Postcard From Lisbon, From Granada

Grumpy

So far this trip has taken me all over the place, including many places I hadn´t intended to go. As I write I´m in Lisbon which had never been part of the plan. Consequently I haven´t boned up on any of the Portuguese basics like can I have beer please? I´ve just been going with the flow after partying at Boom for a week and have been to Sintra, the coast of Potugal and now Lisbon. And palaces? I´ve seen so many palaces and castles I´m seeing them in my sleep. Castles, castles and more fucking castles. And I swear I never want to climb another turret in my life.

Don´t get me wrong - I´m enjoying the hell out of it. So much freedom it´s doing my head in and I´m experiencing all sorts of cool stuff for the first time.

I used a bidet for the first time recently. It was a startling and strangely pleasant experience. It puts the “Ooh!” into Pooh. I think I may have a problem. I think I'm developing an addiction. I've started using the bidet even when I don't need to go to the toilet. The Dreaded One keeps banging on the bathroom door and shouting “Grumpy – what are you doing in there?”

“Nothing. Nothing, I swear.”

“You're on the bidet again, aren't you.”

“I'm not. I'm... I'm just doing normal bathroom things. Leave us alone!”



“Us? You and the bidet?”

“You leave the bidet out of this!”

Almost as amusing as the concept of the bidet is the number of times I´ve been offered drugs during the day in the streets of Lisbon. I think a week of partying has left me looking like a drug monster. In my first hour here I was approached by five dealers. Persistent bastards too.

"Psst - want some hash? No? Marrijuana? Coke, you want coke then. It´s good and cheap"

Over the course of the first night I clocked up nine different dealer, some repeat offenders. And often I´ve been singled out in a full outdoor cafe too, which isd making me feel a bit self-conscious. Maybe it´s time I shaved and tidied up a bit, although in reality I am fussy about my appearance and if I look like a hippy I´m the best dressed hippy in town.

And I´m clean from the top of my head down to my bidet bits.

Postcard From Praia das Maçás

We pretty well haven't stopped moving since we packed up our belongings several weeks ago and as a result I've woken every day feeling like I've run a marathon. Galleries, museums, castles, palaces, fantastical gardens, castles, castles and more fucking castles. And turrets? I'd be happy to not climb another damned turret ever again. It's been amazing but mummy it hurts.

We were due to go from Sintra to Lisbon but plans changed at the last minute. We climbed the Moorish Castle on the mountain in Sintra dating from about the 8^th century (unfortunately electronic communication in Sintra also feels like it dates from the 8^th century... we couldn't even get the public phones to work), checked out the palace (soo high up) and the friend we we were going to meet in Lisbon said she was coming to Sintra and wouldn't mind going to one of the coastal towns, so right now we're in a place called Praia das Maçás, a bustling little beach town about 40 minutes out of Sintra on the chilly waters of the Atlantic. It's great doing it like this – just changing plans and destinations on a whim. We're here for two nights then the plan is to head back to Sintra, on to Lisbon then... not sure where then. We'll probably spend a couple of days in Lisbon (great – more castles and palaces I suspect but I swear in the name of the Holy Father I'm not going up another turret) and then head back to Spain. But who knows?

Who knows anything? I mentioned in the last hastily written blog post that I'd used a bidet for the first time. It was a startling and strangely pleasant experience. It puts the “Ooh!” into Pooh. I think I may have a problem. I think I'm developing an addiction. I've started using the bidet even when I don't need to go to the toilet. The Dreaded One keeps banging on the bathroom door and shouting “Lee – what are you doing in there?”

“Nothing. Nothing, I swear.”

“You're on the bidet again, aren't you.”

“I'm not. I'm... I'm just doing normal bathroom things. Leave us alone!”

“Us? You and the bidet?”

“You leave the bidet out of this!”

Hmm. I feel another Grumpy column coming on.

So what have been the highlights of the trip so far? It's very hard to say. Leaving was stressful and that came out when we got lost in Madrid and we had our usual getting lost arguments. We didn't really feel kind of normal, or as normal as you can feel when you've sold your home, quit your job and left indefinitely. But then Madrid and it's art was amazing; Boom was awesome; it was a stroke of luck coming to Sintra because not only is the historical town a gorgeous, cobblestone tourist mecca that buzzes by day with day-trippers and empties out at night, but the palaces and gardens and that Moorish Castle ruins are quite amazing. The castle is so big and it's really quite a workout to get to the top, and you can't help but be entranced by the history of the thing. The Arabs just came along, built this massive fort-like thing in another country which has been taken over at various times by various armies, and climbing the thing you have to wonder how it was possible for any army to storm such an imposing and majestic fort.

But the main highlight in Sintra has to be Quinta da Regaleira, this grand, magical estate with its secret caverns, grottos, underground towers and meandering tunnels. An honest to God fantasyland steeped in the mystery of the Masons and the legend of The Knights of Templar. It's very tempting to go back for another visit and spend another day wandering about in wonder that such a place was built so long ago and still exists.

