Anti Gravity, Chunky Move, Review

Anti-Gravity

Reviewed by Lee Bemrose



I have no idea how this review is going to go. I'm a words-and-story guy – how do you review something that has no words and no story?

Bottom line, right here at the top: Yeah wow, amazing. A dream-like, surreal esoteric poem, but visually and aurally mesmirising.

The intro to this latest of Australia's most accomplished contemporary dance companies, Chunky Move, is (like this reviewer) slow and moody. Just when you get to the point of thinking if the whole hour and a bit is like this I might have to go, things start to happen. The pace changes and all the quite dazzling elements come into play and it just has your attention for the duration. You kind of get lost in this sensory assault that is at times slow, at other times charged and upbeat. Even the quiet sections, however, are quietly thrilling.

The performance is based around the concept of clouds and gravity. The dormant props scattered around the stage are intriguing and all come into inventive play. The smoke machines produce some wonderful clouds indeed, and the performers themselves occupy the stage as individuals at times coming together like water molecules combining to form clouds. There is always something going on on some part of the stage, some little vignette being enacted, bodies fluidly expressing some idea, some essence of the elements. The mood is by turns primal, tribal, communal, surreal. Individually, each performer does something amazing, but when they come together as a larger entity, the trust and teamwork on display... it just makes you smile with admiration.

All six dancers are such a joy to watch. Their movements are explorations of how far the body can go. The movements are angular, smooth, sensual, elegant, flowing, rhythmic. We - mostly in our rigid bodies - see bodies all day long but never really see them reaching for their full potential, this physical exploration, and that's why this is such a visual feast. These six performers are our physical potential realised. And it's magical stuff.

The sound system in The Merlyn has always been an impressive beast and it is used here to wonderful effect. The sound – humming, pulsing, beating – comes from all around and is a thrill in itself. This is an all-round, wonderful production.

It's a short season. Life is short. Treat yourself. Go see Anti-Gravity before it vanishes, cloud-like, into the Goddamnit I missed it.

Faith Healer, MTC 2017, Review

Faith Healer

Reviewed by Lee Bemrose



I love and embrace my ignorance; to the best of my knowledge I was not aware of the existence of the Irish playwright Brian Friel. This is excellent, because after seeing the very fine Faith Healer, I now have another 30 or so plays to experience by this much lauded, very famous Irish recluse. In short, I loved everything about Faith Healer, a play as modest, inventive and intriguing as its author appears to have been.

Colin Friels plays the eponymous faith healer of the title. His is the first of four monologues looking back into the past. He looks back at his life as an itinerant faith healer traveling through small villages in Wales and Scotland healing the ill and the damaged with varying degrees of success. He is Frank Hardy and he comes across as now wistful, a once likeable rogue with a strange talent he didn't quite understand and which never delivered its full potential. He comes across as a worn-out, threadbare showman who clearly thought he was always destined for greatness. It's basically a personal reminiscence about his glory days as a faith healer (not so glorious, in reality, and he knows it), as well as his relationships with his partner Grace and his cockney manager Teddy.

Colin Friels is in fine form here. Right from the opening, lilting brogue delivery, Friels draws you into his sepia toned past. It's been a past of ups and downs, of moments both sad and shining. It's a masterful portrayal of a basically well-meaning man who has lived a life of unrealised potential, of someone who, looking back, is intrigued by how things worked out the way they did. It was a flawless and engaging performance.

Alison Whyte as Grace was equally compelling in the next monologue. Totally different character, same compelling stage presence, and exact same story. But this is the genius of the writing; it's also a very different story. Grace's version of events are very different to those of Frank's account. Frank, himself, as Grace tells it, is a different character. Not completely; she acknowledges that she fell for the charisma of the showman too, but she reveals that all was not as it seems. There are unexpected laughs, as there were in the opening section, but there is also much sadness as Grace, too, looks back at how her life turned out. The essence of her past with Frank is the same, it's just different.

The third monologue is by Paul Blackwell as Frank's traveling manager Teddy. There is much more humour in this section as this larger than life character gives his version of events. By this time you think that perhaps he will represent Truth, and maybe he does. Maybe his is an impartial account of events. However, the whole point of the play seems to be that perhaps we use memory to cope. Perhaps we unintentionally change things to help us survive, so in fact is Teddy's memory to be relied upon?

Colin Friels returns for the closing monologue after this largely comic, though also melancholic section, which seems fitting, given that his character is the centre-piece of the story. Not all is spelled out, which ensures that the play lingers in your mind.

Faith Healer really is wonderful writing, such beautifully engaging writing rich with all that it means to be human, with our hopes and our dreams and our frustrations. It's such good story telling that it needs a minimal stage design, in this case a few chairs a backdrop of a stormy sky with ever-changing lighting and a tattered banner. Director Judy Davis has done well to keep things minimal and let these very fine actors do their thing, which is to draw you into their characters' world for a couple of beautifully engaging hours.

At Southbank Theatre until March 4

Nick Cave & Warren Ellis In Grumpy & The Dreaded One's Little Cafe Of Awesome

This is one seriously cool photo. These guys are legends. They make amazing music. I love the music of The Bad Seeds and Grinderman and Dirty Three. And here were these two one day, in my banged up cafe.

Donald Trump... So Fucking Stupid

This Trump thing... it's so fascinating. So morbidly fascinating that an idiot orange pigman, self-confessed pussy grabber has the world's attention. That press conference... holy shit. He doesn't need the media to be his enemy or "the enemy of the American people" to paint him in bad light, he's doing it all himself. He's up there in front of a hastily-called press conference doing all the worst damage he could possibly do to himself. He is clearly a lunatic. He is clearly a sociopath. And stupid... so breath-takingly stupid. That bit about uranium... for real? The leader of the current leading world super power actually said that? Among so much other totally dumb shit... amazing.

And he is so stupid that he doesn't see the media as the powerful tool that it could be. Yeah right, all of the media is against you because they make up fake news... no, just look at your pathetic performance up there in your first presidential press conference where you could have talked calmly about policy and won the press over with charm and intelligence, but noooo. What a bombastic, idiotic performance that was. No one made it up. Nothing fake. You did it. You are real. You proved yet again that you are the very worst example of humanity.

And it makes me want to know what the supporters of this truly delusional and vile bit of phlegm think now that he truly is out there unleashed and representing them on the world stage. I know he appeals to an ignorant minority of the American population (didn't win the popular vote, orange pigman fool), but I hear stories about supposedly intelligent Americans who voted for him.

I'm fascinated. How do you feel now, intelligent Americans who voted for this actually mentally unstable grub? Are you happy that he represents YOU on the world stage. You good with that? I'm curious. I want to know.

Because it's one month in and from all the way over here it looks you have fucked up badly by electing this proven pathological liar and utter buffoon.

Okay... butterflies and pretty clouds... butterflies and pretty clouds...

'Tis Pity, Victorian Opera, Review

'Tis A Pity

Reviewed by Lee Bemrose

My love affair... no my infatuation... no that's not right either... my obsession... no I'm not obsessed... my stalker tendencies for... no that's just wrong (but not entirely)... my... thing for Meow Meow goes back many years now, as the whole world knows. And as much as I have always melted at the mere mention of her name and become positively turgid at the prospect of a new show, 'Tis Pity left me... let's just say it didn't leave me with the raging emotional hard-on her performances usually leave me with.

Part of the problem is that Meow Meow belongs on a pedestal. A pedestal with spotlights focused on her unique and divine presence. Of course she is usually accompanied on stage, but usually by a small band or a solo pianist or some hand-picked reluctant volunteers from the audience.

