Leaderboard


Popular Content

Showing most liked content since 29/05/17 in all areas

  1. 4 likes
    THEN I was still all bounce and bliss about drugs - this back in the golden days when drugs were recreational and only ever fun, when synthetics didn’t exist and meth hadn’t made New Zealand and the line was drawn at X and trips and the quality was good and the price was high and we sermonized the five R's: the right type in the right amount at the right time in the right place with the right people (nothing other than weed smoked, nothing EVER injected) - back when you planned their use out weeks in advance to take a good party and make it great, when you knew your dealer, they did you a favour, and morality and legality were answered, simply, by comparing a club full of drunks to a club full of ravers; drugs were never an addiction for us. Sam knew I’d only have one answer. Back into the brightening day I went and back to sleep my tent-mate slipped, safe in the knowledge I wouldn’t be returning anytime soon. Where to - what to - a period of goofed vacillation. The House Tent. Of course. And I set out, fizzing again now and gambolling along. It being such a fine morning, all the Gatherers I passed such fine people. I was D-Man and I was striding down from on high, from on the mountain and these were my people, and ours was a powerful connection, the same shared divinity, unique expressions, but we were the same, and maybe I would grow into a crusader, a soul saver, start wearing a cape, under bridges nurse the homeless, tenderly, coach an impoverished team, win the big game, come from behind, adopt stray kittens, penguins, do physical therapy with sufferers of Diphtheria - Piercing eyes, molten smile. Curves. Future wife, wifey! And we would come together, drawn, magnetic, maybe at the zone, in the mud, the secret dawn, link hands because our genomes knew, and she would travel to Australia and I would travel to New Zealand and our children would be magazine quality and they would serve in the soup kitchen and they would help feed the penguins, and, and - The House Tent. Shut down. Such a forlorn scene given the hundreds of happy people it’d succoured only an hour before. I swayed in the rasp of the early morning air and looked to the Trance Zone where a scattered core of hardened, mired ravers cheered in the day. I pursed my lips and weighed my options. And this swaying and weighing might have gone on for a while had I not at that moment spotted Cassy picking her way across the olive liquefaction . . . * * * * This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last. If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. * * * * Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment. Your support means a lot. Also, sharing is caring. * * * *
  2. 3 likes
    AFTER THAT conversation, it felt like something had been decided, ended, for with every passing hour Ginny slipped further away from us, ebbed away from us on an outbound tide, despite our best and desperate attempts to stop her. We saw it in her loss of mobility, how she needed to be aided everywhere with the help of a walker. Soon she barely moved at all. We saw it in the eyes of the Hospice nurse, who on Wednesday put a morphine drip in her arm. We saw it in each other. Death was with us. He had not visited before. As her morphine increased, we lost Ginny to the nether world of the opiate, to whatever place of waiting she went to in her mind. There were moments of lucidity, but these became fewer and fewer. It robbed us of the chance to get close to her one last time, to come to some sort of acceptance and peace. It robbed Ginny of the chance to say goodbye, to write each of us those letters as she wanted to do. But it was most cruel for Claire and Amber. They arrived on Thursday, jet lagged from a twenty-four hour flight from London to the window of Ginny’s lucidity having passed. I picked them up from the airport and tried to prepare them for what they would first see: Ginny with the ever-present oxygen cord taped under her nose, drip in her arm, sallow, eyes half closed and lolling. They understood. But understanding and seeing are two very different things. When they stepped into the lounge that night I watched their worlds fail. We could offer only small, cold comfort. At least you made it home in time. * * * * This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last. If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. * * * * Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment. Your support means a lot. Also, sharing is caring. * * * *
  3. 3 likes
    NEAR MIDDAY Darius and Kathy found us. Then Joseph. Then Sam, rested and unrepentant. We caught up, and I heard they had found Tim, Darius telling the story. "You know how he's been trying to get with Sandra? Well he finally sold her the idea they could create this big "Millennium memory” and that's where they went, the nuttas. They didn’t even wait for the countdown to finish." “I guess your first time rolling . . .” “Maybe, but I’m glad it wasn’t my tent, the dirty olds. They're back there now probably still at it. And Tim reckoned on their way they got interviewed by the news!” “The news?” “Yeah. He said they were out doing a piece on the celebrations.” We pictured this: pictured all that could go wrong with giving your views to the country whilst E'ed up for the first time . . . and horny. We laughed loud and long. But Tim came across like a boss, like an electronic warrior of the Shaky Isles, and his and Sandra's was the longest clip they