Things You Didn’t Expect To Be Told To Expect When Electing To Undertake An Intro To Philosophy Course

  1. There exists an approximate venn diagram with: art students and beautiful stoners on one side; pedantic neckbeards, mmorpg-players who bring their Nintendo Switchs to class, and armchair physicists on the other. It’s probably best to fall in the first category and sit at the back in your ironic Korn t-shirt smelling of sativa if you wanna get laid. If you want good grades and to personally hector the lecturer into early retirement and grey-haired horizons of gardening away stress, the latter is your option. It really depends on what you want. If you fall somewhere in the overlap you’ve got a pretty good chance of getting decent grades and maybe even forging a personal relationship with the professor, so long as you keep to yourself and make an attempt at furthering class discussion when called upon. If you can’t work out where you sit, it’s probably in the latter category and you may wanna invest in some Lynx and shave your adam’s apple. Also, stop playing Bloons on your Iphone — you’re not and never will be the incarnation of master strategist Sun Tzu (most likely).
  2. No one has the right answer — some people just have more comprehensively wrong answers than others. If you find your hand in the sky and some erroneous analysis exiting your mouth, push on! Try to bend the thought around to its proper home using the lecturer’s pained facial expressions as a weathervane. See a microexpression of pleasure when you bring your thought in blurry cohesion with the week’s topic? Go on. Destroy his/her joy with a radically irrelevent and borderline inappropriate tangent.
  3. Talk about your personal life as much as possible, preferably in long-winded monologues that involve much um-ing and ah-ing and staring into the distance for the correct piece of vocabulary you wanna flex. You know what “postmodern deconstruction” means, or at least that it means something. You know it’ll sound mature to evaluate the merits of De Stijl as “an example of a perennial artform now outmoded through the flux of time’s relentless forward momentum”. You swear you’ve heard “Transcendental subjectivisim” somewhere, even if it was just when you were drunk after an O-week party and were actually reading a post-it on your door saying: “Sam, clean up after yourself. Everyone uses the house — cleanliness transcends just your subjective definiton of moving mouldy coffee cups from your desk to the kitchen.”
  4. Bring up unrelated philosophers that you know something about in weeks where that philosopher’s thought could not be more irrelevant. Yeah you read ‘Hell is other people’ on tumblr once. Use it big fella. Super effective when the quote is preceded by “it’s kinda like what x said”. Bonus points for misattribution. Don’t worry, we’re all novices in this discipline. It’s okay to confuse Hegel with Heidegger and Nietzche with Chuck Palahniuk. Just don’t claim Germaine Greer created the concept of Penis Envy and that Freud was an early progenitor of feminism.
  5. I know I uttered the words ‘borderline inappropriate tangent’ earlier, but in Philosophy 1101 classes there is no such territory. Wanna drop into the discussion of how we can’t be certain we’re not brains in vats an anecdote about the time you smoked cones with shamans during a visit to the Himalyan area and for all you know you could still be there now hallucinating this class? Do it. Imagination is approved, correctness and context-awareness are more optional. You’re in uni now, everyone treats you like an adult. Roll a ciggie in class, get up and go to the vending machine without asking for permission, say ‘fuck’ without lowering your voice conspiratorially. This isn’t totalitarian rule. That’s next weeks topic, and please read pages 68–130 of Hobbes’ Leviathan.
  6. Don’t do the readings, just sit down and wait for some conscientious person to summarise them to the class then raise your hand and say, “yeah, it struck me when doing these readings how similar Schopenhauer’s lack of appreciation during his life is to the time I was in Mexico with half a gram of coke in my boot sole and me and my mate were trying to convice the bouncer of this exclusive nightclub that we were Daft Punk.”
  7. Analogies are God, or at least an egotistical monarch. Philosophy is infintely complicated by language (word to Wittgenstein). When talking about abstruse concepts and definitions a well-hewn analogy can dispel innumerable confusions and prevent faux-pas like the misconception you’re racist, sexist, idiotic or simply a flawed human.
  8. There’s always room for a Rick and Morty reference. Similarly Fightclub, The Matrix, David Lynch movies and Eternal Sunshine of a Spotless Mind are generally apposite if a little reductive. (Beaudrillard wasn’t simply saying we live in a simulation, he was saying that simulation and reality have advanced to a stage where they’ve imploded into each other and differentiation is impossible. Kind of like trying to tell the difference between the Kardashians.)
  9. It’s okay to hate yourself, to truly and deeply loathe your entire complacent being, after an Intro to Practical Ethics course. In fact, if you don’t hate yourself and consider selling your car in favour of paragliding to class and adopting a diet of only raw pepitas for the rest of your adulthood you’re probably an insufferably ignoble assemblage of atoms not worthy of blowing around in the void.
  10. Yes, once you think you’ve mastered Western philosophy we will move on to Eastern Philosophy because Fuck you, the more you know the more you know you don’t know and the paler you get staying in your room underlining and re-underlining the same paragraph in The Critique Of Practical Reason.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Bonus advice: don’t smell that guy’s dreads. Why did that even sound like a good idea?


