Thursday, December 14, 2006

I will deliver. You know I'm a forgiver.

My phone just rang.


Hello, I just called to remind you that people are psychotic and you should be careful at all times.


And I hate them.

Haha, okay. Are you okay?




I walk to the park to have another conversation with myself, but I'm not there. All around me are children, young couples pushing prams, younger couples holding hands, runners pushing themselves further toward...whatever they're running toward. None of these things interest me, instead I take the time to listen to the sighing of the trees, to watch them lean toward each other in the wind, leaves and branches gently caressing their neighbour, whispering tree secrets to each other. There are ducks in the pond, I like watching them. And beside the water, on a seat, is a withered old man, staring straight ahead, his hands on his lap. I can't tell whether he is happy or sad, he looks so still. Though his eyes are bright and wide open and unmoving. I look 360 degrees, one last time in case I see myself. But I don't, so I turn my back on everything and walk away.

The next day I return and again I am not there. I must be busy, though I can't imagine what I am doing. A song I like hits my iPod and I turn it up and lie back in the dried grass and watch the clouds form strange dreams above me. Each time the chorus hits I throw my arms wide open and form grass angel indentations. I feel alive. Though this stomach has not let up for six months now. The song ends and I do a single sit up and cross my legs as I observe the park. The old man is there again, just as still. I think, is that me? But I know it is not. I take the headphones out and let the morning bird chatter soundtrack me instead. It's good to be in the green, it's good to feel your feet in the earth, to reach beside you and dig your fingernails into the dirt. Later that night, someone will look at my nails and say, that's disgusting! Don't you ever clean your nails? and I will try to explain that I do, but I needed to feel the soil stain tarnish of terra firma, and I needed it inside me.

On the third day I am walking faster toward the park for I need to know if the old man still sits there. I have no idea how I came to be so prepossessed, but the compulsion drives me nonetheless. I stride and scamper through the traffic haunted by thoughts. I need him to be there and I don't know why. My fear is that he is gone and I won't understand. My fear is that I won't understand.

They prove unfounded for rounding the bend and eyeing the trees I see him. Unmoved and still staring and even the ducks are unafraid for they form a semi circle around his feet. His hands remain on his lap, his eyes seem to stare straight at me, though his posture is unaltered. I don't know why but I walk directly toward him. The birds are still, the trees are mute and there is not a person in sight.

Hello, I say. Do you mind if I sit here?

He does not reply, simply stares. I do not register a blink.

I sit. The ducks scarry away, over the edge and into the pond and create tiny ripples as they skim across the glass water.

I couldn't help but notice you sitting here these last few days. Is this your favourite place? It is mine. I often come here to talk to myself and let nature cast her perspective over me.

No response.

You see, I say and I'm leaning forward now my hands gripping each other long lost brothers in a tight embrace. You see, everyday I wake up and I seem to have a lot to think about, but perhaps I think too much and really each day I should just wake up and be and take action and move and run and create and talk but instead I find myself sitting in this park, much as yourself, and I listen to the trees and I try to hear the answer and...

My life story is spilling from me now. Words tumble and fly from my clumsy mouth as I spit and contort in some sort of self cleansing ritual to this silent old man. I feel tears waterfall down my cheeks, I feel heat and passion burn in my gut and anger rise in my throat as tale by tale I confess my sins. And I don't know why.

When I am done I turn to face him and he remains frozen. Staring ahead.

The park is silent now.

Are you okay? I ask.


Are you okay?

I don't even think, but my hand reaches out for his shoulder and I stare into his bright green eyes and just as I make contact with him, he gently, slowly, leans away from me. Then topples off the chair and falls to the grass.

It's then that I notice the smell.

When the ambulance arrives they ask me questions. Did I know him? How long had he been there? Name, address, did I have any details whatsoever?

I answer blankly, but I am shaken. I could've sworn he was alive. I could've sworn he was listening. This old man, the vessel of my confessions, who listened silently, then took them all to the grave. My own personal Jesus.


The feeling comes slowly in the morning then burns bright through the afternoon before dulling to a gentle ache each and every single night. Yesterday was the first time I'd noticed that it had actually been there for a long, long time. Does everyone live like this? How come I carry this around? No wonder I'm always writing and drinking and trying to escape. When will it go away?


I have no more news on my escape but the fire for it intensifies each damn day.

Wednesday, December 13, 2006

The leaves have got you thinking, about the first time you fell.

Conversation yesterday:

So, what are you?

I'm a Capricorn, but all the other shit..the accessories if you will, are all in Sagittarius, so I'm like a Centaur-infused-Goat.

Well then, there you go. You're not just Earth, you're Fire and Earth...


Like a volcano, volcanoes are fire and earth.

Ha. Yeah, you said it...throw me some o' dem virgins!

The thing with volcanos are, they're ancient, they built everything that the rest of us stand on, but they're from another time. Nowadays, people are frightened of what's inside you, frightened of passion, of fire, frightened that the volcano will come alive again, frightened of what you can do, and how you can change the earth around you.

Hmmm. I think I must've been been dormant for a while.

I think you have too.

But I can feel the rumblings of something big.

This is good.

I think I like the whole volcano analogy. I mean, I like being a volcano. All ceremony and know Pomp aye.

Dude, that was terrible.

I know. But shut up, or I'll get all hot lava on you. ROWR.

I'm going.

Ok bye.


When I was young, I spent most every night sitting beside my mother as she drank wine and listened to sad love songs. I would sleep for an hour or so, until I heard the stereo grow louder and louder and I knew that Little fish was sitting there on her own crying and relating to Foriegner or Chicago or Air Supply or The Eagles. I would simply walk out there and sit beside her and she would hold my hand and apologise and say, "he is the love of my life Matty, I don't know what to do..." and I was too simple back then to understand that he was married and had been simply using my mother as a mistress, a convenient escape from the mundane existence of his marriage. She loved him though, loved him as I love people now. Loved in the face of reality, loved in spite of reality. Believed in a greater power, a different world, where if you squeezed your eyes tight and hoped and prayed, or simply LOVED as hard as you possibly could, then it would all work out. It never did for her. It simply never did.

So back in those days, all I could do, was love her like no-one else did. And when she had drunk herself to sleep, I would take the glass out of her hand, and gently walk her to her bed. And I would let the final verse play of the song before I switched the stereo off.

Ooh, another love has come and gone
Ooh, and the years keep rushing on
I remember what you told me before you went out on your own:
’sometimes to keep it together, we got to leave it alone.’
So you can get on with your search, baby, and I can
Get on with mine
And maybe someday we will find , that it wasn’t really
Wasted time

I don't remember much more about that era of my youth. But I remember vowing never to let Love destroy me. And though my shoulders have slumped on occasion, and I have stayed in bed for days, or drank myself numb, or fucked myself stupid, I have kept a tight hold on the most important thing. My eyes, that have been called The Sea, have never looked defeated, nor lost their cheerful spark. And they won't. This I swear to you now Susie Q*

*That's my mum.


The analogy of Australia as Alcatraz tickles me just so. But like Clint Eastwood I'm formulating a plan and it's getting more and more detailed each day. I take notes, I sketch the walls and study the currents and file away at the bars in the window that hold this caged soul. Each day I receive messages from across the sea, hope, beautiful distant hope, and each day I draw strength from the fact that once the Birdman flies, he will find freedom a most precious treasure.


Once someone told me, I had to "get over" the death of my mum. That I hadn't properly "mourned" and still had "issues". This is the anniversary of her death. Seven years now. I think I've turned out just fine. And I don't think I ever want to get over it thankyou. She was a beautiful, sad, lonely soul and I have made many of the same mistakes she did. But I am also me, The B, and keeping her alive in me is an inspiration to adventures beyond.

Tuesday, December 12, 2006

Never mistake motion for action.

I haven't talked to myself for a while, so when I see myself in the park I smile. It's a conversation that's long overdue.


Hey. Whatcha got for me?

Well, I was thinking about Love...


Shuddup fucko. I was thinking about Love, and I think I hit on something.

Go on.

Well, I was thinking, that the WAY you love, is representative not of the person you are loving, but of yourself. If you love someone beyond life, as though your very being cannot exist without them, if you curse and cry and laugh and fly and explode with sex and giggles at the very thought of someone, I think that's a good thing to think about yourself. I think it means you are alive, that you feel, that you can tap into the sort of feeling that songs are made of, the dreamy place where inspiration lives. True love is a feeling in one person, not a relationship between two people. It doesn't ever matter if it is unrequited, and you should never throw it away if it is. Loving is living, and the harder and deeper and more passionate you love, the more fucking alive you are.

I like that. But I know you, tomorrow you'll be sad or angry or trying to work it all out again.

Yeah, probably, but isn't it okay to have a revelation from time to time? And besides, it made me feel good about myself, and about others I know who love that way. It made me think, it's just nice that people like us exist. It's healthy for the world, because what the fuck else is there worth living for?


No. Not sluts. Don't be facetious. I know you understand.

I do, but maybe you're being a little High Horse about it. I mean, everyone loves in their own way mister, you can't think that because one person doesn't seem to be vibrating with intensity, that their love is lesser than yours. You're just a little more...volcanic about the whole thing.