In 'Tis Pity, however, Miss Meow is part of a much larger cast and as such, her star power has been much diluted. And 'tis a pity.

Borrowing its name from... I thought it got its name from a recent Bowie song, but it's actually from a 17^th century play by John Ford. The full title is 'Tis A Pity She's A Whore, and this production by Victorian Opera is indeed an examination of prostitution in its various forms throughout the ages.

We start off in ancient Athens and Rome and move through the ages to modern times in a series of 10 vignettes, each exploring various aspects of prostitution and its standing in the respective times, all told in a kind of Vaudevillian operatic style.

The work is a collaboration between artistic director and composer Richard Mills, director Cameron Menzies, and performer (what an insufficient word, given her star quality) Meow Meow. MM is accompanied on stage by co-lead Kaneen Breen and three dancers Alexander Bryce, Thomas Johansson and Patrick Weir. The stage is also rammed with a symphony orchestra. All do a fine job.

Ironically, all of this talent on stage adds up to the reason this was a little less satisfying for me than the usual Meow Meow experience. There were teasing glimmers of classic Meow Meow craziness but it was buried in so much orchestra and opera (yes, I know from other shows that she holds her own in classic song of whichever style she chooses to play with). I do appreciate classical music, but as a soundtrack I found the music here distracting. I kept feeling like I was listening to a Disney cartoon, melodramatic tunes accompanying crazy visual antics. And I don't think I appreciate the operatic delivery of story, so while I found the vocals amazing, it's just not my preferred way of being told a story or given information. I don't actually like having to take my eyes away from the performance to read the English interpretation of the Italian lyrics being sung.

But that's just me. I haven't seen a lot of opera, so I'd love to hear what someone who knows about opera thinks of this performance.

At the heart of 'Tis A Pity is a serious examination of a very human condition. What they have tried to do is balance the seriousness of the topic with comedy. In past shows I've been amazed by Meow Meow's ability to draw from me tears of hilarity and tears of the other kind in such a short time. Again, here, for me, not so much. I'm not sure this balancing act of sincerity and humour worked so well.

I went in aware that this was going to be a little different to my favourite Meow Meow shows of the past, and yes, there is so much amazing talent present in this production, and yes I did start to really enjoy it but not until the Berlin Vignette, which was quite a way into the show.

I'm not quite sure why this show was “written at breakneck speed”, as Richard Mills tells us in the program notes, but perhaps it would have benefited with a bit more time. Really not bad, just possibly doesn't deliver its full potential.

At Melbourne Recital Centre until February 8

Sanctuary

Things hadn't been happy in the household for quite a while. There had been a lot of trouble, almost all of it entirely unnecessary. Declarations of love had been shouted down by declarations of hate. Separation seemed inevitable. Friends from all parts of the world were concerned. There was much discussion between many clueless third parties about what would or should happen.

Then there was a period of tranquility, of cautious peace. Maybe, he thought, they could work things out after all. Maybe it was worth trying to make it work, because the troubled now was riding on the crest of a wave of long-time love. There was hope.

He was an introvert working in a people job, dealing with people all day long. He enjoyed this, enjoyed interacting with people, but by Friday he needed the quiet sanctuary of his home. Dealing with people was a kaleidoscopic experience, often wonderful, often sad, always, ultimately, exhausting.

On this Friday, he stopped off to have a drink with her and her friends. They were already drunk and laughing and keen to kick on. He explained his exhaustion and his need to go to his sanctuary and they said they understood. He said he would pick up dinner ingredients and would cook dinner for her. She smiled and said she'd see him soon.

At home, he showered and dressed in his silk sarong. He didn't turn on the TV or music. The silence was sublime. He made a drink and started to prepare their dinner, looking forward to their quiet night in together.

Then his phone buzzed with a message: We are all coming back for dinner. Can you pop the nachos in?

He hoped she was joking but started to prepare a bigger meal just in case, and sure enough the door crashed drunkenly open and they all spilled in, all noise and drunk laughter.

He felt rude as he excused himself, told her he was going to bed. He really needed some solitude and didn't understand why she had done this. He went to bed, and she turned the music up so loud it almost drowned out their raucous talk and laughter.

Music and raucous talk and laughter are happy sounds, and as he fell asleep, he enjoyed these sounds, even though right now they made him feel sad as well.

Eventually the others left, their leaving waking him. She cleaned up and eventually made her way into her room, no longer so happy and talkative.

Silence and darkness; sanctuary at last.

He went out into the darkness of their home to look for something to eat, because it was late and he was hungry. He looked for the leftovers of the meal he had started to prepare for them and found that in a final fuck you, she had scraped the leftovers into the garbage bin.

Staying Here, For Now

Hey. Hey you, yeah you.
I've got it now,
I understand what's going on.
I'm a guy in this story,
There's no other explanation,
I'm just a guy in this story.

I'm this guy in this story
About love
And missed opportunities
And understanding
And misunderstanding
And understanding
That life is eternal
But our brief experience of it
Is fleeting.

I'm a story.
You are a story.
He told a story,
She heard his story,
They became a part of each others story.

Out there in the universe,
That vast, vast universe,
They held hands and looked
Into each others cosmic eyes.

Transmission of information,
He didn't know how.
You have to stay on this planet,
You must stay here,
Said in a strange and distant voice.

Really, you need to stay here.

Confusion.
Why are you saying this?
Why are you saying these things?
Why are you saying this?
I don't understand why you are saying this.

She said,
Because I know.
I know what you are going to do.
I know. I see you, and I know.
You need to stay here and tell your stories
And help people.

And I will stay here and help people,
Even though right now
I also want to leave.
Okay, he said, not now,
I'll stay for now
If you stay too.
And she said that she will stay too.

For now.

Hating Love

Imagine shouting hate at a rainbow.

Imagine tearing the wings off a butterfly.

Imagine punching love in the heart

With a fistful of your shit.

No, I can't imagine it either.

Diego & Tallulah, Love & Friendship

This is the Belafonte twins, Diego and Tallulah. I am the pretty and feminine one Tallulah, on your right. The one on the left is my rugged and handsome brother, Diego. I'll explain later.

What a wild ride this particular friendship has been. It all started here more than a year ago. From that first day I felt there might be some kind of connection. I was right; there is one strong connection. Loredana/Kafka Woman/Diego and I have been through a lot. We've had wonderful laughs, heated arguments and strange mood days we gave a name to: Jeff Goldblum. We'd get into these moods that spiraled down into gloomy silence, so much so that we agreed to give the mood a name so that we could deal with it and break the mood. I think Jeff Goldblum is back, one of us would say. Yes, fucking Jeff Goldblum - I thought he was dead, the other would say. And we'd talk our way out of it.  I'm happy to say that Jeff Goldblum is properly dead now. We've been through a lot this past year, and now simply feel the relaxed air of the very best of friends.

Which is not to say that everything is relaxed. Diego & Tallulah, they are solid. Solid in spite of the suspicions and jealousy from others. What I've learned through this is that people believe that you should tell your friends that you love them while you can, just so long as those friends aren't younger than you and of the opposite gender. Yes, she is 20 years younger than me and yes, she is beautiful. But youth and beauty will only get you so far. We've gotten to know each other, and we like what we've gotten to know. We like each other. We trust each other. We are not possessive of each other because it's just not that kind of relationship. None of the stereotypical cliches are at play here. I'm not in it for the sex - there has been no sex. She is not in it for money - I have no money, and in any case, she has always bought her share of the drinks. We simply like being together and talking and laughing. It really is as simple as that.

