Elementary Funk
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Creativity starves insanityScaling a walk up the streets of North Sydney toward the Independent Theatre, sweat drips down the face like a meal over a hot plate of anything against the raw. Scoring a ticket from the trumpeter, a seat up in the gallery, away from the parents of the students from Wenona Performing Arts.
Three pages in the program reveal nothing but a constant rechecking. So many performances, so many italics and credits. The eye casts the mind into a small storm of spin. Closer inspection says that the spreads are days and that the program changes slightly from one to another. Certainly more logical than having to work out the hours on hours length suggested at the passing glance.
Friday; day after Thursday's opening night; day before Saturday's expected big bang bye bye.
Flight attendants set the scene and from there on in it's an all out gas. From the singing, acting and movements all around the night itself just ream the cheeks and channels an energy down the core of the spine.
Anticipation in the days and weeks making the wait an incredibly joyous spectacle. Throwing in oldies, Queen's Crazy Little Thing Called Love, a bit of ballet and a hilarious skit, the night is an invigorating sensation.
Not enough words to pay compliments with. Just the bursting of joy at the seams.
Devoid of mirth and headdresses of a hysterical nature, the calendar takes a full drawn circle on marking out as many weeks as a pack of cards. From there to here and here to nowhere, lines of communication blow up with wanton acts of mischief.
Despite a full litre bottle of water, the mouth finds itself parched, dry and all things arid. Holding on a pattern for the last ten months, the incumbency only out as a half of their full game plan. Foreign is the situation, even while the goings on all around are listed dead on the position description.
Matters them most to worry about the post.
From here the end is so very near. No coming back on the road down and out.
On creaking out for untested money dispensing machines, the amble along Martin Place threw a tilted head toward the sky. Flapping in the winds, Metropolis Museum banners. Sneaking a slightly extended display and stay and hung over from the filming of Superman Returns the night before. Climbing up the undoubtedly slippery and tricky masts proving a test beyond the rubber soles. Broken with step and looking to see their misery end soon enough.
Months pass before the twenty five dollar cheque arrives from the University of South Australia. Early May, reaching the Lidcombe campus of the University of Sydney at an ankle cracking pace thirty minutes past due, scene of a weekend body shape survey.
Stripping down to the cold, standing around for the markers to hold, watching lasers run from head to toe. Ten seconds in the total scan, twenty minutes for the entire attention span. Months pass. And then the cheque arrives. There to join the still and video of a spinning, near-naked man.
Stuff Happens is a play in which sleeping in the York Theatre of the Seymour Centre is an option taken up by those uninterested in any and all of the proceedings. Of which there are few to even remark upon.
Much talking, movement and noise come up to nothing in the whole. A void experience at the night's end. A night which drags on for hours. Too many and for far too long. Damning though the underlying tone and message on the state and debate on the war on Iraq and forgettable excuse of terrorism, the performances save the play. Stunning and thoroughly entrancing performances at that.
Simultaneously all things and nothing quite expected, the Reclaiming Felix the Cat exhibition cowering in the Mitchell Wing of the State Library. Lighting is muted and left to the imagination, any exposure to the harsh glare sure to weaken the artifacts behind the glass. Looking quite devilish, Felix the Cat at times looks evil incarnate. At centre, down the middle of the wing, an encasement of toys and memorabilia bearing the moniker. Vicious and mean are the first thoughts on inspection. Jagged and sharp edges on playthings suited more to maim than encourage playful joy.
Phones in the wall play an eerie jazz ode to the Cat. All the way back to when scratches were built right into the vinyl, an imprint of the production means. Rolling over and over on the other side of a mysteriously locked door, cartoons featuring the host feline. Pretty fine work from the 1920s.
Much is there for the reader intent on learning something more about this little juggernaut of worldwide sales. A booklet from the library needing not a card to be taken out. An hour or so walking around might not be enough, but it can be.
Time at the station comes to an end in two months. Prospective replacements have been walking past the desk in a state of hunger. Their eyes beady and raring to rip into the vacant post come September's close. One after the other, they walk in, sit down and start their sparkle about themselves. Through the glass and closed doors it's all obvious. Depression would set in if not for the fact that with a jettison, time aplenty will score itself into the fabric of noon and usher endeavours out from the sidelines and into the fore.
Even rest and hours beyond five a day at slumber moving toward a sane realm of reality.
Breaking out at Galaxy Books, a Neil Gaiman signing session. A rather relaxed affair, the kind where free tickets from the front counter are needed to stand in the line. Those with don't tell those without, expecting them to read a small A4 sign inside the bookshop. Running into the fray at 13:20, there was no chance of seeing the speed pick up on the number there and the general milling in place.
Comparatively, in the cold of a city night, the Books Kinokuniya session was a haphazard affair. Disorganisation abounded. Signs leading up to the night insisted on patrons booking. The word essential damned in an emboldened uppercase. There was no need to book. With over 300 people in the line and more trickling in, the air apparently swilling on make believe conditions.