Searching for Meaning at the Book Fair

Pdf version for your enjoyment

Searching For Meaning at the Book Fair 🤖🤖

I stepped out of car-interior penumbra and into an atmosphere streaked piddle and nectarine, filling lungs that felt like sourdough with bright Moet air. There were big plaster clouds in the sky, which shined like concealer in the wrong light, and which seemed to threaten rain though only in a cautionary way— unsure, reluctant to act, afraid of their own power and aspect like a spider in the corner that keeps running into darkness every time you get up to make sure it’s still where your eyes last fixed it. Under these clouds’ dangling feet blew the summoned leisure classes of Victoria along with scabby autumn leaves. The sky was like a migraine—just way too populated with contradictory white wisps and rolling heads and well-defined cumulus’ and veins of dark grey—and somehow, amongst all this sugarcane-white, the sun still managed to pour leisurely schooners of warmth down on everyone, whom nonetheless rushed to hold piping coffees to the waterproof exteriors of their overpriced jackets. There were thousands of people paying entry to the book fair with notes scribbled in pen and defaced by tape, fished from expensive leather purses and wallets choked with receipts, pictures of grandchildren, doctors appointment cards, invitations to join Probus. I walked along, letting myself be assumed into a flue of festival-goers, dragged down surely to the entrance, which I realised must be the discoloured marquees set-up at the bottom of the hill near the old historic town centre like a giant dacked arse.

In the midst of this slow-moving, heavily-perfumed, brand-aware contingent, I cut a louche figure, dressed in old black jeans, a baggy t-shirt with some remembrance of past dining on it and a black beanie with old sneakers. Kids milled about everywhere in uniform, looking at me like I was a statue and couldn’t look right back at their cherubic devils’ faces. Maybe I was wearing someone else’s clothes, what with how the crouch of the jeans kept attacking my nuts on the downstroke of each step. Plus it was not unlike me to mistake a female’s cotton hoodie for a male’s wool jacket in post-somniac fog and to chuck the wrong thing on and walk out the door feeling cute yet slightly vulnerable, although not because of the clothes (the vulnerability) but just because of the general pitch of modern life and its doctor’s-room busyness and disinterest in individual affairs.

I smelled a heavy aroma of dust and pickled figs and hoped it wasn’t emanating from myself, electing not to sniff under a chicken-winged arm just in case. Owing to my long legs I could, when I’d gotten frustrated enough with the elegiac pace, fire past everyone else, which I did but maybe a little too gruffly, disturbing the thawing tide of people mostly older than me and creating weird eddies of sidesteps and concertina compressions in the bulk, sending looks of recrimination and wounded self-righteousness, little waves that should have barely licked the ankles but somehow wet fringes, everywhere, which I hopped up on and rode, eyes at the sun, feeling momentarily free.

At the gate I handed over a note I was fully expecting my wallet not to contain to a bulldog of a lady and noted my surprise that my drunken cortex had managed to leave a tenner unmolested in plain sight. The woman manning the admissions box squinted at me over magenta glasses, her eyes unbelieving, going back for second helpings and really savouring the ragged long hair and stained shirt.

“You know there’s only books in here?” She asked.

Only books?” I replied, “Only, only, only.” I walked past the woman fondling my paper ticket—cousin of all those other pieces more significantly drawn—into an optometrist’s bottom-of-the-barrel. There were people in horned-rim glasses, because that’s what young’ens back in their day wore, and their were people in horned-rim glasses because that’s precisely what no-one their age wore; there were people with coiffeurs because that’s what movers-and-shakers in their day affected to go out, and there were people with coiffeurs because no-one else their age would be caught dead with their mum looking so preened. People were watching other people watch them drink coffee and sit stonily—readers checking other readers’ choices like dogs smelling a new butt. It was, in short, a regular Sunday supercollider event, bringing people from across state and aesthetic lines together, it all relaxed and disinterested except now looking like the different fashion waves and schools of reversion and revision and progression and stagnation had crashed mightily into each other in some profound basin and bled together so that everyone was confused when the saw someone else in the same uniquely affected guise as themselves and couldn’t any longer say whether they were friend or foe, imitator or influencer. A dialectic no book on Hegel or Marx could clarify. A question no solitary reader wants to consider over the page of a book they hope everyone notices them reading.

In the corner of one bookseller’s domain, balancing on my non-preferred leg while my right hand reached around over my left ear and gripped a handhold in two wooden boards gone out of flush over the years, I found a book I thought might have housed the answer I came for. It turned out to be a book on the irrationality of the quantum, bare and beige with no sleeve. Seemed like the right type. He opened it to a passage about 250 pages in and read: “The nature of spacetime is enigmatic, with no segment of space actually containing no matter at any precisely-defined point. But of course, just because something contains nothing doesn’t mean there’s nothing there, so even though there’s nothing in space there is space itself. So at any point of space, space can be empty except for space itself. Which begs the question, what is space if not another name for the molecules its supposed to contain?” He brushed a lock from his eye and put the chronically confused physicist back on the shelf before he got pulled into the black hole of speculating/ casting aside/ re—speculating. I didn’t need any more arrant questions— not now I had at last started narrowing down the field of acceptable answers. The heat in this tiny corner was becoming oppressive, populated by more bodies than a crematorium and the air just as heavy from people bleeding out 100 degree coffee heat through circulatory systems pulsing visibly in the skin. I jostled my way out, ending up with an Essendon Members keychain stuck to my denim and someone’s blue eyeshadow on the back of my hand— a sense that the answers I was looking for would be in short supply here, like bread rolls in the ‘food court’.

