Tuesday, February 2, 2016

White Collar Monster. 10th December 2010

I was woken at 6.30 in the morning to the sound of a car door slamming.  Not a car door. MY DOOR!  I sat up! It was him!  DISASTER CHEF.  Back again. Fuelled by booze for my Early morning wake up call. Pushing his massive weight into my lock. Me on the other side. Hands against the door. Body low to the ground in plank position. Every muscle in my body screaming NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
If he had have got in he would have bashed me. And he would have got away with it. Bless me Father I have not sinned what is happening to me? how did I get here? A world where cops protect the predators as the shrinks conspire to have you sedated instead of backing you up.  Nobody would have questioned him. They would have questioned me.

'Were you having sex with him?


My Therapist asked me 3 times if I wanted an AIDS test after I told her I did not have sex with that man so WHY would I need an AIDS test ? Nobody was listening to me? The Cops laughed when they took the camera from my hands and asked me to hand over my other computer to him. The cops wiped my report about him bashing my door in. I kept the lock.

Insert Photo.

Thank God for the chain. So much happened that week. He came back again.   He chased me from from the Piccolo Bar to the Fountain and everyone laughed in horror at the sight of a pig in a bow tie chasing the lobster who escaped his pot. Vito turned his back on me after that day. I can't believe I gave the Piccolo a chapter in my book. My whole life was a furphy.  I was surrounded by Assassins and treacherous sluts.  My Psychologist was Lesbian and in the old days you would assume that meant feminist but she didn't seem to believe anything I said.  The masks were falling off and the hands were showing all around me. The Hidden Hand. The Midnight men and women who had baited me into their pot for a dip and then slowly turned the heat up had pre arranged their back up on the home front in my absence. Absence doesn't always make the heart grow fonder, sometimes it just allows time to water the seeds of contempt. What you don't know you can always imagine especially if she's not around to defend herself.   Oh dear! I always wake up too late The Psychologists were in on it too. It was a Network.  That's the only thing that can could possibly explain the stupid questions that I kept being asked by so called Professionals.

Shall I book you in for an AIDS test ?

If you ask me that again I will slap you.

 'What did you do to make him so angry?'.

I said No to him. That's what I did. I said NO.  NO THANKYOU. I don't want to go to a family picnic with the head of the XXX bank. I would rather mow my father's lawn.'  God told me to refuse his generous offer to bring me in to his palace of glass ceilings and Opera glasses. I don't know what made me think of my Father's lawn? I never mowed his lawn and Mum didn't want me near the house because she could feel the danger.  This White Brotherhood of bastards had turned me into social poison but even as I was falling down the chasm in my schism I knew I what I wanted.  Disaster Chef could bait me with performance dreams but as soon as I worked out that dream was a ruse then he lost me. He had a plan for me. Even my Mum could smell a plan underway and she has Alzheimer's.  He was going to unveil that plan in the car on the way to the picnic. It had nothing to do with sex.  I was the decoy. His Mistress was Asian but I was the bbq duck with a bar code around my leg.  There was a poster going around the FAMILY and it said AUSTRALIA"S MOST WANTED MONARCH BUTTERFLY> A slippery fish from OFF THE DISH. Big Tips for SIGHTING.  REWARD FOR CAPTURE.  There were all sorts of jobs going at this point of the game, you didn't even need to be qualified. It was only the best for my programming to begin with but by 2006 anyone could apply. The more the merrier. 

They still wanted me alive so they could put me to work. SCHAPPELLE CORBY DREAMING. I wrote it in my book.  I knew before I knew but at the  same time I didn't. I didn't know I was the Great Great Grand daughter of Emille Coulon and the Octavia Hamilton. The Butterfly in me knew though. She knew when she called her book 21st Century Showgirl. It was the 19th Century Showgirl in her blood that was speaking through her. This is why they called me Moon Child. But I didn't know that either. They erased my Maternal history and used it against me. They made a fool out of my deepest knowing and made her dance for them.  I didn't know this then. I only knew that I was hurting and hungry and desperate after decades of false starts for something finally happen. He did look like some sort of god when he floated into my life via facebook.

He carried a magic spatula and everything he touched took its top off and started spouting poetry. Either literally or metaphorically. I was an emotional strip tease artist turned tight rope walker in a circus that was becoming increasingly perverse. People go into the Arts for Love but they end up being taken hostage and having to hand over their souls and then they are meant to sing praises to the thief sorta like Jennifer Connelly praising David Bowie for his part in why her eyes are so dead and she looks like a smackie. It's not like you sell your soul, it just gets molested by the Sand Man when you're sleeping. You think you're in heaven but it's actually just a cool room and you don't wanna be opening any of those barrels. Jesus Mary and Joseph stay close now so I can get to the end of the story.

