One night at the disko

Pulsating square waves cascade into the mindful cacophony of a sweetly chilled autumn’s night, as the drum machine works its circuits into submission. Slaved to its rhythm is the bass guitar modelling machine, a squelching tiny battler with a penchant for the sounds of little green men, typing its tones from one to sixteen, resonating loudly, effecting the air with timeless punk chic. The singer takes the stand, the microphone covered in dust from the shaking floor boards above, and she looks to the metal walls dripping with sweat and lets her song do the talking.

Dreamland Express, all aboard.

You put your head down on the pillow and nod off to slumberland, where all notions hail from fluffy contexts, leaving the black and white world behind. ENTER into a kaleidoscopic rainbow awash in new colours and old shapes, spiral spiral, until you forgot where you just were. Now you run.

This was a typical dream in Eevee’s life, who had her fair share of hard knocks. A Sydney girl, she kidnapped a boy from home to leave for Europe with it, where she settled in at a pub working as a pushover, waiting tables nightly, trying for the ransom┬ádaily. The boy was her neighbour and inside this dream he was a big green meanie, chasing Ee across the floating rocks spasming with square waves and filtering out bad juju.

“C’mon, it’ll be OK,” the meanie said. “Like it’s another Tuesday and I got a kettle on for ya.”

But Ee just kept on running across imagination, never looking sideways, just ahead at the sun’s face, which looked like Shaq chewing a pineapple while looking at Ee’s friend Smith, a silly lad in overalls who was dreaming about buying electronics from Hawaiian Shirt Bill Murray, workin’ a beach shack down in Manly. He was rude that day to Bill Murray, so Ee yelled “You stupid idiot, come here,” as she jumped across dreams. But as Smith turned up to look above him, he didn’t see anyone up in the sky, nor would he, only birds and Cadillacs up there.

In the next dream, the meanie was gone and Ee was all alone in a vast space of burping sponges. As she looked around, there was a small cat-o-dile peering at her from above the nightmare foam permeating the Below. “Someone pinch me, I think I’m done,” she said. But she’s not anywhere near done, not until she makes it to the rapid drop fall off the bottom of the faraway hanging cliff. Dreams tend to go like that, she thought. They never end, they just keep going on with or without you. Aye.


Pub stories

The man at the pub proposed to detail the secret history of the famous Melbournian cat burglar, currently targeted by officials, beginning with her first theft from the stalwart people of Militaires Sans Frontieres to other famous historical acts of burglary depicted in the papers, including the Great White Diamond Horde, which was allegedly where “The Cat” met her lothario sidekick, “Rasputin,” who came up with the idea to steal from the first flying blimp restaurant, where Italy’s darling opera singer Rosetta Vellotti, whose first splash was as a street musician, had had stolen her ruby crusted necklace, which was on loan to her from the Arch Duke of Cheshire, who was out hunting near the lake at Westinthrope House, when The Cat and Rasputin snuck in to his family’s longstanding home to take from it the last surviving portrait of the 15th century rosicrucian Asla Gargal Vanlouse – who had killed himself in a fit of heretic rage – and then escaped the House’s expansive grounds under the cover of pale moonlight, flickering shadows at every twist and turn to throw off the dogs and keepers, who themselves complained about how the thieves had stolen the dog’s leashes as well as two chickens, a quarter pint of milk and a young squire’s arm hair, which, of course, had to be a lie, because the chief keeper kept covered his hairy left arm, which seemed to have a bald spot all of a sudden, and which the bald spot had stolen from it some skin particles, mind you… And the ramble didn’t finish for a good while, but by then it was morning.