played on the news that night. Darius also brought word that Dan and Jacob had left - I guessed from sore jaws, not enough gum - as had hundreds of others. Unbeknownst to us, The Gathering was now a major news story in the real world, which, having survived the Y2K bug, had turned its attention to the two dozen hypothermia cases shipped from the festival to an emergency centre in Motueka. Evacuation of the entire site had even been considered, but civil defence didn't have the protocols for moving thousands of spangled and coming down ravers off the top of a remote, waterlogged hill. So, blissfully ignorant of how close it all came to ending, the hard core were allowed to stay on. We got our second night on the Downs. * * * * This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last. If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. * * * * Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment. Your support means a lot. Also, sharing is caring. * * * *
  4. 3 likes
    BLONDE, SLIM and with bambi blue eyes, frail shoulders covered by a white cardigan, with a sweet little mouth, now formed in a perfect O, as part of a lost look to match my own, we rushed together, embracing. We'd only met a day before but were overjoyed to find each other, as only two trancers on the other side of an elevated evening with no prospect of sleep anytime soon could be. Now we were a duet. "Ha-hah!" I cried with new found (make that cute girl found) enthusiasm. "Cassy! Wicked. Where have you been?" "Ah - I'm not . . . The tran-trance zone." She was all exquisite crystal as she met my gaze, her irises consumed by black holes. I felt the X stop, seize. It wanted to don shining armour and mount a white charger, to assail into the very heart of them. To backstroke through them. I felt a surge of energy, a bushfire bright running before the wind, a deep-seated swell that - No. No swelling. (At least not yet.) Be cool. Be c-o-o-l. "You look cold,” I offered. “Were you at the Trance Zone?" “Uh-huh. I was dancing and I lost everyone. I turned and nobody was there." Her pupils widened further, if that was possible. She looked spooked and I longed to hug her - maybe I should confess my love? - but restrained myself. Be cool. "Well you've got me now. Want to head to the Food Tent and warm up?" (Warm . . . in the Indigo glow.) She nodded and we set out, slogging our way through a haze more and more evident as the light came: a steamy whiteness that clung to the Downs and made it otherworldly, made it the type of place in which you might see Visigoths or Elves or Druids - which, given our current trajectory, we might have seen anyway. We found the Food Tent and a spot at the back beside the barista, and there we sat and stayed. We sipped multiple coffees; we babbled and murmured; we were tender; we were entangled; and we enjoyed the old school set of rap being spun. * * * * This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last. If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. * * * * Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment. Your support means a lot. Also, sharing is caring. * * * *
  5. 3 likes
    WHEN I got back to camp from the House Tent, nobody was around. I made a coffee, wrapped myself in a blanket and plonked myself down under the tarpaulin to fire a phatty: cold, encrusted, fried - thoroughly content with the world. As the weed scattered me further I stared blankly out at the other half-hidden campsites, damply drooping and drooping damply, and in the furtive grey punched through with ghost-eyes blankly staring back my way. My mind turned inwards. A cannibal, it cracked the bones of favourite moments blowing up like supernovas and sucked them dry; an internal baseline kicked it all along. Soon the yawns. My thoughts now on sleep though it would mean disturbing Sam, climbing in over him with my wet and muddy clothes, and my dirty shoes poking out through the flaps as I pulled them off, and my sodden rags being peeled, dripping, and my elbows akimbo, digging, and the need for dry attire, searched for and horizontally pulled on, and the unzipping of my sleeping bag, and the crawling in, and it all taking far longer than was acceptable, but inevitable, given my current head case. A thought that had occurred to Sam also for he’d prepared accordingly - lying in the long grass, his clothes the colour of trees. Ambush. “You just get back?” he greeted as I unzipped the tent, his face poking toasty-warm from his sleeping bag. Just a warm Sam chrysalis in his sleeping bag. He made no attempt to hatch. Now I was thinking about freckly butterflies. I focused on his question. "Yeah, man, been at the House Tent for hours. Fucking epic. How was your night?" "Wet. Spent most of the night out in the rain with Darius and Kathy." “You're keen.” “Not me, Dar, you know what he’s like. I finally got him in under cover at the DnB zone around 3. Oh, and we were at the House Tent there for a while as well.” "Ah, wished I'd seen you guys . . . “Could have hung out . . . “Yup . . . “Would have been good . . . ” Small talk exhausted, I squatted in front of the tent waiting to see if Sam could take a hint. He couldn’t. So I pantomimed a yawn and stretch and said, “Well bro, I’m knackered. I'm afraid I’m going to have to - " Sam sprang his trap. “Want another pill, Izz? I’ve got one spare.” * * * * This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last. If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. * * * * Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment. Your support means a lot. Also, sharing is caring. * * * *