 The man in the white coat ends up with the gig and you end up with a hook and a tag on your leg and no matter where you fly you never leave. It's worse than the Hotel California when you're captured on the Fatal Shore.  My life was always too good to be true before it ended up to torturous to tell. No wonder I fled in my head. You would have done the same but at least I was co conscious so I remember the dream

 I must have dreamt up the God Father of Australian Cuisine on Paradise Street in buggy Brisbane when I was flatting with that no star Chef with the homely apprentice who told me straight up. Í DON"T CARE ABOUT YOUR BOOKS> I DON"T CARE ABOUT YOUR STORIES. Ouch. That hurt a lot. That cut me up and when ever I got cut up I'd make some Performance Art. 

That's how I dealt with hurt. I made Art so at least I felt productive. It was my only active form of resistance.  They may kill my life but not my soul expression and I was right because now my soul expression leads me back to the scene of the crime. I may have been somewhere over the parle vous vo but at least I had both hands on the table and wasn't hiding anything.

So put yourself in my shoes which won't hurt too much because my legs are great although I seem to have lost my head. I've already been bagged if you know how to read video and if you don't then just slip under my skin for a minute and tell me what you'd do if you'd just returned from this Journey looking for the Heart of Australia only to be handed its Liver and when you finally escape home to Sydney with your heart in your throat and your pockets both empty this major league FEEDER that you've known all your life (from a distance anyway) turns up like an apparition on your facebook page to welcome you home and give you a role to play and DINNER. Did I mention the glass of red. It was very nice and to this day I still appreciate it even though know I know I was actually being fattened up for the spit at the time I was so hungry and so beat up and lost and wounded all I could think of was to be grateful for the moment and scream  We're HOME TOTO!!! Yippppeeeeee.

Are you in my shoes yet are you feeling my deliriousness ?  After decades of exile The Digital Diva had finally come home. Joseph Campbell would be proud of me.  I had gone through the entire Heroes Journey and now I was ready to take my place in my community.

 My City of Sydney had handed me the key and put out the Welcome Mat.

Well that's how it felt anyway.  It felt dreamy and miraculous and familiar and such a deep relief after so many whacks and nicks and lock outs. I was the Artist in Residence at Number One no less. He came with a track record and references.  He was on a last name basis with Christopher just call me Hitch ins.

All my dreams seemed to line up like ducks.  Disaster Chef was a Master Chef. Lover of Writers and Funder of Song Companies and Uncle to some black fellas needing a bit of corporate sponsorship. He gave more free meals away than the Soup Kitchen when I think about it, he certainly kept me in lamb shanks and crème brulee so you could say he was everyone's  Daddy Warbucks.   On New Years Eve he was known to pay Musicians a thousand bucks a piece and throw good Champagne in as well.  He made things happen. He'd been making things happen since I was a twinkle in this dirty city's eye. So it wasn't that I was imagining his track record.  I wasn't totally delusional. He was the lovable buffoon of gold encrusted eggs and degustation delusion.  He was the Wizard of Oxford Street.  When he said he was opening the Bayswater Brasserie that didn't seem out of the question but his Wife looked very worried.  She said  'Where are you going to get the money from Dizzy?' She called him Dizzy for short.  She looked worn out after years of his bullshit.  I was still somewhere over the rainbow so he looked like Santa Claus to me. I was decked out in Green and feeling like Top Elf.

Top Shelf more like it but who can imagine that a lie could be laid out so elaborately.

He took us to the Bayswater with full staff and his Architect to decide the layout for this Dream Venue. I realise now that was all a charade because he hadn't signed the contract on the building but he was creating an illusion of full steam ahead. Of course I used that momentum to contact everyone I knew and offer them a spot at the Upcoming Supper Club which I was Producing.  That was the deal although nothing was signed. Nothing is ever signed.  Once I'm Somewhere Over the Rainbow I'll write you an Opera for nothing and Iron your skirt just for the love of it.  I'm a Theatre slave if the truth be known and some do because they were part of it. Theatre Slave is my imprint and tradition.
It's in my blood.

