ADMIT ONE #5: Mother Mary

EDITORS NOTE: Hey y'all. Brock here. It's funny when the boss is off that you're able to do the most work. Without all the nonsense of appealling to their ego... y'know. I swear I did watch this movie. I could tell you the entire plot of it. But the events that occured around this destroyed my brain a bit. I had to put this on the shelf, until now. Suffering from my bimonthly case of writers block, I decided I was going to finish the last paragraph and send this sucker out. So here you go. Enjoy.

This article contains excerpts from What's Journal.

The funny thing is that in this disaster I have learnt the most about What.

From the insurance agency's autopsy they were able to carbon date his bones to two years old, while they invalidated the payout. From in these months reading over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over the Secret Journals of What (SJW's). Which is actually crazy if you think about a pigeon typing in a typewriter and having it actually be somewhat legible. But they weren't that secret, they were just on the desk the entire time.

I had ditched Sydney Cinémathèque, mainly because I could not risk breaking down in debut to the BF. Instead I was in a hotel complex to etch a memory stone from a cobbler set up in an rinky arcade just past the lobby. A stall half-sharing a board room housing trainees carrying three plates from end to end of the room during what I assume was the company's poor fiscal quarter review, which was nice for once it not being me. My attention was bouncing between that and on shadowing the cobbler, moving my hands in censure emulation with his. Neanderthals 100,00 years ago surrounded the dead with handmade tools; for the supposed next journey. All I had to give was an unsteady imitation of what I had been told was the right thing to do.

I wondered about how in Islam, they wash and dress the body less than 24 hours after, to put the lost to rest and face Mecca as soon as possible, meanwhile I was making any distraction possible. In a room holding the bad hum of incompletion. An aesthetic that didn't quite read well. Two people in a room for way too long at the start of the piece that did not have chemistry really at all - trapped in the workload. The cobbler looked at me. Slipping his hand onto the etcher, cutting it open, which didn't make much sense plot wise why he had to slice it open to conjure up some spirit from the dead. But nevertheless, the rock slipped out of his hand and launched into my head. Knocking me out into some psychologically necromantic dream sequence.

There I was. On a plain with pores of a thimble. On an actual memory stone planet. With a mouth filled with nothing but excuses, I blocked the toxic air of abstraction that enveloped the surface along with the odd monument of trauma and celebrity cameo. I walked around for too many minutes with some alright pop music playing in the background until I found a cavern. But inside I was so fucking pissed off at how overt the reference to Persona was; each side of the tunnel projected images of What and I's relationship. And a sight of a coffin at the end of a rail car track that broke open the stone into a passage through to it's hollow core, a centre framing to lead the eye towards the drama. The tibetans have sky burials, leaving the corpse atop a mountains crest, allowing for the closest proximity to god by tearing the soul through its flesh with ants. I have something stuck so far inside myself it is killing me.

By something so simple and tactile. An entire world for a symbol: my love for a pigeon, who I thought would lead me out of this plateau has only become a signal of a transition into something much crueler. The really lame concept of a person and his catastrophic indifference of the emotional workload. It felt as though I was trudging through some way too long, indulgent film. A magnificence of the twisting, masquerading as plot devices of What's asteroiding bombs and blasts that filled the chamber I found myself in the centre of. An overstimulating anger funnelled through an interpretative dance to represent death. I thought I was at Sydney Fringe Festival. It then occured to me that really this was a chore to have to sit through and that I'd really quite rather be home instead.

So I woke up. And I realised I had passed out after jabbing my hand with the receipt spike. I turned down to the washed indigo shag, and tabulated the total cost of donation for a cookie. The cobbler handed me my stone and I went home.

Its a slow week, Fleas.

Pick of the Week
Time and Tide. Time and Tide. Time and Tide.
I won’t shut up about this film, and for bloody good reason. It’s screening at Golden Age; I would go by myself, but bonus points if you go with a parent you have a complex relationship with.

New Releases - THURSDAY 17th September

• Resident Evil (Zach Cregger)
• Coyote Vs. Acme (Dave Green)
• The Weight (Padraic McKinley)
• Forgotten Island (Joel Crawford, Januel Mercado)