Wednesday, May 31, 2006

I'm not that innocent.

Either is my sweetheart.


Don't take life too seriously today. Okay?


Saturday, May 27, 2006


The goat stood on the parapet and locked eyes with the Princess. Below them, across the moat, a lone archer took aim and fired an arrow at the princess. It flew straight between them, a tickle of wind. The goat laughed. I guess you do look kind of vulnerable up here, he said. I guess a goat can't offer much in the way of protection.

The archer walked away. Bravo for trying, the Goat thought, I would've done the same.

The Princess turned and stared over the horizon. The goat just stood frozen and drank in her beauty, killing himself slowly.


Two careers I like:

Chimney Sweep.
Piano Tuner.


Eyes still locked on the far horizon, the Princess reached for the goat and scratched his ear. I'm glad you're here, she said, I wanted you to be here.

What lies on the horizon? the goat asked.

I don't know. But I cannot avert my eyes.

The goat stared at the fortifications. The Princess stared at the horizon. And life stared at them both.


People I think I have decided to murder:

My Stepfather.


The archer returned, only this time leading a force of hundreds of thousands of men. They surrounded the castle slowly, a mollasses of humanity.

The goat turned to his left and stared into the courtyard within the castle where the children played with sticks and hoops.

There is no hope for them, he thought.

No hope, the Princess said, matching thought with words.

The goat smiled his buck toothed smile and shook his head. He arched his back and stared at the sky and kicked his hind legs and let loose an almighty...


Well, I guess you've got to laugh.

Laugh? I don't feel like laughing, the Princess said and turned to face him.

Well, said the goat, if today is my day to die, I'd rather go out laughing. I'd like to be remembered that way. Couldn't do much, just goaty stuff, but when that fucker went, he went with a smile.


The goat didn't turn. Just stood on the parapet as the arrows began to fly, staring at the archers below and laughing at them. Bring it, he roared. BRING IT.

And the horizon flew towards them, or they towards it.

Monday, May 22, 2006

Quick life bulletpoints

*You can't hide who you are. Bury it and it just explodes. Not in a jizz way.

*Karma is a real concept. What you put out into the universe you will receive back. [karma has no particular time frame, sometimes karma is served cold]

*On the exact day that you lose one friend, life will always hand you another, making sure that everyone has always one friend. That's nice of life isn't it?

*Speed makes people who are already crazy, into like, really crazy people.

*Trying to prove you are strong, generally just means you're not. Years ago I read Sun Tzu, and yet I haven't been following his wisdom. Sometimes I put myself in a scenario which will only sap my strength and make me crumble, just to prove to myself that I can handle anything. Which of course, I cannot. Sun Tzu would have counselled, walk away, and build your strength, save it, for the days when you really need it. I think I'm going to the bookstore now to find another copy of his book. Before I was rock n' roll, I was a student of Asian History, and I tell you what, I was a lot happier and a lot more peaceful.

*It hurts.

Tuesday, May 16, 2006

That was now, this is then

I open my eyes and take stock. I am on my back in my bedroom. From the noise outside on the street I calculate seven maybe eight o'clock AM. My curtains are broken condoms, letting copious amounts of light through to impregnate my room. My room is spartan. I sleep on a mattress on the floor. I have three pictures on the once white yellow walls. I have a wooden chest, the only piece that remains of my mother. I never open it, it holds old clothes and photos and I'm pretty sure another undeveloped roll of film from who knows when. I have a computer which is good for naught but iTunes and Age of Empires 2: Expansion Pack. It sits on an impossibly shitty old table which I have decorated with a red sarong from Fiji and a cactus in the shape of a penis which my friend Christine gave me for my birthday, shit, two years ago now. I've also been decorating it with McDonald's wrappers, dirty tea cups and empty cigarette packets. Next to the "desk" is an Ikea shelving unit. The top shelf is slightly organised. It has design magazines and a pile of books I chose in order to impress any girls who might have bothered to look. Why did I do that? Was that to be the clincher? Well I'm finally here in your bedroom OH MY GOD PETER CAREY'S BLISS FILL MY THROAT WITH CUM. The bottom shelves are covered in dirty clothes and I know underneath them all is another dirty tea cup which I once stashed there upon hearing my landlord was visiting that morning. I didn't wash it. I hid it underneath clothes. This is a good representation of my current mental state. I have a t-shirt next to the bed which I used to blow my nose on during the night. In my head I hear someone say, you've got a cumrag next to your bed, gross! And the more I try to explain that it's just snot and that I didn't have any tissues and I really needed to blow my nose and I never wear it anyway...well, the more guilty I sound. Better to just own it. Yeah baby. Cumrag. I'm hot. My mouth is next to open and it says, hairygoatfeetwoolstinksmoker. I vow to never smoke again. It is now that I realise that like every night before, I have left no water beside my bed. I vow to leave water beside my bed from here on in. I reach for my ventolin and one, two, three, steroids. I vow to never smoke again. I reach for my phone and see who is up before me. Or to be honest, to see if anyone out there in the real world wants to be in touch with me. Sometimes yes, sometimes no. Sometimes good, sometimes bad. Sometimes I jerk off. Sometimes I don't. Sometimes, my honesty surprises even me. But I remember the books I like, and keep going.

