Back story: by torchlight

UB has been my home for two months now. At the start of this year, it was my resurrection. From late January, I spent two and a bit months sharing my dear friends bedroom, teetering on the windowsill of her life in UB. At the time she was the Producer/Presenter of Voice Box. She is an incredible woman, vivacious and very capable.

So, my return can be accredited to a number of reasons:

1) I want to be Gabrielle Brady.
2) Australia just doesn’t know good mutton when she sees it.
3) On a Scale of 1 – 10 “How ratifying is your job?” Voice Box rates well with a score of 10.
4) Nomads seem to have a pretty good religion.
5) I really like Rihanna’s ‘Umbrella’ and fortunately in UB nightclubs, this song provides the metronome.
6) Mongolia is a fascinating country, with absurd contradictions, a growing and brave potential and an endless, inspiring blue sky.

I will share here, now, some pictures of the return. If you find these writings obscure, I’m sorry. Just go with it.



ON BEING HEALTHY

It's unhealthy, isn't it -
all these heavy metals in the water
and all the black tea
and being unable to sleep
due to all the black tea?
It's unhealthy, isn't it -
having no hands, begging for food
and asking them to avert their eyes
to hand you their rejected baked goods?
Unhealthy when they don't -
hand or avert?
It's unhealthy, isn't it -
to not introduce yourself as an artist
while damning the lack of bravery
and integrity and symmetry.
Isn't it unhealthy,
I spit.



ON ASSIGNMENT

This focus is a coma.
This beer is a pinch.
This task is a beanstalk.
This is a love song.
Only once before have I written such a story
and that was of him.
This working is a poem; a jig.



ON THE NEW NIGHT

Striding in to the new night
the darkness sharpens and the
yellow lights come to focus.
New eyes from the post-afternoon Stupa.
The movement of light, a slow dance,
a sharp wink, I don’t look at the pavement.
Not for this mille-moment.
I feel like weeping
but the cold air
and the movement of night.

My face is sandy under this light.
To this night, I am the Camel.



ON THE LACK OF RIGHTS

silence after the payment and we can walk away poorer he richer from the violence silence all round except our cries and they call us drunk and want us in the for the night but we can walk away poorer after the payment the horn was constant from my compression and the comic absurdity the taxi union flocking flicking me square on the forehead and a punch later to tell me to stop my compression silence with the horn constant and cries as he has his hands on Graham’s throat throttling it screaming for us to leave his Mongolia and I pinch at his neck to attempt to stop Graham not breathing Graham writhing and the police