Wound with a View.

It's Australia Day and I'm rolling around with the black dog. I can hear the fireworks going off in the distance. Facebook updates from people remind us we're lucky lucky lucky. It makes me want to throw things. My crown of thorns has grown into a vine and wrapped around my organs. When I breathe I get jabbed. I've had friends on the phone all damn week who can't pay their groceries. They have no status updates. They have no status. Their pages are silent.

My words are bombs. I'm a natural born terrorist really. give me killer heels and a plastic pen i too could tear the world asunder. I have an Aboriginal Rage but they don't want me gatecrashing their party. They've got enough problems sharing the booty with those clever white black fellas. The last thing they need is a bleeding heart Gubbah.

Well that's what they told me. In no uncertain terms I might add.

At least they say it to my face which is more than i can say for the rest of the termites.

And so now it's Australia Day. I want to wrap myself in Banana Skins and stick a dunce cap on my head. 'Keep them poor and keep them stupid'. Advance Australia (bus) fare.

I've done this country on a Greyhound Bus. I've seen it from the bottom looking up. I've skidded down the highway on the white trash express. I've been chased through kings Cross by a pig flying high on testosterone patches.

I've had my camera and computer snatched from my arms by a patron of the arts. Run Rabbit Run. I was skinned alive for a while but the year of the rabbit is over. Time to breath OUT. Don't hold Dragon breath it will charcoal your organs.

Anger is an energy. Rage can be alchemised. If I see another flag wrapped body I think i'll vomit. I'm readying myself for another escape. My friend and I are planning it as we speak. We want to be back in New York by this time next year so when the G'day Australia gang put on their Australia is so lucky and fabulous and rich celebration with Hugh Jackman and Olivia my gang will put on the FUCK YOU AUSTRALIA party. we'll serve burnt stumpy sausages with one piece of lettuce and a dab of sauce because it's all we can afford and we'll charge you for the air you breath from the moment you walk in the door. We'll carbon tax your fucking fingerprints and then cross check them with Centrelink and the taxation department. It'll be hosted by a Chinese Real Estate agent who'll sell you a glimpse of the Opera House for $7.50. If we think you are anyone of status we'll get down on our knees and lick your pussy. We can suck for days without taking breath. We know how to make the best out of a dribble down situation.....anyway it's still a patriotic work in progress but stay tuned fuckers....

SHE'S BACK FROM THE DEAD.

Well not yet but get ready....

After Life.

So I'm writing a proposal to get my show into a festival and every word that I put on the page is like stabbing myself with a blunt knife.

It starts off well enough. I cut and paste the blurb from the book and explain I want to adapt it into a show. I introduce myself and as I do I find myself annoyed that they don't already know me? I've had two shows already in your festival. Shows I wrote but my name was taken off the posters. I have reviews to prove that I existed. I google to find the originals. My body of work is perpetually erased...

By Paragraph three I'm a ghost. And my voice is a whisper. Why would they want my show anyway? Decades of rejected submissions are unearthed as I reach for the carrot...

Last time I reached for the carrot they bashed me.

Who they?

Who cares. What does it matter. They change city and outfit.; They change form, they change style, they change accents. they tag team. They are the chaos unleashed by the psychopath loose in the system. They are his slaves and his whores and his puppets. They are all following orders. They don't have to be monitored. They stuff their own gag into their own mouth. They take their own pills and they tie their own blindfold. They have mortgages to pay and children to raise and places to go before the world ends. What do you have?

I have a show.

You have NOTHING. Adjust your RAGE and moderate your tone. you don't want to scare them. If you scare them they'll run and then where will you be? You'll be back where you started. I'm always back where I started and then running very very fast to nowhere. I give it away so it doesn't die inside me.

Please sir. Can I have a stage in your festival. Will you pay for the blood that I spill and the heart on my sleeve and the words that I spit. If I make them laugh and I'm not too dark will you pay extra? Am I worth a multi media component, will the budget fit that? if not just give me a milk crate and a piano man, I'll improvise. I'm used to that. I'm ever flexible. Easy. Dish cloth Diva, I stretch the extra mile, I give the last drop, I am a regular loaves and fishes act.

I'm a fucking liar.