And hasn't that caused some drama. So much drama, in fact, that I want to write a comedy/drama about it. There has been so much craziness that I don't feel I can let it go to waste. I think a stage play is the thing, a black comedy asking some important questions. Can people really accept that a friendship between an older guy and a younger woman is just that? I know it's been dealt with before, but some of the dialogue I already have down kind of sings, and I have a few good tricks to play.

Another question to ask: I've been in this position before of having much younger, close female friends, so I naturally have to take a good, hard look at what this is about. Why are my best friends always younger women? This is kind of confronting because it seems really shallow, yet oddly the friendships in question have been quite deep and have become mostly long term. Not that there have been a lot. Just a few, really. And I don't go looking for them. I'm actually very reclusive and people tend to leave me alone. I am content with this. I think even after all this time The Dreaded One doesn't quite get that I actually am a solitary man, because she sees the relaxed version of me, and I can be quite outgoing and funny and lively. It must be confusing for her.

So I don't go out looking for these young female best friends, but occasionally we find each other. In the case of the two twins in the photo, we worked together and we got to know each other. For some reason people confide in me and I've gotten used to that. They really open up sometimes and swear me to confidentiality, and believe me, my lips are sealed on so many secrets. Sometimes when this happens, Solitary Man opens up as well. That's when you really get to know a person. You get to know yourself as well, and at any point along this journey of getting to know each other, you can jump off. You might see a flaw in this other person or in yourself and decide it's not worth it. Or you can see those flaws in them or yourself and give up and say fuck it - I like them too much to let them down. Maybe you also think fuck it - I deserve this kind of friendship. I deserve someone who sees my flaws but cares about me anyway. I deserve that kind of love because I'm actually not a bad person. I'm okay, once you get to know me, it just takes time and fate and a certain kind of person to really see me.

After several false starts, she really has gone. She went to New Zealand, was not allowed back, then came back but only for a month, then found out she was allowed to stay longer, which she did, but now she's gone. She left on the 7/1/17. Thailand, then back to Switzerland. Then, who knows? Whatever happens, I suspect we'll be in touch for as long as both of us are around.

Oh yeah - Diego & Tallulah Belafonte... during a lull at the cafe I asked Kafka Woman what she would like her name to be if she were a guy. Diego, she replied. Diego, I repeated, and the name Belafonte came out. Diego Belafonte. Originally we were going to be the twins Diego and Diego Belafonte, because giving twins the same name was a tradition in the Belafonte family, stretching back generations. But then she asked me what I would be called if I were a girl. Tallulah was my response. And so the twins were born. I laugh at what others must think when they hear me call her Diego and she calls me Tallulah.

See? It's funny. Stuff is funny. Life is funny. Love is fun.

We have an idea of making a documentary about a day in the life of the identical twins Belafonte. I see it as being black and white with a deadpan delivery. They discuss such things as how they sound so much alike that their parents can't tell them apart on the phone and are always confused as to who they are talking to. Or how sometimes they cross-dress to confuse their friends. It's such a fun concept. As you can see in the photo, we look nothing alike. In real life, we sound nothing alike. We are years apart in age. The delusion is spectacular.

The friendship is real. If you want to find out if a thing is solid, you have to try to break it. I tried to break this thing, but it's solid. The doubters and the speculators can keep doubting and speculating. I really don't care.

Self Esteem

My friend made a guitar,
A beautiful guitar
From the warmest wood
With his own hands.
Can you make a guitar
From wood,
With your own hands?

No, I cannot make a guitar
From wood
With My own hands.

I wove these threads
And made this thing,
This complex thing of knots.
Can you weave these threads
To make this complex thing of knots?

No, I cannot weave threads
To make complex knots
That make a thing of beauty.

My friend makes music,
She teaches music,
She is a creator of music.
Can you make music?

No, I cannot make music,
I cannot teach music,
I cannot create music.

I have this other friend,
This awesome friend,
His food is to die for,
It's seriously good food.
Can you make food that's to die for?

No, my food is ordinary,
I am no culinary wiz,
My food is not to die for.

That person there,
He juggles and twirls,
Look how he juggles and twirls,
A magician of movement.
Can you juggle and twirl?

No, I cannot juggle
And I cannot twirl.
I'm not a juggler or a twirler,
Certainly no magician of movement,
I am none of these things.

I know this guy,
This mega rich guy,
Who built his empire,
On plastic and rubber.
Can you build an empire
On plastic and rubber?
Any empire at all?

No, I am not an empire builder,
I know nothing of plastic
Or rubber
Or empires either.

In fact, I'm not very good
At Anything at all.

Team Awesome 2016. Love

I Don't Care

Christmas,
I don't care.
Birthdays,
I don't care.
Valentine's Day,
I especially don't care.
Mother's Day,
I don't fucking care.
Father's Day,
Don't fucking care.
New Year's Eve?
Don't fucking care.
National pride celebration?
Don't care.

The lost souls,
I care.
The broken ones,
I care.
The ones withe their weirdness
Searching for love,
I care.
The ones who need love,
I love,
And I care.

To the jealous ones,
I feel no jealousy.
To the angry ones,
I feel no anger.
To those who need to manipulate and control,
I wish you freedom,
Be free and let others be free.

And if you are incapable of doing that,
I don't care.

Current Mood

And no one asked if he was okay.

Apart & Together

Apart & Together

Apart.

They were suddenly at the same stall at that market, the one with the clothes and jewellery from far away places. They didn't know they were standing side-by-side. They didn't know they were together again, because they had wandered.

In silence, separately, they reached for the same thing. Green and black stone embedded in leather. A beautiful thing hand-made by someone they would never meet.

Their hands touched. They stopped and turned to each other. They smiled as they saw each other as though for the first time. They looked into each others eyes in that way people so rarely do. They saw each other.

Hey. It's you.

Hey. Yes, it's me. And it's you.

It's me and you again. How long has it been? 15 years?

Almost 20.

Wow. Almost 20 years.

They kissed and they hugged a 20 year hug.



Together
They were suddenly at the same stall at that market, the one with the clothes and jewellery from far away places. They didn't know they were standing side-by-side. They didn't know they were together again, because they had wandered.

In silence, separately, they reached for the same thing. Green and black stone embedded in leather. A beautiful thing made by someone they would never meet.

Their hands touched. They stopped and turned to each other. They smiled as they saw each other as though for the first time. They looked into each others eyes in that way people so rarely do. They saw each other.

Hey. It's you.

Hey. Yes, it's me. And it's you.

It's me and you again. How long has it been? 15 years?

Almost 20.

Wow. Almost 20 years.

They kissed and they hugged a 20 year hug.

Random Turn

It was his solitary walk from his work to his home. He chose a different path each day. His random wandering at the end of his random but predictable day.

Some days this road, this random side street. Other days, another main road, another side street, a kink and a turn, old houses concealing their families and their histories, their joys and their sorrows.

This day, without thinking, he just took an old familiar route. He enjoyed the buzz of Brunswick Street, then the contrast of that random turn into quiet suburbia so close to the buzz of it all.

He saw her immediately in the distance, her unmistakable shape. The hoodie, her hands tucked cosily in the front pockets. It was her park, her corner of her park. It was their corner of their park and he was there with her.

Fuck, he thought, why this random turn on this random day? Why couldn't he have taken an earlier random turn? An earlier random turn and he would never have seen them. And they would never have seen him.

But he had seen them. And they had seen him. He felt sure they had seen him.