He thought I was a fool but I knew his wife saw my fool as a danger. They were both right  I was not in control. I was Doll on fire with one eye short of a hypothesis. It's not like he didn't tell me who he was. He quoted some slutty author from the Writer's Festival in the car  'One must learn to embrace hypocrisy'.   I remember feeling vaguely repulsed.  I'm only ever vaguely something when I'm somewhere over the rainbow. I'm never outraged and I remember 'telling him  I cannot afford to embrace hypocrisy. All I have in my hands is my through line, without that I have nothing. I told him this. He told me who he was and I told him who I was.  But just as I had a blind spot about him, he had a blind spot about me. He just saw me as a Monarch slave and in this way under estimated me.  Although maybe not.   'One must learn to embrace hypocrisy'. It was then I should have RUN

but I was still wound up in the dream even though the dream was already beginning to curdle I couldn't let go of it. It was all I had. It was a dream that promised me work and usefulness and a place in my city. It was an art dream, a love dream, a dream of creativity. It was a dream that had been starved for so long it was eating itself.  The Supper Club Dream would pay the bills and vindicate me in one shot.  He sold himself as a humble cook, a patron and philanthropist, a man who believed in civil rights and why wouldn't I believe him? Everyone else did. I had seen them share his table and stare lovingly at him after their stomachs were full. I understood it. It is normal to love those that feed us. I loved NOW he's bashing my door in. When my lock was hanging by a string but he couldn't break my chain he ran out of puff and went to get the Police. He told the police I WAS DRUNK. They asked me 'Have you been drinking'. I told them 'I've been sleeping. It was a SHOCK he's
he's got my computer. He took it/he's got it/ He's read all the contents/he's been through my letters, he's looked at my photos, he would have gone through every file searching for ways he could frame me/my documents/my passwords/ he would have read my manuscript on him/ it would have given him narcissistic injury/ it was a ripper read/ a black comedy/ now it's a horror movie/and it's all in my head/i told him i was going to write a story about him/i saw the god in him/ i saw the signs/he had a dream/i had a role/ the city opened up for me/he painted pictures/i saw shows/i saw stories/i saw videos/he told me his secrets/i don't know why he told me his secrets/he wanted to weigh me down with them/ he wanted to get my eye off the prize and to gage my corruption/it's all about intention/his intention was hidden/and all i could see was the prize so i kept racing/i kept working/kept my eye on the prize/making deadlines/he kept moving/kept moving the goal post/I kept running/kept talking/kept working/he kept moving the goal post/ I kept running/ I kept making deadlines/he kept moving the goalpost/moving/he kept/i kept/he kept/i kept/i got dizzy and tired/he got tired of me/game was over/no finish line/there's someone at my door/stop.
don't say anything/you'll never work again/he knows everyone/he has reputation/he'll shut you down/you think it's bad now just wait to see how much more you can lose/be positive/the present is a present/merry christmas/let go/start again/you'll never get any justice/it isn't the psychos that fall/it's their victims/you already know this/you set yourself up by writing that book/he knows you've been bullied before/you're the girl who cried wolf he's the fox/feeds the pack/no one would believe you/no one could imagine/people only like to see violence on crime shows/not real life/not to someone they know/chinese whispers//shut your mouth/shut it tight sew it up put on some lipstick/you can't discuss wounds while still bleeding/something stinks/it was him now it's you stench is infectious/who is watching/the neighbors will see/they will pull down their blinds/they won't ring you/it's the holiday season/a time to be joyful/if you speak fear takes over hush/now hush hush close your eyes/close them tight/no escape/he's still there/you can see him/fat fingers curling around your door trying to unlock the chain/6.45 in the morning/  my back gave out for the whole week after. My back was in shock too I think. It's been five years and I still wake up at about 5am with a jolt just to make sure I am ready if it ever happens again. 

That was my Mother's Birthday.

Libby Lobby

Today someone pointed out this article by Roseanne Barr in New York Magazine.


I found it very pertinent. Since I have a project that I'm trying to get up. And finding it almost impossible to get any sort of back up. As usual I am being ignored out of the picture. But this time I'm taking notes. I'm testing the invisible bars of my cage to see which bars will stretch or open. And which bars are jammed tight and break my finger nails. And I'm documenting the entire thing and all the characters. I'm sorting out the sheep from the allies. I'm telling the brutal truth straight up to see who I draw in and who I scare off. I'm making a list. And I'm feeding it all in to my big delicious soup.

So Yesterday I ring this woman that Roseanne would call a 'bitch in heels' But she works for the ABC so she probably wears Flatties or sling backs. Nevertheless her attitude is total 'Follow me home and fuck me pumps.' Because she's the Queen Bee of Radio Drama. And she's got a house and a pay packet and a scrounging boyfriend last time I looked but Libby always leaves me in the lobby.

