Scape Haze.
(Oil on white). 

MrMonkeyInk

Bleeding Edge

"What might only be a simple point on the workday cycle . . . becomes a million pedestrian dramas, each one charged with mystery, more intense than high-barometer daylight can ever allow. Everything changes. There’s that clean, rained-on smell. The traffic noise gets liquefied. Reflections from the street into the windows of city buses fill the bus interiors with unreadable 3-D images, as surface unaccountably transforms to volume. Average pushy Manhattan schmucks crowding the sidewalks also pick up some depth, some purpose — they smile, they slow down, even with a cellular phone stuck in their ear they are more apt to be singing to somebody than yakking. Some are observed taking houseplants for walks in the rain. Even the lightest umbrella-to-umbrella contact can be erotic.”  

Thomas Pynchon - Bleeding Edge.

tread carefully through the slaughter of snails that is the courtyard path
once the fatal crush
soft bodies pierced by shards of shell
nothing can be done but brief remorse

dash your caravan to the rough then 
slick mollusk
rush the gamut of soles
so quick silver trails come to soil unstopped



MrMonkeyInk

When it comes to the order colours are mentioned, more commonly, red is first and blue is last. Blue is rare in nature. There is no blue in Homer. Gladstone finds this in all ancient Greek manuscripts, that is, he doesn't find blue. He has an explanation for how we 'got' blue that is almost Lamarkian. Other philologists similarly fail to find blue in ancient texts from other cultures. No blue.

Jungle River


MLPlumber
MrMonkeyInk

Cake Rabbits

MrMonkeyInk

(fragment from when the bees)

The immortal old man of the elusive blue sounds the deep, so emerged from the sea, his herdsman, asleep, amongst a colony of seals. There on the headlands in view of the town and the farms that lay between he was seen sleeping heavy on warm round edged stones, baked with them by the sun and cooled by a breeze from crisp occasional waves. So content did he seem that none were alarmed and they stood on the shore and looked, some broke into soft applause, so heroically did he sleep amongst the seals.



MrMonkeyInk

The Ambassador




























MrMonkeyInk

Inner City Child

dreaming of a space beyond walls, beyond counting.
dancing down the lanes like children,
splashing puddles as we go,
the water takes neon,
electric paint,
staining the winter with our path.

I'm childish, I'm a child,
but a bigger man than fear will hold.
in the wake they'll try to scold,
but you can keep you subscription,
return your franchise,
up my dose,
lower my coat,
flash my ass at the world.



* (I want you to understand something. My ego demands that you understand. This is bop prosody -- Of fuel of inspiration. What kicks me. Perhaps I could write this pome better. Polish it. Pre-digest it for you. Pour over it for hours. Days. Weeks... Years. But I didn't. I tapped it out as it came into my head with no revision except for some punctuation so you might be able to comprehend it. There's nothing to sell here. I hope you can understand that).

Neil Alden Armstrong

August 5, 1930 – August 25, 2012.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Qhcs6qiHLI

HOOD

Three Cheers for Sexposition!

 

Game of Thrones bears out what I’ve said about Writing all my life — it’s not “The Story” but how well it’s told. 

Game of Thrones, for all its adult content and unprecedented unsentimentality, still ticks off every cliché to be found in High Fantasy Sword & Sorcery.  But due to its outstanding production, which HBO mounted with such conviction – taking it all seriously – you get this stunning result which makes the genre come alive and seem so fresh it’s as if it’s the first time you’ve ever encountered such a sword fantasy.  No wonder it’s a crossover hit of such magnitude:  drama comparable to The Sopranos as re-imagined in Middle Earth. 

If only all genre TV shows – or motion pictures – could devote themselves to the craft of storytelling rather than just believing in their own press, that they’ve got a great “Story” in the bag and all they need to do is squirt it on the screen any old how, never mind who directs or who screen-writes. 