Out in the street, feeling like a curiosity, in a fair for print books, which were largely becoming an affect, a curiosity themselves, a pretext to lure someone back to your house to see how big your bookshelf is, I fanned my shirt out to air the sweat clinging to my ribcage like a U/18 dependent. My first foray into the thick land of words looking for meaning had ended poorly and my spirits sagged habitually. I had several coins in my pocket jackpot-ting around from my entry-fee, so I followed the smell of food and coffee, responding to hindbrain urges for warm, comforting sensations. Relaxing my fingers on the Venetians of high meaning I was trying to peak through for a moment to go inside and masturbate and maybe eat a hotdog. There aren’t many higher concepts than the brute fact that pleasure equals good and food and drink equal pleasure. I located the ‘food court’ with a scan of the horizon which revealed big legible letters shouting ‘food court’. I walked into the little staked-off area, a longitudinal gauntlet of smells both foreign and familiar, confused where the ‘court’ was but not disappointed because there was definitely food being exchanged for hard-earneds in each of the improvised eateries. In each of the trucks, windows, stalls etc sat bored, expectant faces watching potential customers opt for their neighbour’s fare instead of their own, causing much latent resentment to boil to the surface like saffron in an oversize paella pan. As I walked in a french pastry vendor was yelling curvy syllables of abuse at a beefy Aussie man with a Glenrowan tattoo on his swelling arm cellulite who was squirting neon mustard, with a distasteful look, onto a man’s snag.

“Bloody yank hotdog shit” he muttered under his breath, which the Fenchman misheard—incredible that he even somehow heard it—shouting back over their astroturfed divide “Who you calling ze frog? Not me! I have a rolling pin big enough for your head and not insignificant stomach ‘ere.”

The big grill attendant’s eyes burned like wasabi and steam actually escaped his ears in thin wisps nearly scolding the lady collecting cash beside him, presumably his wife by her comparable dimensions and complementary Kelly Gang ink, and he picked up an oversized pepper off the grill and threw it across the way. It arced massively over the heads of curious diners who, seeing it fly through the air, reconsidered why they had immediately ruled out the hamburger cart as too provincial and un-adventurous for an outing’s feed, and landed in the eye of the pizza-maker next door, La Italia Marscapone’s yoked head chef ‘Bobby’, who returned volley with tubes of Strasbourg that he threw with the force of a javelin. Like vomit from deep within the food alley ladlefuls of stew were thrown toward the farrago. Someone cracked a witticism at how would they know what regional dish they were eating with all this cross-contamination flying through the air and muddying the waters and it was off to the races, Bobby hurling cubes of cracker barrel with V8 force at the kebab-maker near him while the girthy aussie man slung skewers at his french foe who retaliated by unleashing a whole industrial bowl of breadcrumbs into the air, which exploded into a cloud that obscured the sun and momentarily bathed everyone in a Western sepia.

Underneath all this, I buried my head and made headway to seemingly the only pacific eatery, a Vietnamese street food van at the end of the gauntlet whose wares were smoking non-violently, running into and through anonymous knee-high shapes in the breadcrumb smokescreen that bumped and toppled and cried curiously like small children. I couldn’t hear too clear though, the muddled war-cries issued in various dialects reducing all other sound to a fuzzy abstraction, bits of produce exploding mightily around me like sudden flak. I ordered a pork bun from the beautiful young Vietnamese girl who knows how much younger than myself who ducked, as I did, a boomeranging segment of cabana, and we met eye and smiled. I softened, looking at her strong hazel eyes, wanting to apologise and explain that Australia is generally considered a highly-developed post-colonial nation with a rich history of diversity and inclusion unmarred by bigotry, but the facts just simply contradicted me.

“$3.50 mate,” she said in the wickedest strain of outback Australian, voiced in the same way a father waves away an annoying kid who keeps asking you to pump up his footy.

Jesus, alright, can’t even share a nice moment looking into an attractive strangers eyes. I leaped over a fence, was consequently out of the festival, walked a few steps in the grass and hopped back over the fence to avoid the food fight which I could see had left some casualties lying motionless on the ground half-submerged in Phò (it seemed that the face-to-face encounter with me the young lady suffered through was enough to break her neutrality and unleash some mighty hostilities). It didn’t feel any different back on the paying side of the fence, no good-time festival vibes here encapsulating shivers of holism and depersonalisation. No joy of becoming a crowd here, more like the the preponderance of otherness just polished and made your individual differentness more salient. People seemed to be morally offended I was younger than 85 years old and still wanted to read a book, learn things, make sense of the world and even find answers. I bit into the pork bun even though I wasn’t hungry anymore, because I bought it and wanted to stop thinking about how dismally unlikely it would be I could find any substance or meaning here, or meaning that wasn’t just substances, amid all these pages scrawled with dedications in blue ink (“To my marvellous Mary, have a merry 1975 filled with mirth and fairies”), yuck.

I walked into a high tent that must have been held up by the unbroken mortar of bookshelves spreading concatenated around the perimeter and decided to grab something off the shelf and sit with it, fossicking through its anonymous pages while eating my bun. My face was hot and cold and I worried about catching a cold just for something to do that wasn’t reading the pages insipid words. I felt the nap of the cheap paperback pages in my hand, smelt its smell. It said “He walked into a high tent that must have been held up by the unbroken mortar of bookshelves spreading concatenated around the perimeter and decided to grab something off the shelf and sit with it, fossicking through its anonymous pages while eating his bun. His face was hot and cold and he worried about catching a cold just for something to do. He felt the nap of the cheaper paperback pages in his hand, smelt its smel—“. Uninterested, I dropped it on the ground and savoured the warm marrow of the pork bun sliding down my throat. I had misgivings about reading too far into the story lest I find no meaning lurking at the end, in which case, I might as well just go home now with a full belly and a whole afternoon to spend getting faded. There were a group of several people about my age in the tent drinking tea and rolling a cigarette—apparently just one to share between three. But if you had seen the size of this durrie- a least half a foot long and as wide as a freshly-baked baguette. They were rolling it from different directions with one in the middle, and one of them on the end inserting what looked like a ceramic mortar but must have been the filter. I imagined the taxation that would apply to such a roll if it were to be retailed and quickly tried to calculate if it would prop up the national coffers enough to start adequately funding public services but I doubted it, a few pollies would just share in its smoky largesse looking down on everyone.

