Songs of April 2007 at Elementary Funk
RTP 8: Systems go to a meltdown mangle
Skips in the middle of the week melt transitions at the end causing a blank slate to fall for the next. Hammering a line into the ignition spark, a cascading domino stream of errors, comedic in the state of nothingness. Where there is only so much to bear before the final straw breaks in several pieces. Fallow and crying out for a reason as to their condition.
Tasks will disappear as the time wanes from the rush of the morning into the low laying brush fires of the night. Following the sun and the moon from one edge of the desk to the other and cracking out aluminium with a carbonated fizz.
When there is nothing to do, the only thing to do is to create the appearance of something when things exist not. Playing games with the minds and the vision of those who pass by, a veritable work load in and of itself. Surface areas deplete as the very contents dry up faster than the pool of cheese sliding down the George Foreman Lean Mean Fat-Reducing Grilling Machine.
Saturday, 28 April 2007
Exchanges from theories made partially into coins
Eight twelve comes sneaking back under the glass from the drop of one thousand. Exchange between two points renders the casual thought a stand back. When the green backs and watermelons jump back and forth, it's a chance to wander over from the hopeful rise as the markets will bear.
Unfortunately, after merely one handshake, the drop is too far underneath the bar to rise up back again. Ever diminishing returns and the game of pass the buck loses out a ridge on each pass around.
Then comes the theory of playing with the Japanese, the British and even with the Europeans. All nations of notes with a ring and ding to see just how high the octaves they can sing in ensemble. Too much into the plan and there is only so many hours in the shopping complex to allow for the day trading.
Ideas are simple and where it's at. Making them pay off, now that's the difficult part of it all.
Thursday, 26 April 2007
Collapsing walls on distant memories
Pain grips tight at the beats between the front and the back and dead left of centre as the mental images what fade call up the fear. Fear is enough to drive and yet leaves roads wet with visions blurry and scatter shot as the mind races frantically for the door handle. Fingertips are lost as the far sight of never ending knows again how to clear out the rough and smooth the waters of the storm. Up and down this elevator ride which makes for a swinging departure from the basement. Too much to bear at times, looking for release.
Monday, 23 April 2007
Cards with numbers face the blanks in theirs
Simple requests for accurate calculations fall on blind noses as countries and regions take precedence over others. There is nothing close to the math of finding out minutes made in from the dancing notes of coins hitting the counter top. Consultation is nothing of a matter with any such confidence in taking a minute to pass hours away in states of bliss.
Decks and hands with different numbers and different prompts are what the players of the table will have to compare against. As the ongoing hunt for the better sidesteps the lower and lesser, casualties in the war fall along and down the side with their brethren of a service with scars and skin dissimilar.
Monday, 23 April 2007
BTC 64: Delving and sorting out the history
Constant fingers into the past look not toward the future and even less so to that of the punctuality that stands at the gates. Time is but in a state of flux and there is only one state of being late. Always.
Rupture breaks the stride with expectations and the day finds a look into the chaos of order. Numbers jump back and forth as the dust settles up and out of the confines squeezing tight between stories and writers making their meat with the fluid kick of art and colour. Plastic settles too close over the ages and a crackling pull separates the issues with a case of inspection and following one after the other with holes frequent in the line.
Honey suckle drop into the ear is the signal to care for looking at the morning with a rising beat. Instantly with the voice and everything is right again following the few minutes on the line.
Mindless counts marvel at scenes in direct competition with dark horses riding through images as the sort and order only cuts shy of half of the black bins. Ascending and descending, runs from the past into the current make the trivial pursuits far easier to handle as the day after tomorrow is always looking into the week ago from this year's reckoning.
Saturday, 21 April 2007
RTP 7: Distraction is always wanting to be
Time marks the wall with scrawls down and across, hatching out a cross path of lines and voices into the ether, feeding back again into the brain. Once distraction on the same plane, it is enough to force a jump for the sweet sounds. Direction casts a stream looking forward to the whisper and the silence.
Burning the ear from the ends and watching the seat move about as others in related space attempt all manner of deafness, hoping to see nothing as they want to hear nothing from across the side and section. Inaudible is but a cause for filing away the air which makes waves of sounds.
