning in tart allure you may decay or cover yourself with salt but your breezy pleasures never exhaust that rare thing drunk hot and often. You don’t say but you’re needed in ocean, storm, en vacance just as drag or guitar heroes attract humming birds or fallen daughters so you loiter in optimism stirred by the best mouths wrought with fun standing above the throb controls rippled by spray. You’ve been flung into meticulous detail tolling the autobiographical the exact fantasy clutching at big business you stop at used you’ve come from bursting with a kind of charm that’s earned a following. What if creativity is gilded there unlit or connected to the following things - a bewildering sight a novice large amounts conjured the front porch of my life. You glow into quick you’ve sat down at little green never broken by wrong or judged by its colour you’ve swarmed rapidly acquiring reputation multiroom equipment at $5,000 a pop a gre...

OK, I have taken Martin's advice and turned on word verification for comments, which is kinda cute, with some great new words. Let's bamma-lam the spam. Now, I will try and delete the offending posts.

Here, belatedly, is an article about Tom Ellard, of the great Severed Heads band, talking about frogs and music. I actually have never heard the frog ring tone/song thing. I don't listen to mainstream music radio stations anymore, haven't for years. Perhaps I am a music snob, though I like my share of poppy trash as much as anyone. But nothing these days on the air seems both trashy yet whacked out or edgy enough to draw me back to the dial. I might sound like a BOF but I'm not saying music being made today is crappy, I buy plenty of new music. It just doesn't make it to the radio. As The Sports once sang "Who listens to the radio/ That's what I want to know?" Maybe radio in other countries is better than ours. Anyway, a reprint from the Sydney Morning Herald 12 October (day before my birthday as it turned out). Mainstream is for frogs, says ARIA winner Author: Edmund Tadros Publication: Sydney Morning Herald (11,Wed 12 Oct 2005) It was a blue singing fro...

I've had a small amount of annoying spam on the blog. I've deleted it all from the comments boxes. If it gets overwhleming I may have to institute the extra verification step but am hoping not to. A real cool change is blowing into Sydney now - lovely - and I am looking forward to my bedtime reading, Graham Robb's bio of Rimbaud. Definitely recommended though, for heaven's sake, my paperback version seems to be printed in 7 point type.

We don't have those TiVo gizmos here but it's been suggested that, even though they can get rid of ads from TV shows (how, sucked out through a magic portal?), they only prove two things: "(A) 'when you can fast forward through commercials, shows are about ten minutes long, and (B) TV is so close to extinction that, even with the power to record 100 percent of the bearable stuff out there (half of which you like because it's so bad) there's still nothing on." (insights courtesy of Vice , Vol 3, No. 3) Of course, you don't need a TiVo to realise that television is completely extinct in Australia. You'd begin to suspect the news isn't even put together here and that they make the weather reports up. Just draw a map of Australia (don't forget Tasmania), zoosh some squiggles all over it, wiggle them round a bit, throw in a few likely temperatures for three days and, hey presto, Roberta's yr aunty. OK, so I'm sick of being reduced to dod...

This month could be cold it could burn within itself, it’s always been the carrier, the bird within sky ladder, spring loaded, protection or how boughs fall. I never began sitting alone it was an unknown scene between storm and night full of people and birth among bricks past main roads and clouds a time of paper bags and plain string holding me up in daylight indecision yes, the storm rain blossom on ground as green, the walls that are solid beside the northern reaches bridges, red tiles, false chateaux guarding settled valleys after a century restricted there was yet to be music just a trumpet and a drum someone humming in shadows birds again after rain. And somehow I was plush in blankets and evening the morning, mother, father if I’m the first and it’s spring, feel the air not yet weather beaten the only mutiny, the sky even now I’m hardly landed

OK, it's the beginning of my month, cold inside but warm on the outerside. I saw a huge crow (raven) up the street chasing down outcast fish in the gutter, I saw two pigeons tossing around a huge scrap outside Woolworths. We drank medium Greek coffee and wondered about weather and art and letters that had to be written. How nothing stops. How far we'll walk this evening. Still the cherry blossom has not burst with white or green. There are signs, two signs of petals, one of leaf. Maybe next week, it's been a long time coming. The bottle brush in the afternoon's west light is bright red, three branches have flowered and others almost. The first bubuls of the season on a TV antenna, the screeching parrots, a naked six year old kid running around a neighbour's backyard, some things forever young. Coming up to this month, I wrote this quickly (on a day when it was overcast and raining, but today is warm and fine): this rain shivers on us again but again that rare thing ...