It was quiet. The street was long. This walk was going to be slow and long. It was too late for him to turn around and go back. They had seen him. He had seen them. He kept walking towards them, wondering why this was happening. A man walked by with a snuffling French Bulldog, the man's life apparently, beautifully, uncomplicated.

As the distance between them closed, she turned her back to him. Definitely. She had seen him.

As the distance between them closed, he focused on other things - these trees, this sky, those clouds, this life. He knew they both wished they had not seen each other.

The other one, he also pretended to not see.

So close now, in a normal situation, with normal people, greetings would be shared. Hey. Hey. How are you? Join us. It's good to see you.

But there was just this strange silence.

He kept walking, looking at the trees and the clouds and thinking about the weirdness of life. And they kept looking the other way, also looking at the trees and the clouds and thinking about life. There was a peaceful silence all around them.

Mercifully, the distance between them grew.

He didn't look back, just kept on walking, knowing that something had changed forever.

Moon

Today in the cafe... It was hot today, so I wore a pair of my mega baggy, mega billowy, mega meshy doof pants to work. The Boys are very grateful for the freedom and the flowing breeze these pants give them. Honestly, they whoop it up down there, high five each other and are just generally really happy. Going commando - it's all about freedom.
At one point, I'm in the cool-room trying to sort out the milk crate situation. Situation almost sorted when I step backwards through the open cool-room door. My left foot catches the right leg of my mega baggy pants and totally pulls the whole pants scenario way down past my arse cheeks. I bend over to correct the wardrobe malfunction, and for several loooooong moments anyone in the kitchen would just see me mooning the kitchen from the cool room. Awesome, I think, I've just pantsed myself at work.

John The Revelator, Early Morning Wake Up Song

Woke up with Nick Cave's version of John The Revelator being played at 11. Love that song. Found this version and like it even more. How weird that our sleeping heads find a song or piece of music to tune into so strongly while we are asleep.

Black Cat Memories

I am frequently deeply unhappy for a number of reasons, but here I am with friends and my beloved The Dreaded One. The fact that I am displaying teeth indicates that I am in a happy moment. All of the humans in this photo are good people. There is love and solid friendship in this photo. Xac (on my photo right) said after this catch-up "I don't know whether we are old souls or you are young at heart." I know what he means. When it's real, it's a cool thing.

Solitude

Dear Potential New Best Friends,

Sorry - forget it. Don't make friends with me. I don't like this friendship thing. It only leads to trouble. And if not trouble, sadness. Because you always leave.

I'd actually rather just sit here in the eternal darkness by myself than meet you again, and fall in love with you again, because there is peace in this darkness.

So don't meet me. Don't see me. Don't befriend me and don't love me.

Just leave me in peace.

But know that I might have loved you. And you might have loved me.

Today In The Cafe... The Anger Experiment

Today in the cafe... The friendship between Grumpy and Kafka Woman is quite a unique and unlikely thing, filled with unique and unlikely conversations and occurrences that sometimes perplex both of them as well as their co-workers and the cafe's customers. It's not uncommon for some random conversation to unfold into a practical joke or series of social experiments that leave customers scratching their head, smirking in bewilderment or simply laughing, even though they are not quite sure what exactly it is that they are laughing at.

Kafka Woman has now become the very masculine Diego Belafonte. Grumpy has become Diego's adorably feminine sister, Tallulah Belafonte. Under the circumstances, this is a perfectly normal development. Sometimes, things just are what they are and it's best not to question their nature. Sometimes, you just have to roll with the weirdness.

The identical twins Belafonte have had their fair share of arguments, of course, just like all siblings. Some intense shit has gone down, man, but things seem to have settled into a new and peaceful phase.

So peaceful, in fact, that this conversation took place:

So, erm, my rugged twin brother Diego...

Yes my adorably feminine twin sister Tallulah? What's on that delicate flowerbed of a mind of yours?

I was just thinking that I don't think I am capable of being angry with you any more.

Ohhhh... that's so adorably and perfectly in keeping with that sweet feminine Goddess nature of yours.

Thank you, you Viking of a man-brother you. The thing is, I think we should conduct an experiment.

Oh wow. You know how much I like a good experiment. Tell me about this experiment.

Well... I think to prove this hypothesis, you should try to make me angry with you.

Hmm.

Yes. Just do random things at unexpected moments that you think will make me angry with you.

I like the sound of this experiment. A lot. I mean – a LOT! I'll have to keep a diary of what I have done, how angry I think this thing will make you and how angry – if at all – it has actually made you.

Indeed. I love your attention to detail. And maybe how long the anger – if indeed there is any anger – lasts.

We've conducted quite a few fun experiments in the last eight months that we have been lifelong identical twins with different accents, but this is by far the most fun one. We should start right away.

Okay – ouch! Why did you just poke me in the eye?

How did that make you feel, my most girly of girly girls Tallulah?

Oh I see what you did there. Yeah, that hurt like fuck but nope, not angry.

That's amazing. What if I do this...

No – I think you should be more random and unexpected. And maybe less physically violent, although some physical violence should come into the experiment.

Okay. Fair enough. So dropping things, spilling things, getting customer orders wrong, that sort of thing?

Yeah, just all the things you normally do so well. Although, there is a problem.

Yes my sweetest Tallulah?

The fact that we both know we are conducting this experiment kind of ruins the experiment. You might accidentally do something that should make me angry and I might consciously recall that this experiment is being conducted and consciously not get angry with you. It's not reliably scientific. For it to be a reliably scientific experiment, I would have to be unaware that we were conducting an experiment.

Hmm. I see what you mean. But I think we should try this experiment anyway. Oops – so sorry Tallulah. Did that hurt? Did it make you angry? How angry did it make you? Do you think you will be angry for long? If so, how long?

Whose Shoes Are The Rockingest Shoes?

I stopped several random people on Brunswick Street to ask whose shoes were the better shoes. The reactions were fun and funny.

Another Happy Story About Love And Suicide

Today in the cafe... I was in a reasonably good mood in the morning. This is actually a small miracle. I soaked it up. I back-swam leisurely through those usually grumpy A.M hours, kind of wondering what the hell was going on. What a luxury to be in good spirits first thing in the morning.

Then sometime during lunch service my mood took a hit and went into a tailspin. Oh Christ, I thought, here we go. This is more like it. This is what I'm used to. But fuck - such a horrible contrast to how I felt just such a short while ago. Just earlier I felt content and happy and lucky, whereas now is all gloom. Now I am acutely aware of The End Of All Things. Happiness ENDS. Friendship ENDS. Love ENDS. Life ENDS. Everything fucking ENDS.

If I sound jokey about it here, I did not feel jokey about it then. This bleakness is real and suffocating and I hate feeling it so much that I just want to curl up and go to sleep and never wake up, because never waking up means never feeling this way again, and that is a good thing. I just want to stop thinking. I just want to not be.

Thing is, I have felt this way frequently throughout my life. My default setting is not happiness. I write funny things and I write happy things, and I am actually an optimist, I'm just not a happy soul.

The funny thing about all of this is that people around me never know that these shifts in mood occur. Or rather, I think they see when I am happy; I just don't think appreciate the dark depths my mood frequently plummets to. I think they like my occasional smiles and my oh-so-rare LOLs, but they are used to my thoughtful quietness without realising just how quietly crazy I actually am on the inside. They would probably be shocked that I have often wanted to die.

But what the fuck do I know? Maybe all of us feel the exact same way.