Options exists and yet none are made as there is no escape for those within earshot. Cast and falling ever so as the light of the day creeps into night and a startling calculation numbers into the figures of just how far into the black is red going to mar.
On the outside, with the perch on view, stands are made as honours upheld to reaffirm the nature at peace and of respect.
Friday, 20 April 2007
Word makes official on the tightening hold
Status of the state floats higher and higher, climbing that apex with no base camp in sight. Two holding on and there is the unseen clasp of hands together, made at least to a call. Official now in terms and name of a being and a resolve made long ago with more than the instance of at the time. It is what it is and what it is happens to be.
Friday, 20 April 2007
Bring on the pain, bring on the hurt
Question will follow ahead of answers and the trail leaves the painful throb between the eyes into the nose. Streams taste salty as the face burns aside with angst and sheer failure. Of facing the blank wall and reading nothing between the two white lines which represent so many things on so many levels.
History and the past, relations of which hold each others hand and look forward into the abyss of an unknown known to be there and yet, no longer there to be known. Spaces fill out the void as the nothingness encompasses and runs a marathon where there is no finish line but determination.
Memory fades quick and the only recourse for correction, for salvation, is knowing the deep, boring within and holding on to the most and the much as the fingers, bone white from stress, will allow and are capable. And there is always more to be had, to be held, and always more to be there for.
Always more, looking inward for the slice of reality as it washes away to a black made transparent. All in effort and knowing what to know over that which needs only a passing glimpse.
Priorities, dear fellow. Priorities in love.
Thursday, 19 April 2007
Questions are always there to ask
More than simple issues are at stake. Far, far more as the lives of two head down along a path made of stargazing lilies. From the concepts and dreams of reality and perception, a heart attacks itself looking for answers clearer than the light of day. Reception is clear from the outside. Where the resolve is only in tipping the cast in favour of watching the rule of emotion fall back again in the hands of support. Strong and willing, but mysteriously distant in and of itself. Reasons make the matters most.
Tuesday, 17 April 2007
Tezuka - The Marvel Of Manga at the Art Gallery
Underground in the city and walking takes charge from the end of King Street Wharf to that of the Domain bearing the location of the Art Gallery of NSW. Where all manner of fare spew out in front of the entrance before the walk into the halls made partially hallow with sandstone or ambient death in fixture colours.
Deafening with the ongoing background music of a 40th on show, Tezuka: The Marvel of Manga, hits up a quad of tickets for the late morning into the early afternoon in an exhibition space too close, far too close, to the action of brass bands and piano keys on the celebratory notes of non-death.
Short into the motion and a tour shuffles their feet back and forth, reading panels of the work of Osamu Tezuka as they do. And as the guide instructs and drops a vowel lower than otherwise. Like eating an order of beef noodle soup in its traditionally known name to the locals and other food type people. Pronunciation, everything to everybody, nothing to nobody and always a point of conjecture between reading and speaking.
White on the white boards and artwork are clear and present themselves well under the light and gazing stares. Colours code the walls with thematic swell from one to another. Tezuka, from all accounts of a new found inspection, favours heavily into stories and works around that of the metamorphosis and gender imbalances. Of losing the standard roles to that of sheer questions and asking things such as what if and so what happens next.
Glimpses are only as interesting as delivery and reception and the consuming passion for knowledge reads and rips into each panel fervently looking for technique and shadows hiding in the lines between the black and red. Marvellous indeed for the display of static art, so pull away from the expectation of finding other versions, in other mediums, of work present and holding their own poses for as long as the fibres in the paper will allow.
Sunday, 15 April 2007
Flight into the centre of the phoenix
Beat tracks the steps all the way across the grotesque of the public buses, they there on the level five up from the ground and behind counter after counter after counter. Veritable procession line of neck stretchers, up at the stools on the other side of the red tops. One face among the many and other constellations which make up the designations. All the faces are a blur and the names only matter for the point of taking things in roundabout directions.
Lexington, they say, is foreign and a school of the new. Questions rise and bounce on the location and pinpoint accuracy to that very part of the world which holds a doorway down a runway to the soul.
