Mammy Low Pt2 / the world is short.. by albi

I stepped from the plane into the cultural ant-capital. I soon discovered a cultural void edifice the size of Uluru (that’s Ayers rock to you Nazi’s), akin to the immeasurable internal all consuming void edifice of my need for alcohol. I think its funny after being an alcoholic; I still can’t spell the word without spell checking it, much like my degree in Communication Processes, which I still can’t spell either……… Not that any of that mattered in such a godforsaken country as Australia. Maybe I could bring culture to this country like an old style missionary but bringing culture instead of Catholicism. There are of course the amazing Aborigines, but they have been hunted almost to extinction. I was due to stay a year and Sydney was my first stop. My first tentative steps, nervous with hangover fear, took me out of my dorm room and put me face to face with Kuntz (real name). He was a young German fellow with a handlebar moustache and a caliber of the likes you will rarely see again. He asked if I would share a bottle of fine wine with him, (its 10.30 am) as it’s his last day in the country. Never wishing to rile our Teutonic friends, I took part; what’s the worst that could happen? After all it would take him a day or so to get to Poland and he would have sobered up by then. This drinking session lasted 6 weeks. As Kuntz left he was replaced by a series of wonderful fellows, but my money and liver were wearing thin, after a louche month spent up the east coast in Byron Bay, involving booze, dope, a tad of heroine and a 24 hour pie shop. One day I had a moment of pan au chocolate clarity; a flash of genius; I could go and stay with my Nan and alcoholic step-granddad in Perth, that way I could save money and cut down on my drinking; I really believed this. 6 months later and was booking my flight home, financially fettered and exhausted.

My time there had been eventful though. There had been a lovely 17 year old who I fucked everywhere, she was always bra-less and only ever wore a short piece of hippie curtain material wrapped round her waist and never, ever any knickers. Her sharp nipples peeping strikingly through her top and red bush gleaming at me from across the room at a party, as she sat cross-legged on the floor. There were others too and a tip off for a fixed horse race that eased the financial troubles. I had a bar job to lessen my woes too. A titty club by day and a music bar by night. I ended the trip by hitching from Perth to Darwin. I hadn’t really figured on the distance; around 5 thousand miles. At the end of the first day I was hitching back to my gran’s again, with my tail and a leaky bag from a box of wine between my legs.

That in itself, turned out to be a Taoist blessing in disguise. I was too embarrassed to go back to my gran’s in the end and headed to my uncles, where I was tipped off my elusive other uncle John who I hadn’t seen in 15 years, had a trip up to Darwin planned the following day. He had only waited 25 years to get round to it and would be going unknowingly the same day as me on the 3-day bus journey. At the first truck stop I mysteriously handed over the dollars my other uncle had given me to pass on and said enigmatically “you don’t know who I am do you?” as I recognised him, but I was very different to the 8 year old kid he had last seen 15 years before when corrupting me by taking me to the then still controversial Monty Pythons Life Of Brian and giving me me a glass of gin. Having spilt some in the sink, someone thought I had tipped it away; could my prodigious alcohol abuse be put down to still trying to prove to those long gone critics that I could REALLY DRINK? John had always been my favourite uncle and we clicked again instantly. As I hadn’t been able to track him down during my spell in Perth I had settled for hanging out with The Drunks. The Drunks, as they were half affectionately known, were Peter and Barry. Both dead now of course; Peter turned Simpsons yellow as his liver failed and Barry has long since drowned in his own sorrows. They were so much fun, those guys. Once a week they would receive their benefit checks and duly head into Freemantle town to cash them in. Money in hand, they would proceed to spent a load of it on a day time drinking session that would see them awake the next morning with no recollection of the night before. Nothing unusual there, except that the bar they frequented was next door to a pet shop and they would often be surprised to find a Parrot or some such creature greeting them in their living room upon their hazy coming to of a morning. The Awakening of The Drunks was always an interesting ritual. The first to rise would sneak a can from the box of beer and with a tea towel tightly wrapped around the top to minimise the noise, gently spring it open; this was so the other would not hear and start on the limited amount of booze too.