Neil was playing it by ear. Signing only the new Mirrormask for people plus five items. Then any five. Then only three personal 3 items with a store purchase. Then only 3 items total. Waiting at the back of the line from 17:40 was not good. Especially given the Q&A and reading of Anansi Boys holding the line in a stop motion pause.
Faint applause. And the realisation that holding a place in line was a futile and utterly inane effort.
Slow moving, doors of the store closed at 19:00, Gaiman still going strong hours later, a double dozen or so still inside the doors at 21:00 waiting in the zigzag queue.
Frequency of travel brings about the same passage of images along the wall. Standing there again in the foyer, the people of The Brag pretty much nowhere to be seen on another lunch time run to their offices. Placing up an open palm for the collection, an envelope finds its way into the hands. A lopsided backpack for the Speak n Spell pack not in order. As it seems. CDs, stickers, trinkets and papercuts for the ready. Another haul, another freebie and another chance to pass a convex mirror.
Playing far down the well of a Saturday night, the crew of the Comic Shop, along with some chosen customers, made for a triumphant waddle into the third spot of a local annual trivia night. At ten dollars a head, the price of losing was a bad as not winning anything for the night.
Fear and doubt cascading through the first two rounds, a deafening blank of stares and empty heads calling up slightly off cue answers for the questions begging. Driven occasionally by a seat consensus and throwing the expected game plan of silence out the back window with the rusted metal bars, the points come easier as the rounds progressed.
Watching the final rounds hover on a tie with a rival team, the endless stream of people walking up to collect on raffle trinkets was painful. Sufferance leading and bleeding four hours into six and the digital clock above the boards reading minutes many past midnight.
In the end there could be only one winner, and it was not table eight. Old stalwarts of the club taking the non-existent trophy win for a fourth year running. Third place taken out by a motley crew of comicbook geeks.
Taking each day as another to craft an even varied collection of moments off the street against the noisy passing of feet, the bunker in which operations are forthcoming knows little in the way of a calming void. Each and every hand print on the level taking some ink for the lay of the land delivers it so.
Destruction, disorganisation, disarray. These are the disciplines filling the area in which at least seven hours of the day are demanded. Concentration ever at the beck and call, messages through the mishmash getting strewn and flung high and wide across the a sixth of a bay.
Days of revelling in the filthy chaos coming now at an end. A "Clean desk policy" flashing through the corridors of interoffice communications and meeting agendas. One by one they make a home on the range. Three by three they take their leave.
Missing out on the many late nights of Thursdays, the return of Sheppard and co. Dr Rodney McKay, ever still the most arrogant of the Atlantis based SGC. Standing high above all the rest with a sheer contempt for their entire being. Toward a hopeful rhythm, the SGA crew make for the long three hours of a Thursday night shelve the chances for a quick and early night's rest when not out watching the scenes of floorboards across Sydney.
Crumbs on the seats, a marketing woman with eyesight no farther than three rows in front of her and an extremely reserved audience. Preview screeners, with not a single mobile phone ringing off at any point during the two hours or so of Sin City. Rustling crisps were the only other mar alongside being too far back in the back to answer and score any of the graphic novels or jackets in the lead up giveaway before the trailers.
Unbelievably glorious in tone, execution and broadly strumming with style, Sin City is a magnificent accomplishment. Delivery of the source material straight onto the big screen holding back nothing. Each panel and line of dialogue transplanted with such nonchalance the only thing left was to marvel.
Brutal morality plays against violent expositions and extremely gritty lines. Three of the graphic novels, That Yellow Bastard, The Big Fat Kill and The Hard Goodbye swimming within each other's lanes, nothing but entire fixation on the screen.
Black and white with tinges of colour to underline scenes, it's biggest strength lies in the hearts of the characters. Even of those with angina.
Expecting the notorious scum of the earth at another Whale Bros. liquidation sale—one that only lasts for a weekend as it runs into its third month—a sense of mission made an otherwise fruitless outing. Hitching a ride with a partner in crime and her mother, quiet being the reserved behaviour and as "normal" would allow.
Boxes and boxes of bras. An entire wall lined with cartons of pantyhose. Ill-fitting clothes with names for sure, but of the most dubious trampling. Manchester, pillows, cushions and towels taking up a third of the entire hall. Batman, Spider-Man and related pyjamas too small for those over 12. Pumps, courts, furry slippers, skinned boots, sandals, dress shoes in all colours of the chocolate rainbow.
Separating the feast of questionable material of a purely lacklustre affair, fencing running down a third of the main hall of Sydney Olympic Park. DVDs on movies and films hardly outside the realms of late-late-night viewing. Parallel imports of CDs and albums otherwise spotted at prices fairer in establishments such as Rock Bottom and Dirt Cheap. Books, books and books of the usual suspects, travelling wherever the bright fluorescent yellow and orange price tags sit.
Hours later, through the trudge and sludge, DVDs of Glen or Glenda and Indestructible Man now join the library of wrestling DVDs. Perfectly respectable haulage of an otherwise tiring time. With the company in tow, several hours dissolve without a second to witness.
Naturally wet, dripping with an instantly evaporating moisture, a dark chocolate brown Labrador's tongue incapacitates the entire right hand. Chronicling the inaugural Word Wrestling Poetry Slam showdown crashing into the cushions on the floor, reeling from the shock of it all.