I emerged out of the academic throng reeking of french perfume of uncertifiable legitimacy, such was the craftiness of counterfeiters and the desperation of people wanting to out-dress, out-think and out-pace each other in garish shows of good fortune and spirit. I was sickened. It trouped into my mouth and moshed on my palate and I briefly saw in the air —maybe hallucinating from the pork bun— elderflower and bergamot and C2H6O molecules gyoscoping so I could, like, see the organisation of the atoms, branches and all, floating in the air diagrammatically. I lurched over to a long bench which must have had its paint renewed recently and held my mouth shut manually, trying not to adorn it with my insides while people looked on entertained eating ice creams. I ladled myself onto its curves and shoved my cold fists into my eye sockets and screwed away until the last of the ghostly images were gone, convoked back to whatever haunted fashion house they terrorised. The nausea vanished slowly with big gulps of air and the un-tunneling of my vision. I felt renewed but cautious and took smaller steps. I stopped by a rack of poetry books and thumbed through a few verses. The Beats. All taste and bluster and mysticism and good lessons for a world that doesn’t exist anymore and can’t be resuscitated. It made me feel hopeless. All the meaning they found was dead now, worse, buried so inaccessibly in the earth all you could do was read the well-maintained tombstones and lament the fact they were so legible it was like a taunt, a bird, The bird, mounted on the granite. $1.50, pffft, arm and a leg and half your nackas, am I right? I walk off with Kerouac et al. in my pockets.

Leaping over a bluestone gutter I nearly twisted my ankle and had to dodge several uniformed kids running by with enchiladas and bulky instrument cases. I spied a stage where they would be performing and consciously earmarked it as a hadal pit well-worth avoiding at all costs. I embark upon the book bus instead, which is a bus outfitted on the inside with bookshelves so tightly massed you can barely pull a — out without hitting the back of your hand on the shelf that faces the one you’ve just taken from. Needless to say it’s busier than Turnbull’s hands around tax time inside. Loving punishment, desiring the crush, I insert myself into one of the cramped elbows where multiple shelves meet.  Around me, singly, people try to fit the shape of their body into the system, or rather, engineer a body-shape that fits. A man sidles past me walking like an Egyptian, another has managed to efface all Z-coordinates and slips out easily. I’m starting to see that if I grab that copy of Russell’s The History of Western Philosophy I will likely create a shockwave that threatens to launch two pensioners from the entrance door I had lost track of but which turns out to be way behind me owing to the curious mechanics of getting turned around in a dark space. Fuck it, I throw my hand out toward the big tome while watching the entrance behind me, waiting to see the two grey-haired ducks get kicked by an invisible bull. My neck is almost breaking. I’m not even looking at the bookcase but relying on my working memory to maintain the location of the text on the shelf. Just a little further and should see them fly…


I turn and see blonde hair, adidas leggings, my hand firmly resting on the centre of her arse cheek, making a slight impression in the softness. She whips around and looks at me and is glorious, a dream of homes that don’t belong to you and never could, looking like teeth that cost more than a family sedan and hips that could shake at a magnitude 7.1. I somehow hadn’t seen her, too occupied with my search.

“Ah, sorry miss.” I offered.

She stared at me, sensationalised. Someone was asking if everything was okay and I looked at her hoping she wouldn’t scream. She stared back at me with nice blue eyes. Then I realised my hand was still on her arse. I lunged out and grabbed The History of Western Philosophy and ripped it from the shelf with all my might and watched as the mathematics of force echoed around the room taking people’s bodies as it needed them, adding a one here and subtracting 3 more there until the passage behind me was cleared except for a few impediments I could easily vault.

“Sorry to have met you this way.” I said to the blonde whose lip was starting to curl.

“That’s okay. Let me give you my number.” She produced a ball point pen, grabbed my arm, and stabbed me with all her fury. I ran out the door into the cold nursing my puncture.

Depression started to flag me and I gave in to how I felt. There were more storm clouds overhead now and more strife in the booklovers. A few prominent coffee vans had run out of their precious lucre and now tempers ran short. All the good books seemed to be gone, nothing left but Twilights and Bourke’s Gardening Tips. There were still some very expensive down jackets blowing around in the swelling wind though.

I find a book I want “Practical Tricks To Fool Any Sucker” and offer the vendor the $1 it’s hastily written in the frontispiece I need to offer him to leave with it but he won’t accept it. He tells me it’s a rare book printed by a wealthy American card-hand and that the $1 refers to American dollars not Australian. I offer him a dollar fifty, thinking that will make up the difference, but he tells me the price is not negotiable— one American dollar or nothing.

“Are you sure you need an american dollar for this? Wouldn’t two Australian ones be better.”

“Look they might be but I’m not prepared to say at this moment. I don’t want to get too political and that’s why I maintain the price stays as advertised.”

“You can’t believe everything you read in a book Sir.” I countered.

“Well course you can or it wouldn’t be in there. This book says $1 and the price was written in Missouri when I was there so that’s how it stays.”

“But Sir it also says on page 43 of this book that Ronald Reagan is President.”

“And that’s true.”

Was true, was.

“What was once true is always true young boy, you’ll learn that some day.”


“What, you disagree. What was true yesterday is not true today?”

I affirmed that, for the most part, he was correct but—

“That’s enough, one Yankee Doodle dollar or nothing is the deal son.”