Anyway, the sun is coming out here in Praia das Maçás, so enough from the Sintra Tourism Bureau. I don't think a hell of a lot of Maçás – it's just a quaint and bustling beach town with some admittedly nice restaurants with some admittedly über fresh looking seafood and yeah yeah some nice drinking places to sit at and watch the sun sink all pinky and orangey behind the Atlantic... but do you think I can find a decent pair of shoes here? It's doing my head in. There is simply NOWHERE to buy a decent pair of men's open shoes.

For this, I shall never forgive you, Praia das Maçás. Never.

Postcard From Sintra, Portugal

Hello from Sintra, Portugal. Just a brief mesage to say we,re traveling well and had an amazing time at Boom. It was seven or so days of party mayhem and I loved every minute of it. Came out feeling quite battered and bruised and very sore. The site is massive... I´m not sure that it´s a better party than Rainbow but it´s certainly bigger. It´s like two full Rainbows... triple Rainbows!

Partied with Nick and and Renata and met a few others. Managed to meet up with Lucie too. Have loads of great photos to upload when we get the chance, it´s just a bit difficult dealing with this internet cafe in Portugal. Have laughed a lot, danced a ridiculous amount and yeah, have had moments of missing a few friends a lot. A LOT.

Goddamn this weird Portuguese keyboard.

Not a lot more to say right now. Nick and Renata have just left for Spain and home in Prague and we have to decide where to for us next. It´s supposed to be meeting Lucie in Lisbon but Sintra is insanely pretty so we might stay another couple of days, then head to Lisbon and back to Spain. I haven´t really done this kind of unstructured traveling before. I also hadn´t used a bidet before but have now. TMI? Sorry.

Whoever you are, I hope you´re well. Got to go now and soak up a bit more Sintra vibe and vino blanco. And yeah, it´s supposed to be in Portuguese but my pathetic Spanish has to suffice. Seems to work.

More to come as soon as I manage it.

Postcard From Spain 2

Got this shot while wandreing through Madrid. We are not getting quite so lost now. We are not starving. We are being understood and liked and managing to find our way home.

I like this place. They have nailed it as far as food goes. We're venturing furthere and further and finding wonderful places.

We are also doing touristy stuff: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=244386

Hope that link works.

Whoever you are, I hope you are as happy as I am right now.

The Horizontal Armadillo

GRUMPY

As you read this, I don't know where in the world I am. Literally. The Dreaded One and I decided to pack everything up and become gypsies. We have no home now. We purged and packed and our stuff is in boxes in a very big box at a box storage place. It's been a crazy few weeks. So busy. So frantic. I am bruised from carrying heavy boxes of stuff down the stairs. I've had little sleep. There has been too much to think about. If I could put all the stuff there is to think about into boxes our storage rate would have gone up considerably. It's worth it, in the long run, because life is to be lived and we are bound for Madrid and Boom in Portugal and other places as yet to be specified.

But there is soooo much to do before we get to that magical party that it frequently does my head in. There has simply been no time to get excited by our looming Boomer Gypsy status. (Ooh... Boomer Gypsy – I like it).

Somehow, loose ends get tied. Nerves are frayed. Is it right to quit jobs and pack everything up to go to a party? Actually, yes, done it before. Quit my job as music editor of a dance music mag to go to Soulclipse in Turkey, and it was the right thing to do.

Still. This is big. This is serious. Most of the millions of things to be sorted get sorted. Stress, yeah baby, I'm mainlining it. I'm tired and can't imagine a time when I'm kicking back and enjoying myself.

We're getting there in one go, all the way from Australia to Madrid via Singapore and Frankfurt. It's going to be a brutal long haul of discomfort, agitation and sleeplessness but we just want to get it over and done with.

On the plane, in my delirium, searching for sleep, an Armadillo emerges from the dark.

"Psst," the Armadillo says, looking a little shifty. "Comfortable?"

"Uh?"

"I said are you comfortable?"

"Are you kidding? It's a 26 hour flight. I can't remember comfortable. It's horrible. It's all so squishy and the bloke next to me keeps falling asleep with his head on my shoulder and I don't like it at all, Armadillo."

"I can fix that you know. And that's Mr Armadillo to you."

"What? No way, Mr Armadillo."

"No really. Ever heard of that stuff, Horizontal?"

He had my attention. "Heard of it, yeah. God what I'd do for a bit of Horizontal."

"I've got some."

"You've got some Horizontal? Some actual Horizontal?"

"Yeah, the real stuff and it's gooood shit."

"Really. Um... got any to sell?"

"That's why I'm here."

"How much?"

"It's not cheap."

"Okay, I don't care how much I gotta have some. I'm in a bad way. I gotta get me some Horizontal or I'm not going to make it through the night. Please Mr Armadillo, please, take all my money just gimme the Goddamn Horizontal."

We did the deal right there on that dark plane, and Mr Armadillo was right. It was good shit. Take my advice: if you're ever on a long flight and you're tired and squished and the guy next to you keeps falling asleep with his head on your shoulder and you get approached by a shifty Armadillo selling Horizontal, don't haggle, just buy that shit.

Grumpy the Boomer Gypsy is freelance writer Lee Bemrose. leebemrose@hotmail.com

Postcards From Spain 1

Four hours in the Prado Museum today surrounded by Rubens and Goya and El Bosco and Carravagio, and the highlight for me? The typo on the plaque beside a famous painting called The Conversion Of The Duke Of Gandia which explained that what was going on in the painting was that the Duke had just "opened the coffin and looked in at the rooting corpse."