I walk downstairs and it's cold and the house is tall and long and dark red cold wood and cornices in the sky and peeling paint and occupied by ghosts that live in a different world than I. I see traces of their passing. Sometimes I sit in a chair that is still warm from their presence. It's a bittersweet Marie Celeste sort of comfort. I walk down the stairs and out the back and nine times out of ten the first living thing I see is the one-eyed cat and without fail, he's always happy to see me and it's really nice to feel loved first thing in the morning. But I ignore his pleas for food and step into the bathroom and strip. I peel last night off me and it hits the floor with an anticlimactic.....fffffff. I know what I will see but I look anyway because there are some days when it's better than others. I place one hand on either side of the sink and stare at me staring at me. Sometimes I open my mouth and make strange faces, trying to pull the skin tight over my face, as tight as I can, using only the muscles of my face. Until I catch myself and feel stupid and give myself some sort of wry smile and try to joke it off. It always ends with a knowing look. This early anyway.

I read a story today and it said, "when he stepped into the shower the water was cold at first but slowly warmed up". I feel this story may be as thrilling as that. But not this shower, this shower starts hot. Stays hot. Then runs instantly cold. I'm reminded of the cup hidden beneath the dirty clothes, and wonder what this shower says about my current mental state. But it's only a shower. I laugh, I smile, I hold my head in my hands, but mostly I just stand still. Eyes open. Thinking more and less than I can take. I think, I can't take these thoughts. I think, vegemite muffin. I think [BLINDING FLASH] I think. Nothing. I think nothing.

I delude myself that shaving makes me handsome. I do not think myself ugly, but I have seen handsome, so I shave and think, you're handsome. But the thought is a cold fish, and is rejected by me Mr Way Out West. I get dressed [BLINDING FLASH] I wear the grey pinstripe suit. I wear the white shirt and the paisley tie. I wear the black and white Fluevog bowling shoes. I read the paper and eat vegemite muffins and drink tea and break my cigarette vow.

On the tram I am reminded of the iPod I lost. An affair to remember. I have never had a girlfriend, so I mourn my iPod. Her favourite song was Soul by Songs:Ohia, I reminisce, and my imaginary friends nod their heads and buy me an imaginary whiskey. Around me I see students in love. Heads embraced by white tentacles, oblivious to me and my heartache. I vow to one day find a new iPod. Though my first will always be my deepest. Gold.

I step off the tram and arrive at my place of work. Concrete and glass fourty eight stories.

"Good morning Archie"

Good morning.

"Good morning Archie"

Good morning.

"Good morning Archie"

Good morning.


I close my office door. I slow my breathing and open and close my fists. I sit behind my desk and straighten every pen, every piece of paper. I make right angles of everything. I align EVERYTHING. I swivel on my chair and face another building, an exact replica. I see the reflection of my window in its window, but not the reflection of me. Nonetheless, I wave to both me, and the other me who sits behind his window, staring at the reflection of his building. I like to imagine he is waving at me. I like to imagine we are in this together. I like to imagine him doing as I do. Because,

I open the drawer to my right take hold of the cold grey metal put the barrel in my mouth and pull the trigBANG.



That was my dream.

Monday, May 8, 2006

My castle is your castle.

