Simon Groth

@simongroth.com

1459 Followers 955 Following

Curious writer. Aprendiendo español. ‘Ephemeral City’ is available now. Stories and ephemera published in a box that can be read in any order you like. Follow along with my new book in progress. simongroth.com/newsletter

A self pitying tweet from Sam Altman that reads: Sam Altman Y @sama ... >be me ›grind for a decade trying to help make superintelligence to cure cancer or whatever >mostly no one cares for first 7.5 years, then for 2.5 years everyone hates you for everything >wake up one day to hundreds of messages: "look i made you into a twink ghibli style haha" Boo fucking hoo, Sama
A torn up index card next to a stack of index cards on which I’ve written chapter outlines.
Harper the greyhound with a coat and a blanket on the couch in the sun. Must be nice.
The cover of Codex Unfertho by Kienn Nguyen.
The fake beach at South Bank closed for repairs. There’s no water and the sand is piled into high dunes. You can still see palm trees and buildings in the background.
Harper the greyhound, lounging on a chaise lounge with her legs crossed over the arm. I mean…come on…
A copy of Eel’s Electro-shock Blues on the turntable. I keep rediscovering tracks off this. Today’s was Dead of Winter. Amazing song.
A squirrel at Coors Field. Cute. Don’t look at the score. Look at this instead.
A screenshot of my notes app's recent additions. Today's note title is "Holy fuckballs", yesterday's is "Note for book: Symmetry.", in the previous 7 days is one that says "Oh my god it's fake".
A screenshot of my notes app. All you can see is the time and the title I gave the note: Holy fuckballs.
A reflection of Seamus the greyhound in the pool. The image is upside down making him look like some kind of ghostly dog.
Me standing in the no standing área.
A photo of a document on a screen. All the text has vanished as has a goodly chunk of the fucking ribbon. A single oblong blob with a deep shadow sits atop the page absorbing my anger and frustration. It feeds on it. It grows stronger every day.
A martini on my kitchen bench, about to be devoured.
Seamus the greyhound has crashed out on a comfy dog bed by the wall. His mouth is slightly open and you can see his blue collar and the gnarly scar on his shoulder from his racing days.
Sam Altman having a sook: “>be me ›grind for a decade trying to help make superintelligence to cure cancer or whatever >mostly no one cares for first 7.5 years, then for 2.5 years everyone hates you for everything >wake up one day to hundreds of messages: "look i made you into a twink ghibli style haha"” Joder, menudo capullo.
A screencap from apple’s keynote video thing. It says “committed to building a safe and trusted platform for kids” and shows what looks like a slop image of a kid sitting uncomfortably close to Jeff Bezos looking at an iMac. There are balloons in the background too in case it wasn’t already creepy enough for you.
Harper the greyhound is sitting in front of Seamus also the greyhound who is tucked into a corner between two couches. She has her arse to him but she’s sitting quite close. Its two weeks since he’s arrived.
The Conference of Dipshits People need to be happy about being exploited. Why aren't you happy? You get to be creative within the strict parameters we set. Scaling = endless slop push.
One of the few times I get to break out my winter coat. Inside. I’m also wearing a colossal squid badge.
Former Australian Prime Minister Kevin Rudd in the middle of saying “THIS FUCKING LANGUAGE!” after fucking up a phrase in Mandarin. Relatable.
Seamus the greyhound apparently fine with chilling on my reading chair.
A fortune cookie that says “Hope for the best but prepare for the worst”. Fuck.
A sign saying “Event build in progress” in front of a temporary fence that looks like it’s been knocked down by 40-50 bowling balls.
Me wearing my shirt featuring the carpet pattern from “The Shining”. It’s mostly maroon.
Harper the greyhound lying on the verandah fast asleep catching some morning rays. Couch and basket of toys in the background. Looks like a nice life she’s got there.
A New York baked cheesecake with a few slices taken out. Texture turned out great though the crust was a little too crumbly.
A concession ten trip saver ticker for buses and ferries from 2002.
On the turntable: Sly and the Family Stone's Greatest Hits from 1970. Wall to wall bangers, people.
A packet of cancha saladita or salty fried corn.
A brush tail possum on the handrail looking extremely innocent.
A copy of Modern Life is Rubbish by Blur on the turntable. Great pressing by the way. Super quiet vinyl. I love it when a record I first heard on CD retains all its dynamics and clarity on vinyl.
A paper bag from Little Red Dumpling that has the slogan “Consume dumpling”. Well, if you insist.
A fortune from a fortune cookie that reads: Hope for the best but prepare for the worst.
Un cartel soviético con un cosmonauta que dice que no hay dios.
El cartel soviético subtituló ¡Haz paso al maíz!
The title page of my copy of Earth Hour by David Malouf, signed by the author.
A jar of ají amarillo paste made from the hot peppers of the same name.
A passage of text on paper. Below the bottom line I have scrawled the words “CUNTS”.
A label for the samples of paper stock that reads: “Touch me. Feel me. Spec me…” Uh okay.
Harper the greyhound demands the pats continue by lazily lifting her leg. Like a chump, I comply.
Bottles of a Cabernet Sauvignon from the Groth Vineyard of Napa Valley. Hey that’s my fam! I was not prepared to part with $200 to try it out though.
Prints of Luigi Mangioni in the style of a sacred icon. The book he holds reads: Depose, Delay, Deny.
Me flicking through the 8-track cartridge collection. Wings Over America is cheap.
Amoeba record store on Haight Street.
A record made possibly out of paper on a suitcase turntable from the 1950s. The record seems to indicate that it contains nothing more than two dudes talking about baseball.
A damn fine cup of coffee.
A handwritten sign on an old pinball machine: “Push coin and hold until all balls drop.”
Harper the greyhound on the couch looking guilty. A broken plate is on the floor.
My podcast app showing the first Behind the Bastards episode on Phil Spector.
From the lyric sheet of Mt Wellington Reverie by Augie March. The subtitle (not in the song) reads: “Three convicts Hobart guest house, Marcus Clarke hails his last taxi.” Nice.
A vinyl copy of Moo You Bloody Choir by Augie March. A sublime album on gorgeous alabaster coloured vinyl and reversed gold and maroon cover art.
Looking up at the roof of the verandah on a fine morning. A kookaburra is on the gutter looking out over his doman.
A closeup of my typewriter, an Olivetti Lettera 32. I have written "I wouldn't, would I?". The typo (a d slapped over an e) suggests that no, I wouldn't because typewriters are a pain in the arse.
Me using an orbital sander on the end of a log.