Brainspill, Leaving, Mad World

I was walking through the tunnel from Central railway station to Broadway to the passport place thinking about the night before with friends and how much these people mean to me and it was weird... I'm thinking about all this gorgeous stuff and how lucky I am and how every now and then I'll look at these friends - Ann or Nadia or Christine - when they're talking to someone else or laughing at something that doesn't have anything to do with me and I just feel great affection, real love. And I'm thinking about this as broken people walk by hunched into their grubby clothes, and strangely there are bruised rose petals lying on the grimy tiles and I wonder how they got there, what is their story? And there's a busker singing Gary Jules' Mad World, and my head's drowning in beauty with all this human wreckage around me and this busker singing this sad song. It's not a great voice but it's in tune, and the guitar is in tune and there's a kind of perfection there, and it all just about overwhelms me. I want to cry. I really want to let myself go and howl it out. I want to be with everyone. I want to be alone. I want to fix the broken ones and make them as lucky as I am. And I look around and wonder if I let myself go, if I gave into it in this bustling tunnel would anyone even notice? I almost lose it but don't quite, and maybe all of them are doing the same thing, feeling exactly the same way I am feeling. Who knows? Who knows what the hell is going on. Mad World.

Leaving in a few short days. It's a fucked up kind of pain, the pain of leaving, because it is genuine sadness but there's beauty in it; I'm lucky to have people I love in my life who love me back, and I hate that I am leaving them. What must it have been like back in the days of ships sailing to unknown lands? When goodbyes could well have meant proper never-to-be-heard-from-again goodbyes?

Grumpy With Bureaucracy

New Grumpy column out in Tsunami next week. I hope it's funny, but I also got a bit pissed off writing it. This is actually quite a serious rort. It's nonsense that these bureaucracies are not accountable to anyone. I'm a bit fucked off by it all... but you have to try to squint and see the humour.

Grumpy

Me being me, I have just realised that I have lost my passport. I'm leaving the country to go to Boom in Portugal and to maybe check out the party season in Ibiza. Boom will be spectacular, Ibiza... I don't know what to expect. That's if I make it at all, what with the Mystery Of The Vanishing Passport. I have no idea what happened to it. I just assumed it was always in its special passport place. But when I got the little passport wallet thing out and opened it, there was nothing there.

“There's no passport there,” The Dreaded One told me helpfully. I went into frantic mode, because that always helps the situation. I frantically checked the surrounding area. No passport. I frantically widened the search. No passport. I frantically checked the little wallet thing again about 17 times. Nopassportnopassportnopassportnopassport etc. I frantically checked every pocket I owned. I checked every secret stash place I could recall. I checked potential secret stash places that maybe I'd forgotten about. I checked the freezer. I interrogated the cat for hours and didn't come up with a Goddamn thing.

“Maybe you loaned it to someone,” the cat wisecracked as it left the room, chuckling in its smug way. Quite clearly the cat just wasn't getting how important this was. It's a ten day turnaround for a new passport and we leave in eight days. Not good.

I phoned the passport place and spoke to a human. They told me that it was possible to get a two day turnaround, I just have to pay another $78. No problem. This was good news. $78 and my birth certificate and I could have my passport in two days... birth certificate? Who has a birth certificate? I went into frantic mode again.

Long story short: I go to the birth certificate place and the human tells me that everything is peachy and I could have the birth certificate the following day for the standard price of $39 or I could have it right now for $60. I tell her I want it now. She hits print and seconds later hands me the document and I hand her the $60. But what is that all about? If I wait a day and come back and she calls up the file and hits print, I can save myself about 40%. It's only 21 bucks, but that's massive percentage-wise for doing the same thing a day later. Um... rort anyone? Why, exactly, is it cheaper to come back a day later and do the same thing? If I come back two days later do I get my birth certificate for free?

And why does the passport thing take 10 working days at the standard rate but a speedy two for an additional fee? If it can be done in two days, just do 'em all in two days. Call me suspicious but I'll bet there's no queue to jump, no backlog to clear, just a juicy bureaucratic rip off taking place each and every day. Some kind of hangover from the days when paper files had to be manually searched for, copied and posted out days later. People, technology has made it all immediate. All of it.

You bureaucratic humans, you shit me.

Grumpy is Lee Bemrose, freelance writer at twobluefish@bigpond.com With any luck he has left the country before any passport humans have read this column.

Boom Bound

I'm finding loads of interesting relics in packing everything up. This is me and The Dreaded One a million years ago. There are some even funnier photos I hope to get around to posting. We seem to have always been laughing, seem to have always been a bit in love.

Well it's coming to crunch time. I do not have to see the wrong side of 4am again for the foreseeable future. I quit my job and The Dreaded One finishes hers on Tuesday. On Wednesday August 11 we jump on a plane just after 4pm and go Singapore/Frankfurt/Madrid. We stay in Madrid for about a week before heading to Boom with friends. We are finally going to party at Boom. There's been a lot of stress leading up to this... selling your home just isn't something that a lot of sensible people would recommend, but that's what we've done. Largely because the money people are willing to pay at the moment isn't all that sensible so we thought we'd cash in and fuck off, basically.