  6. 3 likes
    IT WAS a relief frankly to reach the House Tent a short time later, with its billowy white roof and canary lights and groovy tunes and steaming people smelling of wet wool. The floor the same mud as outside, but there were wood walkways for the lucky, and it was dry and warm. I wormed my way into the centre; I set to stay for a while; the ecstasy - pure goofed goodness - unfurled, low to high. It fed my sympathy for the truehearted crowd; coordinated my harmony with the fine set DJ Me and Andy Greenman spun. One tune after another that had the congregation consumed, Black Panthering their hands and stamping their feet, joyous suppliants riding the sound as it grew into its apogee, into bass and hi-hats and a mad wheeling piano-line - well alright - sleek vocals - you squares - and that bass line - we got to get together - and that swinging piano - make it better - perfect - make it all good - hooking - its time to put up - and we’re on-board - or shut up - we’re hungry - to make a change somehow - accelerating - a change someway - give us that funk - time to move on - that sideways shake of our heads - groove on - give us it All because, because - GOD MADE ME PHUNKY - spotlights on the blaze - yeaaaaah - and oh yeah, fuck yeah! Haha yeah, yeah, yeah! And the track is ringing and everyone is singing and everyone is reeling and everyone is young and everyone is beautiful and man is good, no, man is great, and we’re going to change the world, brothers and sisters, we’re next, our future, our century, and we’re going to change the m-o-t-h-e-r-f-u-c-k-i-n-g worrrrlllld. For hours I stayed, kindled. And when next I thought to venture outside the rain had slackened to a drizzle and predawn leeched the dark. I swayed in the brisk nothingness that had come with its singular wet-before-sun smell. I was becalmed now, empty and falling. So this was the first day of the twenty-first century, I thought. The first of the third millennium. I idly wondered if the world had survived, and didn’t much care the answer. * * * * This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last. If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. * * * * Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment. Your support means a lot. Also, sharing is caring. * * * *
  7. 3 likes
    AWAY AGAIN, away, free, free, wheeeeeee, I romped, galloped through a night of splintered light, through a blizzard of rain aureoled by the rainbow shafts cutting across the Canaan Downs. I was entranced and lost and upward bound and soon passing the Happy Hardcore Tent without any real idea of how. Its outside caught my attention. Some sort of industrialised spaceship, crashed, obviously, with dire, red-shot smoke curling from its entrance. On a whim, I decided to check it out. Happy Hardcore was a strange and speedy subculture of Electronica with a loyal following of fans with deficit attention spans. With its ferocious bass the music had always sounded like a train wreck to me, like somebody had taken a headache and made it audible, but I was willing to give anything a go in my current state of bonhomie. Perhaps there was something I was missing. There wasn't anything I was missing. Walking in was akin to entering a dark alley decked out in diamonds to find large cheerless and diamond-less men waiting. Or maybe thirty seconds after that, a minute, dependant on how much begging and blubbing you did. The point being: an assault. Humid and smoky, the tent was epileptic with continuous strobes, the bass bumping a million miles a minute. The dance floor seethed. It was violent. Dark. Disturbing. There was even a guy hanging from a pole in the centre, baboon-like, swinging his shirt above his head and parffing on his neon whistle for all he was worth. A year into the dance scene I'd come to realise such guys weren't the kings of the party but, in fact, twats. To find one tolerated on the dance floor I took for a very bad sign indeed. I stayed for as long as it took to navigate to the exit on the other side, moving swiftly with a panicky stride: half step, half run. Goddamn, I thought as I hurried away, worried some malevolent force might yet pick me up and put me back in the tent, there to be confined for the rest of the night . . . next to whistle guy. * * * * This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last. If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. * * * * Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment. Your support means a lot. Also, sharing is caring. * * * *
  8. 3 likes
    THE BASS dropped. The strobes flashed. Bang. Flash. Bang. Flash. Bang ban b b b b bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb. The track soared, a wave standing tall. Everybody now dancing, peaking - DOOF - duda - DOOF - duda - DOOF - lights pulsing, pure white exploding. The entire Trance Zone seared, thousands upon thousands flash frozen in euphoria under glittering slopes of rain: bent limbs and grins and grimaces and shrieks and howls and smirks and smooches and laughter and tears. The emotion of it all pounding into us, and in, and in, until wounded and mighty we were bellowing at the top of our lungs. Bellowing. Bellowing. Our cry reaching up and out to traverse the zone until everywhere, everyone roared. It was five to midnight and magic as nothing I'd ever experienced before. Slowly the track faded. The lights died. The hum of the crowd filled the void, until this too dissolved. Quiet. Wet. Then, a voice. Booming across the