Ok, point taken. But like I said, sometimes I need to feel good about myself, and the way I feel about things. Sometimes I like to distance myself from humanity, it helps me restrain myself when I feel like exploding, when I feel that no-one else is alive and I want to tear down the false curtain of reality that everyone hides behind.

Baby, you got to chill! Everyone's just doing their thing. But I get it, and I certainly get you. And yes, I like that you exist, you've got the right attitude. People sometimes do let their focus stray to things which perhaps are trivial in the bigger picture, but everyone's guilty of that, Boy...Now how about you forget about all that shit for a while and tell me what our plan is to blow this fucking one horse town.

I've told you before, don't call her a horse...

Ok fine, sorry. Now get with the plan...

Right, well we've got until January 31st...


I sit in the cafe and think upon the things that need urgent attention. Across from me a group of three teenage girls laugh and busy themselves with giggle and chatter and whisper and other nubile pursuits. But I don't drift. I return my attentions to the notebook in front of me and think about which word to cross out first.

I have to get to Bangkok. I have to get to London. I have to get to Miami.


My friend emails me and tells me how she had sex in a cinema watching Borat. Another friend texted me yesterday and said she was going to have sex with a stranger to help heal her heart. Another friend wants to know what's going on with me, and what will happen when I get to London. I have no answer for any of these friends. But I reply anway.

[That sounds hot, friend number one, I've always wanted to do that. ]

(See, Hemingway says, when you don't know what to write, just write the truest sentence you can)

[Well, friend number two, I'm not sure that's going to help, but I understand why you would do that. I have done that. It didn't work for me though.]

[Friend number three, I have no fucking idea what's going to happen. That's the whole beauty of it. That's why I want it so bad. ]

It is why I want it so bad. I'm so in the Known Universe here. The only problem is, I'm not unintelligent, and I know that everything that exists here will also exist there. And that people are the same wherever you go. And you are the same wherever you go. But it's possible to over intellectualise things, and fuck it, I want to meet new people, I want to believe that somethings ARE different and that if I just fucking expand while I'm still young, dumb and full of cum, I'll stand half a chance of discovering something wonderful.

And besides, it's a fucking adventure right? And who the fuck doesn't want adventure?

Monday, December 11, 2006

Youth and Young Manhood (Hemingway, not Kings of Leon)

Helga was the mother of a girl I went to High School with. I don't remember how I met her, for the girl was never a friend of mine though I did lust after her, Justine - all long legs and strawberry blonde hair with a thousand boys chasing her. I kissed her on a beach the last night of year eleven, but she was the sort of kisser who was too preoccupied with herself to return any sort of spark. Vanity is not a passionate bed companion. I remember watching her pee behind a bush, and seeing her human at that moment for the first time.

But it was her mother I connected with. All of a sudden, I found myself at their house night after night, smoking reefers with Helga and writing each other poetry. I had forgotten about this time. I was a writer then, years and years before I returned to it, here on the internerd. She was a round, fifty something German woman with harsh hair but gentle eyes. I have no idea, almost twenty years on, what I wrote to her on those scrap pieces of paper, but she always vowed to keep them. I hope she has. Sometimes I remember that house, and a few months ago I drove past it and almost knocked on the door. But I knew that she would have moved, moved on, drifting through time, flux and chaos, my two worst enemies and my two constant companions.


I will forever remember this year. This is the year I have learned not to rely on dreams, though to always keep them close. This is the year that I have sat and pouted and wrung my fists at the Universe, and then days later thanked it for its compassion and mercy. These 365 days have been a constant lesson in humility and growth and discovering what I was made of, and then discovering the need to be made of far stronger stuff.

Hemingway said he always felt happy and sad after he finished writing a story, as though he had just made love. I can't imagine ever finishing this story. All I know is, if I leave Melbourne, I may be able to begin writing about it. As though distance will bring clarity, and clarity will bring release and in release, I may yet find an unknown future.


Outside it's bright and sun and here in my studio I can hear piano practise and laughter. The good thing about cliches is they often ring true, and when Life Goes On, it's a nice reminder that it's quite possible to hitch a lift and cruise further down the road. And maybe, down there, you'll find a place to rest your soul and eat some good food, and you won't have to hide, and you won't have to lie to protect the people you love. You can just be. I can just B.

Giddy up.


Oh, and Happy Fucking Birthday Fry. Life was clearer when your wonderous brain was nearby. I miss you terribly. xxxxx

Sunday, December 10, 2006

And the hours go like minutes, and the shadows come to stay.

There is Hell in the sky as I walk the streets toward tonight. Thick choking dust and fire painting the setting sun blood red and lending the whole picture a surreal tint. If this is my reality, then I have brought Hell to life this weekend. The sky is so low that when I hold my arms up I can pluck clouds from the sky, and recreate them, darker, denser, with a simple exhale from my cigarette. People run across the streets holding clothes over their mouths, as though this will save them from ingesting my Hell. I simply breathe it all in. I suck Hell deep into my lungs and the burning needles hot searing ash gives me an impersonal determination. It's a serial killer kind of detachment, as I watch the whole world burn. I have created this tableau, not the fires. I have brought Hell to us, for it is time, time to judge, time to surrender, time to change, time to make everything final. And then I'm hit with a Revelation. And it just so happens, that it's six o clock. Six past.

Night comes, but offers little respite.

I don't mind, I didn't expect any.


Back in my cave all hot molten lava chic, I discover my things have been rifled through. Twice. In the space of two weeks. By two different people. People who say they love me but don't trust me and decide to take it upon themselves to find out what truths lie within my shadow black soul. Of course, they find nothing but pain. Their own. I shake my head and walk back outside to watch the fire flies dance around the rotting remains of the past. My skin crawls and I read the message which burns branding across my arm, TOXIC...

The message fades and I think, it's not toxic, it's just what they all call Love.

It's complicoxic.


I have half a chance of escape. But I have to be mindful of deception. Here in Hell a staircase leading up just as often leads to another drop. But it's a chance, an opportunity, and I'm going to do all I can. Every minute of every day right now, I keep my mind on that escape. Some people might call it running. But if you were in Hell, wouldn't you run?

Wednesday, December 6, 2006

I'm not entirely sure, however, that they're all free.

After getting all angry at the world yesterday, it was nice to drink Gin and Tonics and eat Sushi. So today I figured I'd take a look at the good things in life. Originally I had an idea of an all time Top 5 Best Things Ever, but 5 just wasn't enough, so I'm just going to write some things until I get bored of this weird, keyboard on the floor thing I've got going on at the moment.

First, let's put on some...........Crosby, Stills and Nash.



1/ I don't want to always harp on about it, but really, there is no better feeling than a roadtrip to the country. I love the road house toasted sandwiches, the smoking out the window, mix tapes, the mess of drinks and lollies and newspapers in the front seat, a hot leg to rub beside you, a...shit have to concentrate moment as they "rest" their head on your lap as you drive, the smell of paddocks when the city disappears and the forest starts to spread around you and the road opens up and the towns are little and cute and every shop looks interesting and who cares about a destination because you're already there, in the car, pointing straight ahead toward wherever. Sigh.

2/ FOOD. But okay, if I have to specify something about this bliss of all blisses (blissi?) then how about, when you're starving, and you've ordered and you're sitting down and here comes the waitress, that looks like ours, oh my god it IS ours, hey is that drool that's gross, and it gets placed in front of you and you've never eaten here before and that...first...bite...oh....GOD YES.

3/ I like being about ten pages into a book, and realising I am really going to love this book. When you have to actually put it down for five seconds, breathe, rub the cover, reread the blurb if you must, smell the pages, give a little giggle, before having another sip of you drink and diving straight back in. Goodbye real world.

[this isn't one of those me me things is it? THEY'RE NOT ON THE LIST. Oksorrybye]

4/ Being in the airport, holding your hand luggage, browsing magazines, buying shit airport coffee, trying to find one good looking person to eye flirt with on the same flight, breathing in that airport smell, loving the fact that no matter how many times you've done this, it will always feel as exciting.

5/ I can't get to number 5 and not mention sex. But if I had to pick right now, I'd say my favourite is waking up in the morning next to someone you love and having languid, lazy, hangover sex. Hair of the dog that bit you, you might say.

6/ I love unplanned, organic party days. Sitting in the sun having a beer with a good friend when another calls and joins you. And then another, and another and before you know it a whole group of great people are sitting around a table ordering jugs of beer and laughing and reminiscing and you look around the table and realise how lucky you are, and how much you love your friends...and how all of a sudden, you're actually quite fucking pissed. And it's good.

7/ Listening to a life changing album, for the first time. I remember, back in our magazine days, the day that Universal first sent us a copy of QOTSA's Songs for the Deaf. It was George, and I think Davey, and I, sitting in a tiny back office, drinking beer. We put it on, cranked it, and not one of us spoke for 90 minutes. Every now and again, we'd look at each other, grinning wildly and shaking our head at this fucking SOUND that was destroying us, leaving us breathless and dripping in adrenalin induced awe. I remember a lot of albums like that, but that day will always stick in my head. What a fucking band.

8/ Seeing someone you've missed, after an extended period of time. That embrace, that first giddy smile, picking them up and spinning them around, or patting them on the back, having so much to say you can barely speak fast enough, but at the same time, being content just being beside them.