I left the book to the septuagenarian and his commodity fetishising. It kind of felt bad to leave such a repository of practical skills including the three card monte and the glim-dropper but, I guess having the book didn’t mean you’d fool the suckers, grease your palms etc. Like how reading about the good life doesn’t give you the good life; or reading about physics doesn’t get you off of this planet run by money; or reading erotica doesn’t mean you lose your virginity. In the end, it doesn’t even matter. All the words in the world, used as deftly as possible, won’t make you enough money to live off of—won’t bring you meaning or satisfaction, and meaning wont necessarily pay your bills. Words are traded for free or less—in the streets you can be the recipient of a whole string of words for no damn reason. There are people on TV and street corners wasting them prodigiously for no gain to themselves, for no listeners left undistracted and alive. So what if this philosopher said the meaning of life was this or that, you didn’t get to have the meaning of life plopped down on your lap just for purchasing a dusty old book. Maybe I thought all the books in the world held the wrong words, that there was one out in the great abyss somewhere that did manage to line up al the symbols in the exact permutation that provided meaning, like a successfully intoned spell, the difficulty, the duty, was in finding it— the meaning of my life. But here I was in the most suspecting glut of books and these ones were just the same, smelled a little different and had different hand styles in them maybe, but otherwise the same as the glossy mass-trade confections in any booksellers’ window. Where was meaning not mediated by words? What meanings lay outside their imperial boundaries and couldn’t be properly spoke, couldn’t be elegantly contained in these spiky signs and their concepts?

I saw the blonde who punctured me and she’s with some huge lump of meat who I assume to be her boyfriend from the way they are fighting. She seems to be attacking him and he to be easily defending himself with a Japanese instructional book. There are rivulets of people blowing in between them as they fight so they get louder in order to hear each other across the yawning distance. The skies are open for business now and rain falls in blankets that are hessian and near-impossible to avoid.

Last-ditch, I jump up onto a bluestone curb with Kerouac bouncing around in my pocket and grab some old book with no dust jacket or markings and open it. Yada yada, something about “meaning can be found anywhere and in anything- the sighing of a spring rose, the sag of an old fence post- but what is herder to find is the meaning of meaning. What does it mean, after it means?” This looks promising and I read on until realising the author has no answers for his own questions. I’m deflated. Whatever, I consider consigning this author of false hope to the gutter with other titles potential buyers throughout the day have littered along with their takeaway coffee cups and water bottles, then I look up and a girl who looks like every adolescent fantasy is standing a foot in front of me, smiling. I hadn’t noticed her because I was so entranced in the ultimately useless book.

“Oh, I love that one. Such a great piece of work.” She’s gesturing at the book I hold. “One of my favourites,” she says, can I have a look?” I pass her the book and she lifts it to her perfectly upturned nose and takes a deep whiff. “Mmmm.”

“Does he ever works out the meaning of meaning?” I ask.

“Oh, I don’t know. I just love the prose.”

“Oh, so… you don’t know what he’s talking about?”

“Oh, no. I buy books because of how beautifully the words are laid out, not because I agree with what they say. See this book, on page fifty-seven he goes into this marvellous crescendo of hyphenated words that is just transcendent. I have it posted onto my wall to look at everyday.”


“I look at each word as a little island in the sea of the page.”

“That’s beautiful.”

“Like this book, this one has some incredible islands in it.” She showed me a page and I said the words were inordinately pretty, like you. She mustn’t have heard the last bit but passed me the book anyway and said she had to leave. Goodbye angel. I turned it over and saw the front page of Mein Keimpf. Jesus, I go to put both books back on their table but look around and notice everyone else casting theirs into the gutters as they run for dry land against the percussive rain. It’s so heavy now that visibility is reduced and muddy and all I can make out is the outlines of bodies and their desaturated colours. I decide I’d better leave and fly home to comfort and the warmth of habit.

Walking off the pavement was like what it must be like to leave a fish market, the guts of books everywhere stinking to high heaven of their unique smell, stepping over wood pulp diligently but it still getting stuck to the bottom of your boot turning into mud from the dirt or was it the ink? Millions of words blending into one polysyllabic spew that even thousands of punctuation marks couldn’t slow or bring to a full stop. It’s all a generic hodge-podge, no word or title standing out amongst the rest, entropy become complete. It flicks up into mothers’ eyes as they rescue their children from the mess that threatens wash them away. The deluge is filled with the bins’ kitty, write-offs from the international food fight, lost shoes and discarded sunnies, someone’s mobility scooter sans owner, clarinet cases and scarves. All the takeaway coffee cups mass in a low area and start to dyke up some of the deluge and people climb on top of it and scan the chaos for their friends and family. The school buses that are parked near the entrance have wet children coughing up unruled pages in them, paper cuts in their young lungs. A crack of thunder prompts one bus driver to start his engine and toot his horn, signalling any straggler to hurry up or miss out. Teacher’s stress as schools break apart. The bulldog lady who I paid entrance to is holding her post and trying to pass out memorial pamphlets to nobody. Everyone scrabbles for safety. People are running with plastic bags full of books, their expensive jackets’ hoods getting a rare spin. There’s screaming coming from the entrance as a bottleneck opens up, bodies becoming trampled in the usurping tide, a child set a-sea in a pillbox hat gets taken by a rip out toward the highway, esteemed authors run from their signings use fountain pens to joust each other away from a rapidly colonised side-exit.