Zone. Ten, Nine, Eight, - We all took it up, Seven, Six, Five, - Everybody yelling, Four, Three, Two, - Everyone ecstatic, One, - An explosion reverberating through the cauldron, HAPPY NEW YEARS! We closed for back slaps and handshakes, we closed for hugs and kisses, we closed with friends and strangers alike, all family now. A conch shell echoed across the clearing. An undulating voice in Maori called the 2000s in. Fireworks exploded their tracery across the sky. Long and lasting, light-filled minutes. It was only after, after we'd tumbled down this supreme peak, that we realised Darius had lost his charge. Tim and Sandra were nowhere to be found. * * * * This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last. If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. * * * * Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment. Your support means a lot. Also, sharing is caring. * * * *
  9. 3 likes
    MY FRIENDS and I were all together now, no longer scattered but together, invincible, all twenty of us at the height of our youthful powers, at the peak of our sharpness and coolness - me wearing my Jesters hat with real bells that jingled, my face covered in glitter - and waiting to begin the biggest night of our lives. All of us would be rolling. Some of us had not rolled before. Earlier in the day Joseph, Darius and I had discussed this and each of us would chaperone one of the newbies in Dan, Jacob and Tim. Our role to stay on their shoulder and amp them up, make sure they had a good time and avoided the usual rookie mistakes: teeth grinding, excessive water drinking, inappropriate stranger massaging. 10:30 and we all dropped - as subtly as twenty people putting little pills in their mouths and sharing bottles of water could. We then milled - milling being a big part of a group spangle - nobody ready to head out into the dark and dirty night yet blistering only a few feet away. There is a feeling of two hours to a moon landing after you have dropped and before you get smiley, that eerie anticipation, the calm before the storm, of feeling pretty fucking good . . . soon, but not yet. For some this can even extend half a day before, their stomachs doing flip-flops, appetite dying away. During the come up you are want to act nonchalant, to give the impression of being in control of your shit to your friends, but sooner or later the question always comes - "How you feeling?" I asked Joseph, sidling up next to him. (This to be followed by a close examination of how much you were or weren’t feeling.) "A bit of a kick," he replied. "Quite mellow though. You?" "Same." (This to be followed by speculation on the X’s quality.) “You tried these before?” “Nah, but Darius told he’s had the purples. He reckons they’re real smooth on the way up and that you keep going” - Joseph’s hand marked out ascending levels - “up and up." (Then generally a pause as the backgrounds grow bright and you rock back and forth and you consider the mysterious inner transmutations about to burst forth - they better burst forth! Before a rinse and repeat with someone new.) * * * * This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last. If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. * * * * Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment. Your support means a lot. Also, sharing is caring. * * * *
  10. 2 likes
    LONG WEEKS passed as we put Ginny's affairs in order. Her house went on the market and I moved in to mourn on my own. I was angry and bitter, full of sadness and hurt. Or maybe none of those things. Maybe, a holed, flawed instrument, I felt nothing at all. I didn’t know. It was both, and it was neither. However a great rending had occurred. I knew that. Felt that. The seams of The Contract had ripped and the insides had been exposed, the groaning innards, and revealed was not meaning, not promise, not hope, but insipidity. It spilt through my fingers. A sickening stench. Christmas came. I moved through it an amputee. But there was smiling and laughter, also, all slick on the surface. I smiled, laughed, I’m sure. Some sort of brute then, I was callous, cruel. And life was laid flayed bare and meaningless, and I began to sift. My last conversation with Ginny haunted. It was never far from my mind. Her unfinished design. The close of one chapter in her life, the beginning of the next. Both unwritten now. I thought about the passage of time and of loved things lost, and if, as Dylan Thomas once wrote, I would go gentle into that good night, or rage against the dying of the light. I thought about not getting to say goodbye, and of when I had been happiest, most passionate, about how I could live—truly live—before it was too late to do so. For mine was an epic saga, I’d known since I was young. I thought about running away. * * * * This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last. If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. * * * * Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment. Your support means a lot. Also, sharing is caring. * * * *
  11. 2 likes
    I can answer this on behalf of every girl on the planet! Do you like going down on a girl who is unshaven? Yeah, we don't like going down on guys who are hairy down there either. Yeah, we still do sometimes, just like you do with girls, but we will find a reason not to if we can if he's got hair down there. Nothing worse than coming up with a guys pubic hair between your teeth or dry wretching from one getting in your mouth! Keep it manscaped and clean and we're more likely to want to go down on you!