Flutter of the briefcase, only a wallet with a rubber band with support, as Dame Nellie Melba lies across the faces of Sir John Monash. Dozens of hundreds made thousand fold and a swimming lunch into watermelons of excess in the few scant moments of the dying day.
Process is a gaze at the wondrous overshoot, of looking at the back and wondering how far off the mark the ten fold under folds. Where from the five to carry dangerously in the daylight dark leaves only one and change after signatures, stickers and pages on pages of confirmation and registration.
Another step closer to the dream and the reality.
Saturday, 14 April 2007
RTP 6: Squeezing punnets into the back of the fridge
From sparse dealings across an expanse to the close quarters of crashing waves of too many days and not quite enough start to faze each other. Food finds the back of the fridge a cool place to reside as the sweat from the brow pools itself watching and squeezing towels between the cracks in the footpath.
Time manages to repeat itself, and hold onto a static pattern with the look of walking out the door any second now. Herein lies the want, the wake of the day into the afternoons and it's clearly only the start of darkness.
Stretching one edge of the city to another, fleet rubber soles, with the strength of metal as skeletons, cross the plains dutifully with an ever present sense of collapse.
Saturday, 14 April 2007
The Chaser's War on Everything
One hour in the line and it's an hour of talking and shuffling in pairs toward and closer still to the big doors of studio 22 of the ABC studios. Where the set up continues and security shouts loudly and constantly as the back drop is on the social cast and pairing up with an ever present hint of wanting more marshmallow twists than the big bowls will throw out from the below the studio set.
The Chaser, crack team of satirists, ease things and quick they are into the filming of their show. Cut throat with time to spare and there is but the pause between the segments to relax a few seconds before charging through to the next. Difference between the television and the fleshy mode is scant, display of segments proving to be the only marker. Of that and bleachers with standings loud enough for rapturous rumblings from the feet of many.
After the wrap, and with a hand for the show, warning casts across the audience to stand below the lip of the stage. Thieving previous making the plight and warning reason enough to exist. Oh how the finicky fellows will ruin the tramplings of the tremblings.
Thursday, 12 April 2007
Royal straight down south with four of a kind
Day drops into an afternoon and the neck snaps into gear with a ride down south on two over the hour. Flash rain welcomes the midsection and the highway is ever so lonely on the stretches between points of road kill on the bitumen. Such is roadside life and there are plenty of flowers to find when looking closely.
Treasure island is this secret abode, away from prying eyes and well away from prying fingers. Slouch begins from the boxers on the knees, walking around with the freedom of knowing a casual setting is all that it really takes. Distractions are never ending, with the back of the mind always looking for a connection back into the heart, yet cut off from all signs of communication.
Tournament of the stars begins in a sidling moment with the shuffling after the sugar rash crash makes a thick inch of icing. Magnificent in its rock chiseling attitude, grotesque in the same fashion.
Cards fall and the chips roll between the ranks. Players throw down and eye each other off. Rinse, repeat and watch the walls close in as the pressure non-existent fades into the background.
One falls. Then another. And another. Till there is only but three of the eight left to hold their own. And then, well, then things turn into the interesting divide down the split between aces and high cards over the others. One rack against two and it's their determination which holds a strong ground over the ebbing.
One more falls and the spectacle of such a slowing of momentum crashes hard for those standing by. Only care in the world is finding the knees warm enough to bend and ankles to shift across the edges of the water. Third in the eight and it's a score to climb back from on the next year. A veritable year for the rings and commitment made binding and legal.
Two sands back on the highway with the rain flashing a brilliance of timing to cut into the journey home.
And so the chips fall where they may, watching on with a stunning brilliance of failure but without a hint of regret. Only the craving for the one and only now back again in the reach to a touch.
Tuesday, 10 April 2007
BTC 63: Clearing out the 23 flavours
Watch the clock watching the soft pop of drink drizzle a hole into the back of the throat. Twenty-three flavours with a distinct bite what holds back the masses and lets only in the few who cherish its ardently sharp taste.
