Thursday, August 24, 2006

Mountain Man

In a corner of the world, in the centre of a gigantic flat plain, lies a mountain. An ancient creation of forces unknown. A monument to Time and the Universe and the elements which make us all. Which make it all.

The goat stood on top of the mountain.

This is where I make my stand, he thought. I am ready.

The mountain didn't reply. But it comforted the Goat all the same.

And as the wind tickled his whiskers, he tilted his head back and laughed at EVERYTHING.

And in the distance he could see storms and armies and philosophers and machines and cities and trees and dancers and kings. And some of these things were moving toward him and others were moving away, but he no longer felt the urge to run.

This time he shouted it back to the wind, THIS IS WHERE I MAKE MY STAND.

And the wind carried it across the plain and everything stopped for one brief moment as his words washed through them all. Then the storms grew stormier, and the armies began to march, the philosophers cast their judgement, the machines roared and clanged into life, the cities reflected the sun as their towers reached for Heaven, the trees danced their swaying dance that matched the way the dancers danced for their regal kings, who sat upon the thrones made of bone.

And beyond that, the ocean began to rise, flooding all beneath it as it reached for its true love, the mountain.

And the goat laughed louder as he watched the world drown.


Sometimes, I forget, that all I've ever been is a fucking hopeless romantic on a quest for true love.

Take care guys.

Sunday, August 13, 2006

Perpetual Nonchalance.

I wake up, switch on the radio and luck onto the Stones.

I was drowned, I was washed up and left for dead.
I fell down to my feet and I saw they bled.
I frowned at the crumbs of a crust of bread.
Yeah, yeah, yeah
I was crowned with a spike right thru my head.
But its all right now, in fact, its a gas!
But its all right, Im jumpin jack flash,
Its a gas! gas! gas!

Somedays, you just know shit is going to be alright.

Tomorrow I have a meeting with a director about my script which is not coming along too well. Though the nergy behind the idea is a feeling not unlike falling in love. Originally I thought I would ask for help, from people who know. But now I know that it is mine and mine alone. Success or failure. Self sufficient.

I like that.

Wednesday I'm going to a farm. Long walks and fresh bread and walks in the mist.

I like that too.


Archie laughed at the irony of it all. Laughed at the fact that he had come back to this place out of all places. There was the river, the bridge, the grass. There were the sheds behind which he smoked his first cigarette. There was the theatre to which he still had the key. Seventeen fucking years ago, he thought, nothing has changed. Nothing.

Then laughed at the complexity of that sentence. Some things change, some stay the same.

He heard whistling beside him and sat on the damp grass and let go.


Last night a great hulk of a man stood at the end of the bar with his back to me abusing me to all who would listen. He would walk up to people I knew and point at me and tell them he was going to beat me up, and that I was sly and devious and a woman stealing cunt. While he was doing this I hugged perhaps six or seven friends who were girls. That is as far as I go in terms of woman stealing. I love beautiful women and they love me. In the end he glubbed and slubbered out of the room, fists in pockets. Life is sometimes so very strange. That whilst I see myself as a little sad and broken, someone else sees me as a lusty lothario eyeing all and sundry. I guess that's a compliment.

I'll take it as a compliment.

There is a lot to write, but I don't feel like writing it on here. I need to get back to my script. Wish me luck on the morrow if you happen to drop by today.

Hope you're all good and stuff.

Tuesday, August 8, 2006

The Rebirth of Cool

Sylvia just sat and listened as Archie talked. They drank coffee as the world wept around them and formed rivers down the concrete channels beside the road.

Beside them and all around, the world kept on doing its thing.

Last night I held my stomach but I didn't cry, Archie started. I almost felt relief. It was like getting the tattoo, I was so nervous beforehand, of the pain I mean. And it fucking hurt, but then it was done. And I'm marked. And it's okay. I mean, I feel...almost too calm. Can you dig that pussycat?

I can dig it Arch.

It's true. No more mess. No more mess. I've had mess, I've attracted mess, I've CREATED mess. I've been a messy fucking guy Lady. But today, I feel reborn. It's like I've opened my eyes for the first time and everything seems so...


Real. Everything seems so real. All the things that I have done and that have been done to me. It all has to stop. I'm making a promise to myself today. All of this will stop.

He held out his arm and rolled up his sleeve. He placed his left palm over the marking of his mother which lived on his right forearm.

