A New Hope, Shakespeare style. Yup. For Brisbane’s Anywhere Theatre Festival this year Black Fox Theatre is putting on a rad as show. Any curiosity you may have can be found here, here and oh yes here.
Thanks dude. May the cycle of reblogging continue.
A story on how Labor will lose on the weekend, a piece on how hard the Queen works and how small the republican movements are in Australia and the UK and a whole thing about how Whooping Cough can kill you and your children.
It’s official. The ABC have become the Liberal party.
In and around the Southbank Piazza right now there are maybe sixty people doing yoga, two separate hip hop dance groups rehearsing and about a dozen teenagers all wearing beanies that look like furry animals’ heads.
My friend Conor (GeekGirlSnaps) is meeting me. And I’d like you to just briefly focus on the phrasing there. Not A friend: My friend. The friend. The only person left in Brisbane any good at bridge repair has lured me out of my house/cave and onto the surface of the sun with the prospect of a coffee buzz and a place I haven’t been.
It’s on a corner, a block from the Gabba itself, attached to small art gallery which kind of makes it feel like a front but I like that in a business. There’s an industrial fan and a drinks fridge that is doing its disco best but the heat is inescapable and everyone is going to die.
And yet: Long Black. Because fuck imagination.
The baristas are funny. They’ve got their behind-the-counter jovial bickering skills down to a point of brazen realism. It’s like HBO. I think it’ll work out though. Conor says the all day breakfast is cheap.
Can I state at this point that whoever invented cardboard finish clipboard menus is a genius? A4 and A5 clipboards with drinks menus printed on plain paper. In every cafe and cocktail bar. Everywhere. No lamination. No letter head. You can change your prices - you can change the menu every day - you can swap menus with another venue and no one will notice. And all you need to do is look the same as every other MOTHER FUCKING HIPSTER DOUCHEBA-I’m on fire. I need a bucket of water and a box of earth I am actually on fire it is HERE the coffee is here I love you.
We’re sitting on a couple of secondhand schoolyard benches outside, sliding along with the shade as the afternoon keeps on with the rotisserie routine. I don’t remember if we talk about Human Chess or the new D&D edition they’re making but I remember the coffee being orange. I don’t know if that’s heat haze or flashback sepia but it is face punchingly effective and within three minutes I am One With The Sun And All Things. The rest of the afternoon is a bit of a blur.
Nice place. I think I took a loyalty card. Or part of the counter.
Picking through last year’s notebooks for ideas. I have this little red one full of short notes on places. I laughed a little at the ones from when was in Sydney last December.
We were down to watch four games of baseball. I don’t know if I was hungover the whole time, if daylight savings puts you just a tiny bit beside yourself when you’re only there for a few days or if it was just that the Bandits lost that series against the Blue Sox, but here is me doing my damnedest to put my finger on whatever the hell was bugging me about - I don’t know - stuff.
Unordered. Roughly translated from my tiny, messy scrawl:
There’s a different kind of buzz to this city. It’s hard to place. In two short centuries there’s more history than anybody wants to read. And that’s only the shit we acknowledge, nevermind fifty-something-thousand years of countless stories, countless traditions: most of them gone now.
There’s too much.
We find a good coffee place on Kent st, up the road from a church theatre advertising Ted Tally’s Terra Nova and Wilde’s An Ideal Husband (although now I think about it, I can’t remember ever seeing a church theatre thatwasn’tadvertising An Ideal Husband). It’s called Kent Street Specialty Coffee and there’s a big painting of a naked lady at the back. She looks at me as if to say “get out of my bathroom.”
It’s like no one’s really sure who’s running things. Possibly no one. Local, council, state, federal, whole businesses, library staff: it feels like everybody just got here and figured “yeah. This’ll do for a coffee shop. I like the bricks.” There are plaques everywhere, but they’re just stories.
We found an abandoned city and set up shop. Even the graffiti is beheld with a kind of reverence, like ancient runes.
I know, it’s the other way around. There was no city and the place was
But you know what I mean. Even in the suburbs our stay is temporary. Every house may as well be demountable.
We walk through Hyde Park. We find shade.
I’m told on any given weekday you’ll see two or more men in business attire asleep on the grass, shoes kicked clear. Sometimes they’re not sleeping; just staring at the sky.
It’s strange watching the end of a career in the middle of the day.
We watch one of them for a while. We wonder what he’ll do tomorrow.
We head down some stairs looking for a train, come back out half an hour later in a different part of the city without actually having caught one. A boy and a girl are walking around a statue of old Queen Vic in opposite directions. They meet in front of her - at her feet - maybe having waited a while for each other on either side of the monument. Their big headphones knock themselves about when they kiss.