>> surfer-chik >>

essay: #026: Hell in Sepia

2007-02-25T21:04:00.000+11:00

Mirage of sun.
Rises over Middle Eastern desert.
While I drink.
Bleached hues of Jarhead.
Showing, right now.

The futility of war, combat, and ideology.
Boys, living the nightmare.
Of politics.
Of hypocrisy.
Of burnt-out cars.
And emotional wreckage.

And celluloid artisans.
Homage to Apocalypse Now.
And Full Metal Jacket.
Where marines play football.
In latest chemical-warfare masks.
Hummers, same as you see on Sunset.
Scatter like roaches, across foreign sand.
In a place.
We don't belong.

Yes, Sam Mendez.
Hell in sepia.
Showing, right now.

# #

essay: #025: DNA in the Food Chain

2006-10-20T21:19:00.000+10:00

HEADLINE: FDA TO APPROVE MILK AND MEAT, FROM CLONED ANIMALS.

Brave new world, this...
For a genetically modified breed.
Exploring our ever-changing curiosities.
Scientific or otherwise.

Yes.
Mess with our gene pool, please.
Change our ecology, once again.
From the petri dish.
To us.
The DNA in the Food Chain of Progress....

It's the wild, wild, west.
Whispers someone close.
And he's right, god bless him.
More provocative acts,
And tales, from the frontline.

To be continued...
I'm sure.

# #

essay: #024: Black Swan

2006-08-16T22:45:00.000+10:00

Snorkelled with giant Sea Turtles.
On Great Barrier Reef.
Along spine of the Continental shelf.
Where aquatic life meets rainforest land.
And us, mankind.

Stood on a beach, devoid of ocean.
Went AWOL after dredging began, back in 1930s.
Now the tide comes in late.
And one day, soon...
Maybe not at all.

Saw crocodiles on river's edge.
Pythons sliding down trees.
And sailed on a boat, from South China seas.
Point break, in the ecological chain.
damn, it's beautiful.

# #

essay: #065: androids dream electric

2006-06-30T17:05:00.000+10:00

Why do we dream.
And reach for the stars?
Spear flags deep.
Into craters of the moon.
And draw maps.
Over sea and statelines?

What would it be like.
Out there, in space?
If androids dream electric.
Then why can't we?

# #

essay: #023: dreaming in color

2006-06-07T21:50:00.000+10:00

c.Kenton Miller

Melbourne, 2006.
Life really is...
Beautiful.

# #

essay: #022: long, green mile

2006-05-05T19:43:00.000+10:00

c. AFP/Art Lein

Jihad's over.
For one man, so it seems.
37-year-old, 9/11 conspirator, Moussaui’s.
Matrimony to martyrdom.
ACCESS DENIED.
Foolish rhetoric.
From a skewered perspective.
Honey, welcome, to the rest, of your natural life.

Damn that.
Just missing out, on the death penalty.
Newest tenant, on the Supermax bloc.
Poor mama’s bleating:
How dare, they leave her boy, to die.
Like a rat, in a hole.

Sweeter, I’d imagine.
It could not be.
Justice.
Yes, right, this time round.
Poetry from the lips of Judge Leonie Brinkema.
As she sentenced him.
To a green-mile, horror.
Of the most, unimaginable kind.

You will spend the rest of your life in a supermaximum security prison… It’s quite clear who won… and who lost. You came here to be a martyr in a great bang of glory, but to paraphrase the poet T.S Elliot, instead you will die with a whimper. .. You will never again get a chance to speak and that’s an appropriate and fair ending.

# #

essay: #021: Palm of My Hand

2006-04-14T08:41:00.000+10:00

c.9 news

Fetish, and the art of it, all.
Boudoir secrets.
Suck them in.
Suck them out.

A friend hands me.
Small boxes, of human hair.
Over Asahi.
Hers.
Dated, from eternal summers.
Into the autumn of now.

How strange it feels.
Weight, of a whole head, of human hair.
Minus its body.
In the palm, of your hands.

My brother’s fetish.
It turns out.
Is life, extremes, children, and body art.
Beautiful, as he is.
With symbols sharp.
And sometimes, soft.

Just words.
Some may say.
But we’re all naked, without them.
In the end.

Secrets we keep.
The ones, we don’t.
Life, shines on, regardless.
Whatever, turns you on.

For me.
It's the waves, now.
hop aboard.
Surf, another sunset.
one door closes.
Sayonara, and thanks for coming...