I used to have a humour column in a cool music mag. That column saved me so often. I'd be in these moods, these desperately dark moods where death felt like a snuggly dooner, and I'd have these deadlines. Blackest mood be fucked, I have a deadline to write something funny, and I'd look around at the world filled with all you funny humans taking things too seriously, taking life too seriously, and I'd squint a little and see the funny. And I would write some funny.

I really can write funny. I love writing funny, because writing funny makes the pendulum swing. Suddenly, I'm laughing, as I write about some random shit I saw. If I'm laughing as I write, I know (and this is the real pay-off) that my friends and total strangers are going to be laughing as they read. My column had been going for 10 years, and over time I trusted this feeling. If I can just make myself laugh while writing, they will also be laughing when reading. So I've made myself feel better, and I've made other people feel better. That's a pretty cool thing.

So today I thought about all of this in that black fug I was going through, and I realised that even though I don't have the column any more, I can still set myself a deadline and just write something funny. This will be awesome. Squint a little to see the funny shit and write it.

I squinted like Clint Eastwood, and yeah, I came up with a story.

I'll say here that I also write some pretty dark stories. There's an e-book of mine on Amazon called 17 Stories Of Love & Crime, and there's some really dark stuff about love in there. When I come up with a story, I know if it's got the right stuff because I get waves of goosebumps. I well up with emotion. The story starts feeling real. Time kind of stops and I hear the narration and the dialogue and see the plot unfolding. It's a strange and unique feeling.

So looking for humour to climb out of this dark, dark hole I was in today, this is what I came up with:

There is a couple, happy in their coupledom. They have been together for quite a while. They reminisce about how they met. How did they meet? He saved her life. She initially fell in love with him because he saved her life, but they got to know each other and she loved him because of him, because of the kind of person he was. He got to know her, and he fell in love with her too. He has always been puzzled about the beginnings of her love for him. The act of his saving her life... it has always been a curious thing for him. She admits that yes, that's where it started.

You were a stranger. You were the only stranger who cared enough to stop me going through with it.

But another stranger might have come along.

No, it was you. It was you, it was meant to be... all these years might never have been... I love you and I thank you.

I love you and I thank you too.

(What makes the story work is this little thing he has never told her. Maybe he tells her now, after all these years).

I'm glad I was there to save you. I'm so very happy I talked you out of it. Who knows - maybe, you're right, maybe there wouldn't have been another stranger who cared enough... maybe you would have gone through with it and you would not be here now.

Oh God... too sad to think.

Yes, too sad to think.

There's a thing I never told you. This small detail.

Really? Tell me this small detail.

Okay. The night before we met... the morning before we met, actually. The morning before we met I woke up hungover with a plastic shopping bag in my bed. I was puzzled by this. I mean, of all the odd things to wake up with in bed, a plastic shopping bag?

Yes?

I was drinking a lot at the time. I was alone. You know, I'm a solitary kind of man.

Yes. I know. But the plastic bag?

I remembered, eventually. I'd had enough. I'd had enough booze and I'd had enough of everything, and I decided to go to sleep forever. I went to bed with the plastic shopping bag with the intention of putting it over my head and never waking up.

Oh.

Yes.

And...

And after lying there in the dark and thinking about everything for just that little bit too long, I missed my opportunity. I fell asleep. I passed out.

Ah. Wow. And if you hadn't passed out...

Yes.

They looked at each other for a long time, really fell into each others eyes, and they hugged a long hug that might never have been.

Dragon Dreaming 2016

Wee Jasper. Dragon Dreaming. Such a beautiful festival. Love the people who organised this and I love the people I shared my time there with. I wasn't in a good head-space, but there were some really beautiful moments.

Love.

Spoons & Noodles On The Way To Dragon Dreaming

Currently in a cheap hotel room in Albury en route to a festival, eating takeaway Thai noodles with teaspoons because we forgot to grab takeaway cutlery and had for some reason unpacked our usual camping cutlery from the car. Also, I decided to check what clothing I had packed in the drunken fug that was last night... apparently I was obsessed with socks and scarves and fairy lights but not so interested in T-shirts. Not a single T-shirt. So I'm going to be semi-naked underneath my warm things and the fairy lights I intend to wear.

Lee is not a good Boy Scout.

Although he will probably have to fashion T-shirt like apparel out of fallen leaves and wombat poo.

Lee's Distracted Understanding Of The Equation Of Love

The Kind of thing I think about whilst being a monkey pulling levers and making coffee... No demands + no expectations + no judgement + complete acceptance = Love.

But they just see a monkey pulling levers.

Love you, See You Soon

My latest sad story about love is here.

Selfie, But Not Selfie

There is no reason for posting this photo, other than I think it is a nice photo of me. And I never see myself in profile.

Crutch Woman? Word Woman? Enthusiasm Woman?

Today in the cafe... A customer entered carrying crutches, her broken leg heavily bandaged. "I've been in rehab but I've had enough," she announced to the near empty, early morning cafe. "I had enough of rehab and nurses and the awful hospital food and the vile coffee, so I've escaped. They said I can't go because I'm a public liability, but to hell with them. I'm here and I'd love to have The Dreaded One's Breakfast and do you think you could make me a really nice cup of coffee? Thaaaanks, darlin'.

I nodded, wide-eyed and stunned, because she didn't stop talking. Where was it all coming from? Who was it aimed at? She got a couple of customers who were bemused or amused or just intrigued. One guy looked to be all three of these as he shared some time with her. The look on his face was priceless. He told her a story of his own injury and unbelievably, she stopped talking and listened. When he finished, she nodded and was off again, but she had really listened.
When I delivered her coffee she OMGéd several times very loudly because she was enjoying THE BEST COFFEE EVER! When her breakfast arrived (poached eggs with holandaise, wilted spinnach and mushrooms) I thought she was going to fall off her chair with the outrageous pleasure of it.
"Seriously... SERIOUSLY this is the best breakfast I have had in my ENTIRE life!"
She kept talking and talking and talking. I think she said more in that hour than I say on average in an entire month.
When she paid, she was so grateful. Everything was so beautiful. She took a business card to tell all her friends and she was going to come back and bother us again because she loves the place so much. She spotted my card with the link to my short story collection. She asked if I was the author. I nodded, rendered, as I was, practically speechless. It was her turn to be wide-eyed.
"Reeeeeally," she said in awe. "You're so clever. So talented and clever. I can't wait to read the stories. I can't wait to come back to this absolutely beautiful little cafe. It's been a real pleasure meeting you. You have a beautiful day. Have a really, really beautiful day."
Hands-down, my favourite customer of the day.

An Esoteric Poem For Someone

An Esoteric Poem For Someone

Together, alone,
They said things,
And they said things,
And they said things,
Long into the night.

Jeff Goldblum,
Jeff Goldblum,
Fucking Jeff Goldblum.

No one else was there,
To hear these things they said,
No one else was there,
To witness the friendship that they shared.

Jeff Goldblum,
Jeff Goldblum,
Fucking Jeff Goldblum.

But everyone imagined things,
And so they said things,
And they thought things,
They believed all these things,
That were never said.

Jeff Goldblum,
Jeff Goldblum,
Fucking Jeff Goldblum.

But they made it through,
Not caring what others thought,
And they killed Jeff Goldblum,
Fucking Jeff Goldblum,
Clandestine,
Surreptitious,
Jeff Goldblum,
They killed him until he was dead.

And their thing
Was a cool thing.

Pixel Review, Melbourne 2016

Pixel

Reviewed by Lee Bemrose



My review request for Pixel went something like this:

“Hey Australian Stage – I'd really like to review this. It looks so trippy that I might not need to take any pre-show acid like I usually do.

