Monday, June 19, 2006

This land is your land

My friend told me he'd read back over Hell. He said, I don't know what you're doing pulling beers, you should be out hocking stories. It was nice to hear, but hard to act upon when all this has ever been to me is some sort of self-therapy. A way to spill my soul and hope that in the process, in the light, I could teach myself something.

Somedays, it works. Others, I just find myself treading tired old ground.

So I re-read it and see the peaks and the troughs and laugh snidely at myself.

Deriding the days when I seemed to have it all so worked out.

How can positivity be so fluctuating?


Ha. Yeah, 'spose.


There are some things in life that can only be cured by one Hell of a strong drink. Destroy all rational thought and just find your Peace in the bottom of a glass, amongst the ice. Cold yet friendly, with no respect for the morning. When I write that, I know it's ridiculous, but its inherent masochism warms me nonetheless. When I write that, I know its the last thing on this Earth that I need to do right now, but the thinking of it replaces the action of it, and I feel a little bit...Queens of the Stone Age, a little bit tougher, and a whole lot more able to deal with the day.

I ninja step down the stairs in my socks, heel first then flat out to toe, and make a Honey and Lemon tea. Rock n' fucking Roll.


Every single time I think I can take a fucking rest on this mountain, my feet slip and my hands falter and I have to grip tight or risk losing ground. I guess it's lucky I'm a goat, I guess it's lucky that actually, I have no hands, no feet, only hooves, and this is MY habitat. On the slopes, looking forever up toward the peak.

I have knowledge that I can't share with you, for I cannot find the words, not even in myself. All I have is frustration that some people around can't fucking see what I can see. But frustration is an ugly emotion, and I loathe the beast inside that feels it, so instead I slow my breathing and try to sound it all out here. But nothing comes, just random sentences, each with their own agenda, holistic only in that they fly neutron like around the central core of my ideas.

Anyway, I've got a mountain to climb, and tarrying ain't my thang.


Write now. Right now, I have but one dream. This express town to actionsville, where each day we all hit the ground running, trying to make a NAME for ourselves, trying to be a part of it, competition, status, impressing each other and being impressed...maybe that works for you, and maybe I'm a hermit motherfucker who only comes out at night, in a cloak, a mask, a personality valve, letting out only tiny pieces of the real puzzle...but I think the real world lies far underneath this surface. I think the real world lies in opening a door to fields and snow and ferns and paddocks and green fucker green and you're alone with your thoughts and your thoughts carry weight, not of responsibility, but the weight of BEAUTY. And the wait for peace and happiness.

I respect the decisions that you all make, for they are your own.

And maybe my angst comes from putting off any decisions of my own, day after day of existential philosophy.

And maybe if I'm that fucking desperate for some sort of Home, I should just set about building it rather than waiting for it.


  1. Goats live in the country, apart from the ones at the Collingwood childrens farm, maybe you need some respite?
    not in a manly way either.

  2. There are some things in life that can only be cured by one Hell of a strong drink.

    Ah. There's nothing quite like it, eh? Bring on the Absinthe and turn on the Queens.