It’s taking a story’s premise seriously enough and following through on the storytelling craft that makes all the difference.  There isn’t any essentialist magic in a given “Story”, in and of itself.  Filling a checklist of required tropes for the fans isn’t going to guarantee a quality result.  It’s all about how well the tropes are used; how well the plot’s dramatized.  Something HBO’s Game of Thrones proves like no other fantasy show before it. 

We have wakeful days and our sleep is peppered with dreams. Louis has dream filled days and sleep peppered with wakefulness.

MrMonkeyInk

The Sound of Biological Functions

and for Raymond D. Carr            

Condolence

Vance Reaburn

Comments Upon the Eulogy for R. D. Carr

Anth, that was truly wonderful.  Thank you — it brought tears to my eyes.  I came to feel privileged that I had the conversations with him that I did, when I became aware how comfortable I was with him.  I connected.  I could be myself.  As it happens, I have never had relations (good or bad) with people from generations older than mine other than your parents, and Max’s mum.  But I felt totally unselfconscious in Ray’s presence — utterly relaxed, so that I could be natural with him.  He did that, not I.  He created a space for people to be natural, and I had time enough to become aware of that, though it never occurred to me to bring that to his notice in any way.  He probably knew anyway.  After all, he was a consummate “people person”, whose first window on the world was always a humanist one.  Yes, warmth.  That was what greeted you when you met him.  A warmth tranquil, not placid — this created an openness, an inviting sense that you were welcome to contribute (as opposed to plenty of older people I’ve witnessed who were concerned only to steamroll their opinions over everyone). 

And yes, there was always either a twinkle in his eye or a wry twist to his lips, as if he was always on the edge of smiling, looking for any excuse to laugh.  It was obvious that his soul was clear of blackness; that here was someone who didn’t nurse grudges or prejudices and didn’t rail against the world — this becomes clear only minutes after meeting him.  It must take a lot of willpower to prevent a positive-minded outlook from being sullied by the frequent vulgarity of our world.  No, not willpower, but confidence; self-surety in his (hopeful) take on the world.  He projected a calm confidence in people at large, even as he immersed himself in the details of our daily shames through his saturation attention of the daily news coverage.  That curiosity about the fate of humans at large, about history, became evident in scraps of detail that he passed out here and there, quite unselfconsciously, as he chatted about entirely unrelated things.  Slowly you became aware just how much he knew, how much he’d lived, and you began to hope he’d expound a bit more, drop some more nuggets, but he was never one to hog the limelight; he just dropped pebbles into conversational ponds, modest in size but often golden-cored and correct weight. 

Anth, man I loved the description of his paper rounds.  How brilliant.  I’m willing to believe anyone who could box like that would’ve had the precision-dexterity to pull this off!  What a sight it must’ve been!  It should be in a film.  And I loved how in “the force” he awarded himself all the driver’s licenses he’d ever need!  (It’s just a pity we can’t hear his tales of the funeral trade — maybe later??) 

You know what else is a privilege?  Hearing more about how your parents were like in each other’s company.  Authentic, loving and playful; simple inspiration that that still happens, and therefore that it can still happen. 

Perhaps his lifelong sacrifices for family didn’t yield justly compensatory riches, but undoubtedly he led instead a life rich in character and experience, full of family and friends.  I’d wager he would have been content with his life, ungrudging and unafraid of death? 

I’m amazed to hear of a father who would share tales of his dreams with his son — that seems to go against the grain of contemporary bloke-dom (where reserve and embarrassment seem to be one’s first duties in all matters emotional).  Refreshing to hear this.  I wonder exactly how many father-sons have had this experience — and repeatedly, at that?! 

