Gangsters!

I quit my job on the 1st of July, that is, yesterday! Did up a letter all perfect in cursive writing (one of the good things to come out of going to a private girl’s school), and handed it over to the bigwig.

This is why I’ve been so quiet, going without posting for a whole month - I had been promoted, but… in some ways, it was more like a demotion to me. Without going into too much details, I got all blue and started to really think about my options, as I was missing aikido and doing art due to arriving home late and feeling like road kill in general.

Then it hit me: Why don’t I just REALLY quit? Like, QUIT? Resign? Withdraw? Kick the bucket? Feed the armadillos? 

After a few days of my brain churning, plotting, discussing with loved ones… I came down to it!

Why was I wasting my time in a dead-end job that wasn’t creative at all (except for retouching one or two photos)? I was about to hit the three-year marker; and then what?

I kind of feel a bit of regret that I didn’t think of this sooner; I could have been out of there and doing what I really love.

Now: the plan… (to be continued)

I stepped out this morning in a newly acquired dress, a gosh darn pretty one from the racks of Camberwell Market - made out of rayon, black with purple/green/blue stripes. With a label announcing its Sydney origins, probably from the ’80s. Very pretty, and I snapped it off with a gold braid belt and a black cargy for covering me shoulders demurely. (gods how I love vintage clothes)

My mum looked over her reading glasses and sighed. “Another new dress?”

Twinge. My guilty conscience sighed, but my Pride and Vanity swelled my chest up.

“I’ll have you know, that a few years ago - ”

” - yes, yes, you didn’t have any new clothes, I know” said mother, rolling her eyes.

My bust deflated, but swelled up again as I sought to finish my defense; “- and they were TERRIBLE. Threadbare and falling apart, no new purchases, all four or five years old!”

Quipped my mother, “and now all of your clothes are 20, 30, 40 years old.”

Found on Bendigo Street, between Jago and Vesper.

Check out the Vacation option!

Ye gods, I forgot to mention that I have a twitter account now. It’s here at Cryptolizard, and basically, it’s a string of photogenic “twitterings” - there’s no real deeeeep reason behind it aside from jumping on the wagon along with my Gastanthrope one (see a few posts earlier).

It’s a way for me to try and get into the photography habit (despite the blurry and pixelised iphone images), seeing my dear father has loaned me this very heavy, mighty and excellent digital Nikon camera. I’m still quite shy with cameras and prone to just pointing and shooting, and asking people if it’d be okay to take a photograph makes my blood freeze.

I have an artist’s eye, trained for years under patient teachers and permanently-critical-snapping-point teachers, so I can weigh up a scrap on the wall with one elbow in hand and the other hand stroking an imaginary beatink goatee (despite being a woman).

I can size up a subject, scene, situation and break it down into code, and reassemble it onto paper, all within a spilt second, much like a chef will try to work out how best to cook a potato. 

I don’t have the photographer’s eye like my father does; he can peer into the distance, lean back a little, and with a little shifting of the camera’s data or lenses, take a photograph. Preeeeesto!!! He told me once that for every 100 photographs, there is at least a good one. Currently, it’s one for every 10000 for me. And most of them are flukes. 

Nevertheless, I’d like to learn how to see the world as though it’s a pre-photographic state, and weld the camera on like an armour and tap someone on the shoulder with a tentative smile, to point at my lens.

So my birthday passed with my amazing friends making it all the worthwhile, thus sating my desire to dominate and destroy the world (for the next year at least).

Oh and a few changes have cropped up: I got Fluffised and had my hair cut real sort, in a style I’m not sure exactly - but apparently I look like that craaaaaazy Joan Of Arc, played by that Milla girl. Twinkle in my eye and everything heightened by sharp edges.

I also decided to start wearing contacts again, and jabbing your fingers into your eyeballs is just like riding a bike again… the person in the mirror is even more stranger and I don’t understand why she keeps on making dumb poses and weird faces.

I discover that I have lots, LOTS of shoulder padded purchases from my op shop explorations. Shoulder pads - I used to snigger loudly when I espied my school teachers sharply strutting around, their shoulders perfectly 180 degrees. Now I wear them, because often you can’t yank it from the purchase, because then it’d lose its ’shape’. 