The petrol station is empty. The air tank is fucked. The patron of the arts stole my camera ad computer. I had to borrow money to replace them. I can only afford to eat every second day and my smoke is rationed. Poverty must be good for my health they will tell me. Then why do i feel so depleted. I am running out of everything and I can't replace it. My debts climb and climb and I still can't put a price tag on my skills and sell them without having a nervous breakdown. This isn't normal is it? I know really stupid people who have no problem with this. But I reach a certain point and I get thwarted. The carpet gets pulled and I don't see it coming.

I must have a blind spot.

I'm crazy. I'm damaged. I'm munted. That's how I ended up In Barrel town. Here There's no shame in the pain and self loathing. Damage has currency. People wear their cripple on their sleeve. Up and Out. It's only Adelaide. Nobodies looking you might as well flaunt what you're good at. Even the serial killers eventually stand up to be counted.

By paragraph four I'm a ball of scar tissue. So I erase every single word and start again.

Sony and the Sisters of Perpetual Dysfunction.

11am Monday Morning Still waiting for my computer to be delivered.


Delivery to the following recipient failed permanently:

admin@LCEservices.com

Technical details of permanent failure:
Google tried to deliver your message, but it was rejected by the recipient domain. We recommend contacting the other email provider for further information about the cause of this error. The error that the other server returned was: 553 553 sorry, that address is not in my list of allowed recipients; no valid cert for gatewaying (#5.7.1) (state 14).

----- Original message -----

MIME-Version: 1.0
Received: by 10.52.97.197 with SMTP id ec5mr3693180vdb.259.1309731278491; Sun,
03 Jul 2011 15:14:38 -0700 (PDT)
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Date: Mon, 4 Jul 2011 08:14:38 +1000
Message-ID:
Subject: Job Number 84724 LCE. Life's Bad!
From: wednesday kennedy
To: admin@LCEservices.com
Cc: wednesdaykennedy@gmail.com
Content-Type: multipart/alternative; boundary=20cf307f39089b0f6a04a731933a


Attention Jo the Manager. At LCE services.


Dear Jo,

For some reason Matthew won't give me your surname. Perhaps this is wise policy because I imagine there are a lot of angry clients, some who prefer the sword to the pen. Lucky I can write because a PEN is all I am left with. It's Monday morning and I have two clients to ring in an hour to tell them why they won't get their work today.

Then I have to ring up Couriers Please AGAIN. I don't know why they call themselves Couriers Please because it doesn't matter if you're on your knees and begging for your goods they still won't deliver them. Apparently I don't have my computer back because that computer was not fixed in time to make that courier. A parcel delivery service that makes as many trips a day as the train to Tamworth and that only works 2 hours in the morning on a Saturday between 6am and 8am.

Do I live in the third world? .

Because they would not deliver on Friday I rang them Friday and organised to pick up the computer myself from their warehouse in Homebush Bay. I organised my father to get out of bed at the crack of dawn and drive me there on Saturday and the place was hermetically sealed. The woman that I spoke to told me to go around the back. And promised me that my time would not be wasted. There was no back. My time was wasted. Not only My time but my Father's time. My Clients time. Everyone seems to be paying for this fiasco except the PEOPLE WHO ARE BEING PAID to fix it.

What is an International company like LCD doing working with a cheap dodgy no service courier company like Couriers Please?

Let me guess? To save money. To give your executives a bigger bonus and keep your surplus nice and fat. Because it sure isn't to keep your customers happy or to advance your good name and reputation. And now because of your cheap decisions and your dysfunctional chain of command my good name and reputation as somebody who finishes the job on time and delivers on time will be finished. Because unlike big companies like Sony and LCE I have nobody to pass the buck onto. I work for myself and there are no excuses. Which is why I chose a brand of computer I thought I could trust not only with goods but with service.

But all I have experienced since I bought my new Sony Vaio Computer from Harvey Norman less than six months ago are problems. My hard disc fails is fixed again and then breaks down again within the week. Two weeks of work I have lost. This has has caused me enourmous and ONGOING stress.

So who is going to take responsability for this fiasco? Sony, the brand that cannot be trusted to sell me fully functional goods or LCE who doesn't fix my computer properly the first time and so has to fix it again and then not deliver it. Every link in this chain has failed me. Everybody is blaming every body else. If Harvey Norman is nothing more than the pimp at the door of a branded junk shop then why should I trust Harvey Norman?