We've almost finished packing. The garage is full of labeled boxes. We're almost done. There is the minor issue of me losing my passport with only 8 working days until we leave, but it's okay because I can get the new passport fast tracked to two days... except I seem to have also misplaced my birth certificate. Numbnut. Seriously, I am so anal about this kind of stuff and never lose anything, but there you go. I have to get to the births, deaths and marriages place tomorrow for the birth certificate and then to the passport office on Tuesday for the passport. Both places are just near Lee Street so I'm taking this as a sign that as unnecessary as this drama is, all will be fine.

There were weird emotions leading up to all of this. I don't think you can do something this big and not feel some turmoil. I haven't been able to feel happy or excited, but these feelings are now starting to come through. I am unemployed. I am about to head over to a brilliant part of the world for an amazing party, then drifting for however long seeing wonderful things and visiting friends. I am very fortunate. Weirdly I am getting excited about every stage of the trip at once. I'm looking forward to the party (Boom just this morning posted photos of the seeing up of the stages and it's weird to think we will be there in less than three weeks); I am looking forward to seeing Barcelona again; I think I am looking forward to going to Ibiza; I want to be lost in a world of art and architecture again; I'm excited about being in New York in winter, not something I ever thought I would do; I can't wait to experience whatever San Francisco has to offer. And I am looking forward so much to catching up with all the friends these places are minding for me.

And home. Already I am looking forward to Rainbow Serpent next year. I am really looking forward to seeing all my Australian friends again at that wonderful party. I know it's a long way off and I am going to focus on the here and now while far away, but I am looking forward to that party so much. And then setting up our new life in Melbourne.

I feel little like I did when I left my job at 3D to go to Turkey for Soulcipse. We are not doing what the financial advisers would recommend, but fuck it's going to be fun.

Just got to get this passport nonsense sorted out. Quickly.

Grumpy With Kids

A recent Grumpy column based on true events. Names have been changed to protect the guilty. My magazine copy has gone missing in action, so here's the draft copy.

Grumpy

From time to time the question of kids comes up. “Grumpy,” people will say to me, “do you think you'll ever have kids?” The answer is an unequivocal no. NO. Nononononono. Nope. Absolutely not. No way. Not ever. No. Fortunately Mrs Grumpy (aka The Dreaded One) feels the same way.

Sometimes, if my interrogator is particularly stupid, they might assure me in a sagacious tone that one day I will change my mind. If they say this, it's probably a safe bet they they themselves have recently become a breeder. Suddenly they have access to the true meaning of life. They have been enlightened, and I am merely yet to see the light. Not all breeders are so annoyingly sanctimonious; many react with an each-to-their-own shrug. Non-breeders with procreation on their life-timetable might ask why no Little Grumpies are on the horizon, and my reasons have nothing to do with overpopulation and the relentless and ruthless destruction humans are wreaking upon an otherwise paradisiacal planet. No, it's not that.

Recently at a family get-together. The adults are catching up on what's been going on in each others lives while the kids (lets call them Domestic Terrorist 1 and Domestic Terrorist 2) occupy themselves as they see fit. Basically this involves pulling stuff from out of cupboards and converting apparently harmless objects into potentially lethal missiles whilst hijacking the adult conversation by remote control and holding it hostage until their demands are met.

Mum and Dad's sentences become slightly surreal: “So how have you been? Are you still working at what are you doing with that? PutthatdownIsaidputdownrightnow that place you were working at? How is Mummy said no! What did Mummy say? No that going for you?”

DT 1 tells me, “Uncle Grumpy, I play golf,” and I appreciate the heads-up because a split second later a hard plastic ball zings past my head and ricochets off three walls before rolling under the couch. No relief, however, as he has an arsenal of hard plastic balls which keep us on our toes as they fly about unpredictably, whizzing through the air and conking off walls and furniture.

Meanwhile, DT 2 has been sating her voracious appetite for chips. I watch in fascination as fistful after fistful of chips are pushed into her mouth until eventually the entire family sized box has been consumed. She eyes me levelly as she methodically makes her way through the box, like she's thinking, “Yeah, I know, you wanted some of this didn't you, wanted it badly, but you ain't getting' none of it.” I look at the brie and am about to make a move for it when DT 1 moves in. He gouges a fistful of the cheese out and packs it down into a satisfying slab on a water cracker and suddenly the gouge marks render the cheese just that little less appetising.

Sometimes the chaos and carnage dies down a little, but the silence only arouses suspicion, the alarm goes up and conversation is interrupted again as search parties scatter in all directions: “Where are you? What are you doing? Whatever you're doing you'd better stop it at once!”

At one point DT 2, having run out of chips to put into her mouth, pops one of the blue golf balls into her mouth. Her mouth is so tiny and petite that she can't close her lips over the ball completely. She pops the ball back out. This has amused her so she pops the ball back in like she's one of those carnival clown games. The ball pops back out with a little more force and her shoulders shudder this time. A faint look of confusion and fear flashes across her pretty features as she gags again, and suddenly she is Reagan and we're in the vomit scene from The Exorcist. The family-sized packet of chips makes a reappearance (probably as astonished to see us again as we are to see it) and lands mostly on the mother who appears disgusted and resigned in equal parts. The father whisks DT 2 off to the bathroom (later to emerge stating, “Great. Bonus points – I get to change her nappy too.”) while the mother sits with cupped hands of vomit and trying to figure out what to do next.

