Ink stains my fingertips most days.
I have a fondness for whiskey, a passion for Germanic linguistics and a scowl that could knock small animals off their feet.
I get cranky if I don’t write. It’s never pretty.
I listen to the blues every day and am afraid of crumpets. I once ate a rat and always know when the moon is full. I don’t drive. Men with salt and pepper stubble take my breath away and boys who swagger bring venom to the thirteen serpents tattooed on my flesh. That’s not pretty either. I like cowboys though; they smell good.
I was agoraphobic for two years and wrote my way out. Solitude and silence still sit at my table, and make my heart sing. I often cosset myself in my flat, pour the whiskey, and dive into dictionaries. The words entwine themselves in my hair and keep me afloat, wrapping conjunctions around curls and trailing ink through auburn.
I ask for little more than that.
Well, if you could throw in a honey martini and someone to brush my hair, that’d be spectacular too.
Oh, and I also have no stomach for people who walk on stilts. Sinister little fuckers.
I’m done now.
I thought of you all on the weekend. / I was striding down High Street, a bottle of wine tucked under one arm, the Saturday papers under the other. I was humming to Howlin’ Wolf, and thinking about the blues gig I was going to later that night. I almost walked past without noticing it, but something made me turn. / I realised I was outside the Wesley Anne, a beautiful old bluestone pub. There wer…
I haven’t been here in quite a while. / There was a time when I would check this site every day, and regularly post my stories. Six or seven years ago, I was lucky enough to jump on board this site early, and lucky enough to be in Melbourne, the original home of Red Bubble. It was a whirlwind of activity, of parties and collaborations, exhibitions and holidays, challenges and barbeques. / That ti…
Six years ago, I sat swilling whiskey as I tried to decide on my username. It wasn’t that important, I told myself. After all, I’d probably only check this site now and then, and when I found my courage, add my writing. / It wouldn’t mean much, I said. / I chose bellmusker , a reference to the Flemish slang of the Belgian city where I’d been living. And I clicked my mouse and hit ‘join.’ / I had …
Well, you knew this day would come. Presented below for your perusal is my annual collection of quotes scribbled in my little red notebook, where exclamation marks abound, context is irrelevant, and cowboys reign supreme. / Go take a peek…but not if ‘colourful’ language offends. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. / January / Why is it tortoiselogical? – Adrian / You can’t …