  12. 2 likes
    CASSY AND I rambled. Two cats who’d discovered the alchemy of cream, we walked hand in hand, not staying anywhere for long or talking much. Other than for her to explain how she wasn't going to sleep with me, which, given my current state, was a rather endearing but woefully misplaced vote of confidence. Close to dawn we worked our way back home, wintry and plunging now and very twisted, when we spied the flicker of a campfire in the distance. The camp of the house-bus-owning hippies. We stopped and asked if we could get warm, and they welcomed us in, and they made a place for us close to the flames, and they didn’t ask us to talk - and it was a beacon, that fire, that final morning, of hospitality, community, and radiantly it shone, and in it attracted other wet and weary wayfarers, each arrival welcomed by a soft tattoo of drums that came from the darkened buses. There was brotherhood here, Cassy and I sitting and cuddling, were silent and lost and nobody seeming to mind; the warmth of her body and the shape of her neck, the smell of her hair, all that existed for me then in that private pocket of predawn, windtorn space and time. The end of The Gathering. The beginning of everything else. All brimming and bright, stretching long before us. THE CREW were up and packing when we got back and I was crashing. A zombie, I shambled around and made myself not very useful, my greatest contribution a fit of pique where I attempted to discard all of my wet clothes. I would buy all new ones, I announced. I was persuaded this really was a terrible idea. With the camp broken down, those of us who’d come in the taxi-van were distributed to other vehicles, and then, more in a sigh than an exclamation, The Gathering ended. I had a snug spot in Andy's van, warm and dry among the backpacks, and soon drifted to blissful sleep. It lasted all the hours it took to queue and exit and drive back to Nelson. I didn’t get to say goodbye to The Gathering, to the Canaan Downs or the Takaka Hill. I never saw Cassy again. But into the darkness that morning I did carry Darius’s final words, "Izzy, bro, we walked past the Trance Zone this morning. You know your couch is still there with people sitting on it?” For some reason this made me hugely, inexplicably, unaccountably, happy. * * * * This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last. If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. * * * * Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment. Your support means a lot. Also, sharing is caring. * * * *
  13. 2 likes
    ooh, do it! and i think i would need to lose about 20kgs to look like death note!
  14. 2 likes
    you've got time, but you might have to lose the beard speaking of, I did think of a good costume I could do which takes advantage of my lusturous beard
  15. 2 likes
    that's like some weird cross between the Joker and Frankenfurter
  16. 2 likes
    I HADN'T seen her since midday, but we took up where we‘d left off - except we were both on-wing now, so when she sat, the warmth of her wet skin like fever, and she turned, illumined and effervescing, and our eyes in sempiternity met, the space, the time between us collapsed, we collapsed, to collide. It was the highest high note of The Gathering for me. True and triumphant. I’d never been happier or more alive, while a megalomaniacal voice in the back of my mind proclaimed: now you're the king of the party! Later - days? weeks? - when we broke and she suggested we go for a walk, I was loath to leave the couch but more loath to leave her. She’d disconnected all my breakers, had set me to surge. While the couch, in that incandescent dark, was now where it belonged, I was sure. I was sure. So to the bog, to the open-air and the soundscapes and mostly the Gatherers of great cheer, I left it; left it in the knowledge that I - they were part of something, something tremendous, and that I - they were seizing our measure of shining stories to carry forward, forward and forever, and that for some - now, those stories might include the wonder of a bright blue inflatable couch stumbled upon in the mud and the glory of the Trance Zone in those final scattered hours of that last climatic day. Good. I felt good about that. * * * * This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last. If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. * * * * Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment. Your support means a lot. Also, sharing is caring. * * * *
  17. 2 likes
    CHAPTER 5. I wasn't there but this was how I imagined it. Mum and Ginny sitting side by side on the couch that Tuesday night. It was late. The TV was on. No sleep between them. Their hands touching. Ginny who was closest to Mum, had been since the Indigo children hit their twenties, the family diaspora. This because Ginny hadn’t scattered, had stayed, had put years into her job, had bought a house on her own, lived there on her own, the beautiful cage Mum sometimes called it, out of hearing of Ginny. So sitting there, that night, and Mum’s grey hair pulled back and she with a glass of wine and both in their nighties and Ginny wan and struggling and Mum fake cheerful and struggling, and Ginny with her self-effacing bravery, the bravery that had seen her suffer through the first weeks on her own, not wanting to make a fuss, not wanting to impose - except now neither of them could pretend; Amber had just called, Carrie and her were on a flight, would be home from London in thirty hours, and it was just another nail driven