And yet so sad for Matt that they never got to finish that M*A*S*H saga.  How long had they been at it, years?  How close to the series’ end were they? 
         It will sound pretty fanciful, but somehow this denial of closure between Matt and Ray reminds me of the end of Death in Venice.  Bear with me.  I mean the bit when Aschen is dying, and the boy Tadzeo points off-screen, beyond the agreed-upon film-stage where cinema is meant to screen the life-stories it’s telling, capturing them within the golden mean of its silver screen — no, Tadzeo is pointing off-screen, alluding to a process beyond the one any of us can see to the finish (no, not “God”, but the river of genes and family stories at work within us).  Ultimately, that process – life – begins in the genes of all our forefathers and is borne through us to private ends we can never witness, much less share, because those ends are the deaths of consciousness more than they are the deaths of bodies — and of those there will be generations, death upon death upon death, and yet although these ends occur alone, unwitnessed, unshared, they don’t have to be the end of the process (damn what a piss-weak phrase!):  that is, not the end of the river of genes and family stories.  They can still be borne out through you and all the Carrs.  Carry your dad off-stage, off-screen, to a fate more enduring than he’d’ve expected.  Celebrate him justly, as you have already done here in this great eulogy.  He will be a living force in your family history. 
        In this admittedly clumsy analogy, your father is Tadzeo-the-innocent addressing the Carrs, pointing beyond to the existence of life vaster than the one framed by any one conscious experience of it, not yours, nor even his.  (Again, no allusion to “God” or even spirituality, but the river of genes and family stories through time immemorial to come.)  I have no doubt you will continue to celebrate your father, for he deserves to be. 
If the word “gentleman” passes totally out of currency Ray would still be recognized for who he is, simply because of his upright qualities as a solid citizen.  I’ve never felt I’ve known "the soul" of anyone of his generation — even my mum is rather opaque to me.  Certainly I wish I could have had someone like him for a father.  You’re lucky to have had him, but at least your eulogy did him proud.  Rest, now.  It is done.  Carry up your pen another day. 

Petri Sinda

Eulogy for Raymond Donald Carr

Thursday 29th of March, 2012

My dad, Raymond Donald Carr, was born in North Perth on the 18th of December 1929, the second son to Amelia Josephine and Maurice Patrick Carr. He was delivered by the same midwife as mum who was born in the same hospital nine months later. Sadly, Maurice died when dad was 6 months old and in lieu of his father, dad was surrounded by a wonderful extended family, full of characters that were the font of stories that all of us know well. Nana ran a boarding house on Aberdeen Street and next door was his Grandma Ryan and other members of the clan. As he grew up, the city of Perth was his playground and this lead to an intimate knowledge of his home town.

At sixteen dad began an apprenticeship as a tailor with Keith Stronach in Barrack street. He was the only male amongst the apprentices and would tell us of how they would forget he was there and talk openly about things that male ears would not usually be privy to. He spoke of this time fondly and had an enduring eye for style, always commenting on the cut of a politician’s suit and taking care with his own dress.

Mum and dad met in 1956. Tony and Iris Leone went on a fishing excursion to Fremantle with their daughter Roma and Bill Broderick. Bill brought his mate Ray along and Roma brought her friend Ruth. Mum tells me that she thinks it may well have been a set up. Later that year mum went on a cruise to England and when she returned dad was on the dock waiting for her with the Leones and, one suspects, a plan to make Ruth Brockhurst his. He proposed five months later at Lake Leschenaultia and they were married in October 1957.

All of you that have known mum and dad will know what a great team they have been. Married for fifty-five years, Dad was never happier than when in mum's company. I have lived with them recently and have often lay there in bed listening to them chatting away, still excited to share things with each other, still talking and talking and sharing their thoughts. Dad was a great admirer of mums. He not only loved her deeply but he respected and held her in the highest esteem. When alone with me he would often extol her qualities of courage, loyalty and strength of character. He was so proud to have her by his side. He loved to be cheeky with her. She would encourage him to show her his boxing skills which he would always enthusiastically do, shadow boxing and making those sounds so familiar to mum, my sisters and me. He was playful with her to the end. She was truly the love of his life. We all would be fortunate to have an enduring and great love like this. Their love is an inspiration to us all.