I liked her in the beginning. It was all sweet and friendly. But that was fifteen years ago and now I don't need sweet. I just need work. As the gap between those who can't afford to buy bread and those who make home made cup cakes, widens into a chasm, so does the Anger of Hungry bitches and Disaster Divas! She's been comfortable for so long that she's barely breathing on a heart level. Whereas my ticker threatens to explode at least once a week. That's because I've been on the edge for as long as she's been in the comfortable middle. She secured her position in the ABC and shmoozed her way to the top and now she throws crumbs to real artists. LIKE ME. At irregular intervals. Artists who have actually put their heads on the line for their body of work. Artists who are on the tightrope not on Tenure or permanent gravy train. Artists who don't get to choose but who still get international reviews. Let me remind you 'Off Off Broadway Review. 'It girl for the New Century!' Now show me the money honey! You're the public servant and I am who you're supposed to be serving. Lets just turn around this table and re-set the cutlery shall we?

There are shades of white in Australia and the bitches who get gigs are the shade of Cate Blanchett. They're not always Anglo. From time to time they might even be Asian or Aboriginal. But stick your finger in their creme centre and they taste of artificial Vanilla. They make me smell like double chocolate with raisons dipped in metho! They're reasonable, relaxed and polite and oh so positive. They're grateful. It comes with the perks and the pay packet. It's the hungry who get ANGRY and then blow it. The Vanilla bitches won't hold a knife to your neck. They're not that obvious. Until they've called in the Lawyers.

They keep their hands under the table while they slash you to bits. And you won't see a drop of sweat on their brow while they're doing it. No malice on their tongue, no veins on their neck. Their breath smells like air conditioning. They know how to cool down passion in a sentence. They don't need prozac because there' no fire to put out. They're made out of teflon. They only go red in the centre when they're being used. And they use true creatives like they're filling up at a petrol station. They resent Authentic Creativity. Passionate Spirits. Original voices. They want to keep them as far away from the centre of the action as possible. Because our very presence will expose their pasty hues.

But here I am. And there she is.

And there she will stay until she drops dead. If she was going to give me a decent gig she would have done it fifteen years ago. She ignores my email pitches. And calls me in for the occasional Voice Over like I'm a hand model or something. She calls me sweet as she throws me a crumb. Which is why I totally get while Roseanne pulled out the knife on her writers. Because it's these Thwarters who kill the true creative spirits. They pretend to be feminists but they're the enemy of women. They pretend to enable you while they're turning off all your buttons. They thwart you to death and they do it for years on end and by the time you can name it, it's too late.

And who will listen to you anyway. You're the reason they invented prozac before they put women in the work force. I scream when I'm angry. I laugh out loud when I'm horny. I leave little snail trails of tears everywhere I go. Today I wept and I recorded it. I was thinking about the radio feature I wanted to pitch to Ms Vanilla Cup Cakes. My tears were the soundtrack. I was thinking at the time 'This is what hunger sounds like'. This is how hunger expresses herself. She has no words. She wails like a Siouxie with no banchees. Like a Single Mum fighting a DOCS worker.

And all the time I'm winding myself up for the pitch. I'm thinking 'Ok..here we go.. I'm going to pitch her a Radio Feature about trying to get Disaster Diva up and back to America. It will be a magical realist drama. A story about HUNGER. About running in quicksand. About slashing your way through the obstacles that stop you from grabbing that dream and hauling it home. So I ring but she's in a meeting and she says she'll ring me back. But she doesn't. And I'm determined to get my pitch in before I go to the Dentist. So I wait three hours and before I leave the house I ring her phone and leave a message. She rings me back just as I get on the train. I'd pre-empted the pitch on her answering machine so she knew what I was talking about. So I launch into my pitch like I've only got a New York minute and by the time we get to Stanmore I'm winding it up. But there's silence at the other end and she says 'I didn't hear a word you said.'You're breaking up'. Breaking up, Breaking down, Anything but baking bread. And here's the beautiful Irony. After I finish my broken up pitch about HUNGER. She says 'The reason why I rang you is that I'm doing a series about 'Taste For Food'. And I'd like to use your voice to read 'other people's poetry'.

I would have liked to use her head to smash against a wall but I'm the Queen of holding back so we'll finish the story there. 

From Terror to Ptera...

The Journey so far..

The Pteradactylman Resort.

In this episode of Disaster Diva. An All Girl's Adventure tale about 'Following your bliss in a brave new world. The Diva is invited as a Special Guest of the
Pteradactylman Resort. Somewhere in the wilds of Marrickville....

Featuring. Pteradactylman. Wednesday Kennedy. Eddie James. And the Kitchen Zebra. Also Featuring...

Jean-Paul Belmondo and Anna Karina in Jean-Luc Goddard's
Pierrot le Fou.

Episode Two at The Pteradactylman Resort
Live Lobster Girl in Ptera Dream.