home, events beginning to careen out of control, and the speed of events was fucking terrifying, four days, a flu, a virus, a death sentence, and soon, the family gathering, and the cocoon of shock was giving way, now, and as they sat and sleepless Ginny said, “Mum, I’m scared.” What did you say to that? Mum would not have known, none of us would. Except, we were scared too. Maybe she told Ginny there was hope, always, though there was no treatment plan, the family gathered, it was obvious where this journey led, maybe she talked of God, of his plans, of faith, or maybe it wasn’t that way at all, maybe it was the way where Mum cried, softly, and Ginny comforted her, they were side by side on the couch and Mum’s head on Ginny’s shoulder and Ginny telling Mum it was going to be okay, except they both knew it wasn’t, couldn't be, it was obvious where this journey led, and maybe Mum apologised for moving away, for leaving, though Dad was sick, wanted to retire, wanted to get out of the big smoke, nobody could have known, and maybe they both thought of the visit of Ginny’s colleague Melissa earlier that afternoon, Melissa who had seen more of Ginny than the family over the last few months, they had become close, were friends, and how they, Ginny and Melissa, had sat on the couch and held hands and not talked much, but we all, we all saw how desperately Ginny clutched her hand, and we all, we all knew we witnessed a goodbye, unspoken - feel better, soon - and maybe it was all of those things or maybe it was none of those things, but I do know Mum and Ginny talked and talked true that night, admitted, reconciled, and Ginny told Mum what she would miss most were not her lost dreams but the future celebrations, the Christmases and weddings, the nieces and nephews. And how she wanted to write letters to us all, I know she told Mum that. And when I think of Ginny now, I think of how her regrets were not of herself but of us, and I think of those letters, and I wish, wish there had been time for her to write them. * * * * This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last. If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. * * * * Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment. Your support means a lot. Also, sharing is caring. * * * *
  18. 2 likes
    CHAPTER 6. "COUCH DANCING," I mumbled happily, slinging my inflatable couch off my back where it landed with a plop in the mud. I grinned at my fellow trancers who all grinned back at me, evidently appreciating the sheer brilliance of my idea. It was two in the morning and I hadn’t slept for forty hours, the afternoon a disconnected set of joyous fragments I can’t put to any chronology. Flashes of Kathy with laughter in her eyes telling me Darius had gone la-la-land: being mandated to grab him, ground him: riding out with a posse in response; of sympathising with Joseph, who’d twisted his ankle and couldn't dance and didn't seem too upset, blazing spliff after spliff with Cam; and of conspiring in the Food Tent with Gary: we would storm Ibiza in July, and he would make the track: I see you baby shaking that ass, shaking that ass, his own. And flashes of coming around a curl in the trees to see Jackie in the distance in the Trance Zone - she who we knew as dirty old Jack because she kept up with the lads - but stunning at this moment, an outline on an elevation, with wide beatific smile, dreamy closed eyes, rapturous upraised hands, clouds and crowd and DJ behind. Jackie, who later would lose a pill in a haystack and utter the immortal words, “That's going to be one fucking happy cow.” It was two in the morning and I was on my way up for the third time and I’d just humped my inflatable couch halfway across the Downs - one mention by Darius of our long-running joke to couch dance in the Trance Zone enough to set me off on a spangled mission . . . * * * * This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last. If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. * * * * Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment. Your support means a lot. Also, sharing is caring. * * * *
  19. 2 likes
    AS NEW Year’s countdown receded, the cold came. It stabbed through our saturated clothes with a silver, sorrowful feel. We stood around and debated where to go to get warm, but with a goofed group accord was always going to be a noble but elusive ideal. Already casualties drifted in the dark, swallowed, their attentions spans fractured, their serotonin smashed. In my mind Dan and Jacob loomed large, so when they announced they were heading back to camp for a change of clothes I attached myself to their intention. On the walk I was all spangled big brother: feeling good? you guys good? - squelch, squelch - here, have some gum - slurp, suck - it helps with the jaw - slurp, suck, squelch - have you drunk much water? - squelch - make sure you drink - squelch - but not too much water - slurp - not too much okay? - suck, suck, slurp - good, you guys feeling good? - rrrrrrrruuush - gum? Anyone want some gum? - Back at camp, after we’d changed and wrung our outfits and mopped our faces and dried our hair, Dan and Jacob made it clear they were now keen to continue on their own. Well all right then. Free. I was free. Time for the house tent, out of the rain. But first that great tribulation of open-air festivals, unwanted but unavoidable: a night time rendezvous with the portaloos. It was a rite of passage. A passage to where? Nowhere good. I came up on a line of them. In the murk they resembled tombstones, and to get to one first I had to negotiate a small lake in front, opting for a tippy-toe run I fondly imagined might skip me across the water. It didn’t. Sigh. Inside I struck a delicate praying mantis pose and held my breath and tried not to touch anything, especially not the brown substance smearing the walls, which I hoped - fervently - was mud, and it all being rather harder than it sounds when trying to get through two layers of pants, holding a flashlight in your mouth, and peaking. But still worth it. Everything was worth it, for the fun. * * * * This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last. If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. * * * * Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment. Your support means a lot. Also, sharing is caring. * * * *