9/ Starting a blog post about the best things in life, and realising that you could go on forever, and then realising that this means you're in a good mood, and that life is okay and deciding to stop blogging because you need to work out how to get to Bangkok by the end of January because your cousin just gave you a Business Class ticket from Bangkok to London which expires January 31st. And wondering if Kate Moss flies Business Class or if the Stewardesses would want to have dirty airline sex with a skinny Melbourne Man /Boy.

Tell me your favourite things, and let's make with the happy.

Tuesday, December 5, 2006

A Time to Dye.

When I was young I grew up in a dodgy Hotel on Fitzroy St, St Kilda called the Majestic Hotel. My mum was the Manager, because she was rooting the guy who owned the building. I guess a lot of dodgy shit went on, though I was too young to have a proper understanding of everything. All I remember was meeting American Oil Rig divers, peeling potatoes, and watching my mum fight with gigantic Samoans on Heroin. St Kilda was a very different place back then.

Look here's a picture of the Hotel. In sexy Black and White.

The reason I bring it up, and it's kind of long winded so suck it, I mean sorry, is that painted all around St Kilda back then, was this:

The ANARCHY symbol. Friend of fifteen year old, middle class rebels everywhere. Except I was only eleven, and had no fucking idea what the Hell it meant. I used to see it everywhere.

One day my friend Wolfgang, who you can read about here, put his arm around my shoulder and proceeded to give me the lowdown on "Anarchy".

"Anarchy are the biggest gang in Australia, they're the scariest, toughest mish mash of bikies, prostitutes and ex football playes, and they'll kill you if you even so much as look at that sign without preying to the God of Anarchy"

Okaaaaay. I'm not sure. I think I probably KNEW that it was bullshit, but I liked it. Anarchy was a pretty fucking tough name for a gang, and although I was 17 years away from a career in Graphic Design, I still dug on the logo man. Simple, effective, tough. Killer.

We even found the oldest building we could find, a run down factory on Dalgety St, back before the developments fucked St Kilda a new townhouse sized arsehole, and used to run past it as fast as we could, knowing that it was the secret Headquarters of Anarchy.

(You know what? Writing this, I like 11 year old Wolfgang and me...)

ANYWAY. The reason I'm talking about all this nostalgic bullshit is because of these guys:

Our government, and their government. Actual cocksucking results may vary.

Ya see, like Socialism, which is a beautiful CONCEPT, but completely fucked in a practical sense, Anarchy has a certain attractiveness. Especially when the option is to be completely fucked over by a pack of Butt Fuck Wolves masquerading as our Leaders, our Friends. Unfortunately however, we're all too intelligent to ever think anarchy is actually a concept that would be beneficial to mankind. Imean, I can't speak for you, but I believe we need to join together and explore the universe, expanding our horizons, working as one race to further discover greater mysteries than ourselves within an infintismal canvas, our cosmos, and unfortunately I believe we need some sort of centralised government to achieve this goal. Although fuck nose where the Hell we're ever going to find the sort of benevolent visionaries necessary to get anywhere near THAT sort of future...

Which brings me to why I'm starting to believe that we need some sort of Anarchic Revolution which will help topple every government on the planet and start from Scratch.

I mean, y'all think that swapping one Right Wing Government for another, LESS Right Wing Government is a step in the right direction. Yeah. Wow.

And I guess you're right. But to be honest, I think we're well beyond that now.

We're fucked either way. So I'm officially abondoning the "LEFT" (hahaha, you've got to be kidding me right? LEFT? YOU HONESTLY BELIEVE THAT?) and continuing to spit on the "RIGHT" (they ACTUALLY HAVE NO PENISIS, THIS IS A MEDICAL FACT) and instead I will begin to work towards creating a seperate State within a State. Somewhere where they can't bomb, somewhere they can't tax, or control, or spy, or regulate.

You want to know where this Mythical Land is?

It's in my head. And that's where I'm staying. I'm tired of two party system. I'm tired of Faux Socialists thinking that the Labour Party has any sort of Social Agenda other than the self advancement of their own petty Party squabbles. I'm certainly tired of the Liberal Party and it's blind pursuit of THE ECONOMY at the cost of creativity, individuality and any sort of Social Conscience. The whole thing stinks. And anyone who buys into it is a fool.

Fuck off. I'm moving to the country.

What brought this on, you say?

I guess it was learning about this.

Our present Liberal Government last year signed a pact with the Americans, so that the Yanks could bring these:

So that they could practice war shit by bombing this:

and these little guys:

and meanwhile, the Great White Fucking DREAM TEAM of our supposed saviour Left Wing Party these two fuckwits:

Have a guess what they're talking about on the radio...

Go on, guess.

Yep. How many times she's dyed her hair.

Good for you Australia.

Monday, December 4, 2006

Time to Kill.

The broad had me tied to a chair in the middle of a shitty warehouse in a shitty part of a shitty town. It was time to hurt me, she said, but I'd been hurt before. In fact, I'd grown acustomed to it. What she didn't know was, this time, I was ready to inflict some pain of my own. The ropes weren't that tight. But I'd let her have her fun for a while. I'd do some screaming, shed some tears, let her think it was all going to plan. I'd get cut up, maybe lose an ear in some sort of cliched Michael Madsen moment, but on the inside, I was all smiles baby. I was twiddling my thumbs and biding my time. And when the moment came, I'd make it count.

Damn but she smelled good when she leaned in, whispered in my ear and brushed her lips against mine before BANG, the knife slid into my gut and screaming insanity like a banshee she twisted it up and around. Hurt like Hell. Had to stay focused. My mind is my fortress, the one place she can't touch. She pulls the knife out and licking the blade turns around and walks that shimmy that she does so well. I'm losing blood, I'm getting tired, it's getting blurry.

But it's still not time. Will it ever be time?

I don't think it's a good idea to watch Sin City before going to bed. Shit fucks with your head.


Conversation on Saturday Night at the Terminus Hotel while DJing:


You what?


My phone number? Why?


the Mansonest?

yeah. the mansonest...



Forget it. No you can't.


How do you make a decision that will change your life forever? What if you can't weigh it up? If yours is the sort of brain that can see every possibility, or can see none at all, how do you make a choice? Instinct is a load of hogwash, I don't think I've ever had an instinctual feeling in my life, other than once when I decided not to leap out of the tram just as a car zoomed past. So all that's left is to choose, one way or the other, and deal with the consequences, as well as reap the rewards. Because why walk down a path, if you're forever wondering what the other path held? I don't want to play the regret game any more. Not over summer. Too damn hot for anything but water fights, gin and tonics and hopefully, the feel of cool, wet skin on skin.


No one has ever called me an enigma but it wouldn't be far off the mark if they did. For sure, I'm a walking fucking mass of contradictions. And a lot of the time, in real life, I'm not the person you read on here. In fact, a lot of the time, I'm whatever you want me to be. Gets pretty tiring after a while. Think I might spend a lot more time at the beach with some books, feed the brain, nourish the vocabulary, and keep searching for that one plan that's going to get me the fuck out of here. I've been browsing cook books, dreaming of domesticity, wondering when I'll be able to afford a new bed with new linen and get some hanging plants for my decking. I'm getting real good at the huge Sunday Herald Sun crossword. It's been two days and I've got fifteen clues left. And this is the most boring paragraph I think I've ever written. Heh.

It's 26 days until the end of a really fucking crap year.

But don't let my language fool you, I'm a happy guy.
An optimist even.

And I've got faith.

Thursday, November 30, 2006

Fish at many depths.

Conversation yesterday:

I've been doing all this writing about my life, in my own weird way and I've realised I have all these things I don't want people to know about me. So even though I was writing it all for me, I still was worried about how I was writing it, as though someone was going to read it, and that's when I realised I didn't want anyone to know these things. Does that make sense?

Yeeeeeeah....let's have a shot.

Ok. but I think I want you to read it, you write and stuff, you know stuff...


So yeah, I guess I'm apologising in advance, for the bad writing, if you want to read it. I don't know...

This is all very confusing. I'm happy to read it...

But I think you'll hate me.

Hate you? I very much think, I will not be hating you.

But I've been writing shit from my past that no-one knows about...I think you'll hate me.

i am not going to be hating you, what could possibly be worse than all the shit I have seen and done? And you know what, with shit that you try to hide from people, I believe the best thing to do is just come out and say it all. I like doing that, I've always written bad shit about myself on my dodgy blog, because I figure it takes the power away from anyone who tries to use it against you. If you say it first, then they've got nothing, know what I mean?

Like Eminem, in the end of Eight Mile?

Like Eminem in Eight Mile, that's fucking genius. You're very clever.

Thankyou, now let's have another shot.

Oh god.


There was a period of time in my life, when I was single and so decided to be a slut. Well, more so. Shut the fuck up. I remember being at home having my loose morals all planned out, all the different places I would go, the butterfly effect I would feel burning in my gut, how simple life would be, no ties, no worries, all the good, exciting parts of dealing with the opposite sex without any of the burdens. Why hadn't I thought of this before?

Imagination, holds an extremely stupid beauty.

