Barring a miracle, miracles are, bar none, the most miraculous things. Barred from gates pearly, the hell bound are behind bars steely. Staring steelily, the barbarians were real barbarians. Steely stairs to oyster-egged rusty ones require gaits buoyant. Going to paradise again would be sheer paradise. The sheer drop would be hellish. The slide inglorious. To be fired from a cannon would be a miraculous experience.
In order to diffuse tension between the two cricketing nations, The ICC have approved the execution and cremation of Steve Buchnor, and granted permission for his ashes to be placed in a little monkey-shaped urn, which will become the prized trophy for all future Australia / India Test series – The Steve Buchnor Ashes. The 20/20 clash due to take place at the MCG in early February, has been rescheduled for Saturday night, and transferred to the SCG to coincide with Buchnor’s death by fire which will be the pre-match entertainment. Buchnor will be tied to a 2m tall, 3 Mobile cricket stump in the middle of the SCG complete with stump cam, microphone and live downloads on 3 Mobiles with commentary by Boof Lehmann, while Ricky Ponting and Anil Kumble adjourn to the SCG trophy room. Here they will set the Border Gavasker trophy alight, carry the burning item down the players’ race together in this Olympic year, onto the sacred turf between both teams, hand it over to Richie Benaud, dressed in Cathy Freeman’s 2000 Olympics 400m winner’s costume and a pink bow tie. Benaud will then place it reverently at Buchnor’s feet. As Buchnor burns to death, Lara Bingle will be backup vocalist to Steve Waugh, David Boon and Jimmy Barnes singing Advance Australia Fair to the tune of Khe Sanh. Marcia Hines and Sachin Tendulkar’s wife will then perform a duet of the Indian National Anthem to the soundtrack of the hit TV series Monkey. When Buchnor is fully aflame, the Border Gavaskar trophy will be shunted to the middle of the pitch by Ian Chappell driving the curator’s tractor, to burn by itself, and its ashes will be put into a commissioned bronze KFC Filler sculpture, and presented to the best singers of the national anthem as judged by Australian Idol Guy Sebastian and Tony Greig. Cricket and Entertainment? Opposites.
If we take the example of Leonardo da Vinci and Pablo Picasso, and, assuming we care, accept the fact that they are essentially opposite, we ask ourselves, "I wonder what's on television now?". The simple fact is that simple facts are never facts. If the opposition, the magnetic polarisation, exists for the planet, why not for us and the most visible works on the landscape (theirs)? That we've failed to see this, failed to highlight it, failed to walk down to the shops naked, is a wringing endorsement for laundry products. I couldn't tell you how many times I've told you this. Leo and Pablo, our precious couple of personas, were actual people making actual choices along the way of life bound upon. That they were bound to make decisions that were diametrically opposite to the other is something that just slips under the radiator, and starts to stink. It stinks that lives and works aren't seen in relationship to their opposite (never you mind equals). It stinks that I don't wash my undies. Seen this way we can see how elemental we are. Salty in the pants. We are no more than the basic agents for elemental farces. The common ground coffee these two, Leo and Pab, drink is not even theirs. I despise beverage thieves. If I could see it I'd say it. Sadly, mine eyes are full of dust. Once again. Leonardo and Picasso: opposite.
I could sit here and tell you that I have what it is you're looking for. I couldn't. I have nothing of value to offend, at all. A tall tale or two I can leave well enough alone. Enough alone, I'm alone enough. Say what you like about sayings, they're about right. The simple fact is that we all have opposites, equals. To know this is about as close as you can come to discovering the underlaying truth beneath the carpet. To know the exact opposites and equals is a matter for human fallibility. I could fall over my own feet looking for my ear-shoes. There are no issues. The only issue worth looking into is where does everyone fit. Uncontrollable fits require infestations. I could name a hundred or more actual cases of equality and opposition but my hands hurt. I could be wrong, but I'm not. If you think I'm happy about it just look at my downtrodden mask. It doesn't matter who you are, where you come from, the size of your buttocks or what you do, this thesis is always true. I wish it wasn't the case, my little baskets. Sadly, you might accept my proposition. Sleep with me on it. I tell you, begin to see people and their works in this way. You'll see the world in a hole. If I thought I had anything else to offer the world I'd do that. This is my eternal present. To you I say, see it and know it. I also say, have a laugh. Can't help you there. Off the top of my head: an absolute fact. Leonardo da Vinci and Picasso: opposite. The real quest is for the underlying ground that they share. And why at all the world this way. Some essential natural force? Providence? Accident? Falsehood?