Hours of the day subdivide and fall into patterns where the ounce and stock are walking wounds from concrete sleepers on the tracks. Too long to run, too heavy to hold. Choice suckling of days breaks a standard agreement on the matter of timely issues and finding the pause to the day. And so, instead of the rush and flurry, commence now the slow tipping back.
From one to all remaining and it's a clearing house of carbonation down the gullet. Holding nothing back, leaving nothing in the racks.
No more Dr Peppers in the house.
Friday, 6 April 2007
300: The IMAX Experience
Six storeys of grand spectacle, where the pool washes out in the scheme of Easter and finishing early with a dash into the city. Pot belly reddens in the coffee house and the roll over into the coins is over and toward that in the blues. Takes a quick pace up the stairs of the stadium of the IMAX theatre in order to stave the eyes and neck from blindness and rupturing.
Dead of centre is a few seats away and the line stretches out with eyes covering at the sight of webs. Fight of flights under weak lights above the heads.
Violence and choreography is a splendour, paying and playing visions of extreme fluidity. Taking one leg to shield another as the integration and cohesiveness of a battle unit as the 300 Spartans is impressive well into the splattering sight of the thousand nations of the Persian empire.
Black against white and blood red all over. A veritable feast of action and tactics with the small band of men taking on wave after wave after wave. Politics fashion a splint as the war rages on and the duplicitous nature of men knows only to tear a hole in the backside.
Glorious, absolutely glorious, and with a soundtrack of most intense marriage, there is a cut and dry stump standing left on the battle field that lies just beyond that of The Hot Gates.
Uplifting to a factor of entirety and whole raging infusion despite the eventual outcome.
Friday, 6 April 2007
Unleashed upon the truth
Three are made two by a life of default and questions raise up from the back into the front, looking for familial strains. Keeping a tight grip on the slipping precipice, watching the crumbling rocks fall down into the blackness of uncertainty. Looking at the black and asking if indeed it looks back with a hint of knowing and far less of a state fresh from the cleaners. All about questions of identity and looking to make right that which may have fallen.
Wednesday, 4 April 2007
Quand j'étais chanteur - The Singer
Take enough steps up the stairs and all the time in the first ten minutes still matter not. Even in the wake of short staff walk-ins with no doors and no ropes to jump across. Casual is the affair and it's the lack of light which suggests that the film is already underway.
And so it is, Gérard Depardieu as Alain Moreau, one lounge singer to rule them all. A veritable ladies man and a man still with one rather distinct facial feature that carries over from one film to the next. Here, however, a seeming cast into lesser prominence as the vocal skills shine over.
Back and forth, moving on shifting planes of acceptance, of womanising behaviour and of leery institutions. Playing against the chase of a real estate agent and the wares on the books, there's this comfort zone which happens to fall beyond the en suite of all the houses never seen.
Lessons in lounge love and learning to swing with the beat and jazzy tones of the saxophone. Words fail to read when eyes close on subtitles, as is the case with any French foreign film.
Resolution walks away from the close, shy of the finality of it all or from the sheer superfluous nature of flux in relationships.
Sunday, 1 April 2007
BTC 62: Folding notes like a kindred stranger
Ludicrous notes for a paper chest, wallet on leather bound instances worn out with the casual burn to an indifference in norms and societal fixtures. Where class rules not and a station apparent brings the clear vision of blue and yellow to make green when brought together. Standing there at the counter, walking away with but a chance to show and it's that split second of recognition bringing in the kindred, albeit of a strange action.
Classy notions nevertheless. Holding on double down with a straight jacket to a four of a kind flush. Milking the appearance of absence to all that it annoys and it's a banking wave from one end to the other. Crashes of disbelief smash into the bench and the hands all float upward, high into the ceiling with incredulous gasps.
One is enough. Two is faintly possible. Hint of there being more, the kind of seed which sets off dynamite lines of explosion in rapid detonations.
One is enough. Two? Hardly. Evidence, however, is in the proof. Where there is nothing but the net of the folds from blue swimmers toward the pineapples and the opera singers in the bunch.
One folds inside the notes from others. The other in the clear plastic of a similar change. And both stand proud in defiance of the cow hide and crocodile pelts.
Sunday, 1 April 2007