In 1953 dad entered the police force or 'the force' as he simply referred to it. To my young ears this had the air of the Jedi about it and dad spoke of his time in the force vocationally. In '61 he was posted to Northam where mum and dad spent six years. They both loved their time in Northam and there made many friends. His adventures in the police force were legion. One of the many qualities that dad gave to his children is a love of animals and particularly dogs. This is a quality perhaps best expressed in my sister Nicole. I never knew the collie dog Danny but, so familiar are the tales of him to me that I feel as though I did. I remember dad telling me of an occasion when dad had just joined the force and was on parade at the station on the corner of Goderich street in East Perth. He was lined up in formation when out of the corner of his eye he saw Danny, the free ranging canine as he seemed to be, wandering into the parade area. As a new recruit dad was reluctant to draw the ire of his commanders and so he maintained his position and stared straight ahead, hoping Danny would just leave him be. Danny sauntered in and put his nose to work inspecting the line and when he came to dad let out a bark of acknowledgement and leapt up on him in greeting. Shame faced, dad was told to take the dog home.

He was a policeman for 14 years, leaving to run the news agency in 1967.

Mum and dad ran the newsagency in Fremantle for eight years. Theirs was the largest delivery round in the metropolitan area and although it was a successful business financially, dad once told me that this period was his own personal Vietnam, with such early morning starts and the never ending demands of running a small business taking a toll on his sleeping patterns that were to last throughout the rest of his life. He was famous, and occasionally infamous, for his delivery skills. Whereas other news agents would deliver one side of the street and then turn around and drive down the other way to deliver the other side, dad would do both sides whilst driving in the one direction, tossing the paper with some precision over the roof of the car, the little Volkswagen, with passenger seat removed to accommodate the papers, rocking dangerously from side to side with the power of his throw. On one occasion a complaint was put in to the police that dad was driving down the verge at 70 miles an hour with papers flying left and right. The policeman who came out to see dad about this was incredulous and began by saying that the allegation clearly couldn't be so as such a feat would be impossible, to which dad heartily agreed, dismissing such an idea as fanciful. That is where the matter was left.

As for dad's time as a funeral director, there is certainly many a tale to tell. It would seem that morale is maintained within that profession through humour and camaraderie in the face of the particular emotional challenges of the job. Dad took to this task with a sensitivity and dignity that came naturally to him. He very consciously saw it as the continuation of his service to the community. He would often begin to tell a story from that time at a social engagement and mum or one of the family would have to give him a little nudge to alert him that the subject matter and black nature of the humour would not be as readily appreciated by the company as he may have imagined. This little nudge would not always be successful. Some of dad's friends and colleagues from the profession are here looking after us today and in deference to them I will refrain from regaling you with such tales. Needless to say, this final stage of his work life was full of days that he valued and fuel to the fire of his appetite for storytelling.

We have had so many heartfelt condolences, fond memories and kind words come our way as a family since dad's passing. Within all of this there has been one word that has occurred again and again and that is the word 'gentleman'. This was obviously something that many people perceived in him and I've thought on this, for a gentleman he surely was, but what was it about him that has made this word feature so prominently in the minds of those who loved him? I think that dad had a certain perspective on life that afforded him a tenderness towards his fellows. He genuinely did not bear malice towards anyone. He was compassionate and a constant and instinctive supporter of the underdog, with a lifelong devotion to the Labor party that withstood the turmoil of compromise. When it came to the Labor Party, dad was a true believer. The light on the hill shone steadily for him throughout his life. Politics was a constant passion and in his last days one of his great laments was that he could not keep up with world affairs. What dad had was a great love and hope for the species. He saw things in these broad terms.

Dad was a complicated man. On the surface he was of mild temperament and seemed to all placid by nature. This is not to say that he could not rise to great passion as he would occasionally when the subject was politics or when perched on the edge of his chair watching his beloved Dockers lead us to occasional joy and all too frequent disappointment. He was contemplative and sensitive with a rich interior life. He had the most amazing and vivid dreams which he would relate to me. These tales from his unconscious contained profound narratives which reflected the depth of the man. I consider myself very fortunate to have had a father who would share these things with me.