I finally made it to Darwin after an uncomfortable penniless time in Broom, where I had left my uncle. On the way up to Broom each stop saw the people in these roadhouses know him by a different name, I never asked the details of why, I just left it as an enigmatic little story. Life’s more fun left as a fugue of enigmas. Some people lead mysteriously interesting lives it seems, though not nearly enough of them. The flight home from Darwin to the UK was uneventful it seems, as I recollect nothing, except planning to become a teacher of English as a foreign language. I eventually became one, with plans to travel the world that year financed by it; I got a far as teaching an infamously dumb white area of my hometown. I still wonder how Kelly, the 17-year hippie kid is doing now. I wonder who is fucking her and hope that she is calm, happy and at peace in her life.

Pointy Birds

Pointy birds
oh pointy pointy
anoint my head
anointy nointy

- Dr. Hfuhruhurr

Jean Toomer - exert from Seventh Street

CUTLERY - (YOU BETTER LOVE ME) BEFORE I AM GONE. A bloody smashing cover of the BJM song.

Cutlery on Myspace for more loveliness

Vampires of Dartmoor - Dance of the Vampires

Well here we are in Honeybuzzard heaven- i can hear the plaintive whilst of an old stream train- here's something from From Dracular's Music Cabinet (1969) on Finders Keepers Records.

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The master of all genre's at work- (just like the bands I'm in whenever we record, honest!); documenting the whole creative process from beginning to end, via 1,000 Gitanes; Serge Gainsbourg Initails BB:

s.Gainsbourg Initials BB - Création
Uploaded by occiMORT. - Discover more animation and arts videos.

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Jean-Claude Vannier and his crew working on a fashion show for Yves Saint-Laurent in the early 70's..

Beachwood Sparks - Canyon Ride

From the man who helped Melody Nelson appear to your mind.. Jean-Claude Vannier

Lord Kitchener's Valet

DOODLINGS

AMERICAN ANALOG SET - COME HOME BABY JULIE, COME HOME

I'd like some fur

Karl Struss - Dance study 1930

Joker's Daughter - Lucid

Above is the goddess of fertility in British-Celtic mythology.. polly jean harvey!

The Two Trees by W.B. Yates

Beloved, gaze in thine own heart,
The holy tree is growing there;
From joy the holy branches start,
And all the trembling flowers they bear.
The changing colours of its fruit
Have dowered the stars with merry light;
The surety of its hidden root
Has planted quiet in the night;
The shaking of its leafy head
Has given the waves their melody,
And made my lips and music wed,
Murmuring a wizard song for thee.
There the Joves a circle go,
The flaming circle of our days,
Gyring, spiring to and fro
In those great ignorant leafy ways;
Remembering all that shaken hair
And how the wingèd sandals dart,
Thine eyes grow full of tender care:
Beloved, gaze in thine own heart.




Gaze no more in the bitter glass
The demons, with their subtle guile,
Lift up before us when they pass,
Or only gaze a little while;
For there a fatal image grows
That the stormy night receives,
Roots half hidden under snows,
Broken boughs and blackened leaves.
For all things turn to barrenness
In the dim glass the demons hold,
The glass of outer weariness,
Made when God slept in times of old.
There, through the broken branches, go
The ravens of unresting thought;
Flying, crying, to and fro,
Cruel claw and hungry throat,
Or else they stand and sniff the wind,
And shake their ragged wings; alas!
Thy tender eyes grow all unkind:
Gaze no more in the bitter glass.

By W.B.Yeats

The Low Anthem - my new favourite band

Sugar Mountain..

Pregnancy Test BJM

ode to space hasstle..

The Brian Jonestown Massacre 'Ode to Space Hasstle


elis e tom - aguas de março


Vicente Fernandez - Volver Volver

Look out for Monkey...

Popul Vuh classical ambient folk mantra Kyrie 1973

In the dew of little things

Let there be no purpose in friendship
save the deepening of spirit.
for love that seeks aught but the disclosure
of its own mystery is not love but
a net cast forth: and only the unprofitable
is caught.
and let your best be for your friend.
if he must know the ebb of your tide,
let him know its flood also.
for what is your friend that you should
seek him with hours to kill?
seek him always with hours to live.
for it is his to fill your need, but not
your emptiness.
and in the sweetness of friendship let
there be laughter, and sharing of pleasures.
for in the dew of little things the heart
finds its morning and is refreshed.

(exerpted from: Kahlil Gibran's The Prophet)