What's that? Am I ever going to have kids? Um – no. Nononono.

Grumpy is Lee Bemrose, freelance writer, twobluefish@bigpond.com

Ruben Jane

Ruben Jane

(C) Lee Bemrose

Ruben Jane

When you walked into the room, something changed. I felt like I’d known you my entire life. Your gaze swept the room and came to rest on me. You had me from that moment. You looked at me and looked away, then made your languid way through drunk ones dancing. Your image lingered, burned into my mind. I didn’t follow you, not straight away. There was no need.

It was later that same night that we properly met. I was listening to some self-indulgent woes, some manufactured drama, when you sat down next to me. I was being attentive to this other one, but I knew it was you sitting down next to me even before I looked.

When finally the other one realised she was not going to get the desired response, she stood up to leave, pausing briefly to look at you. She called you Ruby, said it with a soulless smile. You replied with a similar smile, calling her by name, told her she was looking well.

When she was gone you leaned towards me, so slightly but without looking directly at me, and you told me that if I want to be your friend, never call you Ruby because your name is Ruben Jane.

You asked me what I thought of the party. You paused at the end of the question, then added my name. Letting me know that you had asked. You had pointed me out and asked. How strange that we had friends in common yet I had never met you, had never heard of you.

I told you that I was not a party person, not really much of a people person. You asked why, then, I was here. I said it’s because it’s what we do. We talk to people we don’t necessarily like. We go to parties when maybe we want to be alone, it’s just what we do.

You should do whatever you want to do, you told me. There are no rules, we just think there are.

And with that you stood up to leave.

Coming? You asked looking down at me, knowing the answer. I stood up and came with you, nothing else I could do.

You asked me where I lived and you took me back to mine. Something too funny about this to laugh at. Just struck me as pure you. Maybe I smiled. Maybe you saw my smile reflected in the taxi’s interior windows. Perhaps you smiled yourself, knowing that this was always how it was going to go.

Back at mine, drugs spilled out onto a glass tabletop. Vodka from the freezer and I knew what music to play. Rapid-fire crunchy electric guitar, throbbing bass and banshee scream. I wanted you to be surprised or at least pleased, but you simply took your place, took your pill, took in that I knew the right music to play.

We should go to Dawnfire sometime, you said when my warmth was kicking in and I’d wanted to say something stupid. You said it at just the right moment because it snapped me and I said instead yeah, we should go. I’ve been there before, but yeah, we should definitely go.

We didn’t fuck on that first night. I didn’t care. We were going to go to Dawnfire. We were going to be we. This was good enough for me. Much better than a fuck.

When we did fuck, it was like thunder. It was insane. It was rapidfirecrunchelectricthrob and I always wanted you to be surprised. But you were never surprised, just quietly pleased, in your way.

Hold me, you said one time as we fucked, and I held you.

No you stupid fuck! Hold me. Properly! Hold me down!

So I took your wrists and I held you down. You fought back and I held you down. My hands around your wrists, sharp tendons, deep guttural grunt, but I held you down. One hand slipped and it found your throat and grunt became a hesitant choke-laugh. You bit me. I kissed you. You kissed then bit me again. We kissed and we fucked. And you were happy. It was the first time I felt I’d made you happy.

*

Almost a year of yours-and-mine and we agreed on yours. You picked up some thing of mine you’d always liked. You paused at the door on your way out and asked if I was coming, as though you and this thing were leaving me and it was entirely up to me if I wanted to come along. I nodded and you turned and left like you always knew this was how it was going to be. And with that, yours became ours. We became a proper we. Much better than the stormy, the exhilarating fucking.

But the fucking was good.

*

Every time we were asked how we met, the story changed. We’d tell them we met on the banks of the Nile. In a Scottish Highland Village. In the ruins of Sagrada Familia in Barcelona or a cobblestone street in Monte Matre. You would take the lead and I would follow and a scenario would come to life, a conversation imagined into reality. At a point our eyes would lock and we were two actors without scripts, inventing memories, living another time now.

Invariably they would think we were joking. They would think we were a little strange or simply in love. They didn’t understand, just didn’t get it at all.

Don’t leave me, you’d tell me from time to time, don’t ever leave me. Promise me that.

And I’d hold you in that other gentler way and tell you, I’ll never leave you Ruben Jane.

*

The cracks were there a long time before I saw them. That’s the nature of cracks. But I forced myself to see them that time on Turtle Beach. Remember that time on Turtle Beach? You’d gone for a swim and I buried your things and while you swam below the surface, I imagined you were not there.

Later you asked why I had done it, why I’d buried your things and imagined you weren’t there. I shrugged; I don’t know. In the twilight you rocked back and forth, tears welling in those eyes as we looked out to sea, a water spout writhing in the distance. I’d seen your tears before; I’d kissed away their saltiness. I’d seen your clenched fists and I’d uncurled your fingers and kissed your palms. But I’d never seen you rock back and forth before, like a dark and broken angel, and I didn’t know what to do.