# #

essay: #020: Virgin Galactic

2006-03-16T17:26:00.000+11:00

c.wired magazine

Love the circles, in which I walk.
Swimming through oxygen.
Wired to the core.
Trying to make sense of a journey.
That never will.
In the end.

Rebel entrepreneur, Richard Branson.
Major Tom, in spacesuit apparel.
Gazes, sardonically from a magazine cover.
In pursuit of his own, personal Jesus.
The stars, and beyond!

Flight of the aviator.
All, caviar and 62-mile high club.
SpaceShipOne.
Mojave Airport, in midday sun.

$9-billion-a-year global empire.
Shoot me to the stars, honey.
And I'll love you forever.

# #

essay: #019: eyes open wide

2006-02-16T09:40:00.000+11:00

My friend says:
"God makes them black.
And makes them white.
And makes them interesting.
And here, they are.
Chatting..."

I say:
"And how beautiful is that?"
For a moment.
The noise, abates...
And a voice.
Cuts through the symphony.
Of a million tongues.

I think of this place.
In the picture.
Eyes open wide.
To human potential.
To capturing the beauty.
Of any one moment.
Fiction, and otherwise.

I think of exchanges.
From the other side.
Of a world, divided in two.
And for a brief second.
Not.

# #

essay: #018: On the Wings of Desire

2006-02-10T22:40:00.000+11:00

Immortality.
That thing, we seek.
Above, all else.

Imagine.
Living.
As only a memory.
Borne, on the wings.
Of someone else's desire.
Pay the ferryman, bitch.
And be on your way.

Love, this image.
Dreamy and proud.
Just beautiful!
For a moment, or two.
Palm trees, swaying, in the background.
Keeps me warm.
On cold, summery nights.

essay: #018 Vanilla Sky

2006-01-29T21:05:00.000+11:00

It's all Vanilla Sky.
104.3 degrees, in the shade.

My editor says:
“I love it when you restrain yourself.”
My man says:
“Life is meaningless without you…”
The headline says:
“DEAD MAN RIDES SUBWAY FOR HOURS, BEFORE BEING DISCOVERED.”

# #

essay: #017 Strange Days

2006-01-05T23:23:00.000+11:00

So, it felt like the film Strange Days.
Greatest story ever told, kind of.
Where future tense becomes the now.

There was something about.
The Pope wears Prada.
While New Orleans was unveiled.
As poster-child for the Third World.

None of it mattered though.
In the end.
Mojito in the sun.
Love, brooding opposite me.

What is love, anyway?
"I miss you, even when I'm with you...."
I want to say.
To my baby.

But I don't.
And I do...
And now.
I am half...

# transmission ends #

essay: #016: Screams of the Butterfly

2005-12-06T15:20:00.000+11:00

Venice Beach.
Sunset.
Facades.
Behind which, lies the past.

A woman says:
"Come run, I tell you your fortune..."
The sun's setting.
All sultry and sepia.
Palm trees, swaying.
Tattoo parlors.
Sandy vista out to the horizon.

All Kool Aid.
And dreamy.
Doors of Perception.
Screams of the butterfly.
Nirvana...

essay: #015: NEW SKIN

2005-11-20T01:22:00.000+11:00

" />

Slipping into the ether of another city.
Another skin.
This City of Angels.
Never quite what you imagine.

Freedom to roam to the ends of the earth.
Freedom to become someone else, for just one day.
Liberation, for the price of an air- ticket.
A few thousand frequent flyer points.
And of course, love.

My friend says: "You're having fun, aren'’t you?"
“Yes," I respond, with a smirk in my eye.

* * *

Meanwhile, on the other side of the globe.
Paris Burns.
“France'’s Failure," declares The Economist.
Rioters in the streets ignite 6,000 cars.
Buses, kindergartens and churches...
Muslim and West African minorities responsible, say the headlines.
Intifada. Jihad or plain discontent.
A work in progress, either fucking way.

* * *

Restless hours ahead.
Brush Fires burn in Ventura.
Sirens wail deeply into the night.

My baby comes home.
Molds his body into mine.
Just the way I like it.
“Asahi, honey...?"

We watch images of fire, consume prime real estate.
Flaring momentarily, while helicopters hover above.
Over this eternal Indian Summer.

“Run, come save me honey...”
I scrawl on a post-it note.
“You don’t need to run, you’re already home,” he replies.

essay: #014 HISTORY OF LOVE.