Aside from being a platform for drinks, sneeze sound-snot absorber, fuelling my love for the 80s fashion and making myself feel exactly 2.5 centimetres taller (not counting the angle it makes one’s chin tilt) for intimidation purposes -

- really excellent hidden portable pillows for that quick snooze.

I forgot to tell you, but I in fact stayed at my father’s abode for two whole blissful weeks (I really dig being on my own, and ACTUALLY clean up after myself within the hour with no nagging/reminders/hinting looks) while the owners went interstate to a few festivals and the occasional bogan yelling “WHY ARE YOU TAKING PHOTOS???”.

Inky, I’m proud to say, is a very adjustable cat. The first time I ever moved him, he was very freaked out for a few days, but settled in. Moved to Quamby, and he was so pleased to be in a bigger and nicer-smelling house (Ruabon smelled a little odd at times, and I’m certain it wasn’t me… I think) that I let him out the next day. Then back to Vesper, and he wasn’t inside for more than a few hours, before he was laying claim to the street. Moved to Park, where he was VERY pleased to educate himself in the art of the cat door (escape hatch oh joy) - I believe Park was his favourite. Finally returned to Vesper, where despite there was a new buffoon dog in residence who liked to chase cats, Inky soon had the canine snuffling around corners desperately trying to avoid eye contact.

Anyway, Inky settled in at my father’s like water in a jug, and was pleased to discover hundreds of square metres, not counting evaluated metres (i.e. couch or table) for his bed. (I never bothered to buy a cat bed, following one unspoken rule of smart Cat Owners - buy an expensive, top-shelf bed that is so comfortable you find yourself dozing off when you look at it, and the cat will shun it in favour of sleeping on your wooly coat that is coloured the exact opposite to your cat’s shedding fur.)

One residence he took up, favoured by cats internationally, is at the top of stairs, perfect for the unwary (read: stupid) cat owner (stupid for not realising cats are cats) to come holding something fragile/too big to see where one is going/dangerous. Unfortunately for Inky, I know my cats and I simply shove him aside and give him a smirk.

That said, my father’s house is a converted warehouse with the feel of a disused art gallery, and while plenty of lights are available to give full effect of warehouse-warehouse (a warehouse designed to look like a warehouse, but modern-style), I chose to keep lighting to 20% to save energy, after all, there was just I and my cat, oui?

And so one night, I was sketching away on my wacom tablet on the beautiful wooden table (a Reed heirloom, I think, with the customary stains by the generations that probably got a huge whack from the matriarchal spoon) and I looked up.

A small twin pair of glowing orbs gazed at me. Coins of witch-fire floating in the darkness of the stairs, set between hunched legs and alert ears, on top of the second platform of the staircase. Staring. Right. At me.

“Get the fuck off there, Inky.” I commanded.

“Please?” I pleaded.

“I’ll open a packet of Feast for you, a treat… food food…” I bribed.

“Come on! Go away!” I snapped.

“Inky… I’ll toss you outside in the rain.” I threatened.

“At least shut your damn eyes!” I held my digital pen up at the damn creature, chest heaving. Still the eyes followed me, to my grave.

It did not utter “Nevermore!”

I stomped up the stairs and grabbed the fluffball, stomped back down and deposited it on the light-covered table, and returned to my work. Inky shot me a venomous glance, and settled to clean his coat for the 18976th time of the day, to cement my certificate of madness.

I confess, I confess…

I have this curious habit that is of great gruesome delight for my circle of friends. Their bodies shudder and recoil but they cock their heads, eyebrows raising, wanting to hear more.

It’s not something that I normally flaunt, because those who do not know me well will take a step back, mutter an excuse, and mentally stamp a huge “FREAK WEIRDO” next to my name.

Cannibalism.

Non, I’m not a cannibal. It’s a theme that I have become intimate with, through the crazy sadistic comics I have read (thank you Warren Ellis and Garth Ennis) and with my own stories. There’s also those fairy tale stories that I grew up with, with the witch luring children in her famous gingerbread house. 