To be perfectly blunt, there comes a point when there is no point. I wish I could elaborate but I'm a little light on the front porch. Having the front light on is a sure sign no one is at home. To get straight to the point, I'm as dull as. As dull as I am, I'm pointless. It's a fair point to say that. You and I both know that you're as sharp as a bucket. Sorry to pour this on you. I'm going to cut right to the bone here, points are as valid as. The point I'm trying to make is, there is a point. If you are ever going to kick on in life, set realistic coals. It's a sure way to set the wheels with notions. The goals, sometimes shifting, are the key. It's not out of bounds to make a leap or two. This post is bound to be another hit. Points and goals: footy.
In the days before being inducted into this secret society I was whittling away my pencils here: CLICK go the sheer idiots. If I had the want, I might want to return to such lofty and populated places as those. I'd pay close attention to my body odour, if I was socially aware. Unfortunately, all I ever do is flap. That is concerned with the concerns of concerning individuals. The arrangements are an absolute mastery. What I mean of course is, they are on a par with dross. This, on the other hand, is an absolute peanut. I'm not buttering anyone up for a mission through a pipe. It's just work. What i mean to say is that my vision doesn't require spectacles. This and that: improvement? Without having my head too far up my rearing end, I can safely say that I have no idea.
You look like an absent-minded woman with funny glasses.
I thank you.
We walk a while before something happens. Something dramatic.
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I’m interested in aspiring to do things that interest me. My interests, that can be loosely described, are a mixture of gravity and levity. I float like a bee and stink like a butterfly. My aim is to eradicate lofty sermons from the mountebanks. By slowly pulling the rug from under their hats, I hope to reveal the emperors’ nude clothes. Roughly put, my hope is to have a long fruitful career in the orchard, where I can have as much fun as one can have with two pencils up one’s nostrils. Pathetically, I am interested in how potatoes get mashed. Words, comprised of dumb little characters, are an endless sauce. Of tomato and tomato, I say potato. Driven by my desire to have a nice rug myself, I hope to strip down the barriers between the ‘public’ and the ‘artist’ to demonstrate that wheels are as normal to a normal human as breathing normal polluted air is: normal. Basically, I believe that pencil-sharpeners should manifest themselves in every corner of a person. Square as I am, and dedicated deeply to the study of confectionery, I have many corners (four to be exact). Drawing heavily from contemporary culture, my work is deeply rooted. In the past, I have shown myself to be capable of circling the square of myself. Round and round we go. Grounded in my philosophy of paying close attention to the formguide, my undertakings have often proved fateful. My study has revealed to me, without question, all the answers. Everything is nothing without nothing. I wanted to make one more sentence where I put the word “I” in it. That was it. Everything and nothing, I'm sure I've already said: opposite.
There is no point asking me to be perfectly blunt. I'm as sharp as a bucketful of buckets. Twice as full of it and half as smart. Simply said, a fish out of water is a flounderer. Now, I'm not one to jump up and down with my hand up your skirt because I was raised right. Hands go best upskirt. In this trade that many of us find ourselves in, there are many tools to choose from. The hand that screws itself is always a little nuts. If I was one to go down without a fight while whistling my own braises, I'd probably proclaim myself as a righter of less than sinister proportions. Some things, this post included, have gotten right out of hand. My misses count as more than my hits. I'd never bash a girl. Unprovoked, I've been known to fly right off the shallow end. There's nothing profound about the shallows. Fortunate for me is it that I am just as blunt as a pocketful of razor blades. Happy as am I to see you, I won't be putting my hand in my pocket. A hand in the pocket is worth two in the bush. It's just a forked that sharp and blunt, in a roundabout way, at the best of times, any old day of the wank: opposite.
In my haste to undersatnd myself in terms of categorical alignment with conventional classification, I may, and I stress may, have followed through on a fart. It's an uncomfortable situation to find you've done a bad jobease in your jodhpurs. The fact of this wasteful matter is that I may, and I stress may, have farted while taking a piss. I wouldn't want to take the piss out of farting but, the reverse is also true. Melancholy, as some errant idiots may have told you, is not the opposite of phlegmatic. Errant idiocratic tyrrants in their midday meal-boxes! The opposite of phlegmatic, that I truly am, is, and I stress is, choleric. Grumpy and painful, I am surely, in most cases. Particularly brief ones. The long and the short of my petticoat is that undies worn brown go to wash less often. It's camouflage for the phlegmatic. After all, what's a little poopoo in your pants? Faeces in your flares, of course. Scattered and logical, you could, and I stress could, argue I am. If you cared as much about me as I surely do: and I do do do-do in my best do. Scatology is a branch of choleric humour and humours are not funny. I wouldn't normally go out on a limb and say phlegmatic and choleric: opposite. Oops, I did it again. Got lost in the end.