The thing is, you told me in a voice fighting back a tremble, it’s no good here. It’s no good and it’s not ever going to work.

But we’re on holidays, I replied, it’s just us in some clean, nice place. We’ll go back to the city where everything is all right.

No, you said, that’s not it. That won’t fix things. It’s... it’s this that won’t work.

Your hand swept at this perfect vista, at all this peace, and that’s when I forced myself to see the cracks. Fine and delicate things, like fractures in the glaze of a favourite tea cup.

*

As the blade slid beneath your skin your grip on my hand tightened. I gripped you hard too. The blue vein above your eye pushed against your pale skin as you held back from crying out. I leaned over and watched this stranger slowly slice your skin. He dabbed professionally at the blood. There was a lot of blood. Your grip eased, then tightened again as the blade went back in. I wanted him to stop, but it was what you wanted so I held on and watched and was moved by what we were doing.

We dressed the wound. We dressed you. You looked pale. You looked at me and smiled and said, now your turn.

I think my fingers trembled as I undid my buttons. I dropped my shirt to the floor and climbed onto the bench. I was determined not to squeeze your hand. It would prove something now meaningless to you, but as the searing pain set in it took over everything and I squeezed your hand so tightly. I remember looking up through a red haze of pain, and I remember seeing you smile. Not smiling at my pain, smiling at how tightly I was holding you. I forgot that smile at the time, but it would come back to me later on. Such a gentle, peaceful smile.

It took return visits, but eventually it was done. No wedding rings for us, no tattoos, no swapped vows. Scar tissue, you said, was real.

And our friends, they thought we were strange or kooky or simply in love. They didn’t get us at all.

Do you get us, you’d sometimes ask, do you really?

Yeah, I’d reply, I think I do.

Does it scare you?

Yeah, I think it does. Does it scare you?

Not really, you’d say with a shrug and that distant look.

But I’d see you sway and rock and gaze away into nothing as you absently fingered your scar, and I’d wonder about that.

*

At Dawnfire I sometimes liked to stand back and watch you, try to see you the way others saw you. Sometimes I’d catch a glimpse of how you must appear to others. They were energy, body spasms shooting at every beat. But you were still, compared to them. You were grace. You were elegance in this sweaty maelstrom. While they reacted to the auditory carnage of the surface, you found the melody, and you moved that body to the melody. You found the melody in the most jangled music, and you danced to the swirls. I thought that was some small miracle, the first time I saw it, and it comforted me every time after that.

Sometimes at Dawnfire, you’d look across and see me smiling. Well, that’s what I was smiling at.

*

All the others saw were the light times. They saw the laughter and the dancing and that special thing we had. They didn’t see the dark times, curtains drawn against the light for days at a time. They didn’t see the fear. You wouldn’t let me leave you for days on end, not even for food. We must stay together, you’d implore, and what could I do? I held you nights and days as you trembled. I gave up asking you what it was because you never knew, just knew that it was real. Sleep was an ugly hallucination. Our darkened home would become a silent nightmare of untidiness. We’d wander the rooms in search of some uncluttered space and we’d bed down there in our dank blankets and pillows and our clothes that reeked of us, and we’d wait for your fear and darkness to slowly pass.

No, they didn’t see the dark times. They didn’t see how scared you were and how much it broke my heart. All those times we’d vanish, all they saw was the eventual re-emergence into the light. They thought it was so romantic, how all we needed was each other and our love. They imagined sex and laughter and good times, just you and me.

They’d smile at how cute we were. They’d smile and admire us, maybe they’d envy us. But they didn’t understand at all.

*

One time, coming down through a cocktail of euphoria, coming down for a smooth landing in our home with chilled sounds in the air, coming down to some piece of Earthly perfection, you asked me the very last question I wanted to hear.

If I wanted to leave, you began in a way that ended the peace, would you do it for me?

My thoughts went from silver to shit in moments. I couldn’t process this.

What do you mean, I asked. Would I let you go?

No, if I wanted to leave all this, would you do it for me? I’d want you to do it for me.

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want you to say anything. I wished you hadn’t said anything. And yet, I knew. I knew by then that it’s what you wanted. The late night talks when peaceful minds slept, the trouble inside that found its way to the surface in little ways, the constant flow of it all. The reaction from others, I knew, would be dismissive: get over it, get on with it, get help.

We lay there coming down, silent for so long that I thought you must have fallen asleep. I turned and expected closed eyes, but you were staring at me, waiting for my answer. I turned away and thought of other times, the banks of The Nile, a Highland Village, the streets of Paris.

Don’t get me wrong, you whispered when the music had stopped, I want you to come with me. You want to come with me, don’t you?

Looking away from you, I nodded, resigned to the way of things. It was not such a bad thing. It was inevitable. Things end. An end is a beginning. To end a person’s unhappiness is a good thing.

You must come, you said as you ran fingertips lazily across my skin. The sensation was exquisite.

Of course I’ll come, Ruben Jane, you know that. Followed with a hug, two bodies together, breath merging with breath, two heartbeats colliding. Sleep. Dreams of other times, other places.