As a father dad was patient and so giving of his energies. When a teenager and wanting to be picked up and dropped off here and there I had no doubt that if I was to call dad at three in the morning from Darwin and tell him I needed a lift home he would not hesitate and just say, "Ok, I will be there in 45 hours," and just head off. He loved to drive and in the last few years his driving kept us, his passengers, quite alert. In some ways it is a mercy that he died before having his licence taken off him as I am sure it would have been very reluctantly given. And rather than licence, I should more correctly say licences, for he had every vehicle licence available up until only about six months ago, having awarded them to himself when in the Force.

There were many long lasting friendships in dad's life. Bill Broderick, who passed away in 1997, was a great mate. These two shared a special bond with Roma, Bill's wife, and mum being best friends since childhood. Roma's parents, Iris and Tony Leone, whom I was named in honour of, he loved very much. Also of special note throughout the years are Gerry Donavan, John Magee, John McGrade, Gary Stewart, who dad met whilst working as a funeral director and Laurie McManus who passed on only a matter of days before dad.

Dad's older brother, my Uncle Maurie, was always a big part of all of our lives. From the legendary chess matches and boxing stoushes to the political discussions and the enjoyment they both gained by participating in and watching sport together, these two, sometimes referred to as bookends in later life, shared and celebrated their vibrant cultural background, passing on to my sisters and me and Maurie's children, Michael and Anna, a well developed wit and sense of social justice.

Counted in dad's heart as a brother is his cousin Noel Bourke. From the age of nine Noel, along with his sisters Valerie and Kathleen, lived on Aberdeen Street with dad. Maurie and dad mentored Noel as a young chess player and boxer, at one point strapping pillows to him and using him as a boxing bag, impressed by the realism of his grunts as they pummelled him. In his final days in hospital one of us would often sit by him and read passages from Noel's book, Leon, that chronicles the life and times on Aberdeen Street and their shared youth. At one point as I read this to him I thought he had fallen asleep and I stopped only to be encouraged by dad to keep reading. It gave him much joy and I thank Noel for it.

My sisters gave dad six grandchildren and one great grandchild, Lucy May. He had a special relationship with each of these. The eldest of them, Matt, was away with his band in dad's last days. These two shared a particular bond born of some similarities in character. Matt sent a text through for him a few days before dad died and, following a lament that they will never get to watch the final episode of MASH together, he said, "tell him I love him and have learnt so much about myself and who I want to be through him." This is a sentiment and aspiration that all of his children and grandchildren can share.

Dad gave much to his family and to his community. As a tailor, he made our clothes. As a policeman he protected our streets. As a taxi driver he ferried us home. As a newsagent he delivered our news. And, as a funeral director,  he helped prepare our final send off. As has been well observed, he was a true gentleman and a truly gentle man, a man that I am proud to call my father. Vale dad, we have all loved you so much. Thank you for loving all of us as generously as you did.

Rogue therian and provocateur.

Shackles is a high resolution flesh module, fashioned from raucous hybrid pixels in the jungles of the Miocene. He was neither born nor hatched but rather compiled by yena theorists for S¢ανєηgєr & Mαrrøw™. Primarily nocturnal, he is a non-arboreal, cursorial hunter, animated and unpredictable with bone-crushing jaws and an insatiable kaftar wanderlust.

In keeping with the commission directive, Shackles is capable of full immersion in liminal environments and is equipped with canine pack protocols. Along with the expected whoops, groans, giggles, wailing calls, howling, screams, yells, growls, laughs and whines, he can mimic human speech so effectively that it can seem he is communicating directly with you. In this way he has been known to influence people’s spirits through an irregular tonal alchemy.

MrMonkeyInk

Ecotome

So this is my first of hopefully many little letters to you penned in yr absence but with dear thought and embrace as if I could reach through space and time and shake you up. I said 'hopefully' but obviously I'd prefer to not be writing such letters at all now that it’s too late for the post to ever reach you. Or maybe it does. We don't know. Maybe you’re reading this over my shoulder, but maybe not on this occasion as I'm writing this sitting on the toilet, a place where I do much of my best work.