  20. 2 likes
    BACK INTO a new track flooding the Zone, lush and muscular, layers upon layers, orchestral, upwelling. This trance, those big speakers barking, my god, this trance, emotions sparking, everything on the up and up, everything on the move, and then - BOOM - the track exploded and we were gone, gone. Gone. Rushing for the first time - dancing, hollering, igniting - moving in whatever way took hold, in whatever manner best pleased. Nothing but us and the bassline now, on the Nirvana express, aeronauts launched a thousand feet straight up, down, sideways, catapulted away again. So few ways to express all us starvelings felt: the blaze of fraternity, empathy, love, compassion: the X sending us to places we could never have reached on our own. Timeless. Pure. Rare. Beautiful. Bliss. Then. Big Dan looming over me, yelling something in my ear. “Iz. . . y! . . . Pet . . . osed . . . to . . . hanie.” “Whaat?” “Pete's . . . posed bro! They . . . ting married!” Dan spun me around; his wolfish grin filled my vision. A pause, I understood and we were in, all in to hug the happy couple. A group hug of twenty of us, jumping and shouting and hurtling still higher with the news. Evil Petes marrying Stephanie. A-haaaa, wicked! On, Up, Further we went, into the quaking pitch, into the rain and riot and cannonade of the Gods, avatars of freedom, bambinos of lightning, on and on and up and further and on and into some misty, mystic pinpoint of paradise. Something was coming; the trance had fled. I gave my camcorder to Dan in the hope of capturing it; it died in the rain. In the space in between we trembled, arms around each other's shoulders and lit to our very tips, heads turned towards the flower towers where the petals peeled to reveal high-powered strobes . . . * * * * This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last. If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. * * * * Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment. Your support means a lot. Also, sharing is caring. * * * *
  21. 2 likes
    11, EVERYBODY'S eyes on high beam, a bit rushy, a bit giggly, and we all agreed it was time to set out and begin our countdown to midnight. Into the plunging, drumming rain we went, heading for whump, whump, whump of the Zone lighting up the dark in the distance, all oranges and purples, and looking like some sort of fantastical castle. Past the red roofed structure of the DnB Zone, past the Happy Hardcore and House tents, past the car-park-sized crater of the fire pit, a weak bonfire at its bottom, hissing, forging on, through the snarls of other wet wayfarers and into the growing roar, the slop and suck of our footsteps, our heads bent, our hands pocketed, until, just as a breakdown began, as the bass was stripped and all was lulled and left strangely silent, we reached the battered edge of the Zone. In we went. In until the crowd constricted, stopped and didn’t go any further. I felt my feet sink. I wiped water from my face. I breathed deep and deeper again. I got ready to let go. In the wild night - big and bold, I could see Darius and Charley in front, big Dan and Joseph either side. Beyond, a dark carpet phosphorescent with lights and lasers, surging with excitement, brawling with desire, and unspooling to a remote robotic head glistening blue against black. In the yellow of its gaping mouth Baitercell was hard at work and deep in the mix; TV screens to either side swirled with visuals. There was a distinctive psssssshhhhhht. Charley also hard at work. Nitrous Oxide. He passed back a balloon round and full. I took it and widened my stance, inhaled half its cold contents, held it for a second, blew it back, inhaled it all. The world fell away. Sound pulsed: Whaaaa-Whaaaa-Whaaaa-Whaaaa-Whaaaa-Whaaaa. Big Dan propped me up. I was gone for a minute. I came back with a silly grin. * * * * This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last. If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. * * * * Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment. Your support means a lot. Also, sharing is caring. * * * *
  22. 2 likes
  23. 2 likes
    But . . . but . . . but the game was for Friday. I've been waiting all day for my prize. Just what sort of mickey-mouse Ed McMahon sweepstakes you running here LL?
  24. 2 likes
    no, I'm Spartacus! (am I doin it right?)
  25. 2 likes
    Its me! I was the turkey all along!
  26. 2 likes
    If this ends with me setting my alarm for 1 AM @Littleloz
  27. 2 likes
    You guys all suck at this game!
  28. 2 likes
  29. 2 likes
    Not so fast Mr Madd!
  30. 2 likes
  31. 1 like
  32. 1 like
  33. 1 like
    Yes, but not as much as IPL. And no, you have to wrap your penis so its covered.. lol...