*

The time came. No words. Few thoughts. One limb here, another there. Wrists bound. Ankles bound. There would be struggle in spite of everything. I had suggested taking drugs together but that’s not how you wanted to do it. I was to send you first and then I would follow. It just wasn’t right any other way, you said. It was a test of my commitment to you, a test of my love for you.

Your eyes didn’t leave my face as I went about securing you. No expression. What were you thinking? Were you scared? Did you want this to stop? Did you doubt I would go through with it? It’s what you wanted.

I laid down beside you. I caressed your skin, your beautiful skin. I conjured goosebumps, ran my lips over them. I could feel the thud of your heart through skin and bone, could feel the warmth of your blood as it raced through your body. We kissed one last time, so softly, so gently.

You wanted me to look into your eyes, so that’s what I did. I looked into your eyes as you started to struggle. You resisted the struggle at first, but then something took over. Some primal thing possessed us both. It was like it wasn’t me. I became something darker, something greater, something savage. My tears on your skin. Eyes, so wide. And then as it wore on a change, an expression I couldn’t make out. A shake of the head? Stop? Don’t stop? That look. That look in your eyes as you left me – what did it mean?

And you were gone. Just gone. I fell back and a howl came from somewhere deep within. I felt like my entire body would to crack. I wanted it to break.

Then numbness. An acute sense of time. Never before have I been so aware of the utterly blinding speed of time. You were gone, moving further away with each flicker of time. Not coming back. Gone.

Now my turn.

I poured bitter liquid into sweet and drank it. I sank down beside you, unbound your wrists and held you in that gentle way. Still warm. Your hair against my skin. Your scent.

*

I tried to follow you, Ruben Jane. They don’t understand. They don’t understand us at all.

Grumpy's Open House Inspection Party

Grumpy

When you have an open house inspection at Midday on Saturday, it's probably a good idea to have the place buffed and polished and in sparkling condition the day before. It's probably a good idea to have a quiet night in. What's probably not the best idea is to go out clubbing on Friday night and invite everyone back to your place for an after party. That would be a ridiculous thing to do.

"It's okay to come back to ours and get messy," I tell everyone, "you just have to promise to do it neatly."

The Dreaded One didn't look so sure about this little plan, and I knew where she was coming from. We want to sell our home so we can travel, first stop Boom festival in Portugal. We have to be responsible about our dance festival travel plans, so you know, really, this after party back at ours was probably not my finest idea. But I liked to think it was all a bit rock 'n roll. The Dreaded One looked at me like she thought it was all a bit bloody stupid. Still, she didn't exactly say no. She just did that eyes-rolling-under-closed-lids-accompanied-by-shake-of-the-head thing she does so often.

I think the neighbours must be very happy with the For Sale sign for our cosy little apartment. I especially thought about this as the music thundered through my Musical Fidelity amp and out of my JM Lab floor speakers as the new day dawned. There was booze and crazy talk and dancing and some mystery guy sprawled on the couch for the duration... it was a lovely after party.

Still, it never quite left my mind that Warren the Real Estate Agent would be here at 11.45am to pick up the keys and show our home to prospective buyers. I looked around with growing concern, wondering how this was all going to pan out. Maybe, I started to think, this wasn't the best thing to do after all. Maybe we should have had the after party at someone else's place. Someone who wasn't having an open house inspection in a few short hours. Holy crap - what have we done? Also, we're almost out of booze!

Someone went for booze so that was one less thing to worry about. But what was the other thing? Oh yeah, the small matter of Warren.

"I'm not going to be here for Warren," The Dreaded One told me at a random point.

"What do you mean you're not going to be here for Warren? We're all going to be here for Warren."

"I'm not. Got a hair appointment. I told you. You're going to have to deal with Warren by yourself."

"But I can't deal with Warren by myself... we're all in this together... even Mystery Couch Guy... does anyone actually know who that guy is?

"Relax, Grumpy, we'll help you with Warren. In fact I really want to meet Warren."

That was good enough for me. The Dreaded One could go get her fluro dreads tended to, and I would take care of Warren all by myself... with my after party flotsam.

At 11.30 the buzzer screeched. The Dreaded One got the hell out of there. I picked up the handset. It was a normal person here to inspect the flat.

"You'll have to wait 15 minutes,"I told them. "Warren isn't here yet."

I hung up and looked at the others. What the hell do we do now? There are normal people banging on the door and Warren's not here and can some body please turn the music down please?

Fortunately, just in the nick of time, the buzzer went off again, and Warren had arrived. Thank fuck for that, I thought, and wondered if I said that out loud down the handset to Warren.

I passed Warren in the stairwell and tossed the keys to him, feeling very fucking rock 'n roll. The Dreaded One? She just thinks I'm very fucking naughty.

Grumpy is Lee Bemrose, a very naughty freelance writer. You can ask him to write normal stuff for you at twobluefish@bigpond.com

Zoe Keating Plays Escape Artist

Not just for cello lovers, but anyone also interested in what can be done with looping software. Pretty amazing stuff.

I love love love this piece of music. I saw Zoe Keating a couple of years ago in a show at the Sydney Opera House. It was kind of a cabaret/burlesque night MC'd, I think, by Meow Meow and Amanda Palmer. From memory, if Amanda Palmer wasn't very pissed she was doing a damn good job of faking it. Which is fine because she was hilarious and could belt out a tune regardless.