About a month later, I lay on my bedroom floor, pulling my hair, rotting teeth falling blood and spitting out in horrendous coughing fits, nerves broken, sick to the core, scared of my door, scared of my phone, afraid and alone with at least five or six Birds of Prey stalking and waiting to sink their glossy talons into my flesh. Every single girl I had met and enjoyed time with had morphed with the next, until combined they had all formed some sort of vengeful Voltron - Terminator hybrid out for committment or out for my head on a stick. The abominable snowball effect.

Why is nothing ever simple? All I wanted was to be a slut. Can't a man follow his dreams? ISN'T THAT WHAT MADE THIS COUNTRY GREAT?

Nowadays, I don't want to be a slut.
I still have no fucking idea what it is I want.

But as my specifically made up for this very sentence Imaginary Mexican Life Coach says, "IZZZ OKAY MIIISTAAA BEEEE!"

So I guess it is, okay.


Conversation yesterday:

Hey, you know how there's all those shit movies, Date Movie, Scary Movie...


I think they should make...MIDGET MOVIE.

*spits out drink*


Umm...I don't think you need any more beer...

No, think about it!

I am not thinking about Midget Movie.

But they had that dodgy Jeff Goldblum movie, The Tall Guy, WHY CAN'T WE HAVE MIDGET MOVIE? I WANT MIDGET MOVIE!

*puts head in hands*

Well, I think it could work.

Ok, fine...let's workshop Midget Movie. What would happen?

Well, I'll have to storyline it a bit more, but one thing that could happen is that every time a character talks, the camera turns....sees no-one there...and then pans down TO WHERE THE MIDGET WAS DO YOU SEE HE WAS TOO SHORT AND THE CAMERA DIDN'T KNOW HAHAHAHA. And that can happen , like, almost every time...

Almost every time?

Yeah, until it was just really not funny.

Which is

Shut up. Midget Movie is genius. I wish I knew some. Or one. Hey, maybe there's a midget working here behind the bar and we've never noticed...

Dude, I really don't think you should keep talking about this so loudly...


Oh god, I'm going.



There is beer to be had this weekend, and flirting to be done, and music to be played and sunshine to loll under. Yes, loll. Remember when that used to be A REAL WORD.

Take care, try not to break any hearts,


Tuesday, November 28, 2006

Peregrination station.

Here is my bag, here are my shoes, here is my hat, not baggage, not blues. The image burns now, now that my dream slowly fades, my country house becomes an illusion and all that is gingham slowly turns to dust. The image burns now, roads less travelled by this man, not by man himself. Below, first an ocean then deserts and mountains and cities and stars above. Vacuum sealed I arrive, my soul feels fresh and with thunderbolts above, I light foot it towards the unknown. This may well be what I have been searching for, or perhaps, my search will never end. Just widen and broaden and expand, continent by continent, until I am drawn home.

What knowledge of himself does a man seek when travelling? Is it in his abilities to survive, to slither, chameleon like through cultures, that he will find his measure? Is it purely the joy of waking under new constellations in the deepest part of the night, hearing new sounds, new words, the announcements over the Train Station address system which force him to realise just how far from safety he has come? I remember that alien caterwauling, fifteen years ago, my first night in Japan. Awake in a house by the railway at 3am. I remember the "ding ding dong" and the squelching, scratching torrent of illegible allocution which followed. I held my pillow tight, and abashed, breathed in the familiar smell of my own linen.

Ah, but the morning. So alive! So antithetic, and being so, so overwhelming, so sensationally breathtaking. Good morning, good morning, oyaho gozaimasu. Eyes darting left and right, and on the street my camera catching such inane details as traffic signs, advertisements, policemen, school uniforms. Different smells, and for a boy raised on pulp fiction, I half expected alligators on skewers for breakfast, with a side order of monkey's testicles. HAH! Naivety holds such beauty. Now for a taxi, now for a tour, look at that building, look at that man, those beautiful teenage girls, the trees are foreign, the whole feel of the place hair-raising in its viridity. Contagious, infectious, mephitic, miasmic, I'm captured by everything.

Home is a dream, a stepping stone, a beginning. But walking out that front door holds such promise, there and back again, or perhaps just there. Follow your feet, traipse and stroll and stride toward anywhere, open your eyes your ears your soul your smile and laugh fuckers hehe laugh, take today as an adventure, even in intimate surrounds, have you seen that house, that park, that shop? Whistle, if you can for I cannot, though I favour a skip from time to time, a mad little dash to pass a slovenly stranger, and often I just stretch my arms out wide and whizgiggingly snort at movement itself.

I am Sherlock Holmes, I am Sam Spade, and mysteries are bountiful, outside my front door.

The game is afoot.

Monday, November 27, 2006


Idea for Reality TV Show: First World Eye for the Third World Guy.

A group of Savvy Middle Classers go to Ethiopia and make Fashion, Food and Interior Design judgements on poor, starving families in Ethiopia or somewhere interesting like that. Possibly Africa instead. Do we have any countries over there? Memo: Ask Brad and Angelina if they know of anwhere starving, but not too starving.

Random encounters with local celebrities? This brings a local flavour. "Oh my god...aren't are!....look darling, it's the child from those cute little World Vision Ads!" Etc.

Spin off possibilities:
Fred Hollows Eye for the Third World Blind Guy.
(DVD / Audio Book / Are there any good looking Ethiopians we can put in a leotard?)


I remember gliding across the still water, countless stars above, the only sound the soft growling of the outboard. Dancing, skimming, sleak and sharp across the lake toward the music, our beacon. I remember the first smiles of people never met, the firm handshakes, the welcome party, the cold beer, the laughter, the games, the innocence of friends, the food, the bed I slept in and waking up to dive into the fresh, vivid water. Here in the ruins-to-be, things seem a lot more intense, there is pressure. There are issues to address and complications to avoid. But out there, only a few hours drive, there is naught but serenity and each individual day.

Get me the fuck there now please.


I went to the zoo. I spent the day with my sister and her girlfriend and two little eleven years olds who decided I was the coolest thing ever to climb and kick. They called me Pack Horse and made me carry their bags. They asked what my T-Shirt meant, it said The Town Bikes. I told them it was a hardcore Bikie gang and if they didn't behave I'd have them killed. They asked, well, what's with the happy looking sausage on the T-Shirt then? Doesn't look too tough...I pointed them toward the Lions being fed and glared. I didn't look scary at all.

I wanted to talk about Meerkats, and how cute and cool they are and how Meerkat Manor the TV show must have really raised their profile. But after googling for a picture and coming up with this:

I don't think I ever want to see another Meerkat in my life.

Thursday, November 23, 2006

Now you see I've learned my lessons, and I don't even want to hear about your confessions.

Conversation the other day:

What's the oldest person you've ever been with?

Been with? Or...

Been with, slept with, whatever...

Well there was this really old prostitute once when I was really young...

WHAT? ARE YOU FOR REAL? kidding. But I did once sleep with a woman who would've been about 50, when i was about 17.

Really? TELL ME!

Well, my mum had her birthday party on one of those boats out on the bay...

Party boats...

Yeah. Party boats. And everyone was gasmashoed, except me, because I'd been dressed in a little white tuxedo like a fucking monkey and was kind of acting the part of mature host. Making sure the food went out, making sure everyone had a drink, you know...

I know, parents always make their kids do that shit.

Yeah. So anyway, I was walking down the side of the boat when I bumped into my mum's friend Kelly. Now a few weeks before, I'd seen Kelly dancing topless on our trampoline back at the house, it was right outside my bedroom window, and I'd just sat staring from my bed at this Amazonian Blonde with gigantic boobs bouncing up and down outside my freakin' window...aaaah the mammaries.

Dude, bad.

Sorry. Anyway, I was walking down the side of the boat when she started grabbing me and telling me how wonderful and smart I was and she had her arm around me and started to breathe all over me and kiss my cheeks...

Like what happens at Pony?

EXACTLY. Now, you've got to remember, it was only a few years before that I'd actually considered walking up to a complete stranger on a train platform and propositioning them for sex because my hormones were so fucking out of control, so when I had this pretty-hot-for-a-50-year-old-blonde pawing at me, I began to get ideas...


I pushed her against the wall and started making out with her.


I did.


Yes. I am.

So then what?

Well it just so happened that we were right outside the toilet door. And I mean, I was being bold, but not that bold...but Kelly on the other hand, well she reached behind herself, opened the door and dragged me in. It was fucking surreal. Very strange.


Well, that's about it, you know, she went down on me, I turned her around and...etc. Stuff happened, stuff came out. We made ourselves nice and rejoined the party.

You were 17?


Fucking hell. Did she ever say anything after?

Well, no. Thing was, later in the night, when the boat returned to dock, I had to do the rounds of the boat to make sure everything was okay and everyone was off. And I walked down the side of the boat and saw that the toilet door was open.


And inside, there was Kelly, asleep, underpants around her ankles. So she'd obviously made quite the night of it, if you know what I mean.


Looked that way. really, your taste in women hasn't changed at all?





Out on the deck the sun beats hard so I hide under the laserlight and tin. Even today, when it's dry heat and illusions, the freeway down the block can still sound like a river. Imagination might be paranoia sometimes, but on a good day, it's the best tool a man can have. I've woken up thinking good and strong with a hint of Outlaw, but I'm smart enough these days to know that vigilance is the key, and a single fucking moment, can get all Crunchie on yo' ass, and change colours from golden to red.