A while ago I built a castle out of sand, I decorated it with stars, and covered it with clouds. The architect inside me considered it beautiful, his greatest achievement, and would silence the doubts of my internal engineer, and his thirst for stable foundations.

Pish posh, 'tis a masterful creation, and worthy to stand for all time.

And it was worthy, except it was built of sand, not earth, and it was decorated with stars, not lights, and the roof was made of clouds, when it perhaps should have been...well, you get the picture.

Slowly, over time, the elements have taken their toll on my beautiful castle. And I have begun to witness its gentle disentegration. Mourning, in my own way, its passing from my life.

But I am nothing if not determined, so rather than fall to the ground, sand sifting through my fingers as I weep and curse the Gods, I have decided to smooth the area inside me where the castle once was, and draw up plans for my next erection.


I think the next castle I build, I would like to stand forever. I think I will enjoy walking through its suitably dusty corridors, many years hence, touching pieces gently and remembering.

Ah, this room, this room was always my favourite.

I'm not going to rush the construction of my next castle, for there are too many ruins around, too many wasted raw materials, and too much wasted time. I'm going to teach myself the joy of patience, the virtue of deliberation, and the satisfaction in a job taken to its completion, not half done, shaky and achey.

For any one of us at any time, there are the services of a castle builder close by. But not all of them are able to fulfil their contractual obligations, and it is often hard to tell the real deal from their Jerry-Built impersonators. That's the trap. Without a castle, I've often been left to defend myself below in the marshes, no moat, no drawbridge, no pile of hay... [c'mon, they always have that courtyard with a pile of hay...] So yeah, to be honest, in the past, I've always constructed a castle quickly, and without thinking, to shelter myself from 'dem marauding bands of wayward outlaws...roaw! Argh!

But they've all tumbled, somehow. Either from without or within.

So I guess, I'll wait until I find a Master Builder. I guess I'll go fishing, me, the Master Baiter.

So now, I'm sitting on a pier, book and beer handy, and I can wait a long time to catch my builder...'cept this time, I'm waiting for that one that won't get away.

Waiting to talk construction.

And castles in the sky.

*cue motherfucking Hendrix duuuude*

Oh yeah, and I'm starting Karate on Wednesday, so like, you toucha my castle, I breaka yo' face.

Thursday, May 4, 2006

Once were warriors

I sat under the streetlight, reading the newspaper and eating chips. I wore a green jacket, a scarf and a flatcap. The hood of the jacket was pulled far over my head. I like to hide, I like to disguise.

I like it when you walk past without recognising me. Without small talk and with the, "Hey!"

I sat reading the newspaper when a small black kitten crept up and sat beside me.

Hello, I said.

Hello, the kitten replied.

I scratched her behind the ears. She purred.

Why are you sitting here all alone? the kitten asked.'s what I do, I replied, somedays there's just nowhere for me to go, not even home, so I like to sit outside, reading and smoking and drinking tea. I like to be a part of this world, though it has no idea I exist. I like to be in it, like Norm. Like life.

You're interesting, said the cat, Mind if I sit with you?

Go right ahead muffin, I coined her muffin, I quite like the company.

We sat, I read, she purred.

In the small things, bliss baby, bliss.


I have shed my rage. And in its place, mostly happiness, sometimes inexplicable tears, but mostly happiness. I have shed my rage and through sagely wisdom, learned that letting go is impossibly sad and inutterably (unutterably?) beautiful.

So I let go, close my eyes, take a breath, and let it all fall, slide, from my fingers. All the teenage pain, 15 years on, all the mid twenties angst, 6 years on now...I let it go and when I do...


I laugh.



To be honest, I'm more self conscious for some reason now, it is harder than I thought, here in Hell. Knowing. Because I never worried about who read this, never cared to hide myself, disguise myself, pull the wool over your eyes, but coming back here, it is a little harder to totally let go. I think I need a few more posts, to you know, get back into the schwing. To forget that you exist and to just write write right.


I run my hand along the length of her tail and she curls into me and I feel her breathe on my neck.

Don't fear, she's just a cat. A tiny beautiful black cat.

Stay, I say. Let's get to know each other.

She purrs, like cats do. And jumps off my leg and down the street haunchy and cats do.