Hahaha - joking. This show looks so trippy that it's SCREAMING for pre-show acid.

Joking again. My pre-show drug of choice is actually ecstasy.”

Although in reality my pre-show drug of choice is a glass of chardonnay, there were moments during the show that I felt like I had taken a delicious cocktail containing all of the above. There are many moments of wonderful trippiness.

First up though – the dance element of the show. Breakdance and body-popping are dance styles I've only ever been exposed to via short music clips. It's always seemed a novelty, a slightly freaky gimmick with a backdrop of jerky, thumping, shouty music.

But this is a full-blown, intricately choreographed dance performance showing these forms of dance in (for this writer) a whole new light. The dance in Pixel is real and pure dance; there is nothing gimicky about this performance. It's masculine, it's tricky, there is showmanship, there is strength and finesse... you've seen the head spins and the arm spins and the angular weirdness before, but not on this level. It's break-dancing, Jim, but not as we know it.

So what's different about it? Because the performance is longer than the music clips you might have been exposed to, you have the chance to appreciate the skill involved. Once you get used to it, you see it for having all the beauty of the best ballet.

You might see the word 'breakdance' and associate it with shitty 80s electro synth and drum pads, but here the music by Armand Amar is just dreamy. By turns orchestral, exciting, melancholic, whimsical... if there wasn't such magic going on up there onstage, you could easily close your eyes and drift of into the lushness of the music.

But the magic going on up there onstage... whoa.

Aside from the dance (I forgot to mention that there was the most amazing contortionist who at one stage did a duet with one of the break boys and it was one of the most wonderfully weird and playful modern dance sequences I have had the pleasure of seeing), there was the lighting trickery. This is where the trippiness comes into the thing. You will find yourself wondering what the hell is going on. Obviously it's all technology, but it may as well be magic. They somehow project light onto a... a sheet of magic and the performers interact with the light by... magic so that there's a kind of interactive dance between the dancers and the pixels of light. There are 3d effects that can only be described as... magic.

And it's all happening right there in real life in front of you.

I actually don't know how they achieved some of the visual effects that I saw. But I did love the marriage between technology (or magic, as I like to call it) and the raw and elegant physicality of the human body.

All performers had their moments to shine. Even the roller skate guy and the hoop guy, both of whom I also forgot to mention. Such masculine elegance.

Artistic director, choreographer and all round magician Mourad Merzouki and his collaborators have produced the kind of performance that makes you think, if shows like this are being made now, what are they going to be doing in a few years' time?

Woven Hand, Story And Pictures

This is a new favourite song of mine. It came on today as I was finishing up in my empty cafe. I turned it up loud (I suggest you do the same). It's dark and haunting and really fucking beautiful.

Sometimes at the end of the day in my empty cafe, I just want to stay there with my music and my solitude and I just want to howl at the world because nothing is going right and sometimes I think I'm going to lose my fucking mind. Your petty demands about the temperature of your hot drink... do you really think this is important enough for condescension? Have you seen how others are living in other parts of the world? Have you seen how others are living on your own street?

But it's my job and so I smile (sometimes) and do my job while my mind is actually racing a million miles an hour thinking about every detail of everything, all the shit going on in the world and all the shit going on in my life and all the shit going on in everyone else's life. I think about the people I love and the people I don't love enough and I think about the people who have it so much worse than I do... the customer who is always sick or the customer who is always over-worked or the customer who is worn down by the needs of her family or the many customers who for whatever fucked up reason are just odd misfits who will never know the hugs and the shared laughs and warm friendship the rest of us know.

All this thinking, all this seeing, it wears me down.

Sometimes in the afternoon in my empty cafe I want to howl because everything is wrong.

Othertimes, I listen to beautiful music like this, and I just wish I could drift away into forever.

A Thing About Love

She looked at him, and he could see that she was broken. He had been unkind to her, which was the last thing in the world he wanted.

I'm sorry, he said. But the thing about love is that it doesn't die in one place just because it grows in another.

She looked into his eyes and forgave him his clumsiness.

He looked into her eyes and knew that he was the luckiest man alive.

Oblivion

I've lost. It's over. I'm lost. I'm too many things and not enough of one thing. I needed to be one thing. But I was never going to be one thing. I was never going to be good at just one thing. I was only ever going to be pretty good at many things, and I was always going to be distracted by other things. I'm a loser, baby.

This world is too crazy for me. I don't see a happy future for humanity. The greed, the murder, the destruction, the repression... I just don't fucking get it. I don't understand my role in this mess that is humanity, and I think oblivion is a far better option.

There is not enough love. Not enough caring. There is too much hate. Too much greed. Why don't we care more about each other?

Eternal sleep. Now that's a thing.

The Proposal

You understand that this is it. We will never see each other again.

Yes, I understand the situation. We won't ever see each other again.

Hand held gently to cheek. Deep eye contact. Long embrace.

But hey, what about this. What do you think of us writing something?

Writing something?

Yeah, you and me, our words and our thoughts and our ideas. Yours and mine together.

Hey... yeah, we could totally do that. Your words and my words and our thoughts and our ideas.

Our story.

Even though we will be a world and a lifetime apart. We could totally do this.

Yeah. Let's do this. Let's make a beautiful, funny and weirdly broken story together.

Let's do that.

Okay.

Okay then. And... Goodbye.

Goodbye. But we'll be in touch. To tell our story.

Yes. Yes, of course. We'll tell our story.

Kiitos. Love you, see you soon.

Yes, Kiitos. Love you, see you soon.

And that was the last time they saw each other.

Haiku Anarchy

When you left,
You took my happiness with you,
Actually -
Fuck syllables and structure.
Fuck Haiku.
Fuck everything.
Up.

One Lucky Soul

Saw this on my walk home from the cafe today. The moon looked spectacular. I was feeling melancholy (oh that old friend is back and hanging around again), but kind of okay. I mean, when you think of the real treachery going on in the world, the innocents being bombed and gassed and raped by tyrants and pathetic deviants, the corruption, the hatred, the dying and the injustice... if you have the luxury of pausing on your walk home from your banged up little cafe to your cosy home to take a photo like this, you have to appreciate that you are one lucky soul.

I am one lucky, melancholy, grateful, soul.

A Mutley Moment

Today in the cafe... I was telling my new helper a story and she actually spat an entire mouthful of coffee onto the wall with laughter. It didn't spray, just blurped out in a stream and splashed loudly against the wall. It was spectacular. It's had me sniggering like Mutley all day.

And yes, occasionally I actually do sound like Mutley when I laugh.

Grumpy & Kafka Woman

Me and Loredana coming off a massive laugh about a tiny but really really funny thing.

Love.

Shadowland, Review

Shadowland

Reviewed by Lee Bemrose



This is another performance I didn't really know much about before seeing it. I saw a sort promo clip somewhere and thought it looked like fun, the kind of thing my inner child might appreciate after being neglected for so long.

For some reason – something to do with it being a show about tricks with light, shapes and shadows, I expected it to be a collection of unrelated vignettes, which is why I took out my pen and notebook; narrative, I don't need to take notes, but a collection of short pieces... ergh, must scribble in the dark.

As the show got underway, though, I realised that this was actually a story, not many stories. And a gentle fantasy story at that.

The story appears to be of a young teen girl yearning for something... escape... the future... something. She either falls asleep or steps into another world. The mood is one of dark and whimsical fantasy. This world certainly is the stuff of dreams, of strange otherworldly creatures, of villains who chase you, of surreal landscapes and strange chance encounters. It's a quest story, with the heroin being given a burden and being forced to go on a journey and overcome many obstacles before reaching her goal.