Disaster Diva falls asleeep at The Pterodactylman Resort and her soul catches up with her in her sleep. Once again she is cast back to being LOBSTER GIRL as she falls from Jane Mansfield's Derriere and is chased by the Disaster Chef back to Bogan Street. Where the neighbors hack through a grey pock marked wall as she's having her breakfast.

. Live Lobster Girl in a Ptera Dream is Episode 636 in The Disaster Diva Adventure about following your bliss in a brave new world....

Music and Improvisation by Pterodactylman, Bi Polar Bear and Panda Mick.
Written by The Muse. Edited and Produced by Wednesday Kennedy.

Filmed on a secret location.
Wardrobe supplied by 'The man with the Tambourine'
Dreams - Free.
Nightmares - Pay as you go + GST.


'One of Australias most underrated talents...the world is a mashup alright 'bottom feeders'.... lobsters dissected for the rich..Wednesdays one of the most relevant truth-tellers of the times, visionary, perceptive and highly intelligent!
roobyduuby utube.

'Absolutely awesome, I love the look and sound of the scream guitar, 'it's a mash up baby, the whole world is a mash up' - so true. Great dream sequence, has a David Lynch feel to it.' Mark William Jackson

'Thankyou Mark William Jackson. Not bad for windows movie maker 2.6 right?:) it only crashed on me once....I layered it slowly, ten drafts, not too much information to spack out the software, i love Pteri's music...nap nap dreaming which is under the Jane Mansfield corridor scene is my fav. Tonight Pteri found a GIANT white stuffed Panda just out the front..like the stork delivered it....you couldn't script this stuff....it only ever happens at the Pterodactylman Resort..i could make a million movies here if i had the time...it's a dreaming space. Wednesday Kennedy.

When in Sydney we stay at The Pterodactylman Resort.
Breakfast Included. Fresh Towels every morning.

Coming Up.

*** Panda Mick Does a Tarot Reading! ***

*** DD and Pteri take a neighborhood walk! ***

**Pteri gives birth to a super sized stuffed Panda and DD and Pteri say Goodbye.**

Subscribe to 21st Century Showgirl Channel on Utube.


Lucky is four and can read Enid Blyton books reserved for seven year olds. She can spell words like Because and Fantastic.

But at school they make her trace over letters like a dumb kid who can’t read and now she doesn’t want to go to school because she knows everything.

‘You think you know everything?’ asks Lucky’s mum. ‘ What’s the name of a Lizard that changes its colours?’

‘A Chameleon’.

‘How far is Mexico?’

‘279 metres’

The kid is a genius.

Lucky’s mum asks the Teacher to give Lucky harder books to read but the teacher says that tracing letters is good for her. Poor Lucky. What a bore. Thwarting starts at a very young age.

When I’m working on the editing of my video story which has no believers right now. Except me. I think of Lucky and my clever niece EJ. I think of the world they’ll grow up in which will continue to thwart them right up to the finish line. A world that insists we must trace over letters we already know how to read.

A world where the Copy Cats rule and get grants and publishing deals and opportunities. And where the real artists get sidelined and thwarted and pinched from.
A mama can feed all the goals and the dreams of her babies but it’s the Aunties who nurture the playground that they will grow up into.

I’m an Aunty. My time too soon will be over. The world marches on to make room for the new and age is cruel to the heart that’s still hungry. But I want to leave something. I want to leave something that says ‘You can do it too! You can take the punches and get up again. You can rise above the thwarting. You can pick the lock from the chain around your ankle. You can find the door the door that opens and asks you inside, they don’t all slam in your face, you just have to keep trying. There is life after humiliation. There is love when the last of your love has been all sucked dry. You are the source of your love. You can re-generate. You can kick goals for as long as there is breath in your lungs and passion in your boot.

I was full steam ahead when I got back from the country. I could see my project coming to life. I could feel it in my blood and bone. The country gave me my story and my hope and the confidence to for it. I was so excited I resented it when sleep dragged me away from my project.

But the day after my arrival back to Sydney my computer blew up. Just as I was getting into editing. Then it rained for four days and now the line is damp and broken so I’ve lost my telephone and internet connection. So I went around to a telephone booth but the refund hole has been blocked and it makes a siren noise when I pick up the receiver. It’s broken too.

So I walk three blocks to another telephone booth and I put in my fifty cents but it cuts me off half way through my message. And I don’t have any more change.

It must be pension day because all the pensioners are out in the rain. Old men and old women out braving the weather and hobbling through the miserable grey streets. It reminds me that things are only going to get worse. And don’t hold your breath that they’ll get better first. After a certain age Sydney just ignores you and waits for you to die. The very thought just makes me walk faster. This time for my Dad. Who is a beautiful writer. Who would have published books had he not had five mouths to feed and a School to look after. I want to give to my father what he gave to me. I want to spin his dreams into action. I want him to be here to see it.

