lost and found

Found a missing person yesterday.
Bit obvious really - he wanted to be found.
But filling out the incident report later, the form asked "what steps have been taken to ensure the incident does not happen again".
Admittedly the form is tailored more to people tripping over things or being skulled by a heavy book falling from a shelf.
But I really want this to happen again.
Not for any SMH article, but for the sake of the kids. It's pretty nice that he thought of the Library. After all, what better place to hang out if you had run away from home, than somewhere with plenty to do, that's warm, dry and relatively safe. Where you won't get moved along by security and it doesn't cost you a cent.
Only drawback is that you get found by a librarian.
Best bit: He actually joined the library and then borrowed a book before he happily went with the cops.
Awesome!

Now that's a comedown...

It was in the terribly wonderful very early hours of the morning. About the time that the crisp pre-dawn chill thinks about settling. I was loitering between the two white canvas tents at Inqui, having finished saying hello to all the beautiful people and becoming deeply suspicious that my drugs were due to kick in any moment. When I heard the chorus of a horribly bouncy hip hop God-song.

What possessed the DJ responsible to play such inescapable poppy pseudo-religious shite at a party run by, for, and packed with the cream of Sydney’s kink and queer community is beyond me entirely. And if my suspicions about my drug status was correct, and I was to peak when listening to this song, it could get very very ugly for me indeed.

So I darted away, or attempted to, considering the crowd, my precarious leather soled vintage shoes, and the unavoidable greetings from drug-fucked acquaintances lurching out at me from corners.
I found myself a smoky sweaty corner of a distant dancefloor, with music I couldn’t name and without any discernable lyrics. And I danced and danced and danced away any memory of my close shave with any rapping jesus-homie-girls.

Cut to later the next day, much later the next day, as I’ve found my way into civilian clothing of some description and half tamed my hair and left the half-light of my little house for the sunshine of a now forgotten errand down the street.
And what song do I find myself humming under my breath.

'Fuck' I think.
'Holy-mary-mother-of-god they’ve won'.

Oh dear.

Today I met Dorothy Porter and behaved all fan girly. I'm normally pretty cool with the visiting authors at work (oh Bill Bryson is upstairs? Oh whatever...)
But *gah!*
I wasn't prepared for how hot she looks in the flesh. And then she did this dismissive thing at me. Oh heavens.
I behaved all stupid schoolboy. Forgetting to shake hands (hiding my hard-on?). Loitering up the back of the room. Hey see me move these massive display boards around, aren't I strong. Stupid. Stupid. Silly. Dammit.

In other news, I am in the midst of a crocheting frenzy. Anyone want a neck warmer/scarf thing? Drop me a line. You can stipulate colour - the rest depends on what wool I can find and what new stitch I've just learnt.