Tonight has a subtle hint of danger, with a dash of out to get ya. Lock up your mothers.

Wednesday, November 22, 2006

In search of the Oranges of the Universe.

Conversation yesterday:

I read your blog.


Yeah...most of it's good, but there was one that was really....insincere? Who are you writing for? For people who don't know you? One of them was all just words and shit, like poetry. YOU WROTE POETRY. WEIRD.

Which one was that?

Oh, I don't know, a while ago, the other day, ages ago...I can't remember. I don't know, I just really thought it was insincere.

Hmm...okay, I'll cop that. I think it's because sometimes I can't write honestly about some of the shit that happens...though I wish I could. I have good stories you know.

I'm sure you do. You always have stories. Why can't you write them? Are you trying to protect yourself?

No, I'm trying to protect other people.

Ok bye.


Last night I sat on a Chesterfield at the Supper Club drinking whiskey and musing the fuck out of life's whimsies. And the question of sincerity was tossed around in my head. The question of standing up and owning up to who I actually am. It's one thing to have an ever lasting quest to discover the meaning of life and the meaning of being an amateur writer and whether or not we as a race are in fact in possession of souls or if we're just cursed with a slightly higher consciousness which we mistake for something greater...but it's another thing to just say, fuck, I'm a psychotically sexual pasty little fuck who really needs more work and gets distracted very easily by the feel of skin on skin. Because I do a lot of crazy cool things that people might not know about, and a lot of people might want to do very badly. I get to do those things. But then I get all whimsical about them, and let myself talk myself down and out and round and round.

So don't, the conversation went, just be it. Just own the fuck who you are, I like you with all your crazy stories.

Yeah, it's probably not bad advice.

So at home, after Peking Duck and toasted sandwhiches, I water the plants and remember the times.


Ying and Yang.

A lot of the time, I'm a bad, bad boy. I have threeways in hotel rooms and go double ended dildo shopping with girls and love to make out and love to flirt and love to fuck. I get into that shit. It's wild and fun and I'm doing it because a long time ago I made the decision to find out what that's like. And it's addictive.

A lot of the time, I sit at home and love my plants and my garden. I like talking one on one with people, about Love. Does it exist? Or more importantly, can it exist when that other side of me exists also. I like eating good food and reading at the same time, talking books and trying to expand my brain to envelope more cultural pursuits.

A lot of the time, I spend right in between those two extremes. This is where the angst lives. The questioning of self, and this is the place where I am told the insincerity lives. Be one or be the other or be both, but don't waste time worrying about which you are. Just be B.



I want to get out of Brunswick, Melbourne, Victoria, Australia, The Earth, The Solar System. I want to dive into those black holes and see what's on the other side.

I'll send you a postcard.

Oh yeah.

Tuesday, November 21, 2006

And the circus leaves town...

Tip toe tipe toe, have to be careful where I go, don't want to upset the applecart, don't want to turn the clock back and maketh the mistaketh. Fatboy might be a Balding-Has-Been but he was right about me, I've come a long, long way together. With myself. But if cliches ring true, and there's no more wicked than I, then the last thing I can afford to do is rest. I drink a coffee, no cigarette. And fight fire to keep my focus. Stay awake Mr. B. Keep your eyes on the road ahead.


Inside it bursts a dam but ain't no river just a trickle and a wave of nostalgia rolling and flowing around rocks that have been there for years now. There is no erosion no path is new anymore the water knows which way to go because it's been this way a thousand times before. Melts from the mountain down the slope deep into the valley and on the outside I don't even worry about floods anymore or open rusting round valves to let some of it out. I simply and calmly recognise it for what I am. This is my nature.


In the sun I lose ten years. I have knee high converse and tatty shorts with an open Western while I ride a BMX. Sometimes in the back streets I smoke while I ride, and listen to Kyuss on the iPod to complete the journey back in time. Everything is intensely laconic. Everyone has a towel. And there are a thousand couples kissing a thousand kisses. I pretend like I know how to jump, like it's an accomplishment to jump onto the kerb, and leave my cigarette dangling while I do. That's how fucking ghey it is when you're a man in black on bicycle.


I send off my hope for the future.

I sugar soap a small part of my wall, where I plan to stick my first rejection slip.

If they even have them anymore, even a piece of rejection paper seems too personal in days like these.


Really deep down I'm Fire and Earth a fucking Volcano ready to erupt on your face all heat and hot red but when I look up and over my lip there ain't nothing there but a couple o'virgins scared to make the jump.

I guess it looks mighty scary deep down in the fire.

Monday, November 20, 2006

Time Travel and other uses for Dark Matter.

It is a well known fact in the world of Physics, that Heavy Objects have a tendency to "bend" Space-Time. Maybe this explains why fat people take longer to run around the block. Or take shortcuts. I'm not sure. Space-Time is this weird abstract concept that make scientists talk about clean sheets and bowling balls, or putting the sun on a giant trampoline. Scientists should leave the analogies to writers and get on with writing inexplicable equations proving that Black Holes are incredibly heavy and therefore drag shitloads of Space-Time into themselves. This morning I woke up and made a list of all the Black Holes in my life, and tried to make sense of which way I was being dragged. After I made the list, I screwed it up into a little dense mass and set it alight, as someone once told me to do. In the end, all that was left of the list was tiny particles of Dark Matter, the secret ingredient to Time Travelling. So I had already taken a step into the future, hadn't I? Relatively speaking.


Down the street it's hot and I dodge the fuckers that lazily zig-zag drunk on their own thoughts and stuck in the centre of their own galaxy. I have to avoid them gotta not touch them lest they contaminate me with malaise and menial masochistic meanderings. I've made a discovery I 've learnt a lesson and there's still a fucking galaxy tied around my feet but I can move faster now less gravity to the whole situation and the momentum is enough to keep this juggernaut on the move. Inertia had me never gonna let me free so I used the Laws of Judo and moved back in order to move forward. Now it's a slingshot effect. Bang voosh zoom get out of my way.


I always used my Lone Wolf jacket when I made mistakes. When I knew that Time Travel was impossible and there was no way to go back and fix that bridge. I put on my jacket, C. Thomas Howell and the Wolverines, and disappeared packless into the city. I could hide forever in this town, this forest. I could move without sound and sniff out what I desired and take it before it knew what had hit it, or I knew what I had hit. And every time I had a lonely sad thought about the consequences, I could hide it under my Lone Wolf jacket. That's how I made it so far. That's how my Black Holes never caught up with me. Shapeshifter / Doppleganger / I learned to see my own. To gravitate toward them. It's physics. Electro-magnetism.


I am living in a tangled jungle / oppressive heat and wet sticky floor quicksand which can take a man like that / GOTCHA / animals / beasts / beats thrum thrum be dum / I hide in the trees and swing whenever I can / I am black coated sleek and dangerous / I am hungry for blood / I am licking my lips / I am tired / I am hungry / I need a scratch behind the ears and a place of shade / I need water / I close my eyes and the last thing I see is the canopy.


Dopplegangers are masters of The Art of Camouflage.
I know, I was one.
But there are far more beautiful creatures out there than a shape shifter.
So it's hunting time now.

Thursday, November 16, 2006

I longed to sail around the world.

For a while I thought explosive outward eruptions of passion would save my arse from the mediocrity of passive living. I figured I was the flag bearer for Troy McLure's Wild Ride Lifestyle. Speak out! Act crazy! Tell the world how you feel and chase the fuck out of what you want! Live once, live forever, live free with a smoke in your mouth and a drink in your hand. Show Bukowski how it's done, and never say die. Never say die. I'm a lucky guy.

I'm a lucky guy because however the Hell it happened, my instinct and half smart brain won out in the end. It chilled me out. Secret squirrel. It wrapped all of this emotion into a tiny microcosm and stashed it tight in the base of my spine. I can feel it now. And I like it like this. I like knowing it's been put away, and I can these days walk calmly through the valley of trouble. Using the experience, and finally, at 33, applying the lessons.


Out in the sun the girls walk tall and their hair trails cinnamon and sparks as they follow rays of gold along the road, like walking in mid-air, like dancing through a forest of light. I do the crossword and get stuck on 9 down. But it's okay, I let my eyes and daydreams follow the girls down the street instead. Unfettered by mental termites, sipping sunshine juice and chewing the fat with the gorgeous mum sitting at the table beside me. Hey, it's sunny, I can flirt. Hey, I'm a guy, I can...well, you know. It's nice to have a day when you can just drift. It's nice to simply float on the tide of now. We all float naturally you know, it's when you struggle that you start to drown.


I'm already buggin' to get back on the road. North / West, beaches and fruit and cocktails and towels and books and skin. We're all living for something better, we're all afraid of accepting what we've got is the way it's going to be. But I don't mind anymore. I figure, be cool with this THIS, and you can take it anywhere. Like running from your demons only makes them chase you. Running with your feet on the clouds and the wind behind you, if you run with a happy heart, you can go all the way. And after what seems like forever, this happy heart beats louder than ever.


Conversation that didn't happen:

I want to fuck around, for now, and then settle down later.

That sounds good.

Yeah, and maybe, when I settle down, I want it to be with someone who is cool if I still, well...if weird and sexy things still happen.

I feel the same way.

Let's fuck to that.


Me too.

Oh hey!