I want to cry.

So I try the public phone again and Optus tells me that they’ll send a technician but it might take two days. Then they thank me for my patience.

So I go home and I find that the plugs in the kitchen aren’t working anymore…probably also due to the rain and so I’m wondering how I’m going to hook my fridge up to the plugs in the other room without an extension cord?

I have a project I’m trying to get up and a list of five jobs to go for and I can’t go for any of them. I have no credit on my mobile phone so I might as well live in the country cut off from everything. But I don’t. I live in this dirty pretty thwarting city.

That conspires to make sure I’m not going anywhere.

And I didn’t visualise this.

Tick tick….

May 2011

Monday, February 1, 2016

Scratching the Itch...

I never imagined I'd end up in Perth. It was never on the wish list. I visited once in the eighties when Bond still ran the roost and the America's Cup was the big dream win. Now all these years later Perth is in the middle of a mining boom. And everyone is working and acquiring shit while there's still shit to acquire. Apart from the Miner of course.

He's still vaguely suicidal and sitting on the couch.

The only other two people I can loosely call friends are Itchy and Scratchy. I met them on facebook. Which is always a Russian Roulette lets face it. An on-line persona doesn't always match up to the real life character. Even if their intentions are good and mostly they are. On-line people can be their most aspirational selves. The self that's brave and noble. But Ideal selves and real selves rarely align. The spirit may be Hippy but the flesh can be stingy and paranoid. A person may preach the big Bless Up! but function day to day as an Emotional Rationalist. You don't really know what you're dealing with until you deal with it in the real world.

On-line Itchy and Scratchy are like Groovy Gum nut Babies. 

They tag team each other with cosmic universal observations. Their music tastes are Eighties but they talk like they were spat out of the arse end of the sixties. Peace. Positivity. Energy. Universal inter-planetary lolly gobble bliss bomb! '. They transmit their Cyber Goodwill from their Love Nest. Which I always imagined as a type of Flying Carpet in the shape of a synth. But actually its more like a mattress lined bunker in the shape of a drum.

They're building a studio decked out with 1980s Keyboards. It's not to share. It's a private studio for them alone. A testimony to their musical love story. Scratchy used to be in a famous punk band called 'The Deadshits' when Itchy was still a glint in the eye of her Daddy. But now Scratchy has taken her under his wing. She is the ingenue and he is the mentor. Scratchy teaches her everything he knows about eighties music. And once they have acquired every Keyboard ever made in the history of the world they'll make the ultimate album and tour the globe!! He's so Hip! She's so Young! Everyone will love em...

But right now they might as well be buried in mortgage payments, they're so neck deep in Keyboard hire purchase. No wonder Itchy looks exhausted. I want to comfort her but every move I make, makes her jump like a record. It's like the groove in her heart is caught in a rut and all I want to do is lift the needle.

But when I offered to make a video for their act she practically broke out in hives. 'What did I want?' Why was I offering this? What was my INTENTION! (mumble mumble whisper whisper.) You'd think I'd just asked them for a threesome! I felt my offer had instigated some behind the scenes Panic Attack. Call the Ambulance! Roll out the Therapist ? Where are the Rizzlers? They were certainly like no Hippies that I'd ever met. It took me a while to come down from our Internet cloud of peace, love and spaced out generosity and adjust to their 'self contained' paranoid suburban selves. It was like trying to stick the universe into a plastic lunch box. They chatted away in the cyber sphere like permanently stoned prophets of the new millennium. Their love was a trumpet. Tally Ho & Bless Up.

But in the real world the smoke cleared. As they looked earnestly at me through blood shot eyes and claimed to be clean as a bottle of Perrier water. They were past all that now. Their sweat was so pure you could drink their armpits. The worst thing they put in their body was chicken. But at least that was organic. Mostly they lived on banana smoothies. They had no idea where to find a smoke. They hadn't had one since Christmas.

'Oh really?

It was a dreadful fib. And not very well executed. It made me imagine a pair of junkies nodding off during an NA meeting. But I pretended to believe them. What could I do. One must remain dignified.

'That's ok' I said. 'I don't need a smoke anyway. Perhaps this is the Universe telling me to go on meds instead? ' Or become an alcoholic with the Miner? How is that Perrier Water? Does it kill the pain at all or just flush it through the system?'. Hey Lets Have a Perrier Water Party! Wait until the Miner goes back to the mines and we can have it at my house! BYO Ice cubes! You people inspire me!'

