~ a public reading of Ambergris

I'm having a reading of my play Ambergris at the Carlton Courthouse on Saturday at 2.00pm. (That's Sept 1, 349 Drummond St, Carlton, about 20 metres from the corner of Elgin.) It's late notice, I know, but... sorry... and perhaps some rough, first-draft playwrighting-in-progress is precisely your idea of how to celebrate the first day of Spring. Do come if it takes your fancy. It will be a casual, low-key affair and we may (or may not ) ask for a gold coin donation so as not to leave the actors out of pocket.

I've been working on this writhing, gargantuan word-squid for a long time. I've been distracted by the joy of child-rearing, by outrageous legal injustices, domestic misery and episodic insanity, by long winters of bewilderment and despair, not to mention the perils of serving as a pharmaceutical guinea pig – but I have at last honed the text to a point at which I'm prepared to brave the court of public opinion.

It's bit scary, to tell the truth. I think it's good, perhaps even better than good, but you simply cannot know until it comes off the page. I could have got it completely, utterly wrong. I could be facing a MacArthur Park dissolving-cake scenario. I just don't know... Though I can promise the sweet, green icing (or its equivalent).

And some esoteric characters - some who promote surreal agendas, others who nourish strange longings in the pit of their souls, still others who care naught for all but mind-numbing drugs.

Why does the mysterious stranger train a dog to bring him chunks of toxic waste? What is the disgraced researcher doing with 200 echidnas in his mobile laboratory? What is that void beneath the kitchen table? Who sells the packaged genitalia of lost marsupials to recreational fishermen? Why is the mute interested in Chux super-wipes? Why does a population with a genetic predisposition to bowel cancer claim instead to be an ancient, unknown species living among us...?

All this and more will be resolved. If you think that's impossible, let me prove you wrong. The readers are: Phil Motherwell, Richard Higgins, Lucy Cowbelle, Anthea Greco, Ben Andrews, molecular biologist Dr Nurin Veis and – owing to a late withdrawal – me. Directing is, of course, the formidable Lynne Ellis.

~ larry the shrink & his runny black ectoplasm

My portrayal of the revolting Larry the Shrink did the trick. Johdi, who works at RMIT Union Arts, said she had to look away, so appalling was my character’s treatment of his hapless patient Heath, played by the sweet and sexy Ben Andrews.

A big thank you to the lighting crew in the biobox who, instead of blacking out the stage when I pulled Ben’s head down to my crotch, chose to leave the lights up for what seemed like a good thirty seconds, during which I had to confront the audience with sordid expressions of depraved pleasure while moving Ben’s head up and down like a piston. Like I said, thanks.

And why do I always play these nasty deviant characters? Well, they’re more fun, aren’t they? And I can give vent to any poisonous runny black ectoplasm that may have accumulated on my chakras. Being nice all the time is nice, but having a licence to be horrible – albeit on stage – is fine for the psychology.

Speaking of psychologists, I have an appointment with one today and I’m reasonably sure he’ll be nothing like Larry. The issue is my long and winding relationship with a certain form of vegetable matter – the same vegetable matter which has recently landed me in dreadful troubles.

The ordeal continues, populating my dreams with all manner of dire scenarios, but life goes on, in all its colour and glory, as the photos below will demonstrate (There are a few extra on Flickr.)

Don’t forget, there’s another completely different night of Snatches on Friday night at 7.30 and my short play The Goitre Birds is in the mix.

~ the commonplace

I derive such succour from the ordinary things, the commonplace events I can reply on to be commonplace, the cherished routines …

School started today at Pinewood. I watched Polly’s green gingham back as it disappeared through the doors amongst a chirruping flock of other six and seven year olds. I’ve been spending so much time with her lately, I felt a flush of sadness this time, on top of the customary relief.

Polly is going to be in a film tomorrow. A student film by the lovely Ben Andrews, in which she is going to walk to a refrigerator, open it and pour herself a glass of milk. I’m not sure she if she quite understands what’s going to be happening. She keeps calling it a ‘play’ - as plays are something she’s reasonably familiar with - but I’m confident she’ll adapt, and not freeze-up or anything like that. I’ve been astonished by her progress lately, her reading, writing, comprehension, all that stuff. And of course, her imagination.

I’ve set her up a desk in my study where she occupies herself while I work. Long gone are the days when work was a pipe dream if Polly was in my sole care.

My wife has retired from the scene for a few weeks, requiring some peace and quiet to mend the inner fabric of her soul. My recent precipitate departure took as much of a toll on her as it did on me.

I am able to breathe a little easier now, though there is a looming darkness on the horizon and it is difficult not to worry about. Strangely, having emerged from such horror and remorseless grinding stress, I feel freshly energised. Particularly with my work. I have a whole lot of projects on the go now, and I am appreciating all the sacred little things, which, for a period there, I thought I might have lost.

The honour of feeding the white duck Immaculata is by no means the least of these.


And, of course, nothing now stands in the way of my intention to photograph and identify the native fungi of Mt Waverley.