2005-09-29T21:25:00.000+10:00

The History of Love.
The History of Hate.
We live in a beautiful world of unimaginable horrors.

History of Love, a book.
Made my heart grow wings and fly away....

13: THE ETERNAL DISAPPOINTMENT OF LIFE AS IT IS.

"Just as there was a first instant when someone rubbed two sticks together to make a spark, there was a first time joy was felt, and a first time for sadness. For a while, new feelings were invented all the time. Desire was born early, as was regret. When stubbornness was felt for the first time, it started a chain reaction, creating the feeling of resentment on the one hand, and
alienation, loneliness on the other. It might have been a certain counterclockwise movement of the hips that marked the birth of ecstasy: a bolt of lightening that caused the first feeling of awe, or maybe it was the body of girl named Alma...."
History of Love, Nicole Krauss

# #

essay: #013 INSIDE THE BUBBLE

2005-09-01T14:00:00.000+10:00

c. Reuters.

Some days.
Poetry drips off my tongue.
Into the endless epitaphs.
And hypnotic laws of
Cause and effect.

The lyrics say:
"We live in a beautiful world..."

But the news.
Speaks differently...

"FIRE ROARS THROUGH PARISIAN APARTMENT BUILDING."
Filled with migrants.
And their babes.
Drunk on the notion.
Of a New World.
Kinder than the last.
But no less deadly.

"We just saw the bodies of seven children who were
asphyxiated. It's an abominable spectacle."
Interior Minister, Nicolas Sarkozy

Casualties.
Small.
Insignificant...
Or maybe.
Not so...

And now...

Just cinders on the wind.

RIP.

* *

essay: #012 DEBRIS ON A HILLSIDE

2005-08-17T11:42:00.000+10:00

c. Reuters

I dream.
Of airplanes.
Falling
From.
The sky.

Oxygen masks.
Hanging.
Empty.
At 34,000 feet.

Everything.
Outwards.
Sucked.
Inwards.

While F-16.
Fighter planes.
Ride the wing.

A passenger.
Comes in the form.
Of text messenger:

"Farewell, Cousin.
Here we're frozen...."

Meanwhile...
20 children.
Lie.
Sleeping.

Skin.
Coated with.
Ice.
And.
The.
Seeds
Of
Misfortune.

Moments later...

Debris.
On a hillside.
Blown
To
The four corners.
Of the earth.

RIP.

# transmission ends #

essay: #011 A MEMO

2005-07-28T01:22:00.000+10:00

Memo To: Jonathan Safran Foer.

Subject: Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close.

______________________________________________

Jonathan.

Your words made me cry.
Last night.
Dammit.
You made me think again.
Feel.
Grieve.
For a world
So at odds with itself.

Thought of human casualties.
Endless walls of posters.
Of strangers missing.
And missed.
Epitaphs lining the Tube.
Where suicide bombers surf.
On misguided ideals.
And one-way ticket to martyrdom.

Fuck.
The crux.
It's a War of Idealism.
Fought with words.
With rhetoric.
With bombs.
With human kamikaze.

From Ground Zero.
To Bali.
Madrid.
Kings Cross.
To the many, many.
More to come.

See.
Suddenly
It hit me.
When you wrote.
The following words.
You were speaking for
ALL of humanity.
When you said:

"In bed that night I invented a special drain that would be underneath every pillow in New York and would connect to the reservoir. Whenever people cried themselves to sleep, the tears would all go into the same place, and in the morning the weatherman could report if the water level of the Reservoir of Tears had gone up or down, and you could know if New York was in heavy boots. And when something really terrible happened - like a nuclear bomb, or at least a biological weapons attack - an extremely loud siren would go off, telling everyone to get to Central Park to put sandbags around the reservoir."
- Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close.

* *

essay: #10 ETERNITY OF A SECOND

2005-06-17T21:10:00.000+10:00

The storm rolls in.
We look skywards.
Some from the gutter.
Some from the stars.

Precious.
Fragile.
Beautiful.
The eternity of a second.

# #

essay: #09 CUPID'S ARROW

2005-05-22T00:00:00.000+10:00

Cupid's arrow.
Has struck a cruel and savage blow.
dammit!
Frederic Beigbeder.
And his novel.
Windows On The World.
Went and broke my fucking heart.
Clean in two.
Snapped it.
Like a twig!

Strange times.
These.