Late night in a room music playing light shining in the window from the high rise across the street champagne bottles and sticky table and a menu. I'm hungry. I'm REALLY HUNGRY. Instead I get dressed and go for a walk around the block. Here's a bar, there's a bar, there's some people, where's some trouble? I decide to go to a place I have never been before and casually people watch. This is the thought that comes into my head:

About 7 years ago I went out with a girl named Gretel. She was the first person with whom I began to explore some dangerous sides of sexuality. We used to look at personals together, but in a kinky way, not a funny haha way. We used to talk about her meeting up with men. I'd get jealous when we talked about it but there was another feeling too. I liked it. We took a lot of drugs together. And we used to simply spend the whole night in my octagonal shaped bungalow, off our heads talking fantasies together while we fucked. Eventually, she must've tipped, because before too long she was having an affair with a guy twenty years older. She'd done a bartending class in the city. He was the teacher. After a year of being in each other's pockets, one night she simply disappeared. It's a fine line between being psychic and being paranoid. You know what I mean? So anyway, stuff happened, it went on, and eventually I left. But over the weeks of break up that we went through, we talked and cried and fucked and hugged and out of the blue she told me a story. Matty, last night I missed you so much, I went and sat in a bar alone. A man came over and bought me a drink. I let it happen. I let it happen. He took me home, he must have been 40 (she was 21) he took me home and opened the draw beside his bed and took out a silver vibrator and I let it happen but all I could think about was you. I liked her story, but I was hurtin. Walking out that night, was the last time I ever walked out.

That is what I remember when I'm sitting at the bar. So I down my whiskey, and take myself back to bed, back to what's important. A healthy grasp of self. If you know what I mean.


Okily bye, I'm off to enjoy flashbacks and sunshine and music and misfits.*

* Not that one.

Freak scene just can't believe us, why can't it just be cool and free us.

On my left wrist I wear a Secret Squirrel terry towelling sweat band. It holds all my secret desires, dreams and fire. It holds the past and the future and the now. I use it to keep myself calm. I use it in a weird sort of superstitious ritual every morning, and without fail, every time I slip it over my wrist, something happens around me. Outside of me.

Not bad for a piece of terry towelling with a picture of a squirrel on it.


I open the curtains and look out over the city. The sunlight wraps me in its arms and gently kisses my nose. I hang out the half open window, smoking a cigarette and looking down on the worker drones below. But it's me, The B, who's buzzing.


I wanted to give this post a double ending, but I can't think of one.

Breakfast time.

Wednesday, November 15, 2006

The weirdness flows between us, anyone can tell to see us.

On my left wrist I wear a Secret Squirrel terry towelling sweat band. It reminds me to play everything close to my chest. That sometimes, passion is best held tight, compressed in the base of your stomach, and used to fuel the fires behind your eyes. Do you ever feel that? It's a giddy giggle and shake, a lightning storm in your hands, and you have tornado feet and hurricane legs, ready to voosh vam around and around let it all out brother sister lover bang I am alive and let's burn it all down. But instead, you hold it in, and the illusion of the world around you begins to shimmer like a magic trick, and you are you the mad mandrake, waiting to pull back the curtain.


Tonight a group of friends are going to The Convent. It's a special place. There's ghosts and peacocks and a statue of Jesus and an entire city built in the paddock behind it. Once some Goths had a threeway on the altar in the church. Once I took a really strong pill and walked down to the local pub, rough as guts, and took over the jukebox. The locals looked pissed at me, until I played Highway to Hell. Then we owned the joint. Once I drove there off my guts after seeing the Black Eyed Peas and staying awake until 6am, it took three hours and I talked to myself the whole way. When I got there, the first thing everybody said was, DID YOU BRING THE DRUGS? But it's not all like that. There's also...ummm...errrr...ummm.....stuff like....ummm.....actually, it's a motherfucking den of iniquity, and it's a shame I don't think I'm going to make it this time.


A couple o' months ago. I was walking down paths trying to find the way. There were crossroads and maps and signs and trees and dirt roads and rocks and mountains and fuck shitty yeah, I was hella confused. But see, that whole time, I'd forgotten. 1985 Under 14 Victorian Orienteering Champion. So not long ago I just tapped into my inner running nerd, and left the pathway all together. I'm making a new way, cross country, not a fucking path in sight.



Short and sweet today my furry friends.

Tell me a story.


Tuesday, November 14, 2006

Fear is the mind killer.

Conversation the other day:

Hey, thanks so much for letting me use your car to drive down the coast. You rock.

That's okay, was it fun?


That's nice.

But I was a bit nervous.

Why nervous for?

Well, I LOVE driving to the country you know? It's the all time best thing ever. EVER!

Ok ok, ever.



Ok. So anyway, I've done it heaps and stuff. And it's the best and stuff. And it's even better when I drive 'cause I love driving and I'm good at it.


But, the thing is, I HATE SPIDERS. And whenever I'm driving back from the country, I'm always kind of like, wondering if a big, hairy spider has crawled into the car and is waiting until I'm like doing a hundred down the Freeway before it decides to crawl out of its hidey hole and across the windscreeen and shit. I don't think I'd make it man. And the window on your car was stuck open, so like, if it crawled out from the engine like they sometimes do, it would've crawled straight into my window, and I don't think I would've been able to just, slowly indicate, gently pull the car to the side of the road, step out and shoo the spider out. I WOULD'VE TOTALLY SWERVED FUCKFACE INTO ANYTHING THAT WAS NEAR ME IN A TERRIFIED BALL OF SCREAMING SHITPOO. So I was nervous. For your car, and for me. But it didn't happen, and here is your car. Thanks.



I totally understand.

Really? You hate spiders too?

No, I don't hate spiders. But I understand.

Really? What are you afraid of?




Shower Curtains.



DON'T LAUGH. Shower Curtains TOTALLY make me throw up. I HATE THEM.





Ok ok. What does that mean? You're totally afraid of Shower Curtains?

I didn't say I was afraid, I said they make me throw up.


Oh fuck you, I'm going.



Conversation the other day:

HEY! GUESS WHAT! I have a friend and she's, hehehehe, like TOTALLY AFRAID OF SHOWER CURTAINS! HAHAHAHAHA.

Oh, really? That's weird.

Yeah, I know. Ole weirdy shower curtain lady.



Well, I'm cool with Shower Curtains. But I've got a phobia too.

Really? Is it spiders? Mine's spiders.

No, I'm okay with spiders. HEY WHAT'S THAT ON YOUR SHOULDER?




Sorry. Anyway, my phobia is....


my phobia is.....







I think not. So what, can you write on pieces of paper?

Yes, of course. And people often remark how lovely my handwriting is. But if you put an envelope there, I start to gag and freak out...



Okay, okay. Geeez. Well then...What about labels?

Oh, I can do labels. I like labels a lot. I label envelopes at work, and I always pride myself on making them perfectly straight. A lot of people tell me I'm very good at making the labels perfectly straight.

But you can't write on them.


So what if like, I made you write on a piece of paper with your eyes closed and then secretly put an envelope there instead?

I don't know.

Are you willing to try?


Hmmm, you people are weird. I think I'll go.



Conversation overheard at the internet cafe right now:

Excuse me?


Something is happening.


Yes, see here? Well when we got on it before, the colours were a lot brighter, there were more intense colours WHEN WE WERE ON IT.

Hmm. The colours look okay to me.


Well, have you tried getting off it and then getting on it again?

No, we've just been on it the whole time.

Well, I think you'll find it better to get on it after you've had a break. Get off it for a while, then get back on it later.



Sunday, November 12, 2006

Slow Nights, So long.

There are people who are not ready to die. Well I warn you against postponing the examination of your souls. For I can guarantee that you will never run out of excuses, but I can also guarantee that you will run out of time.

I choose a place to sit. A rock, half submerged and surrounded by green grape alien seaweed which the low tide has left exposed to the elements. The sun shines above me, but the clouds keep her soft and supplicant. I watch a bird bounce carelessly amongst the rockpools and wonder at the naive happiness of nature. The eternity of it. This rock I sit upon, this forever, that I have the audacity to use as a perch, how many millions of years has it lived? Telling its tales in a slow booming voice, the language of rocks, the syntax of patience, and the gentle knowledge of formation and erosion. How egotistical humanity is, given one gift, consciousness, given one curse, consciousness. And hardly is it used for the benefit of the world we live in. But more for the selfish benefit of ourselves. I touch the rock gently, as though it can sense my empathy, I whisper to it in the hope that it knows, one of us can feel its pain. I find a black stone, and keep it in my money pocket in my jeans. Where once I kept an Aboriginal Tear Catcher rock, now I keep a reminder of something far grander than myself.

I think: I wonder if Christians think the Earth is a living creature? If so, will the soul of the Earth go to Heaven when it has stopped giving life to all the creatures upon it? And if they don't, how fucking wrong of them not to feel the heartbeat below them, feel the sighing of the wind, and the conversations of the trees, and the bellowing anger of red hot lava.

I laugh and leave footprints in the sand behind me as I run further up the beach toward the cliffs beyond. There's always time for climbing. I am a goat after all.