  34. 1 like
    Did that hurt!!?? Did they laser all your genitals or...? There are so many questions
  35. 1 like
    HE LOOKED like a man who'd just lost his daughter, and now didn't know how the world stitched together. Nevertheless she moved swiftly. Now at the side of his single-seat sofa chair, now perched on his armrest, now clasping Dad's head to her ample bosom. "There, there," she cooed, "It will be alright." No, it wouldn’t. Embarrassment scarred Dad's cheeks, offset by the wan light slanting in from the window of Ginny's lounge behind. We children looked on aghast. This was my father, a man I'd grown up loving and fearing in equal measure. A man who'd hunted for the government, crusading into the wilds of New Zealand for weeks at a time with only his dogs for company to shoot feral pig and deer. Sometimes even going mano a pigo with the boars, creeping up on them - I always imagined with his hunting knife clenched between his teeth - to stick them and skin them, and carry the carcass out on his back. A man who graduated forestry school, was a logger who felled giant pinus radiata and douglas fir and always brought home the best Christmas trees, and who one day was carried out of the bush on the blades of a skidder after chainsawing his thigh open to the bone. I always imagined that only happened after he finished felling the tree, one-legged. But an affable man, also. A social man. The type of man who would suffer in silence the indignity of a hug from a heaving stranger - an old 'moo' for moo-cow he would have called her - because she’d come bearing good news, and because it was the right and polite thing to do. So: one half of my father’s face pressed into folds of jiggly flesh, and pink, and we children aghast - and strange as it may sound it was at this moment, this surreal, tragically misread moment, that the scheme first began to shape in my mind. * * * * This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last. If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. * * * * Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment. Your support means a lot. Also, sharing is caring. * * * *
  36. 1 like
    CHAPTER 7. After Ginny died we had unexpected visitors. It was a day, maybe two. The funeral loomed. A call from her work, the bank. They were very sorry, they didn’t want to intrude, but they had news, would like to send people, would it be okay? Yes, it would be okay. They arrived. He, a typical middle manager, middle-aged in a middle-grey suit, and with the decency to look ill at ease amongst our tragedy’s detritus, the embryonic clean up. She, a spherical woman in florals, with hot-pink-framed glasses worn halfway down her nose. The bank’s councillor. She wept sympathy. They came in, sat down, took coffee, offered their condolences. They told us how well liked Ginny was at the bank, how hard it was for everybody there. Should we console? Apologise? Awkward, stilted conversation. One final matter. Ginny’s life insurance. Had we known? No we had not known. Well all bank employees had them, the policies. They handled situations like this; indeed were designed for situations like this. There would be a payout. It would be substantial. Ginny, still looking out for us. They got up to go. But not before, flushed with her very raison d'être, this saccharine madam did the unthinkable. After all, how many deaths could she expect to attend in her career? Three, four? Unless there were external factors, her midnight imaginings, the companies dragon boat sinking, drownings, now that would be something . . . Body fair quivering with her compassion, fair feeding off our hurt, she spied my father sitting in the corner and said, "I’m sorry, but I just have to say: you look like you could do with a cuddle." No, he didn't. * * * * This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last. If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. * * * * Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment. Your support means a lot. Also, sharing is caring. * * * *
  37. 1 like
    curious, were they able to remove more hairs faster by using a blue laser ?
  38. 1 like
    Thats why i went for laser down there, no need to put sharp instruments near there then.
  39. 1 like
    I think they're off to play 'Dr.s and Nurses' regarding suffering to look good, I think the worst I've done is 'catching' myself while doing a little manscaping with clippers that and plucking nose hairs
  40. 1 like
    Needs more Melbourne people to post!
  41. 1 like
    nothing a corset couldn't fix
  42. 1 like
    and this is where it all comes unstuck. lol!
  43. 1 like
    CLOSE TO midnight, Friday, October 1. Five days. Ginny was adrift now, her eyes closed, breathing faint and irregular. Earlier in the afternoon the nurse had given us drugs, told us that in the final moments patients could become agitated, try to remove their oxygen tube or rip out their IV. If that happened, the drugs would help to keep her calm. We didn't ask what they were. We hoped we wouldn't need them. We alternated sitting beside Ginny, holding her hand, voicing whatever came to mind. Trying to penetrate the mists she was absent in, letting her know we were there, and we loved her. When it was my turn I couldn't help but think on all she had not seen and all I had not said. I tried to communicate my sorrow and my regret. I tried to communicate my love. I felt the faint twitch of her hand in mine. * * * * This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last. If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. * * * * Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment. Your support means a lot. Also, sharing is caring. * * * *
  44. 1 like
    yeah he is bloody skinny
  45. 1 like
    Yeah it's almost like you're posting them without even realising . . .
  46. 1 like
  47. 1 like
    Two (threads) for the price of one. How 'bout dat!?
  48. 1 like
  49. 1 like
    Looks like you almost won there @liberabit!
  50. 1 like
    wth is a novocastrian?
This leaderboard is set to Brisbane/GMT+10:00