Throughout all of this I’ve been trying to wrestle with the water level, stay put and not get sucked down to the ocean floor. I see childrens’ tears mix with the swelling water making it salty; womens’ hair-dye running in the darkening streams. A man is throwing children and girls out of the way—they land with oily splashes in the drink—to get out the exit. Security, what little there is for a book fair, wade towards him with fists balled, as, behind them, a gaggle of the white-haired elderly kick gently about in the water and laugh. I want to help people, I want my life to mean something. I see the chaos disorder everyone and everything until the slate is ambiguous and everything my eye catches could just be phosphenes, ectopic phenomenon. My body feels awkward and, rather than ineptly inserting it into the fray, I decide to keep clear, let the chaos order itself from within. I fall onto my back and float luxuriously. Up above the sky is black tourmaline. I let out a scream and don’t even stop to consider what it means.



Original photo by Nicole Garmston, Herald Sun 18/01.


While the Australian Open played out just 2 blocks away, the Melbourne Council and the Herald Sun focused common attention on the ‘scourge’ and ‘blight’ of homelessness ‘festering’ outside Flinders St Station. They called it a ‘crisis’, they adduced some anonymous all-powerful tourist disdain that said ‘it’s not a good look for our city’, and they offered binary polls to their bigoted readers to create a fake consensus. Be careful to notice how they whisper thesis insidious narratives in your ear. The Melbourne govt claimed they have no resources to help these people and impugned their collective status, labelling huge swathes of subaltern people ‘not really homeless’ drug addicts. They suggested giving police more powers to move them (out of sight out of mind) increasing poorness from a social canker to de facto crime. The media filmed them like they lived in a zoo, exploiting them for clicks and views. The police deprecated them with customary inhuman disrespect; reducing them to jobs to be done and processes and stats. The everyman in his ivory mortmain called it a disgusting sight as if he had to look at Robert Doyle’s neck or housing affordability statistics every day on the way to work and not just people exactly like him but without the momentum to stabilise their lives. And the whole time this sordid drama played out with everyone lingering at the pulpit saying a whole lot of grandiloquent nothing and no one offering sympathy or common sense or doing anything, while those without homes remained constantly on view like they always are,  the Australian Open finished. No money to give someone a life but a total of a 50 million dollar purse being sponsored by the ANZ, and Kia and Rolex and over a quarter of a million dollars revenue entering the city of Melbourne in just over a fortnight (well over 10 million dollars of which is pure profit). And while the duality off having one of the worlds most expensive sporting events– where a bath towel from the gift shop costs up to $100 and a hotdog runs nine bucks– only 90 seconds walk from people are sleeping on hard concrete, four deep, covered in newspapers with trauma pets and balled-up clothes and days of stubble and dirt painting their face, may not affect you, as it doesn’t the media or authorities or cherished profit margins or the cosmopolitan status of the city, it does affect them. Every ‘move along’ issued to a homeless person creating embarrassment and uncertainty, every time you look away from them and refocus on the dim hallucination of your future they’re still there, struggling, human, exactly the same as you if you just knew it.

Violent Illness: A Review

So people I spend time with had been passing this bug around like it was a fragrant joint, and just as obviously I could smell it coming my way. Although I tended to wake in the early AM hours and flee to the hermitage of my parent’s house, the contagion still got me. I was cruising round the backyard with my dad, learning by rote all the details of some dilapidated car he was restoring, when the sickness hit me. The dull g-forces in my stomach had, in one powerful moment, become a cyclone of queasy movement. I ran to a grassy area and left the history of my poor diet all over the blades.

“You’ve lost all your colour!” Dad remarked.

“No I haven’t. It’s right there being eaten by Cupid” (my sister’s dog), I blurted with the same vomitary action. There’s something DNA-deep that prevents a young man from revealing to his pop how bad he really feels. Some dumb machismo or something.

Anyway, this was a situation that was no peach, because I actually had to make a rare appearance at a dinner later that evening, one which I really didn’t want to go to. Being there with a chaos of seismic action in my stomach would not make it a more leisurely affair. There was literally no way I was getting out of this engagement without losing a limb or severing a major artery so I returned to cursing my fate– a habitual gripe by now.

Since I had only made the one piece of gastronomic art so far, I decided that I was some special breed of human that was immune to the ailments of others and that I must just have coincidentally needed to spew. Yes, that was it, I take fish oil and drink spirulina and am robustly healthy whereas everyone around me lives minute-by-minute or faster. I can’t get gastro. How can something just induce your body to vomit if you don’t want to? It can’t, I decided, and I resolved to be well.

I jumped in my car and headed out to my girlfriends house, where I would assure her I was fine to come to dinner, pale faced and reeking of nausea or not. Driving there, wondering if  I would spew over the relative clean of the car’s interior, I felt my temperature tangibly rising, like I was driving into the sun. Soon as I walked into my girlfriend’s room she gave me a knowing look that said, “You’re about to let me down again.”

Well, yeah, I was. I am, in fact, so good at this I can do it without trying– even going so far as to make myself explosively sick just to switch up my M.O. I think she saw that I was stoically trying to fight this minotaur though, as I promised to still come, that shattered her frustration so that her voice broke down into all tender care.

“You’ll be okay. It’ll only last for 12 hours.” She reassured me, speaking from experience.

“You bitch, don’t tell me that.” I said muttered.

Long story short, she heads to dinner and I head to a bucket that has been conveniently stationed beside the bed where I am sweating/shivering like a cat that picks an unwatched place to curl up and die. I am literally vomiting in ten minute intervals until my stomach is as empty as my will to live. The gentle silence of death would be preferable to the pornographic mess I am/ am making. I lose all sense of time in a febrile shapelessness. Hours pass into seconds and I fall asleep and dream for a thousand years to only wake up and reject the water I had drunk 5 minutes ago. I am so dehydrated but my body torturously refuses to let me drink.