As children, we've all been shown how to make the shadow of a dog's head or a cockatoo on the wall. Much of Shadowland is built from this simple trick of light and shadow, but taken to a whole other level, obviously. The things the Shadowland crew do with the shadows of the dancers' bodies is quite magical. You and your inner child will become besties again.

The dreamlike sequences of visual trickery are interspersed with the raw physicality and beauty of the dance troop under 'natural' theatre light. I haven't seen a dance performance for quite a while and I don't know why that is. Such grace, such strength, such impressive teamwork... it's a beautiful thing to behold. The balance of seeing the dancers (and their enjoyment of what they are doing) and the shadow and light trickery is deft. It breaks things up. Each serves to remind us of just how clever the whole thing is.

And usually I hate encores... seriously, you took several group bows – has the show finished or not?

Happy to say that this encore was a good one. Again, so fun. A nod to Pilobolus' roots with the stirring New York by Alicia Keys followed by a nod to their temporary host town of Melbourne to the wonderful lyrics and musicianship of Colin Hay's' Downunder (unfortunately, this song also fills with me with sadness given the repugnant activities of those soulless copyright parasites who now basically own the rights to a creative piece they had nothing to do with. Lawyers... worse than bad encores by a long way... but I digress).

So yes, it was a joyous encore. Look forward to Shadowland, Sydney and Brisbane. It's SO fun.

Kiitos, Kiitos, Kiitos, Kafka Woman

Kafka Woman and Grumpy, last day in the cafe. Sadness. Proper sadness. And proper happiness that it happened at all.

Mel On Tutu Tuesday

Today in the cafe... I was packing the outdoor furniture away and noticed a very cool woman across the road. Amazing dreads, amazing clothes. Wish she'd come into the cafe, I thought as I continued packing down. On my way back outside, Cool Doof Chick appeared in the doorway, carrying the small round outdoor table inside.

"Where do you want this?"

"Erm... there is fine... erm..."

"I'm Mel and I'm here about the job. Nice tutu, by the way. Tutu Tuesday?"

It was the interviewee I had lined up for today in my search for Kafka Woman's replacement. I don't want to get ahead of myself, but based on this first encounter and The Vibe, I think we have a winner.
Which is not to suggest that I am at all happy about losing Kafka Woman. Quietly gutted, would be a better description.

Spy Stories In The Little Cafe Of Awesome

Today in the cafe... there's a regular I've been curious about for a while. What does he do? He seems like a stay at home person but he wears good casual clothes. He seems casually successful. What does he do?

I suggested to Kafka Woman the idea that we somehow follow him back after he has collected his large latte with one sugar.

Mystery Large Latte With One Sugar enters. Kafka Woman's eyes widen as I start to make his coffee.


"Can I follow him? I've always wanted to be a spy. I think I'd make a good spy."

"A good spy needs a good disguise," I advise her sagely.

"Okay. Where's my disguise?"

I point to the curly little moustache stuck to the mirror, a remnant of Moustache Mondays (yes, we are that kind of cafe). Kafka Woman is onto it. She dons her disguise and her jacket and Grumpy is immediately all "whoa - where is Kafka Woman? Who is this person with the little curly moustache who I've never seen before?"

With that, Kafka Woman is in pursuit of our mystery guy.

Upon Kafka Woman's return, we debrief. Mystery guy went left down Gertrude, right into Fitzroy Street, then left down a little cul de sac. As Kafka Woman started to cross Fitzroy, Mystery Guy started walking back toward her, whereupon she drew upon all her spy skills and sneakily hid behind a tree, much to the bemusement of the people in the parked car next to the tree... why is that moustached woman in a fluffy jacket hiding spy-like behind that tree? Is she an actual spy? She sure looks like an actual spy. We think she must be an actual spy.

Kafka Woman took off her little curly moustache (Oh shit THERE you are, said Grumpy) and hung it back on the mirror.

"It was like he entered some kind of time-space portal... I lost him. But I am a professional. Trust me, Grumpy, I WILL get to the bottom of this."

I am happy to say that this is a true story with mostly actual dialogue. I laughed about this almost as much as I did about the weirdly broken thermometer... but that's a whole other story.

Weary Of This World

Broken

Tonight, I am broken.
I am broken by the struggle,
I am broken by the imbalance
And the injustice.

I am broken
By the ruthless ones
Who break the broken ones
For reasons I will never understand.

I am broken
Because a broken one
Crushed so many innocents
On Promenade des Anglais.

I am broken because today I saw
A broken boy tear the wings
Off the most beautiful butterfly,
I'm broken because I saw

Her beautiful heart, broken.

Right now, I'm broken,
But I've been broken before.
I'm broken,
But I'll mend.

Drinking From The Tips Glass

Today in the cafe... there's a customer who has a quietly, endearing theatricality about her communication. The previous time she visited I remember wondering if she was a TV personality I should recognise, but I think it's just her way.

She placed her lunch order today in her unique way, wide eyes and breathy enthusiasm. As she bustled away I asked her to remember the butterfly (her table identification creature). “Oh of course!” she replied in her Thespian way.

I took her order to The Dreaded One and hung about in the kitchen for a few minutes. When I returned to the cafe... two things absorbed in a nanosecond. The first was that the butterfly customer was standing at the counter with the fizzy orange juice drink she had purchased. The second was that Kafka Woman, in my left peripheral vision, was doubled over in fits of uncontrollable laughter, one hand on the counter to steady herself. Kafka Woman, for me, has the most infectious laughter I have ever encountered. I don't need to know what she is laughing at to start laughing, so I started laughing.

But I knew something was up so – being the professional I am – I focused on the customer and what might have gone wrong.

“I'm a bit put off,” she told me. I assume there must be something wrong with the drink. I look at the glass. There was something that is not fizzy orange drink in the bottom of the fizzy orange drink.

“Yes,” The customer goes on, looking a bit disturbed by the whole affair. “There are an awful lot of coins in the bottom of my glass...”

The pieces fall into place. She had picked up our tips glass, taken it all the way back to her table, somehow not noticing that the glass was quite heavy due to the coins it contained, and she had poured her orange fizzy drink into it and taken a sip or two before realising that for some reason, there are coins in her drink.

I couldn't help myself. I started to laugh more as I told her what she had done, wondering how someone could do such a thing. My increased laughter fuelled Kafka Woman's laughter and she doubled over and laughe even harder, if that is humanly possible.

If Kafka Woman had not been present when I first walked back outside, I might have been able to act concerned and empathetic and treat the situation with some kind of false sensitivity. The fact that KW was already wiping tears of laughter away meant I never stood a chance. Now, needless to say, we were both fucked. Absolutely fucked with laughter.

The customer was not fucked with laughter. She wanted a refund for the ruined orange fizzy drink and although it was entirely her fault for putting the drink in the tips glass, I gave her the refund because by now I was feeling a bit guilty about all the laughter.

Later, after more laughter in the kitchen, Kafka Woman went over to check that the rest of Butterfly Customer's lunch was all right. Everything, it seemed, was fine. Except...

When I asked about the murmured conversation between Kafka Woman and Butterfly Customer, Kafka Woman told me that Butterfly Customer didn't want to appear humourless, it's just that she is a clinical germaphobe. She opened her bag and showed Kafka Woman some of her medication.

“Fuck,” I said to Kafka Woman. “Why couldn't that have happened to a normal person?”