Steel Wool, last minute challengers to the standing team of House-Cat Havoc. Familiarity hides inside the face of one of the 15-year-olds of Steel Wool. From somewhere, but where remains the question. Smoking was rampant, as were the rhymes from up the stage. House-Cat Havoc in a fashion of form with their collective look all different while holding the same basic garments. Running with what is perhaps a 1940s or 1950s flavour, Steel Wool missing only the feathery hats and goblets of wine.
Endurance calls for at least an hour in the difference between the post and the start. Flowing through the entire night, themes close to the heart, soul and fulfillment. Food, love lost and freedom. Combined, refined and defined.
Tight running scores, taxing even more so on the use of decimal points, scrawling themselves up out on the board up at the front on the hand of a woman who bears a striking resemblance to Liv Tyler. In a white dress and black bow tie. Only the slimmest of margins between the rounds. In the end, only one team from New South Wales to battle the forces of those down south in Victoria.
House-Cat Havoc leaving for the title belt bout in August with Steel Wool holding onto the respect of such an out of nowhere challenge.
Back burning hundreds of lines of XML data leads a consultant down in the bowels of Melbourne to question the actual work being processed. Forwarded and carbon copied emails shoot about the place with a fast rotation. Questions raised taken easily aside and pummelled with all sorts of gusto. Back ups and contingencies carefully orchestrated days and weeks earlier lessen the actual fallout.
Nothing like making others panic through an apparent lack of action. Psyche outs are an art to master.
Years of searching and quiet pining, closed out and up within a harried rush of an hour in the city's mean streets. Only an hour to double check and recast doubt. Nothing needed or used outside the confirmation.
Two past noon, and the sweat trickling down the face only started when the feet stopped. Fleeing from the throng flooding the foyer, a casual pace through an emptied space wrote a line on the mind. Last night is now today and today will never be here again. The past has said so itself.
Squinting in the window, a blue eyeball. No need for a closer inspection. Time for browsing, non-existent. Make like a bandit. In with a blaze, dropping the old yellow faces in a group of eight and then bolting back out for the train back up the hill.
What lies ahead now is challenging the shutter.
There are no male toilets in the Australian Institute of Music on Foveaux Street, Surry Hills.
Too many framed and autographed Scandal'Us photos hog the walls. A ratio of 3:2 in their favour against every other student and singer that has passed through the halls of said institute.
Odd.
Brilliant contrast then against the showcase of graduating students. Riveting, warbling, sterling and all sorts of adjectives to describe a fixed state of attention. A lone dancer dances a dance through an ensemble piece about moving on. Correlation and connection far from the mind.
Weaving through, subplots within a non-existent and partially self-effacing plot. Thematically stylish and slightly rough around the edges. An overall fantastic display of what the class has to offer the world.
And all without costing a single cent of a dollar.
Beware the drowsy effects of sleeping on the train. Waking up halfway through a dance performance with one of the dancers staring down and right into the back of the head is not a feeling worth exploring.
Out of Water sees fishes flapping all over the place in a chaotic, violent and spasmodic fashion. Drowning on land and fighting for a sense of exploration the sheer power is nothing short of frightening. Desperation and hopelessness empowers the many. Utterly intriguing.
Grounded on Air on the other hand, is a sedate affair. Engaging the audience through a broken fourth wall, it is not a performance easily taken. Moments raise questions on the actual delivery. Too close, too informal and there lies a connection that lies in waste. Lines are under a severe blur with the concept and execution bleeding from the stage and into the seats with no warning. Dancing isn't for everyone, if those anyones include someone in the audience.
Nothing like a double bill for a night out spinning the comforts well out of the mind.
Nothing like taking off a few comics from the pile to make that pile a little lighter. If only there weren't so many piles around the place.
Creeping up on the forehead, scowls and deep concern. Concern unfounded and without even the slightest of strengths. Nothing of any serious nature, nor of anything above the pits of mediocrity, reasoning its change upon the face.
Furrows between the space between the eyes and just above. Working out the muscles, beholden onto non-existent thoughts of worry and fixed attentiveness.
Continually pulling back from the 21 inches of radiation, the realisation of the act reset itself within minutes of the revelation. Nothing certain of a clear dictate.
Unknowing uncertainty unconsciously straining the face to a Klingon brow.
Brow beating a style into a hint of evil pause.
The unavailability of the first round, the reluctance of a second and sheer futility in testing the third and fourth, brings about slight trepidation.
Performance group OneExtra at Redfern's Performance Space is leaking through holes in their perception as quality time on Sunday. Even at a matinee.
One extra ticket, difficult to rid using the preliminary rounds. Harder still with the sudden appearance of an extra pair coming from absolutely nowhere.
Outside a little key chain from Open Water, results of filing away many 25 words and under responses and entries in various publications and connections never once resulted in such a state of affairs. Mystery wraps a knuckle or two around the new pair of seats.
Tickets offered gratis with no warning or easy chain of reaction hovers under the level of menace seen in shepherding of tickets bought under the gun of indecision.