But my enthusiasm set Itchy off scratching like a Bali puppy. So Scratchy came up with an idea!

Oh finally!

He remembered that he did know someone from his ancient tawdry pot smoking history who might be able to help. And so he drew me a map and sent me to the arse end of the train line. Armidale.

The sort of trip you only take Once...

The Direction of his Finger...

The handsome Barista who made the crap coffee kindly pointed me in the direction of the best bar in Freemantle. So I move in the direction of his finger...

I've already forgotten the name of the bar because my focus was on the line of his exquisite pointer. He had really nice hands. Lovely fingers. That's why I'm hopeless at Networking. I'm focused on the body language during introductions and I can't remember anyone's name. But I can tell you which way their knees were turned and the way that they looked into my eyes and whether their hand was clammy or dry. And how they made me feel. I could write you a story on that.

I walk three blocks and all I see are tourist restaurants with ridiculous prices. Who wants to eat an open sandwich with plastic cheese for sixteen dollars? A dash of aoli does not make it gourmet. I don't spose the Miners know the difference. Most Miners eat Chinese on their days off. It makes them feel exotic and connected to their childhood at the same time. Prawn toast never changes.

I rack my brain for the name of the bar? 'Cat and Monkey?' 'Monkey and elephant dancing? I really wasn't listening. I can't read a map and I can't remember the name of anything. It takes me months in a new town before I know what street I'm on. I find my way by getting lost. I'm geographically dyslexic. I've been this way ever since living in Tokyo. I couldn't read any of the signs so eventually I just surrendered. I learnt to use my nose.

'Best Bar' he said. But I don't know what best bar even means anymore? It used to mean Bar with most vibe, with good music and atmosphere. Now it mostly means Expensive. I've gotta start charging more for my service as Digital Strategist. So I can sit in the Best Bar and afford the Best cocktails. But for the moment I spy a pub called The Norfolk'. It looks friendly.

I cross the road and enter through the beer garden.

I walk through tables of men on my way to the bar. It's very exciting. I haven't smelt this much testosterone since I left Queensland. I take a deep breath and order a beer. The smokers have three tables with nice views. They're forced to share them. Smoking is a democratic habit. That's probably why they've banned it. Most smoking sections are by the trash bins or the toilets. This one has a view of the street and is the best vantage point to survey the beer garden. There is a table of twenty somethings with purple hair and fire sticks. There are tables of middle aged women. There are blacks standing next to my table in the smoking section. Kings Cross doesn't have this diversity. I already like it. The atmosphere is relaxed. You can tell most of the people here are on some sort of pay packet. Except for the twenty somethings but they're too young to care. Youth is its own currency. Two men ask if they can sit down at my table. They're drinking schooners of dark ale and neat glasses of white rum called 'Mount Gay'. One of the men said he was embarrassed asking for it'. Where he comes from it would be viewed as a proposition. I ask him where he comes from? He says 'Sydney'.

And that's where our conversation begins...

Tuesday, December 29, 2015


 There is no working off the grid anymore. .Getting anything up and running these days is an obstacle course of rules and regulations in Australia.  There's no life outside the Matrix of the Nanny State.  We have eaten Nanny and we now operate with her mind set.  Nanny hides around every corner with a bag to throw over your head. Nan's no fool. She has been around the block a few times and she will stop you before you have even started. She will bind your feet and measure out your carbon footprint. She will tax your moods and fine your farts and keep you marching between her narrow lines. She is an anti mobility moll and she puts me in a( nanny) state that has me pulling thwarts out of my chest.  Thwarts come from being thwarted. They taste like metal, feel like shrapnel or burning little nuggets of frustration. I only suffer from thwarts every time I start trying to get ahead...

Like Today

When I put up an Advertisment on Gumtree for my Winter Goddess Pamper Package.  90 minutes of Therapeutic massage from the head to the twinkle toes.  But those Ads have already been deleted 3 times by the admin.  The first time because I stated that it was for Women Only  I apparently contravened the Discrimination Act. The second time I didn't state 'non sexual' as if it wasn't fucking OBVIOUS  and the third time I didn't put up my credentials. Since when does an advertising board ask to see my credentials?  I'd say that is none of their business?  But I keep putting up my ads and they keep being deleted. It's a quick sand experience that was giving me thwarts. It was thwarting me the fuck out! to be frank. It was doing my head in!