I'll be back, I hear her cry. Her violin sweet voice echoing in the lane. But not yet. You're not ready yet.

Not ready for what? I shout...

But there is no answer yet,

what am I not ready for?

Wednesday, May 3, 2006

I want you to show me

If resignation is a colour then it's grey, and I hate wearing grey. Too schooley. So I hang the cloak by the door for now, in fact, I take EVERYTHING off and just fucking RUN. Run through the streets, run through my memories, run deep inside the cave until gasping for breath I fall, collapse, laugh. Cry.

Is it Kurt Cobain's fault? Grunge's fault? That I find myself still a little angsty from time to time at the age of 33? Did I spend too much time in the early 90s FEELING MAN. And questioning the world and turning to music and turning to matters of the heart as though they were the most important things in life. And I know what we're both thinking, they ARE the most important. Except, maybe they're not. Maybe if I didn't spend so much time in that loco world, I would be taller, more handsome, smarter, fitter, happier, more productive...


There is a light, coming through the trees above me. Bathing my face in warmth. I squint my eyes and try to find the source but I can't. Things are grey, not black, around me, but it's dark enough to contrast with the blinding light. To hide its intentions. So I freeze, right here at this spot, surrounded by grey with a beam of light on my face. I freeze, too wary to move in case the light disappears. I become a statue of myself. Stuck here for all time.



This is the other voice. The living voice, and I am ALIVE. Forgive the bad rock concert anology, it's my heritage, my blood. In the face of anything, it is what I use to replenish the dried up river beds that are my veins, to snd blood coursing through myself, to awaken my heart, and to put a smile on my soul.

It's a little bit of fancy, but it's sure better than drinking a gourd of malaise. Trust me.


I'm a statue of myself, stuck in a wood, far from home. Ghey ghey ghey.


Monday, May 1, 2006

There and Back Again. [not The Hobbit]


I missed these surrounds this font this background you anonymous kids my confidence my own personal fucking Hell.

So I'm back, and I'm stronger and I'm ready to write.

I'm ready to be open and honest and not so cryptic 'cepting where it counts, and I'm hoping my sentences come back, my analogies work and my rampant pedantic semantics flow slow like red hot lava down the fucking rock hard slopes of the page.

It feels good.

I read it all back, like a diary. I feel every whip welt of self-flagellation and congratulation and attempted motivation. I read it back and do not weep and do not smile or laugh, just take it all in and drink it all up (ha) and grow dizzy from the knowledge and the god awful memories.

Last night I said, there's just no room for a guy like me, and the answer was two nods. One to agree and one to fall asleep. A two nod response. That's all a guy needs.

I read it all back and realised just how much control I have over my environment, except, if I was out of control, then so was it. And now, with my feet firmly on the ground, and they are, I begin to project a runway in front of myself, and get ready to take off.

Pretty fly for a dead guy huh.

There are nights when I am alone when I search my mind for what it is I dream of, what it is I need to hang on to. What it is I fucking want. And most often, it's too busy in there to nail one thing down, most nights, it's too difficult to find the zen place where priorities and reality and fantasia are seperate enough to make a clear cut decision. But every now and again, I'm clear as sill, and I squeeze the black out and what remains is my heart and my soul, there to offer, if anyone wants to receive it.

I get an engaged signal. Try again later.

I do not have a subtance abuse problem, I have an emotional control problem, I have a problem with my heart and the hearts of others. My outlook on the world and the outlook of others. What I believe is right and the need to force that upon others. THAT is the heart of my problem, THAT is what I learn from talking to an objective outsider, a sage. If the outside world does not fit into my own personal view of what it should be, do not rage against it, state your peace.

Then find your peace, and see what remains.

Since I have been gone from this place, locked in a Hotel Room at the Tijuana, that is the lesson I have learned. Your world is your world, and mine is mine. And what joy to find two worlds do not collide, but merge. But if they cannot, then ce fucking sera, you're a square and I'm a triangle and boo hoo life hurts but fuck, the earth is a molecule and so I am Flawed creation of a chaotic universe.

I list my pros and cons and come out on top. I very carefully extract my ego from my id. I seperate my heart from my soul from my youngest child me me me.

And I decide, nothing. Just crank the music and dance like a fucko.

*flicks light on*