It is indeed probable that in the future, Earth’s resources will become severely depleted, and we will be forced to look for other sources elsewhere. Most likely science will provide the answer - vat growned, genetically modified, cloned meat.

Why not cloned, vat-grown human meat? Surely, since we use pigs for the roast as well as the occasional transplant, there will be cloned human organs for perfect transplants - and why not provide the ultimate sustainable meat?

There is still a huge social taboo on cannibalism (aside from some dying rituals of some cultures), but then again, homosexuality was once a much worse taboo. 

I’m straying off from the point. Those manners of thoughts took root in my head, and grew, as I entertained the thought of the future - would short people taste different than tall people? Different races? Fat and muscle ratios?

I love cooking, and I’m proud with my skills. I have the ability to look at a meat product, one finger on my chin, squinted eyes, as a stream of ideas and information flow through, until my saliva glands interrupt my reverie to arrive at a conclusion of how best it would be cooked. A whole chicken? Stuff it full of pecans and tarragon. A lamb shank? Dress with roma tomato slices and proscuitto. A nice fillet of fish, with the skin on? Rub chilli jam on the top, wrap in foil with herbs and aniseed stars. 

And so, why not humans?

I’m not sure when it first began, but my friends were used to my weirdness, and was horrified for only a short while. Then it became a sort of game, picking out a name and I’d go “hmmmm… perhaps… rack… no, tied roast… like those Italian pork roasts…”

Then a few weeks ago, at a delicious lunch in Healesville, I was given some fresh people to evaluate. I jokingly said that I should begin a twitter account of interest, rather than twittering on the toilet, of my “cannibalistic tendencies”. That is, take photographs of random strangers that step into my line of sight, and write a little note of how they would taste best, based on a visual assessment and a taste for dégustation.

My dear friend’s eyes twinkled, and she promptly said I must, I should, I had to follow up on this and produce it. Indeed, I said. I shall, and I must use her as my first subject in honour of her challenge.

So. Without further ado, I present… Gastranthrope.

Thinking about blogs.

I’ve got a new twitter account, decided to do a little step and hop onto the bandwagon and see how it goes - I’m making it a photo-twitter thing, to develop a habit of taking photos (even if it’s only my sometimes grainy iphone) and later graduate to taking photographs with a digital SLR camera on loan from father.

I first started out drawing as my form of diary, drawing various scenes and figures that towered over my toddlerhood, and then as part of school activities - I remember grumbling as I painstakingly looped the e’s and dotted the i’s of a sentence starting with “On The Weekend…”.

Then I received a very girly-girly vintage-inspired diary by a teacher one year. I wrote for a few days, then promptly forgot about it.

I’m loyal, but I’m not faithful to diaries. I’ll make a fresh resolution every few months and write like mad for a few days, slowing to once a week, then a month perhaps… and the pages go silent.

Nevertheless, I did build up a little pile of diaries in my secret compartment-chair that I made in Year 10. There was the ill-suited-for-my-personality-girly diary I began when I was 10, and the journal we all had to begin in Year 7, and two sketchbooks that had been transformed into very personal visual diaries. The latter two probably would have scored some big points during my VCA body-of-artwork assessment.

I kept all of the diaries in that secret compartment, divided between two thoughts - if someone found it, read all the strange entries and angst-ridden thoughts of a teenager… one would worry that I’d be greeted by two very friendly men with a canvas jacket or… one would hope that I’d be understood a bit more.

I then heard about livejournal, and promptly hopped on that one. It was different and amazing - my entries were flung out into the deep space of the internet, free for anyone to pick up and read. I forget the opposite of voyeurs, but it had that sensation.

One very interesting year, entailing living out of the house for the first time and flipping out over my sexual identity, culminated with a series of rituals in which I burnt all of my dairies into a metal cup/vase, every page and every scrap. It was raining that night, and it was cold, and I was wearing my thin black-white dress. I waited patiently, ignoring the goosebumps brought on by the cold air and the rain, as the fire ate away all of the interesting entries that always made the air swell in my throat.

Finally everything was ash in the vase, and I was wet and shivering, but I waited till the rain found its way into the dish of grey curls and dust, and overflowed it.