Here’s the jewel in the ornament; the high point or crescendo of my free perdition: I go to get up and take my sea legs to the bathroom when I hear, from the bottom of the bucket of nameless contents, a CLUNK. Was it a lighter falling in? No, I suddenly realise with some nerve-response intuition. I plunge my hand into the ordure up to my forearm and extract my phone, which I can see it still working. I’m so unbelieving I don’t even curse my fate. I just wobble out to the kitchen and chuck it into a wok-ful of rice someone was preparing to cook. Mia Culpa but I’m in dire straits friend.

At sometime around 5 AM I manage to full into a species of sleep and get maybe an hour or two of rest. When dawn finally breaks and I leave the room, unaccountably feeling much better. Almost like I hadn’t just lived out the opening scene of Apocalypse Now as a budget Martin Sheen. Like I hadn’t just been up vomiting consistently through a beetle-dark night, losing every ounce of water my body had managed to hoard.

All in all it was a cleansing experience. I’m sure my body lost many harmful toxins as well as all it’s moisture, colour and ability to compartmentalise. I also lost a phone, the replacement phone that was filling in for my other, long gone one. So now I’m phoneless and happy again. Take the good with the bad, like a Ying Yang.

Final review: Although it saved me the pain of going to a dinner and masquerading as someone I’m not and never will be, it did cost me a phone, create many hours of near-death agony, and result in my having to get my own emesis on me. The post-ayahuasca cleanness afterward was nice though, as well as the hearty sympathy that was meted my way with injunctions to relax. I feel ambivalent about this occasion, and almost unqualified to grade the illness fairly as I haven’t had gastro since I was in primary school. It’s definitely stepped its aggression up, which is a nice touch, while reducing the actual duration of the sickness. I guess the only way you can tell if this illness is for you is to go sample it yourself. It may not be a symphony, but it’s damn catchy.  6/10 would conditionally recommend.

Thinking bout weed again

All the heartache and effort we put into cultivating flowers, wouldn’t it just be easier if we had decided to enjoy the appearance of weeds? We put such labour into growing these ephemeral scherzos of colour, and then when weeds spontaneously appear we fuss and commiserate. If a weed really is,”a wild plant growing where it is not wanted and in competition with cultivated plants,”then can’t we instantly eliminate all weeds just by changing our mindset? I am the Buddha of the backyard.

Why don’t we appreciate weeds for the traits they do embody: they’re hardier; don’t need meticulous nursing; and are beautiful -as everything is- in their own subjective way.

Do we only like flowers because they reflect the work we put into them; because they represent the type of self-care and attainment we are not necessarily willing or brave enough to put into ourselves? Or is it because they are so difficult to grow and necessitate dedication and thus represent a departure from the average. If beautiful roses and irises flourished everywhere as the norm would we love the infrequent mystery of a scotch thistle?


Waterboarding x Short storying x Wine adoring

I have been drinking red wine lately because it makes me feel worse than smoking weed. The logic is that hopefully I’ll hit breaking point and drive myself to quit both soon. Aversion therapy. There’s nothing worse, for me, than the onrush of memory that assaults me everyday as I wake up. All the debauchery and impetuous decisions of the night before shown to me as if in a dream, a dream of a louche young thug destroying himself slowly and leaving nothing behind but a impecunious corpse. When I wake up still drunk from the wine this doesn’t mean anything to me. Good.

I haven’t been writing as many music reviews lately. There doesn’t seem to be much coming out that isn’t accorded either unanimous worship or revulsion, so what will my queer little voice add to the composition? Plus I’ve nearly finished a short story and, while it isn’t actually good, it made me feel better to write. I might post it on here soon if I can get fucked-up enough to re-read through it and do the necessary editing. If more reviews or reading this story interest you let me know.

Speaking of fucked up, at Earthcore this weekend someone (allegedly) got waterboarded. Like there’s footage of it happening so it’s not alleged, but I think they were just have a laugh with their mates so it’s alleged to me because part of torture is that it is intended to inflict pain on an unwilling participant. (Isn’t ‘unwilling participant’ an oxymoron? ‘Hostage’ seems to imply the same thing without the incongruity.) The good old Australian larrikin misrepresented by the paranoiacally afraid and out of touch media in this country. If anyone is glad they dropped out of journalism school it’s me. I’m just surprised they decided to bash the youth of this country with this piece and not angle for some headline-garnering anti-muslim fear mongering (very fashionable right now). How long ’til Andrew Bolt appears in the tabloids like the intermittent period stain he is and declares “Immigrants at music festivals torture fun-loving youth just trying to suck down nangs and GHB in peace.” People over forty seem to always need a (un)-common enemy. Anyone who’s just a little different from the 45 racist bumpkins they went to year 10 deb with back in ’63. The same people who think they’ve succeeded in life because they drive a new Senator (on payments of course) and get to hang a tribal-tattooed arm out of their driver’s window while they blast Pink or the Eagles in traffic and claim to be ‘free thinkers’ and anti-corporate. Bless ’em and their high speed drive-by vitriol and popular control of public ignorance.