Iceberg's crashing.
Raising sea-levels.
Churning embryonic tsunamis into tomorrow's tragedy.
While Tower of Babel's destruction replays
Over and over
On 'mind-loop' Greatest Hits channel.

Sometimes it's easier not to care.
To turn your back on the horizon.
To the plotline where fiction collides with reality.
Infinite.
Unwritten.
But always sensationalist.

Democracy.
A stormy ocean.
Crashing against our shores.
Abuse.
More.
Military always in the frontline.
Afghanistan says, "Please explain?"

Sign O The Times.
Each day.
With its multiple sound-byte-orgasms.
damn.
Always makes us feel better though.

A friend, serving in the US Military.
In Iraq.
Dodging rockets and mortars.
Miltary Doc gives him a shot.
Ease the pain.
Fuck.
Makes him numb.
Soldier blues catch up with him occasionally.
He says: "Someone's gotta do this, why not me?"

"Stay safe, soldier," I say.

Beigbeder.
Snuggles in closer.
Some say he's "vain and shallow."
Others, a genius.
A Frenchman with an eye for tragedy.
Sculpting a vision so terrifying.
Yet so necessary.

Sweet dreams, world.
Safe from glass towers spurting fire and brimstone high into the heavens.
And burning bodies slowdiving into the history books.

We're Generation 'sidewalk-gazer'.
Too afraid to look up.
Too afraid to look down.
Event Horizon.
Buy your ticket!
Jump aboard, you won't be disappointed..."

essay: #08 A DANCING MATRIX

2005-05-05T21:40:00.000+10:00

Damn picture.
Gives me the chills.
Fucking 21st Century Plague Armies.

Disposal of human-matter.
Reads like a horror story.
Armageddon, if you must.
Eco-bioterrorism mutated with rage.

Bacteria and super-viruses.
'Superspreaders.'
Layman's lingo:
People infected with disease who pass onto inordinate number of others.
Sweet Jesus.

SARS.
MARBURG.
EBOLA.
AVIAN FLU.

ON THE MOVE...

Strap on the face-mask.
Nothing personal intended, you understand.
Sidestep Quarantine Station #200
Halting the Spread of the Inevitable.

damn.
Exotic pathogens hi-jacking our immune systems.
Clocking the Frequent-Flyer-points.
Extreme makeover-artists infiltrating
The flesh and blood of our pestilent ways.

1918 Spanish Flu kills 2 million.
1957 Asian Flu, estimated 2 million +
1968 Hong Kong Flu, 34,000.
2005 AIDS, 15 million and rising.
2005 Marburg, 200 and rising.

"Menacing as bioterrorism is, the danger from naturally evolving diseases are far greater. While we watch out our front door for terrorist germs, killer microbes such as the SARS virus are sneaking through our backdoor. The sheer number of pathogens is rising, and their diversity, reproductive vigor, and ability to mutate are daunting." New Killer Diseases.

A friend says:
"Hey, it's okay!
It's all part of the pattern."

Population Control.
Global warming.
Humanity.
A DANCING MATRIX.
In the Garden of millennial-eden.

*

essay: #07 LAST RITES

2005-04-04T18:37:00.000+10:00

Karol Wojtyla
1920 - 2005

Vigil...
Candles...
Rivers of tears...
Shed...
For...
A man...
With wings woven of messianic gold...

Reactionary papacy...
Sweet Jesus...
Judgments...
By the Prophet of the New Millennium...
Let he without sin...
Cast the first stone...

Vatican-cam...
Corporation-cam
Press-Office 24/7 fucking-cam...

Soon to be canonized...
JOHN PAUL THE GREAT...
If you don't mind...

Crazy fucking world...

Pomp and ceremony...
oils the internal cogs-and-wheels...
that-makes-the-Vatican-go-round...

I dream of bridges...
High into the stratosphere...
Color...
Cobalt...
Steel-of-my-eyes...
Of the ocean...
Stormy days...
Stormy times...
Prophecy...
Uncertainty...
ahead...

RIP...
Pope John Paul II...

essay #06 A KISS FOR ABELE

2005-03-23T19:05:00.000+11:00

A billion...

>> ONE MAN ARMIES >>

Populate Planet...
Red, White and Blue...
The Long Green Mile...
damn...
Whichever way you look at it...
Blink...
And it all crumbles to fucking ash...
Dust...
Rubble...
Potential raped by human greed...