The Silver Lining

Bad day in the cafe. Look at how many people are not there.

But Kafka Woman was there. This was a fun day in spite of things.

I am big hugs grateful.

If explanation is needed, this is a photo of Grumpy taking a photo of Kafka Woman dancing behind Lucky Cat with a Woo Hoo Cup balanced on its head, obviously. Many months ago Kafka Woman was a stranger who wandered into the cafe and sat in that blue chair on the left of your screen and read my short story Remembering Argos, and a connection was made. It was a very random encounter that like all such rare, random encounters has lead to beautiful things.

Trust

I saw your lie
You with your secret note
I saw that lie
I saw your deceit
And it crushed my heart.

Goodbye Beverley

This is a photo of a random human being. I might have lived the rest of my life not knowing her, but I didn't. She walked into the cafe one day looking for work. She worked with us and became a friend. One time in the cafe when we were closed, she played her banjo while I sang Solitary Man, first time I have sung with anyone.

In my previous post I said I wasn't feeling anything. Today I felt lots. I even cried a bit. And I'm okay with that.

Blank

Something's not right
Something is wrong
It's just that I'm not feeling...
How to express this accurately...
No that's it
Expressed perfectly and accurately
I'm not feeling
I'm just not feeling.

But hey. Given the current state of the world
The hate
The killing
The pollution
The overpopulation
The rampant idiocy
Of religion
And our leading politicians
The brutality committed
Against innocent and gentle people
And gentle and innocent animals
The greed
The consumerist mentality
In which we wallow
The overpopulation that has grown again
Since I last mentioned the word

Given all of this
Please forgive me
For not feeling.

Today... Thoughts Of Hamlet's Melancholy

"I have of late—but wherefore I know not—lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises, and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air—look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire—why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapors. What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason, how infinite in faculty! In form and moving how express and admirable! In action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god! The beauty of the world. The paragon of animals. And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me. No, nor woman neither."

Sometimes you're just barely hanging in there and no one knows it.

And you wonder why you bother. You may as well share your thoughts with the wolves and say goodnight.

If I don't write something funny soon, I'm fucked.

The Art Of Kafka Woman

Today in the cafe... a little platter of half eaten morsels has been left in the dish-washing area. Grumpy looks at with a faint wince of distaste. "Who left this little mess here?" he asks, expecting the answer to be The Dreaded One's assistant because bloody typical.

"Kafka Woman," The Dreaded One replies.

"Kafka Woman left this here?" Grumpy asks, now looking and sounding like it's the most adorable art installation he's ever seen. "Oh that's all right then."

Viola And Lee And The Magnificent Leaf

There is something about this photo that I like so much. Viola, she is lovely. That leaf... what a magnificent leaf.

White Goth

I had a dream in which my hair was thick and grey.
I said to someone, I think I'll change the colour of my hair.
I think I'll make it white.
Death-white, because death is white.

And thinking about my white death,
I was okay,
Because we all die.
Enjoy the love,
Because 100 years from now
Everyone you know will be dead.

And then I had a dream,
in which I had no dreams.

Kaspar The Friendly Host

I'm an introvert who is fascinated by people and their stories. I've always considered myself an outsider, an observer, a solitary man. I feel lucky to have friends, such good friends. I am a quiet person who occasionally enjoys staggering levels of fun.

By Friday night, after dealing with the whole spectrum of humans all week, I've had enough and want to retreat to my cocoon, my sanctuary, my nest.

Yester-Friday, however, I invited some good people back to my sanctuary. Badaboom Beverley, Kafka Woman, another couple of friends Kate and Shannon. We had fondue and lovely and fun conversation.

I am Introvert Man, but I love having the right people over to thank them with hospitality. Thank you for being a friend. Thank you for being such a good co-worker. Thank you for being a memorable part of my life. Thank you.

We had fondue and good conversation, lots of laughs. I don't know what the others felt, but I felt it was quite a beautiful night. There has been some jokey conversation lately about my middle name, and Kafka Woman said something about Casper or Kaspar. This made me smile. I have some vague memory of having an early childhood thing about the cartoon character Casper The Friendly Ghost. It was a very unexpected name for Kafka Woman to put out there. I have a memory of my long-forgotten father painting Casper on some shitty piece of wood, and it was perfect.

Kafka Woman and I had had a weird day. It's complicated. I over-think things. Stuff that isn't real becomes real after I over-think everything. The day was quite awful for both of us. So it was good to end it as the friends I like to think we are. We drank. We laughed. We talked. We went around to a local music pub and danced for a while.

And I felt fortunate. I feel fortunate.

Thank you.

Dear Diary by Andi Snelling, Butterfly Club 2016 Review

Dear Diary

Reviewed by Lee Bemrose



Andi Snelling's one woman show Dear Diary has been doing well at various arts festivals since Melbourne Fringe last year, and seeing her opening night performance at The Butterfly Club, it's easy to understand why. Andi is a thoroughly engaging comic actor and story-teller with quite a superb singing voice. Yes, there are songs because this is kind of like a cabaret show, where The Person On Stage tells stories, sings and dances and does whatever fun stuff takes their fancy.

In Dear Diary, the schtick is that TPOS is telling the story of the last 24 years of her life via actual diary entries. Yep, she's kept a diary since she was, I think, nine years old. The child is there, the young teen is there, the blossoming older teen and the adult, they are all there.

From the outset, as Andi emerges from her suitcase, her physical performance is striking, slightly weird and comically quite superb. The audience is hooked long before she has uttered a word.

Hearing the personal thoughts of the performer at various ages is funny in that they are the universal voices of people of those stages of growth, but in the background there are more existential things to ponder; the nature of growth and aging and the idea that were are all basically living stories, but will anyone but our own selves ever know the complete story? The suitcases within suitcases put me in mind of those Russian dolls, and how we are in a way layers of ourselves through our whole lives. There was also a nice play on the tree falling in a forest idea that raised the very relevant question of why, exactly, diarists write diaries. Who are we writing for? If no one else reads these so very private musings, do they exist? Do we exist? Did we exist?

This is all stuff that is sparked during the show, but you don't really think about until after the show, because during the show there is much too much to be enjoyed on a lighter level. The list of birthday presents the young teen has scored, the snogs the older teen has scored on her adventures overseas, first sexual encounters... all authentic and funny and, yeah, nostalgic.

As well as an accomplished actor and voice-over professional, Andi is obviously a trained dance performer. I wasn't expecting so much physicality in such a show, but her physicality is simply a delight to watch.

There's a section called Guest Diary that may or may not involve a level of audience participation. I was both cynical and disappointed by this section. Once you realise what it's all about you will probably wish, like my group did, that it had been more fully utilised. If genuine, it could have been a longer segment of the show. As it was, this section with its lengthy introduction, seemed like filler.

One opinion that my plus one, The Dreaded One, had was that the show seemed a little self-indulgent. I dunno. Isn't cabaret, by definition, self-indulgent? Certainly a diary is self indulgent, so a cabaret-type show about a diary... well der The Dread One. Certainly this has obviously crossed the mind of The Person On Stage, because she took the wind out of those sails with a pretty damned funny re-working of the Carly Simon classic You're So Vain.

The very real, adult Andi Snelling appears to have much creative success. But a few Russian doll layers back, according to her diary, there was bad personal stuff going on. She shared this with us too. I had mixed feelings here too, coming away thinking that it was all just a showcase of her talent.

Which luckily for us, she has bucketloads of.

At The Butterfly Club, Carson Place Melbourne until June 5