Don't hold on
Go get strong
or don't you know
there is no
modern romance

The first night I light a fire, pour red wine, cook a bachelor meal of a single eye fillet and some salad, tune the radio to 103.5MBS and lie back on the biggest goddamn beanbag you've ever seen in your life. At the start of the year I had bought a diary. When I open it tonight, it is empty. By the end of the night, I have filled every page.

I let the fear come, for that is why I am here. To face it all.

And write it all down for my future self to smile at.


I drive twenty minutes to San Remo. Every kilometre or so I pass a sign asking for the re-election of the local Member of Parliament. It says,

Ken Smith

I seriously contemplate finding a hardware store and buying some spray paint to change the word BASS to BASTARD. I don't chance my luck, for I am here for different reasons.

Driving into town you can stop on top of a beautiful curved green hill and park your car at the edge of a cliff overlooking the beach. I do, and sitting on the warm bonnet of the car I smoke a cigarette and watch as sailboats skim gently across the water. Am I myself, tacking my sails against the winds of change? Or have I raised my spinnaker to catch them, to be taken by them, swept forward to who knows what? I laugh at my shit analogy and decide perhaps I have began to go mad down here on my own. So I buy a disposable camera and some fish and chips from the local store and just enjoy being. The sun keeps shining.


When I was really bad, I wasn't all bad. But when I was really good, I could never be all good.

Back in the house I unexpectedly find myself grappling with demons. They had waited until I opened the door, thrown the keys on the bench and sat quietly outside on the balcony reading my book. BANG. I was jumped, unaware and indolent. I begin to frown and furrow, my stomach lurches and my arms tied behind my back I cannot reach the stone in my pocket for strength. Questions, emotions, a torrent of feeling, it is as though I am imprisoned by them and they are the warden, holding the firehose against me as I, naked, can do barely a thing but press my hands against the tiled walls and keep myself upright. AAAAARGH. I scream, forgetting how sound travels in this quiet place, and in return I hear every door of every house close and bolt, shutting out the wild and scruffy Banshee who has taken residence in the blue house on the hill. I feebly attempt to burn the bridge that leads me home, and in a way it works. For the flames untie my hands and as I reach for the stone I recognise my behaviour for what it is. It is not I, it is the demons. But these days, they grow weaker by the day.

I let a different demon in. He is red and takes the form of smoke and mist. I let him have his way with me and he leaves me shaken, but calm. This demon, I like.


Like a slow burn slow burn,
Ya move that mama over to me
Get on top of me woman
Get on top
Let me see what you learned tonight
Then I talk in tongues mama
Oh when I love you
Yes I talk in tongues

Get on top of me woman
Get on top,
Get on top of me woman
I just wanna see what you learned

At 7pm Friday I hear Tim Buckley blaring from down the street as an old Bedford van comes screaming toward the house. I smile. Everything is forgotten as three wayward adventurers fall laughing from the car, holding beer and food and I get swept up in hugs and kisses and giggles. I carefully fold my thoughts up and lock them away.


We sit around a wooden Thai table, beautifully carved with images from the Kama Sutra.

I like THIS one, I say.

THIS ONE! THIS ONE! The girl beside me replies, and we laugh at the size of the breasts. He can't even do the reach around they're so BIG.

Shut up and have a line, the Godfather, owner of the house, laughs.

And I do, and the cocaine begins to work its magic.

Outside on the Bedford, the Magic Happens sticker twinkles in the light.

We play Poker, Stud and Texas Hold 'Em, until 6am. I lose both my legs when I find myself $40,000 dollars in the Hole.

I'm going to use mine as a cock, the girl who owns one of them spits and titters. But I'll have to break your ankle so as to get the angle right.


I'm going to use mine as a pot plant, the Godfather says with a belly laugh. Behind the bar in the pub, mattyb's leg.


And the cocaine continues to do its thing.


The girl, Option, talks to me about Internet porn and meeting strangers for sex. We have a lot in common. I tell her about fucking the daughter of an Ambassador while my girlfriend watched over a webcam. She tells me about meeting couples and fucking the man while the girlfriend watches. I tell her about hiring prostitutes. She tells me:

When I was really young, about 11 or so, I was sitting on the toilet with my pants down when my dog, a Great Dane, head butted the door open and just began to help itself. It buried its nose right in my crotch and just went at it. I couldn't stop it. I didn't want to stop it. And I didn't, for about four years.

I laugh my arse off. Aroused in spite of myself, and finally get to sleep, content, at about 7am.

In the morning I decide that as well as Chicken Termites, there are Alcohol Spiders. They eat the termites, but your stomach can feel them doing it. We cook breakfast, open a beer, and let the good times roll.


The music soothes me, and I think:

Even here, thousands of kms away, the dream has the same name. California. That's why it inspires so many songs, so many dreams, realised and broken.It's a beautiful thought isn't it? A new start, under the sun, a hope for a better life. And it holds so much angst in this song, in such a beautiful, positive word. So familiar sounding, and so dreamy.

Outside the car window, the dry paddocks speed by.


I drive back, and just as I am about to feel the sweet soothing melancholy that comes with the end of a holiday, my red mist demon returns. I drive with one one hand on the wheel as I commune with the big smoke, and two hours becomes a heartbeat.


It is good to be home. I visit my favourite places. My pub, my carpark, my bedroom.

And I wake up with the scent of life on me. Not a demon in sight, a million fucking dollars.


Roadtrips are without a doubt, my favourite thing.

Wednesday, November 8, 2006

Sitting on the dock of the gay.

I'm going here in 5 minutes.

As well as being a tiny town in the middle of nowhere on a deserted beach, it's quite obviously the home of some seriously leading edge web designers. MOUSEPADARIFIC!

I was all looking for some cool car shot, dust trailing behind, surfboards on the roof.

I was all like, yeah baby. Sheee-it.

But when I googled, most mornings I do and lately it's been getting filthier than normal, I got these pictures to represent my next three maybe four maybe fuck it why not stay for ten days away.


I'm not really sure what carstuckgirls is all about. But this girl looks neither stuck to a car, or tucked in by one.

Unless of course, the "t" is a typo, in which case I'm quite excited to know more. From a scientific point of view.

Enjoy the hustle and the bustle, I'm off to cook myself pancakes tonight and then surprise a big gingery pub owner with a Lamb Roast when he arrives tomorrow. Then I dare say, we'll get rip roaring drunk and possibly pash. For the second time.

Anyone who wants to call me up and have hot dirty phone sex, feel free.

Tuesday, November 7, 2006

Mite's ain't right.

From chatting up models in ridiculously short skirts as the DJ at a fashion parade, to snorting cocaine off a kitchen plate in a shed, to watching AND ACTUALLY ENJOYING Mission Impossible 3 (I'm so sorry creativity...), waking up in strange houses, fighting off gigantic chicken termites*...these are the days of our lives.


*Chicken termites: Chicken termites are very scary. They appear one or two days after you encounter cocaine (chicken). They do not have teeth, they have a mouthful of tiny chicken beaks and they eat at your insides and whisper doubt in your mind. They have tiny legs like a millipede, but they have itchy scratchy chicken feet. MILLIONS OF THEM. They are impossible to kill, and they are always hungry for more chicken. They're scratching at me right now to be honest. So I'm writing gibberish to keep them at bay. BEWARE THE CHICKEN TERMITES. AAAAAAAAAAARGH.


Finally, I am going to the coast tonight. I have a map. And apparently, there are bean bags there. I'm going to sit on them. And I'm going to walk to the beach and I'm not coming back until I have made some sort of resolution about shit. My friend is loaning me her laptop, which is lovely. So if there's wireless reception down there, I'll come on here n' say hello. If not, suck my fuck fuckos, I'm getting all Crusoe on yo' ass.


I'm going to test out a new writing style. Instead of writing long winded angsty posts, I'm just going to write SOOKSOOKSOOKSOOKSOOKSOOKSOOK.

It's art.

And I am the future.

Saturday, November 4, 2006

Demon Cleaner

When I get back from second walkabout, I realise two things.
I am found. I have achieved normalcy,
and peace.
and second,
inside me lives someone far from fucking normal.
And it is possible to tap the demons
just enough to clean the soul.
So, back at camp,
I paint a horizontal black stripe
across my eyes, from temple to temple.
And on my chest I write
six names in blood.
And from my room
I gather the past,
all of it.

I choose the song carefully.
It's name makes me laugh,
And as the music builds, I set
fire to my camp.
Dancing amongst the flames
as they one by one
burn the names from my skin.

It's a good night to be reborn.

Thursday, November 2, 2006

Bet you think that's pretty clever, don't you boy?

Conversation yesterday:

Hey, there's a big pirate ship down at the docks!

What do you mean a pirate ship?

A BIG PIRATE SHIP. It's really cool.

What's it doing?

It's just sitting there. But normally it goes and rams ships.

It rams ships?

Yeah, it rams ships it doesn't like.


It means it chases ships it doesn't like...and rams them.

Hahahaha, why do that for? What ships doesn't it like?

You know, like whaling ships and stuff.

Aaaah, I see. That is totally fucking cool. Does it have a skull and crossbones?


Fuck yeah, I'm digging on this ship...

And it's painted TOTALLY BLACK.

FUCK YEAH! But hang on, if it's an old pirate ship, wouldn't it just hurt itself more if it rammed whaling ships?