But Zoe Keating stole the show for me. Play this clip through your big speakers and you'll get where I'm coming from. If you ever have the chance of seeing Zoe Keating live, just do it. DO IT.

For Sale

Our home. We are selling our home and moving to another city. So many happy memories here. Kind of can't believe we're going through with this but we are. Emotional ties to this place, but no doubt we'll start again and find ourselves in another beautiful home, in a city not too far away from our wonderful Sydney friends.

In the meantime, plans are being made for big adventures.

Recent Grumpy Columns in Tsunami

The finished products of a couple of recent posts which became Grumpy columns. I'm including them for my own records really. I should probably just wait and post the scan of the magazine column but I am Instantgratification Man.

Grumpy in June

Okay, so this is a tweaked version of the previous post. I had totally forgotten that my Grumpy column was due today until the editor emailed a reminder at lunchtime. The problem is I am so often in such a down mood early in the week that it can be really difficult to even imagine being able to write something silly... and this week so far has been a bit of a shocker. Still, like the sub-header on this blog says, there is funny shit everywhere, sometimes you just have to squint a little to see it. Squinty days, right now, but the silly is still about.

Mid-Week Frivolity

We're both on our computers. I think we are going to Cairns for the Winter Solstice party. We're looking up stuff... flights, campervans etc.

Me: So is it tomorrow night or Wednesday night you get home late?"

Her (distracted): "Hmm?"

Me: "Is it tomorrow night or Wednesday night you get home late?"

Her (distracted by computery stuff): "Aaaarrrmmm... Wednesday?"

Me: "Because I'm just trying to book the hookers in."

Her (still totally focused on the computer): "Mmm? Okay."

Glow, Blacklight Theatre With Invisible Ninjas

Short piece on a play I'm seeing this Saturday night. Feels like old times, being at the Opera House three times in a week. Used to be down there so often chefing and reviewing that I called it the Opera Home... can't say I miss those days. Kinda happy they happened, but happy they're over too. It's because I'm not chefing there anymore that I can see so much theatre again.

Anyway, this looks like a lot of fun. Looking forward to it.

Akram Khan's Gnosis Review

Gnosis by Akram Khan

Akram Khan is one of those performers you keep hearing about until you give in a go to see what all the fuss is about. The cavernous Opera Theatre appeared to be almost full on the second night of this two night season. A woman sitting next to me was telling her friends about the show with a great deal of enthusiasm; she had attended the previous night as well.

The stage was bare for this performance with Akram taking centre stage and being flanked by his musicians, all tastefully dressed and sitting bare-foot on the floor. The instruments included a cello, tabla drums, taiko drums and a sarod (which sounded like a sitar). There were vocals throughout and the sound of Akram's pants, lined as they were with rows of tiny bells that jangled rhythmically as his feet tapped and stomped.

The music was exotic and as polished as you'd expect from the best hand-picked musos from around the world. Unfortunately if you were seated even a little off to one side at least one if not two players were obscured from view. I could not see Yoshie Sunahata on the taiko drums at all, which was frustrating, especially as the dancer had really talked her drumming skills up.

The first part of the performance involved traditional dance, a bit of a slightly competitive jam session between the dancer and the tabla player, and while there was no denying Akram's skill and grace, without any clear narrative I did have moments of feeling as though it was occasionally a little repetitive. Occasionally, too, the moves veered into comical aspects of interpretive dance. Having the undisciplined mind that I do, started to amuse myself by guessing what it was that he was doing... is he introducing the moon to the Earth? This is the moon, this is the Earth, you two should get to know each other. Now he's picking fruit and giving it to the people, but he's taking the fruit back from the people and running away with the people chasing him and shouting you can't give us the fruit and then take it away again! It's just not fair! Come back here with our fruit!

He also took time out to simply chat with the audience. He is very well-spoken, appears quite humble and has a good sense of humour, even if the quite sweet story about the cab driver and his father (by coincidence a long-lost boyhood friend of the cab driver) didn't ring true somehow. Both plus 1 and I speculated on how this story could have been true; neither of us came up with a satisfying explanation.

The second act was Akram's take on the story of the wife of a blind king who wears a blindfold for her entire life to share her husband's experience. This section had a much more contemporary feel to it, And I finally got to see the Japanese taiko player as she joined the main star in what was quite a stunning dance routine. The opening scene as the two of them mirrored each others sweeping movements as they mimed beating giant taiko drums was hypnotically gorgeous. This last act was the highlight for me and went down a treat with the crowd, many of whom thought the show worthy of a standing ovation during the lengthy and rapturous round of applause at the end.

Having seen Akram Khan for the first time, I kind of regret having missed him when he was here last time performing with French actress Juliette Binoche. I'll have to settle for looking forward to his next visit.

Oh - I really wanted to use the line, so you think Akram Khan dance somewhere in the review, but that would have been silly.

Lee Bemrose. Photo by Richard Haughton

Hole In The Wall at Performance Space

Story in the current issue of Drum. They have changed Interval to Front Row. I don't mind the name change and I like that they are covering more arts, but I really liked the old font. The new look is all blocky and bold.