writing

This is where (some of) my thoughts become sentences.

“Why do you keep drawing things with fish in them, Kel?”

“I…don’t know.”

I ended a day of drawing with some drawing and at first it was just a quick painting of the woman with the hair. But because I always want to know the story I added the ladder.

Then I needed to know why the ladder?

So I painted the cats.

And why the cats?

So I added the missing cats sign.

And before I knew it I was onto a second page but it didn’t feel quite right.

“This needs fish.”

I think that’s how it happens.

“She looks like a cat”

“She is.”

Cursed and spell-bound by an evil witch to live forever as a woman.

In a man’s world.

I don’t know how that happens.

I’m Redecorating. It’s Actual Law.

I recently bought a piece of furniture off Facebook Marketplace. A cabinet. Only a little bit fancy.
I saw the ad. Liked it enough. Then I read the ad.

Size. Good.
Location. Close.
History. Has been moved back and forth between Perth and New York twice.

Well.

Take. My. Money.

Now there’s story. And a good story too.
New York. My favourite place in the world when I’m craving a New York kind of feeling.
And I’d say she knows that feeling too, so that’s one thing we have in common. Some of the greatest friendships are built on much less.

Which brings me to last night. I bought an old framed print off Facebook Marketplace (I’m redecorating, it’s actual law*). Goldilocks is the name of it. Originally painted in 1970. I’m guessing it was called Goldilocks on account of the child’s long golden hair and tonight, I went and picked her up. I drove one hour thirteen minutes in total. I knock.

A lady answers the door. Later sixties, I’d assume.
“Hold on, I’ll just open the garage”
The garage opens, there she is. Much more beautiful in real life. As is the painting.
She hands me Goldilocks and says, like it’s no big deal, “I was given this on my twenty-first birthday.”

Well.

I gave her my money.

*in some states. likely not the one you’re in.

Albert

His name is Albert. Albie for short. He’s been working at the cement factory since he was twelve years old. Smokes a pack of cigarettes a day (still) and hasn’t trusted new music since Johnny Cash died.

Also none of this is true. I have no idea who he is. But I bet he could rotate your tires with one hand.

When your significant other has a brain so exactly like yours you sometimes wonder if you’re twins separated at birth (which, I hope not), you will find yourselves sitting on the couch any random Monday or Thursday or Sunday night laughing because one of you said the word awry. But both of you thought bread. From there you’ll brainstorm ideas for a zine. Or a picture book. OR A MOVIE (we went there), like two very excited children. Then finally, the one who can draw will have to scratch the itch further and turn it into the beginnings of something…

Here is proof of that.

Just a Line or Two

I have taken up writing every morning. Fresh coffee (or four). Just a line or two. That’s the goal.
This is today’s work.

Alice

Her name is Alice. Every Thursday she plays a European parlour game she insists was taught to her by a woman in Trieste in 1964. It could be true. The rules of the game are that there are no rules. She always wins.

Louie

Louie is a fishmonger, obviously. He comes from a long line of mongers. Cheese, fruit, fear.

FRANK

January 2025 I went to New York City, again.
I’d spent entire days walking and thanked myself hourly for the New Balance 327’s. Most comfortable. Most amount of money I’ve ever spent on trainers.

On one of these days, early evening, I stroll by the Hotel Chelsea. I take a few photos from the outside because… history, and that might have been enough, probably, had the story seeker in me not thought what the heck, ask the doorman if I can go in…
Fingers crossed.
Then a sigh of relief.
He allows it.

I walk around the lobby and take a seat by the fire to soak up the atmosphere.
I think about who, how, and when other people have sat by this fire before me.
The music that’s been written, stories told, arguments had. The love people had fallen into.
And out of.
By this fire.

On a dark brown leather chair across from me sits Frank, an older gentleman. Deep into his eighties, if I had to guess. Frank smiles at me, nods. I smile back. Nod. And before I know it we strike up a conversation.

Frank has lived at the Hotel Chelsea for thirty years, he tells me.
I ask him about the place, if it’s changed much over his time. It has. It used to be very bohemian here, he says, until the “renovations” several years ago, but the artwork on the walls remain. Frank tells me that’s how artists used to pay to stay here.

Another elderly man walks toward us. Frank tells me this guy is in his 90s and has just lost his dog of fourteen years. Frank gets up to give him a hug. “You took great care of her.” Is the first thing Frank says to him.

I say I bet he’s seen a lot of things living here for so long. Frank grins and stays quiet. I know not to ask any more about that. “Where you from?” “Australia,” I say, “flying back tomorrow.”
He tells me his good friend Fran Lebowitz hates that flight, it’s way too long. I agree.

An older woman, much older than Frank, comes over to say hello. She’s frail and walks with a frame but I can tell she still has some hutzbah by her accent alone. Frank introduces me. She was a dancer back in the day, a well known one too, I’m told. She’s lived at the Chelsea since the early 80s. Decade, not age.

Everyone here knows Frank.
And today, everyone here knows me. Frank made sure of that.

After a while I stand up and shake Frank’s hand, thanking him for the chat.
I feel like I have touched history.
Frank wishes me well and I go on my way. A smile so uncontrollable it hurts my face.
Andy Warhol, Lou Reed, Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, Janis Joplin, Frank, me.

It’s the moments like this that keep me coming back to New York City.