At 10PM, last night, my neck was un-scrunched and spine manipulated by music into a trip-hop warp that was twanged, drummed and tongued up by UNKLE. This British band, a collection of vampires, rock gods and heavy metal jean men, hooked my head out of the desk daze and into a night maze of pumping bodies. For a solid two hours I didn’t feel my increasing fear that Blogs will be the only form of free speech left in Australia after Tweedledee and Tweedledum have finished feasting.
This rhyme has rhymed its way into my memory:
- Tweedledum and Tweedledee
- Agreed to have a battle;
- For Tweedledum said Tweedledee
- Had spoiled his nice new rattle.
- Just then flew down a monstrous crow,
- As black as a tar-barrel;
- Which frightened both the heroes so,
- They quite forgot their quarrel.
Wandering up Oxford Street, the moon loosening some of its smile, I enjoyed the tingle scream in the ear drums and sensation of having rocked into morning with a thousand other who knows who they are listeners.
I almost dislocated my arm socket and wind-pipe in a yoga pose this morning, by swallowing carpet dust whilst stretching my elbow towards Antarctica.
Then, apple eating along the footpath (yes, I know the act of eating and walking at is grubby) I found myself curled into a café nook feeling sick and sad for Heath Ledger’s family. Everyone obsessing over how he died, did he do it, did the comics, his Matilda?
The café TV blared imbeciles on chat shows revealing the intimacy of their friendship with Heath. Celebrities bemoaning the loss of a great star as they revelled in their own stardom, award grabbing and being alive-ness. I left cafe, and the cut kiwi-fruit on its side, black pips and star shapes facing out and up.