Anyway this seems like it would have been one of the tamest highs a person could achieve Out There anyway. Out There in the middle of the Dread Bush, where all manner of illicit pleasures seem to pullulate in the arid soil. Couldn’t go unfortunately. What with being broke and trying to minimise my intake of mind altering molecules. Spent the weekend at home instead, yelling at the missus and watching nightly news, sharpening my pitchfork for fear that the neighbours would murder me. If you’ve never been to a Doof (Australian rave in the middle of the wilderness), it’s kind of like this doc from the 80’s called Threads, which is a docudrama about nuclear fallout. Besides being one of the most unflinching and un-glossy  portrayals of nuclear hysteria, it accurately sums up both the Id-satisfying immediacy of people going to doofs, and the jingoist attitude of people in small rural towns watching 1000’s of mesomorphs enter their gates with cars full of recherché chemicals. Everyone is so concerned with protecting their little patch (whether it be physical, metaphysical or metaphoric); everyone thinks that someone they don’t know is trying to take from them.  The only damage that occurs is to employability, and only because employers genuinely care about the reach of their influence and want their employees to bow down to not just what they say here and now, but years ago before they started working there too. The whole world is ran by imperialists wielding weapons of symbolic violence, so disempowered all their life they take to their platform like Mussolini. Welcome to modern Australia, where waterboarding is preferable to spending 20 minutes with anyone outside your limited demographic.



TALLICA!! x Grey Ceiling x Invidious Opinions

If you liked the Metallica album just don’t read this. Let’s just agree to disagree, and you can listen to Hefield Whoah-oho you to sleep each night while holding your inner child tightly.

Why would you bother with the new Metallica? How can I possibly get some form of cathartic release from the music made by 4 multimillionaires who are patently disdainful of their moronically loyal fanbase. If you watch Some Kind of Monster, they’re not even making music for the potent emotional release it affords. They buy art or ride horses or work on cars or surf for that abreaction. They rely on these hobbies to take away the dread realities of being famous musicians much the same way that young kids and unknown bands make music to escape their daily life. That’s why fuck Metallica–it’s a day job for them and just because they’ve had one good day amongst 20 years of being the workplace bludger doesn’t mean we celebrate them. That’s why we all hate working: the wrong people get the glory and attention, the glass ceiling exists always.

People saying it’s good are clearly saying “It’s better than we expected given the last 25 years of shit music they’ve asked us to buy off them”, and if this is all it takes to make “good music” these days then, Yes, it is good. It actually sound like Metallica from circa ’91, but a bit more Anthrax-y. Hetfield’s vocals are warmed with some reverb that resembles a comfortable diaper for him to shit in with his steroidal rockabilly crooning. Stylistically it’s just wildly inconsistent.

Moth to Flames sounds like power metal that Sonata Arctica thought was way beneath them releasing being sung by ageing music teachers whose idea of rebellion is smoking a cheeky durry behind the groundskeeper’s shed at recess. Like, it’s that toothless and mild.  Not to say there aren’t some good riffs occasionally, like one Atlas, Rise! or Murder One but there’s more to making good and effective metal than resuscitating some licks from your old book of cast-offs. It doesn’t advance heavy music in anyway; they haven’t drastically altered their image or ‘brand’; and they haven’t bought thrash–the genre they ruled for two decades– back into the mainstream. Before the purists come after me, it’s not even a thrash album, it’s like metal-core and heavy rock amalgamated half as good as the majority of modern bands would do if they didn’t see it as the most boring, corporate, old man sound to ever chase. Like if the world’s most renowned chef just cooked tepid pumpkin soup for every service, and called any youngster who made a virtuosic Galantine overly ambitious with no skill. Imagine the type of authority that has nothing to offer except its authority, nothing to say except: “you didn’t pay me enough debt for that.” Metallica, the grey ceiling. The sound of this album? Imagine Load and Reload funnelled through crunchy NWOBHM while sucking its own thumb to old glowing reviews.

Why does a band of millionaires who’ve already had their influence on modern music still get thrown these bones and get shine for bullshit? A new group has to smash all glass ceilings, come out with fanfare, and basically has to change the current face of music (either through their sound, appearance, or new methods of distribution) to even get noticed, and even then their music is not judged on its own but in the matrix of all new releases and the hallowed back-catalogue of classic. The only thing they’ve done different with this album is to release all the tracks simultaneously as individual videos on youtube which could be interesting if it wasn’t just a money grubbing ploy to get as much revenue as possible for their meagre efforts a la their Napster suits in the 90’s (Napster was the new wave, the precursor to the entire way the music biz is ran now, and Metallica hated it, hated change and newness as they still apparently do– even Fred Durst was more preceptive and liberal on the topic than them). This is what’s so annoying with modern consumerist culture and it’s influence on art, which should be free of mercenary concerns and purely about making other people feel. These album doesn’t make me feel anything except disgusted for my hero-worship of these guys when I was 14, and glad they’ll never get another one of my dollars. Everything I liked about them finally and consummately died around St Anger (2003), as I imagine it did for most fans. I’ll still love their earlier albums and acknowledge they were some of the best in metal EVER, still listenable to this day, but for every action there is an opposite reaction and that is what we are witnessing, like a supernova exploding, now.

The most metal things are: authenticity, non-conforming, and independence, something we’ve seen all the big 4 thrash bands disregard in the last decade (except Anthrax who were always the meaner more genuine little child). And still, young, forward thinking groups with an abundance of talent are being cut down and homogenised because they don’t want to follow the recipe, because they think and innovate and so have to be cut into perfect little squares by the music industry to survive without some god-like providence. All backward, everything Metallica stands for being destroyed with their every venal action.

Like, how can you market an album on the fact that its less shit than their other albums. Modern culture of the lowest common denominator.  Either listen to old Metallica the they were good, or listen to one of a plethora of modern bands who are better, more emotionally ferocious and more individual than these old codgers.