WAR ON TERROR...
WAR OF PROPAGANDA...
Media slaves to spread the joy...
Sons-of-bitches...

But still...

There's always great beauty...
All around...
For the taking...
For the tasting...
For the devouring...

But right now...

I can only stare at this vision...

http://www.abelequaregna.com

A voice...
Silent...
In protest...

Drink in the pathos...
Hostage-to-his-own-fate...
Decked in 3-day-stubble-and-tender-jackboots...

So relaxed...
So beautiful...
So chiseled..

So...
Life Is Beautiful...
Always makes me cry...
Sweet Jesus...

Bittersweet...
Like absinthe...
The only language, I know...

essay: #05 THE ART OF HUMAN CONCEIT

2005-02-08T12:45:00.000+11:00

credit: Geoff Kavanagh

SHE SWEPT IN FROM THE OCEAN...
133kph winds later...
She was gone...

Eerie...
So damn eerie...

That howling wind...
And...
Of course...
The...
Sweet...
Lullabye...
Sounds...
Of the trickle...
Of melting glaciers...

Meteorologists...
Were caught with their pants down, again...
Failed to issue warnings...
dammit...
We have the technology to send our imaginations...
To the Titanic moons of Jupiter...

Optimism arrived...
Days later...
In the headline...

US SCIENTISTS DESIGN NEW GENERATION OF NUKES...

I'm thinking...
Consequences...
Right now...
And of the words...
Of Physicist, Ursula Franklin

"It just feels that weight of the human conceit of thinking that human beings are entitled to create elements that have not been in the ecosystem
before, like plutonium, and then say, 'It's business as usual. I just did
it because it was Tuesday and it was very convenient...' The enormous moral and ethical burden of this seems to be so unrecognized."

essay #04 OPIUM FOR THE MAGNATES

2005-01-24T21:15:00.000+11:00

It'S SO BARMY...
45-degrees-in-the-goddamn-shade...

Crazy city, this...
SOUTHERN HEMISPHERE OUTPOST...
Latcho drom...
Melting-pot-Metropolis...
Western-cog-in-capitalistic-wheel...

Hi-Jacked taxis...
Clog-city-arteries...
Morning-fare-down-the-barrel-of-a-gun...
SIX BLOCKS LATER..
Car rolls...
Gunman-disarmed...
"Nothing to see here, folks...
Move it along..."

I'm thinking...
Stepford Housewives...
Porning-their-husbands-wealth-through Hyper-Mall-Botox-clinics...

I'm thinking...
Neruda right now...
DAMN HIM...

>> OPIUM FOR THE MAGNATES >>

Of the photojournalist...
Trapped in the 'Lipstik-Lifestyle' Fastlane...
Repulsed by the Manicured Decadence...
Of a liposuctioned-Middle-East...
Don Quixote-with-a-Nikon...
FOR THE REVOLUTION...

AND...
FOR...
THE...
ONE...
WITHIN...
US...
ALL...

essay #03 TSUNAMI HELL

2005-01-01T20:15:00.000+11:00

DIGITAL GLOBE/AAP

BIBLICAL PROPORTIONS...
This Tsunami Hell...
Seas of fury...
Rips children from their parents safe embrace...

Indiscriminate...
Savage...
Cruel...

TOO DEVASTATING TO CONTEMPLATE...

Sweet Jesus...

Tropical morgue...
Watery grave...
Mass burials...
Boardshort-bodies...
Dragged from the malarial depths...
Children...
Orphans...
Now pale imitations...
Of the living...

THERE ARE NO WORDS...
ONLY...
DEEP...
BOTTOMLESS...
SORROW...

2004...
EPITAPH TO DEVASTATION...
In Memorial...

essay #02 HOME SWEET HOME

2004-12-20T18:49:00.000+11:00

AUSTRALIAN EASTERN-SEABOARD 12/2004

Toxic sunsets of Home-Sweet-Home...
Behind surf-culture-facades...
Beached whales...
Melting ice-caps...
Extreme-fucking-armchair-eco-terrorism...

And...
Pretty Miss "Noctiluca" phosphorous....
Hugging our shoreline...
Her pretty...
Noxious orange glow...
Lights up our night-sky...

Welcome...
To...
The...
'New Riviera...'

essay #01 CODE ORANGE

2004-12-06T14:05:00.000+11:00

A world..
Eternally...
On Code Orange...

:: Built on the grief of 9/11 ::

damn...

I miss yesterday...