So I thought I'd get Jesus on side and pitch a Prayer Massage.  I mean who needs credentials when you're working with Jesus right? I also thought that might cut out the replies from men seeking hand jobs. But I JUST got deleted from Gumtree again and not only that my account is suspended. I assume that's because I didn't state the massage was non sexual. I thought bringing Jesus on board would render that point moot. Jesus is the divine regulator. He don't need no nanny state to tell him how to do his voodoo.  I know my atheist friends will all be laughing at this point. But they all have trust funds or partners so they can shut the fuck up 'cause they aint good for a loan.

So I checked out the competition to see the sort of Ads that get passed. And they look something like this.

Sensual massage - outcalls only

Sydney NSW view on map
Date Listed:
Last Edited:
Full body oil massage 1 hour $70. I come to you, anywhere in Sydney.
My massage is a relaxation/therapeutic massage.

This is not a sexual service.
My certificate 4 in massage therapy was obtained at a TAFE nsw campus.

My first question was who needs a Sensual Massage if it doesn't come with a happy ending! All I see are key words. Sensual. Full body. oil. sexual 4 campus. Even with TAFE credentials it still reads like a cock tease. And this tells me to things about the culture I live in. The first is that we are all cornered into being liars. And the little death is the only thing that sells. Australia may be tighter than a nun's undies when it comes to regulation but under neath that buttoned up front we're just a pack of horny hypocrites. There's no place like hell...I mean home. Home is where the hard on is. My account is suspended!


It's not like I'm fussy. I've long stopped expecting to get employment in my areas of expertise. I am happy to work at menial tasks so I still have my headspace.  But the jobs that used to be for wild gypsy sisters like me no longer are given to locals. They're given to backpackers. Because backpackers are younger and better looking and  less desperate and you can rip them off without getting dobbed into the tax office.  I don't blame those employers. Why bring another crab into your crab pot when you can give orders to a Goddess with a Swedish accent. No doubt in their position I'd do the same.

So again I go over my options. And they're dwindling.  It's not like I'm not skilled in many areas.  It's just nobody wants to pay for the skills that I have. Take the Digital Diva. Where I shoot and edit videos. I'm very good but nobody wants to pay for them.  So I end up making vids for other artists. But 99% of the time they never write back and say thanks. And I'm never sure whether that's because they don't like the video or they're just autistic cunts. I suspect it's six of one and half a dozen of the other.  But between lack of money and lack of feedback I am starting to eat myself. Or the thwarts are starting to eat me, they are gnawing away at my chest as we speak.   Soon I'll be a pile of shrapnel on the floor.  I've knocked on every door the past seven years and I've kept a journal of every failed leap and shuffle. I get tired just reading back over it.  And a little depressed when I note that  the only opportunity I've been offered in the past seven years was a front for organised crime.

quell horreur...

I suppose it's all grist for the mill on the  journey of Snake Kennedy. That's my next book that I'm trying to finish.  But every time I sit down to put those stories together I think of the electricity bill that I'm too afraid to open and the credit card debt and  the two huge launches of  my last book 21ST CENTURY SHOWGIRL that netted the sale of  TEN books. That's four books at the Sydney launch and six books at the Melbourne launch. I could explain how that happened but I don't have the breath and I'll bore you.

My friend Nico tells me that I should just go back to my writing. That my writing should be my money because it is my talent. But the only talent that counts  involves little deaths or trying to make Delta swivvel  around in her chair. Go Mitchel Anderson. May you escape this great crab pot!

Ok I'm going to bed.

If you're thwarted for long enough your dreams start to decay and turn sour. My friend tells me that the thwarts are just part of my PTSD and I should lay down when they haunt me. So I lay down very still and instead of counting sheep I start pulling all the little thwarts of my heart and start examining them. And just as I am dozing off into a hazy half dream Dorothy Hewett turns up and sits next to me.


I once sat next to Dorothy Hewitt at an ABC launch of some sort. It was accidental. She just plopped down next to me and I fed her sandwiches like a personal Tea Lady. I remember it upset her literary mignons who all scowled at me contemptuously. They knew I was a nobody but Dorothy didn't care. She was enjoying the sandwiches and refreshments I kept feeding her so nobody could ask me to move. I would have given her my phone number and asked if I could cook her dinner had we been in New York. But we weren't. We were in Sydney. And those stitched up colonial carrions in sensible shoes had circled Ms Hewitt and trained their evil eye on me. There's nothing worse than a menopausal mean girl. I might have been the next Judy Dench for all they knew. I had it in me.

I played the drunk old mother in Dorothy's play 'This Old Man Come's Rolling Home' when I was twenty! I did old and wasted with a verve that left my mum with a fear I would end up a bag lady. I never had a chance to tell Dorothy Hewett all this, as her minders whisked her away when the sandwich tray was empty. bitches.

I am pulling thwarts out of my chest. One by One. I could be here all day...