If Sony, a company that I have been loyal to for the past ten years cannot look after me when it breaches my trust then why should I be loyal any longer? My colleagues who use Mac don't have problems like this. EVER. They all say 'I told you so.' And it looks like they were right. At least Mac doesn't pass the buck.

Where does this buck stop and who is going to compensate me for bucks lost.

I am waiting for your answer.

AND MY COMPUTER! Hopefully fixed this time.


Wednesday Kennedy.

Hungry Birds

Only the predators have eyes for your hunger. They hold out the crumbs not to feed you but bait you and watch for saliva.

So when they start to dangle I move on.
door
to
door
selling wednesdaykennedyink.
The Social Networking Doyenne.
I will build your facebook, utube and twitter.
I will find your people and make them welcome.
I have a Carbon Tax special. It's a Bargain!! I'll set up your facebook and get you your first hundred friends for a hundred dollars. I'll handpick those friends so you'll love each other. I'll warm up your wall and light your first fire. I'm a Doyenne!'

But I Doyenne right out of there and Doyenne myself down the block knock knock after knock 'til I come to the place I was meant to be helping. The Cafe in the back streets of Annandale that was gorgeous and empty and dying for my Digital Diva touch! This was my territory. Intimate, authentic, I fell in love with it. With all of it. Especially the Ibis named Eileen.

Eileen just turned up. Turned up at the door feeling hungry. Just like I did. And nobody was suspicious of Eileen. Nobody was scared they were going to get ripped off. They knew she was a scavanger because she was hungry. And they gave her a feed and told her to come back tomorrow. So she did.

And I think to myself 'I love this place. I love this woman!' And I want to do her marketing so everyone shares in her vibe and the cafe's not empty but crowded. I had Dexy's Midnight Runners dancing through my head...

So I say 'I will do your marketing and I will work for food. I'll set up your facebook and make you a utube clip and send everyone I know here. Maybe we could have a poetry night! The poets will love you! All you have to do is feed me when I come in. My heart was brimming with inspiration when I said it. I felt illuminated!

But she said she had to think about it.



Voice Over Coming.

He kissed like a spy.

That's why I didn't take it any further. I'm done with spies.
I'm like a magnet to them. Now I take notes.

His story was plausible but I didn't believe it. He took no photos of his journey like he didn't want to leave a trail. He couldn't remember where he'd been. He had no stories of living in Sydney. He'd been shipped over here for work and never really left the space ship. And now he was on the road. The answers to his questions were all vague and open ended. He didn't know where he was going. He didn't know where his journey would end. He wasn't running away and he wasn't running towards anything. He had no passion. So when he kissed me I thought of two slugs in a bain marie. I hoped the pimple on his lip wasn't a virus. That's all I needed. It was the country that made me want to kiss him. I was all worked up with a small town yearning, surrounded by men with the blood pumping through them. I had to kiss someone. And there he was. The Spy. In the middle of nowhere. What was I doing? Disaster Chef probably sent him. Or Centrelink! Or ASIO. Or the Dutch mafia! That'd be just my luck. He told us he was from The Netherlands. But nobody knew where that was.

'Say Holland.' I told him.

So he did.

And everyone got it.

But Gidget said . 'I don't know about those clogs. They've got no give.
She wears slippers to work. Hot Pink.
















The Platinum Cowgirl invites the Spy home with us. She does it for me. I'm 100% ambivalent. Now I know he's a spy I don't want him to come but it's too late to get out of it. She's so generous. She feeds us Maggie Beer Pate and expensive wines and cheese and crackers and cigarettes. I take notes. He tells more stories that leave no residue. He has no aura. He worked setting up people's voice mails but he couldn't remember his own phone number. Only Artists and Spys can't remember their own phone number...

But if he was a Spy the poor bastard was stuck between a paranoid Videographer and a Tracker. I had a bullet at his back and The Tracker had an imprint of his sneakers...He had no hope.

Disaster Diva (Episode One.

An episodic utube documentary about being a One Woman Show in a brave new world. An exploration of Hunger from the growling belly to the starving heart! Will Disaster DIva get up a show and take it back to New York? How will she do it ? Is it possible to reach for a star by standing on a milk crate? Can you have a dream and no money and make that dream happen from the cultural holding pen of the brave new world.
Sponsor Disaster Diva on her Journey.
Sponsor an episode be apart of the Disaster Diva Family.

Thank You.


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Episode Two Coming Soon!