I had poured lots of very personal, private particles of my self into those diaries, with some entries even written in my blood, pasted photographs of crushes and more. I was following a basic ritual of absorption, and when the liquid in the cup was more liquid and less of a mud, I took it and put it to my lips.

A minute passed as I worked my gut-feelers up and the spit in my dry throat, and then I took a huge sip of cold ash-tea water.

Let us just say that the special burnt blend of secrets and teen angst makes you want to vomit and swallow a whole bottle of mouthwasher, all in a split second.

Virtual diaries, open to all and with considerably less semimetal value than a book diary, is much easier to keep, as is with the purging of all the angst. And no rituals necessary, not even with CDs.

Went to a Sci Fi Erotica Party last night: I made the plastic breastplate yesterday!

Can you guess who I am?

Ok, so I’ve been stuffing my wardrobe like stuffing a turkey with a duck stuffed with a chicken stuffed with a quail stuffed with a… um… songbird? Anyway, everytime payday arrives, you can be sure to take up your viewing posts in Collingwood and Fitzroy, and observe the Lizard busy at its gleaning and gathering.

I just adore vintage shops - these days with the op shops near the city centre being full of Sussan and Country Road from five years ago and already fraying, I dive into bazaars and vintage shops despite what some may say of the price - hey, they won’t be around for long. Why, I just brought this gorgeous dress from the ’70s - a photo print dress with a little lace-hemmed triangle just under the neckline, the photos of some beautiful gully and river in the outback of Australia. I have named it The Australia Dress. 

Pretty, non? (I changed at lunchtime because it was 28 degrees and I had foolishly worn heavy black jeans and black wool skivvy, expecting Melbourne to change its mind about the weather. It didn’t.)

And so I went out again today, this time headed for Brunswick street, with the primary aim of getting a pair of pointy black shoes (as the peeptoe ones I am wearing are starting to die), and failed, so I went up further to inspect the likes of Alphaville, Fat, Currency, Lush, Gorman. At Currency, a mix-mash vintage shop that is often too pricey (but sometimes you luck out and find that piece that isn’t too pricey, but still) and I spied one item that has always put a crease in my dear friend’s forehead: a jumpsuit.

I know, but before you punch in the last number of the fashion police, I am looking for a jumpsuit that WILL look good on me. I’m not going to buy one that makes me look like a complete and utter backwater trollop fool. Non, non, non. I’ve gotten smarter, y’see. It usually took a few days for a friend to talk me out of buying a particular jumpsuit (often with blackmail or threats), but these days, I’ve grown common sense. Whoo!

The jumpsuits I’m thinking of are the sexy leather ones of femme spies, of my idol Catwoman who makes men shake in their boots and worn-outside-undies as she merely pulls her zip CLOSED, or the daring “suit” suits of the Hollywood glamorous, to name a few.

And so I was pleased when I saw this flowing jumpsuit that was perfectly my size at Currency. It was a two-tone piece, the top being a tan colour, the bottom black. The material was lovely - polyester silk. Melting.

I strode to the dressing room, and after trying on a small black dress (which was nice, but didn’t have that effect where I can’t tear my eyes from the mirror and an audience gathers to observe the lizard’s mating dance which is not all that dissimilar to a budgie and a mirror)

I turned to my dear selection, and tried it on. It slid on, a perfect fit. I glanced around outside the curtain to ensure that there wouldn’t be a sizeable audience, and tip toed into the mirror.

I gazed into the surface, and something else gazed back.

I paused for a heartbeat, staring at this… creature… in the mirror. 

A flash of movement caught my eye, and I dove back into the dressing room before the shop attendant could stride in and see this creature that had graced the backroom, something that should be in South America or a Zoo or a Tellytubby show. 

I took off the jumpsuit, gave it a withering look as I dressed in my own clothes. I snuck past the mirror lest I catch my reflection sniggering, and pushed the suit back into the rack as the shop attendant started towards me, her face caught between a “hellooo potential customer” and puzzlement.

Surely, I saw…

I snorted, and shuffled off quickly back into the jungle of the city.