Nup. It's like MASSIVE. A big , fuck off, massive pirate ship all painted black with a skull and crossbones flag.



There's an AND?

AND, it has all the flags of the ships it has rammed.


Thing is though...


It has hippies.


Hippies. Walking all over it.





Shit. Fucking fucking hippies can suck my fucking fuck. Are they barefoot and dreadlocked?



But I don't know, maybe they just man a food stall out the front of it or something. I mean, I can't imagine hippies being good on the open sea...

Yeah, they'd be all like, AHOY THERE, DO YOU WANT SOME CHAI TEA?


Yeah....fuck I hate hippies.


I'm going home to drink whiskey.

Ok bye.


Conversation yesterday:

What do you think pies think about sausage rolls?

Hmmm. I don't know, I reckon they'd be a bit...uppity.

Well then, what do you reckon sausage rolls think about those new "traveller pies" which are sort of sausage roll shaped?

Oh, they'd be pretty pissed off for sure. Try hards, they'd say, get off our turf.

So what about pasties?

I think pasties are the hippies of the small food world. Pies and sausage rolls would gang up on them and give them shit. Stupid hippies!

Do you think pies like dim sims?

I imagine pies are quite rascist...

Or samosas?

Like I said, pies...rascist.

But which would they prefer? Dim sims and samosas, or pasties?

Hmmm. I think they'd go the dim sims, even rascists hate hippies the most.

Yeah...hippies huh.

I'm going home to drink whiskey.

Ok bye.


Conversation yesterday:

It feels like, everyone is so gung ho about being in some sort of relationship. And they don't even know why. The only reason I want to be in a relationship is because I can't think of anyone else I'd rather spend time with. Not because I just want someone for the sake of it. It's all so urgent and weird. I want a best friend who I think is hot and who I want to share everything with.

Ummm, that'll be two dollars fifty...

Oh right. Sorry.


Last night I came to the conclusion that being in a throng of people all fighting for the one piece of meat is a terribly ugly thing to do. Especially when I am so freaking happy to sit in my backyard listening to sexy, smoky music and sipping whiskey and dry. And if I want to, I can get a sneak preview of the animatronic dinosaurs which will be taking over Vodafone Arena next February, or I can get a sneak preview of the Circus which leaves for Hawaii next Saturday. And I can fill my life with enough good quality stuff, that I can feel complete without having to fight for shit, or get messy. That's a good feeling.


Conversation yesterday:

Hello, Directory. Which town do you require?


And what name please?


I'm sorry?

Ring. A. Root.

Is that a business?

I think so. I don't really know.



I have no listing for that name. What suburb is it in?

Well, if there was one in Brunswick that'd be great.

I'm sorry sir, we have no listing for a Ring-a-Root in Brunswick.

Hmmm. Ok. Well, can I put my number there?

I'm sorry?

I mean, can I put my number there and if anyone else calls up asking for Ring-a-Root, you can give them my number.

For Ring-a-Root.



*sips whiskey*

Wednesday, November 1, 2006

To dreams, the future.

In my dream I thought I was being led to my death. Cursing and spitting and kicking the dirt I tried to release my arms from the grip of those who dragged me along the desert floor. In front of us, loomed Ayers Rock. As good a place to die as any, I thought. Surrounding me, leading me, were ten maybe fifteen tribal elders, their faces painted ghostly white and blood red. They remained silent as I became my Demon, screaming in an unknown tongue. I thought I heard the wind whispering, trying to sooth me, to calm me.

When we reached the rock, it all went dark.

I was in Hell.

Hell was an endless expanse of sand. I walked on, passing people I knew, who had given up and lay baking on millions of tiny diamonds. I tried to communicate but all that passed my lips was the sound of the wind.

Hell was a beach. Where the water should have been I saw instead, an ocean of skyscapers. Metal and glass reflecting the burning sun and lined up like teeth, like fangs. Reaching skyward toward the tongue of cloud which lazed in the sky and obscured Heaven from view. A man walked up to me and grabbing my arm, set skin afire, branding his mark upon me. You only get to choose one, he said, and you can never come back. Somehow I knew he wanted me to choose a building. So I chose, and walked toward the shortest one with the open windows.

Inside the door woman greeted me, examining the still sizzling brand on my arm. She smiled a smile of golden teeth. In her arms was a shiny black snake, wet and coiled seductively around her. Standing beside her was a dream within a dream, a friend I wished to protect. But as I moved toward her, everything collapsed, everything went blank.

The last thing I heard before the dream ended was, you did not die on the rock. You were cured.


I wake up in paradise. I wake up smiling on a misty grey morning to the sound of whistling in my kitchen. Infected by the notes I rise and walk outside to hold my arms outstretched and embrace the universe. Above me, at the edge of the deck, the water runs off the roof and forms curtains of rain. Acting the part, I step through, onto the grass and soak in the applause. The pit-pit-patter-clap of the rain on tin. Beyond my backyard I can hear what once was a freeway, now a river. The cars morphed to salmon in their never ending journey upstream. I grin a grin that says, On this day, reality is ours to create.


I say to myself, I probably speak to you too much. Is it right for what we want to achieve? Need to achieve? I don't know, I know you are my best friend and...


And today I feel right. Today I know I made the right decision. I am happy, though there is sadness. I am happy to have chosen the path I have, and happy to have made it to where I am. I did it, I did it because I love you. And I am going to keep on loving you...

'cause it's the only thing you wanna do?

I raise an eyebrow at myself. Smart arse.


I do not think myself unique in the way I appreciate the life that wraps around me when I sit in my garden. But alone in it this morning, I hear it speaking to me. So I listen. And over the fence old trees give unselfishly, tall and proud and wiser than I. And at my feet, the grass is green, on THIS side. So, still smiling, I nod sagely in agreement with the wisdom of nature. Yes, everything in this garden is growing. And I mean EVERYTHING.

A drop of melancholy falls upon me, as I dream a dream of sharing this moment. But it just joins the rain, rolls down my back and does nothing to dampen the determination within.

Two birds fly overhead, seeking shelter.

The cat rubs against my leg and sighs.

The wind dies, and all that is left is the soft kiss of the rain.

Tuesday, October 31, 2006

It's all about me.

I wake up and I am not beside myself, so I put some jeans on and walk out the back door. I see that I am already outside weeding the garden.

What are you doing? I ask myself.

I'm getting rid of the weeds baby, I reply. It's cathartic, it makes me happy.

Cathartic? Don't you mean, symbolic?

Yeah, I say laughing and grunting as I grab hold of some stubborn bastard, totally fucking symbolic.

The sun shines on.


When I was twenty two, I went through a secretive phone sex phase. I don't know why. I was working in a warehouse in Bumfuck West, and I would spend all day out there on my own listening to music and playing downball with myself (not an anology...yet), and reading the paper. It was when those ads first started to appear, now there are pages of the fucking things, but they no longer appeal. One day, I was misty, ("hungover" my friends call horny, to which I reply there is no better cure than the hair of the dog that bit you, or perhaps a Bloody Mary...hmm), one day I was misty and just picked up the phone and talked the sexy shit to some lady and played downball with myself in the middle of the warehouse. It wasn't hot so much, as bad. And bad is fucking hot. Anyway I kept it up for a few weeks, yes I'm talented like me, until my boss received the phone bill and I slunk into his office the most embarrassed I had ever been in my life. I stopped after that. And I paid the fucking bill, hundreds of dollars. Sigh.

End confession.


Up north is a possibilty of peace. Or trouble. Up north in a big house, by the beach, in a provincial Australian town where the sun always shines and there's laughter all year round, is a chance to forget. Just walk out and forget.

Yesterday I told myself things that were dangerous to hear, things that though they were not intended that way, make me want to stay. To fight, to hold my ground in the face of danger. Everything is fucking dangerous these days. But what's important to me, is the most dangerous of all.

A few years ago I drove myself insane deciding between a girl I had loved for ten years and a girl I had been with for five. My answer at the time was ecstacy and booze puncuated with obsessive working and avoiding the inevitable. The inevitable came, but in a shape I had never expected. The most glorious shape I ever laid eyes on. Years later, the ten years calls me a coward, and the five years tells me to not give up on the dangerous path I walk. She walked straight up to the path, looked down it and took its measure before staring me in the eye and saying, it's worth it.

Would that it were that easy.

But I don't want to be a coward.


When you search for threeways and orgies and wild naughty sex, you can never find it. So now, hibernating in my Brunswick country house, I receive offers every weekend. It's the Devil, perched upon my shoulder here in Hell, whispering easy escapes and ferocious temptations. I'm trying to keep things uncomplicated. I'm trying to remember what happens when shit gets involved. I'm using the exercises that the fixing lady gave me. Visualising a red circle with a stem beneath it which leads into a patch of earth, and when the stem hits the earth it branches into a thousand roots. But instead I'm visualising THAT round shape, with THAT stem that leads to the Earth, me, and I'm thinking of a thousand roots.



Sometimes, when I look at myself, I see myself begging to leave. And I say to myself, there is so much out there, go find it. Don't stay here with me. It can only lead to more bullshit and sorrow. So I go over it in my head, this surrender, giving in, and I weigh the pros and cons, and I poke and probe every single inch of how I feel.

Maybe I'm right. Maybe I should leave.

I'm just not sure how I could live with myself.