reading lolita in the heat

"Exceptional virility often reflects in the subject's displayable features a sullen and congested something that pertains to what he has to conceal."
- vladamir nabakov, lolita.

had a lover like that once. a couple of them.

beach house

the audience heaves with awkward as beach house takes the stage. the band heaves with awkward too: bies thinks they're wearing wigs, that the set has come straight from Countdown circa 1982. i'd think they were miming except for the reverb.

they fill the room with metallic. she sounds like blood and slides between worlds, gets paid to do it while i'm tangled in late 1990s day-glo decor  at the hi fi that's long been packed down.

i'll take care of you / if you ask me to / in a year or two.

the guy in front of me reaches out for his girl, involuntarily. dopamine and oxytocin surge through them. it's my favourite chemical moment in this whole venue.

where's ya wheelie bin

they've turned a recycling bin on its side and sit talking in the dark as i get home. i've been wanting to judge new love all evening, and feel glad that sound rises so i can eavesdrop from the balcony.

'i want to take you with me, but get your shit together.' he's wasted. there's silence. 'just get some fucking qualifications, veronica.'

she sobs.

'why are you crying? what's sad is that it had to come to this for me to tell you.'

'i'm crying because it's true.' she can hardly get the words out. he doesn't have to be such an arse about it. i feel like statler and waldorf, stage left in the muppets: gotta go to bed before i start heckling.

lone hippy at ceres

'it's dead out here, mate. I got here real early and only sold 13 bucks worth. the stall cost me ten so I've made three dollars. I feel like killing myself.'

'mate, there's 12,000 punters at rainbow serpent this weekend, that's where the money is.'

public sculptures

we're on the road to geelong, going past a public sculpture. 'ah ha, gynies!'

'they're supposed to be decomposing leaves, not gynies.'

'gynies!' there's quiet while we listen to my new mix tape, playing slow like when the batteries  run down in your walkman.

'i guess most public sculptures do look like boobs or erections,' says mr bies, on reflection. 'or anuses.'

'what about the yellow peril? the vault. which one's that?

'none of 'em. that's why it got rejected.'

about today

'everyone in this place has a beard except us,' says Is. we’re in the back row. one guy has both arms above his head, index fingers poking holes in the air. his silhouette against the stage lights makes me want to cry. i check my body. not drunk, not wired, not sedated. not stressed or anxious. it’s something else, this feeling, unfamiliar.

hey, are you awake / yeah i'm right here / well can i ask you about today / how close am i to losing you / how close am i to losing.

i feel the past year surge, wordless. panic, check my assets: i’m with people i love. i’ve got a home to go to and i can pay the rent. best of all, i’m listening to matt berninger recount what it feels like to be just this side of total breakdown, and come out singing.

leave your home / change your name / live alone / eat your cake … hangin' from chandeliers / same small world / at your heels

it’s happiness i’m feeling. i know clearly that the sky will not fall down. even if it starts pouring with rain inside the palais right now, we’ve nailed this moment, The National and me.

all the very best of us / string ourselves up for love

bureaucrats in stairwell

'you know Hugo, right?'

'with the white hair? looks like the incredible hulk?'

'yeah. up on the eighth floor.'

pink bits

black dog rocks

the black dog grins as it runs, lead in its mouth. close behind is a young guy on rollerblades, topless, and on his right, like the trunk of an old tree in motion, a woman in a wheelchair. then, a dude riding goofy on a skateboard with one hand on the wheelchair, his black mullet streaming as he brings up the rear.

i file this information so deep in my brain that it vanishes while i'm spooning tea leaves into the pot, waiting for the kettle. later, in the back of the Bies' wagon on the way to black rock, we see another dog carrying its own lead and i remember the view from my kitchen window this morning.

'well that sounds like a family, right there,' says Mrs Bies. i get another vision: in ten years from now i'll still be doing this, tagging along on their family outings, by then sharing the back seat with their little ones, amid mouldy fruit and half-chewed rusks.

another summer at half-moon bay.