FRIDAY THE THIRTEENTH

I've been hurumphing around the city streets all afternoon.
The burden of being as non-committal as an old leaflet
Advertising a cheap factory-seconds booksale,
And yet feeling like a redundent member of a
Functioning society,
Failing to reach
Some true potential,
Spoiled the overcast and dank grey laneways.
I stared in the bathroom cabinet mirror,
with a head nigh split in two, and staring making it worse,
And took to pruning unruly eyebrow hairs.
I thought of that night that I performed with you
Bonnie and I dipped our long wigs in coloured paint
to splatter about the room.
I blinked,
And on opening my eyes there was a splash of
Pink paint on my eyelid in the mirror.
Remember, I made the costumes, too?
But you can't live with me anymore
Because I bore you and you can't change me.
I can't live with you either,
but I'm the sort who puts up and shuts up.
So, I have to kiss my blue door goodbye
Because somebody has to be the one to leave.
Now you're interrupting me writing this
Because I haven't performed 'cleaning'
Enough before your eyes;
I guess someone must have pissed you off,
So you're taking it out on me.
Nobody can live with anyone really,
We're not too good at sharing;
And if you're good at giving,
You end up with nothing.
And what are you alone?
My right eyebrow is half reddy blonde
So it looks shorter than the other one.
But, it is in fact shorter than the other.
Hate the eyebrows – remind me of my grandfather's.
I see them in forty or fifty years time,
Silver and white wire coiled so tightly
And grown so thick
That the world before my eyes will be ensnowed
And invisible
I'll be able to live only in my memories
I won't be dreaming of the future
And what great use I'd be to society
Because there won't be much of a future,
Except for visions of the afterlife,
Or what the hospital ward looks like.
And I'll be known as the woman
Who could plait her eyebrow hairs
Together with her ear hairs.

Onions

I've used up every tissue I can find scrunched up

On my bedroom floor; the ones under my bed,

From the fathoms of my coat pockets,

The ones from the depths of my handbag -

Smeared with lipstick.

Yet through my blocked and ever-running nose

I can still smell onion on my hands.

Backwards, it says, "Snow, I know",

Or, more pertinently, "It's 'no', I know".

Forwards,

My excuse for tears.

William Kentridge - Weighing... and Wanting (1997)

Betjeman and Kentridge

On my umpteenth time at St Pancras International station in London, I discovered a bronze life-size sculpture of the poet Betjeman.

He reminded me of William Kentridge.

I consider myself fairly lucky to have seen an extensive exhibition of Kentridge's work at MOMA, while I was in New York. I'd known nothing of Kentridge beforehand. I feel it to be one of the best exhibitions I've seen - I was truly moved.

Melbourne's One and Only Peugeot 104

My dad's little baby... And Robert de Niro. Shooting in Spring Street. A supposed Paris of the seventies - and I told people in New York that Melbourne was visually European! This picture doesn't have me convinced as I can see Little Bourke Street's Chinatown behind de Niro. But we might even get mum into the cinema to see dad's car's big screen debut.

Picture: Tim Carrafa, in Herald Sun 7.7.10

The Victoria and Albert Museum, London.

What collections at the V&A!

Not one single gallery or museum did I see in its entirety while abroad.

[Actually, that's not entirely true. I believe I scoured the Guggenheim all the way up and around, and did the shop. But, this was my very first museum visit.]

In both the Brooklyn Museum and the British Museum I only got as far as the Islamic collections, in which I spent an hour and a half anyway.

My mind couldn't stretch any further. Plus, it was closing time.

While at the V&A I couldn't resist buying tickets to the temporary exhibitions after spending an hour with Rodin in the sculpture room. The permanent collections I assumed would be there on my return... For that day it would be a spectacular quilt exhibition; a collection of Horace Walpole's collections from Strawberry Hill; and a small room of some of Grace Kelly's clothing.

Too excited was I to be spending a few minutes in the presence of those beautiful chiffon dresses from 'Rear Window' (my favourite film) and 'High Society'.

Plus, both Grace Kelly and Auguste Rodin were born on November 12th - my birthday also.

In the meantime I got snap-happy. And, the exit of every exhibition led you straight into the V&A book shop. Did I manage to resist? No! I bought I a book on masters of photography and another on William de Morgan's tile designs.