7.29am and feeling pretty good despite self. It’s an overcast morning, the kind which you loved. There’s a fragrance in the air (Not in here but out there) not quite damp--but moisture in it, post-rain freshness…an optimism. That I'm still alive and you might well be. There has just been some sort of colossal misunderstanding.

(When staring out my Shoreditch window, not knowing what had happened --I knew enough to know that life would never be the same...so I paused for some time to reflect in the ecotone between the past and the future that awaited).

9.46am and I'm back again thinking of the Masters Ice Coffees and Coffee Chill highs. Mornings in Subiaco on Hensman road when West Australian iced coffee (The best in the country BTW) and cricket were all that really mattered to us...maybe a smoke or two and Southern Cross cricket game if the mood prevailed. That giddy laxative feeling in the stomach -- post Iced coffeed metabolic spike. Had one just now and thought of you old friend with my same old percolating stomach, adrenalised need to shit. Not pretty for you like writing about flowers and philosophy, (No flower like that flower what knew itself), but true daily true like showers (Dirty/clean) and dishes (That needed doing).



PS - My apologies but that’s all I wrote before this day ended

Dendonedid.

Snap Volley Nights

Maxie dreamt of making a snap kick on the tennis ball road soccer ball as it volleyed in front of him in that golden split second in front of goal...and so it came to pass one drousy Perth summers eve that he found himself there in position and conquered the strangeness of the game and the glowering unforgiving stickiness of the tarmac and blew that volleyed kick through the goals, picked up midflight and snapped its reality goalward. It was two-on-two dynamics and he and I roared around the empty stadium slapping imaginary hands and being hugged by the invisible crowd that spilled over the hoardings as only invisble crowds don't. We were Kings and 1-nil up as the lightness severed our ship from the night.

graffiti. 1909, Route 2.

 

 mplumber

mplumber

Pirate Alert!

The second ship ever launched was a pirate ship.

Addled by Furies and cast from his kin, Arturi wandered and writhed until he found his home under the banner of King Death.
He has gone over to the wild men with Caliban. There's a shaggy dog on the deck and amidst the bilge of tall tales told by desperadoes and renegades are the words of the salty diviner, promising pirate utopia and rum for all.
 
Come drink with the Devil and be done with the rest.


mplumber

Longbay Festive Cat

vreaburn

Dreamstar

Never has a single character so featured in my dreams. I dreamt of him again last night. I was in a house in the suburbs and had been brought there through a chase of some kind in which I was the pursuer. Whatever the issue was, it had been resolved and I had a sense of relief. I was in the lounge room, talking with some young guys who I vaguely knew and was aware that they were in their early twenties and that this was a share house, not unlike the ones I had lived in at around the same age. As we are talking I see through a doorway into a room of another of the houses’ residents, a resident that has not been involved in whatever conflict has occurred earlier. The bed and the objects on the desk seem familiar to me and I experience a sense of déjà vu. I walk from the lounge room into the room and see sitting on a chair a young man who looks remarkably like Max except that he, like his housemates, is in his early twenties, the wrong age for the Max I knew. In the dream I am aware that Max is dead. This, in fact, seems a constant in all the dreams I have of him. Somehow I always know he is dead. I notice how organised and precise everything is arranged in this room and at first I just chat with this seeming doppelganger but eventually I ask him his name. “Max,” he tells me. I am taken aback and he notices and says, “That’s right. Max Flory.” I am confused and elated and horrified. He clearly doesn’t know me. I consider how this house is just like the type of share house we all lived in at this age and yet it was different, alternate. This Max is just like ‘our Max’ but is somehow also different. I know it is not ‘our Max’ of the past. I feel some kind of relief but am more bewildered. I consider whether I should try and explain to him my knowledge of the life of the other Max, perhaps even warn him of the potential for an early death, encourage him to go and see a doctor. First, however, I think that I need to take a photo of him on my phone for the express reason of sending it to Den but for some reason can’t get my phone to photograph him. Here the dream unceremoniously ends.

Max's death is a problem that my brain keeps trying to solve.

mplumber

mplumber

AFL --- Bodies in Collision

by Petri Ivalo Sinda