It's a sore point in parts but a knife in the eye is no worse than a knife in the ear. The ear and the eye are essentially equal. Work that appeals to either of these two is no less equal than those that tinker with the old head machine. The old, having no notion of old notions, are essentially refused access to soaring points on the globe. The globe sits on the shoulders like a monkey grinds his organ. The young are foolish like the old are so too. Being so too is no way to be, so know that we all have to go. One day. The ear that listens to song and the eye that listens to paint are just so many organs for the grinding. What lies is that which the senses appreciate. I'm sure somebody of your upright nature will understand that what lies underneath sense is the real marrow. If you've broken through sense, like I know you have, you'll be happy to sling some bread my way. It's a curse to live hand and foot to mouth. Knives in the hearing socket are painful. It's just a pity that pain doesn't actually exist, otherwise I'd be putting forking knives in my seeing socket too. Seeing pain turn into pleasure is a sore point for some. My forking vision-scrotums run red with bloodshots and ingrown hears. Too much rubbing. Knives and forks: opposite.
In all good humour, I am one of those who subscribe to the theory that people are not made of fluids. A human being is a very solid thing. If I was one of those errant deviants, I might go along with the idea that I fluctuate between phlegmatic and melancholic. In my short and long stay at the drinking hole of life, I have noted certain features in myself that are not peculiar to me. Nobody is an original individual. At a microscopic level we are all unique. The forces at play in our lives - who we are and what we do - are scarcely within our strides. Our strides are full of shit. Like some refrigerated jar of preserved cucumbers in an upright good o' white, I'm phlegmatic. I'm duck on the top and legs down below. Yes, that's right. Duck! At various times in my stint at the cold face of life, I have slipped into black piles. Piles of black strides you'll see me in, if you don't smell me first. Black bile is an unexplained mystery that is full of myterious mystery. When I am down in the slumps, you can be sure that I'm a delight to be told. Somehow, I have managed to fry underneath all the major radars. O, really. I do go on a bit. It's fine by me. Without a window of doubt, I'm fatalistic. I'm too accepting of slings and marrows. In my own way, that isn't really my own, I'm a mad pasty. Phlegmatic as a bag of feral hats in a flying pan. I don't know if I could ever go as far as to say melancholy and phlegmatic are opposite. Melancholy and phlegmatic: opposite.
In my humble one, being stuck in the land of the intellectual giants is a situation worthy of laughter. Nothing could be less dramatic than spouting off while under the influence of your own bowel emissions. There are certain situations where crying foul whilst committing the same is not laughable. So few and far between are these instances that it's more likely that one thinks one can pen a few chickens while cycling on one leg. Cycling without legs is a most common happening. Cycling under a silvery moon is far from lunacy. So far up myself am I that I can tickle my tonsils while tickling yours. If you do happen to spout off while inserted in your own rectum then bear in mind that what you eat you shall surely eat again. It is one of life's little miracles to believe in your own worth while your stocks plummet like a pair of lesbians sipping coffee and besmirching my good name. My name is very good. It won't be blackened by any black-clad chimney sweet. If in earshot you should hear the sound of my cock, please wake up. I'll get my hand off it now but, duty or force of habit forbids me to part without one last shot. Intellectual giants and intellectual height challenged individuals of considerable stature and standing in virtual matters but not so they notice and just go trapsing through the living room of your mind: opposite.
Truly it is wonderful to live your life with your own shit lubricating the surface of your eye. Surely to live with a falsity that is beyond compare is comparable to living with a falsity within compare. Whittling the sticks of experience is an experience for the stubby fingered. Call me Stumpy. The manifestation of a life falsely lived is in the words delivered from the birth canals of our minds. To raise our minds to be good mental citizens is akin to farting into a cheese grater. Not to mention wiping with the same. To wipe your bum with your mind is akin to dancing with your sister's girlfriend's sister's mother. It's quite enjoyable to dance the dance with the feet of your mind. I happen to have two left brains. Truly, I am truly. In all dishonesty, I can say safely that safety is stately for everybody lately. Living with truth is a common thing. Facing farts is an endeavour for the romantic. Having the south wind blowing in your face will get anyone going. To the toilet for a nugget I find my truth. If you haven't seen the end in the beginning, you would be expecting anything but this: falsely and truly: opposite.
Norm
Mal
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