Since...this...I've been destroyed and have destroyed. I've hurt others and hurt myself. That is not, NOT, right. It's not right. I need to lead. Need to live up to the expectation that I have of myself. I'm a good guy, but I've been a messy guy. And my ego tells me I'm intelligent, but fuck me sometimes I act dumb. Real fucking dumb. Oh man I've done some dumb arse shit. And this calm, I don't know how long it's going to last...but I know it's RIGHT. I know I'm in the place that I'm supposed to be, right now. No more mess. No more hurt. Just...doing the right thing. By other people, but most myself. I swear on this motherfucking tattoo, that I will try and follow this principle.

That's beautiful, she said. It's...infectious.

Archie shook himself out of his reverie and just smiled his big dumb grin.

But I'm still allowed to have fun right? I can still streak and dance and play air guitar behind the bar and flirt and be crazy. I just...I want people to think, there's that crazy guy, and then when they meet me, I want them to say, wow. I want them to say wow.

Trust me, sylvia laughed, they already do.


I moved house. I put all of my belongings into a suitcase and some boxes and I moved to my little country oasis in Brunswick. And when I wake up there's a black fella and a trazpeze artist sawing and sanding a brand new deck made of oak and other "procured" timber. Dave, the black fella, is up from Sorrento until the job is done. He's staying in the backyard in a tent which is always ready in his car. He has a stove, a mattress and a tent. I like that. I like that a lot.

I moved house but my belongings weren't the only baggage I brought with me. And so today, I'm having a ceremony. I'm taking all of that internal baggage and piling it up in the centre of the back yard...and letting the wind take it. Not burning it, just letting it free. Free of me. And I free of it.

My feelings remain. I hope they always do. But the baggage has got to go.


Archie sat in his backyard smoking a rolled cigarette and watching the gentle rain wash the sawdust of his porch. The sky looked dark and beautiful, compassionate but firm.

Hi. He said. Hi.

And the rain welcomed him home.

Monday, August 7, 2006

Stupid is as stupid does

I pointed and clicked. Stupid.

I let it all back in. Stupid.

I listened and read to people who didn't know me calling me something that hurt me. Stupid.

All I care about at the moment is the pursuit of something that can never be pursued, a feeling that cannot be pulled out of thin air. A feeling that comes when it's good and ready, not when you are. Stupid.

This no doubt means that I am going to get drunk. Stupid.


Sylvia reached across the table and held Archie's hand. I like you, she said. I really LIKE you. Inside he could do nothing but smile wanly and reply with a bittersweet laugh. And everything she said made sense to him. And her eyes were deep, real deep. And they drank whiskey together these two beautiful, broken people. And while they did, they pretended that it was all okay. And maybe it was but he was too blind to see it.


The worst part about being aware of yourself is knowing when you have acted stupidly. But I can never tell. Because there is such a gigantic part of me which equates passion with stupidity. YEAH! Let's do the stupid, crazy thing! Ain't that wild? Don't people get away with doing that? Isn't life worth taking risks?

But I guess if you're born under a bad sign, you should know better than to keep taking risks. Go with the good option, stick to the part of the street that you can see.

Or at the very least, if you don't and you choose the random fucking adventures that every single tiny feeling leads you to explore?

Stop fucking complaining when it all goes to dust.


I've been drunk for a long time now.

I thought I was out, but it was a lie.

Time for some honesty.


I just did it. It was a sunny day and I was sick of feeling so damn self absorbed and sad. Always sad, why the fuck? I had the Complicated One, beautiful and open, but my conscience told me no so I tried to drink it away. And four, five, six, count them all on four hands but nothing to stop me turning and gazing at the forest and dreaming of its embrace. That forest may well be the end of the line, I thought, and that's depressing somedays.

But then I thought I had found an Angel. And so on that sunny day I just went right up and did it. Hi, you don't know me but...

The Angel laughed and it began.


I was actually crying last week when I tilted my head back and looked up high, standing in the middle of a park on my own screaming, THANKYOU. THANKYOU THANKYOU THANKYOU. That's how I felt, I felt the Universe had taken pity on me and had decided enough was enough and here, these things are for you.

But the Universe won't be finished with me until all I can see above me is the cold, dark timber of my eternal rotting prison.

Fuck it.

Fuck it to Hell.


The Angel and I jumped on a plane. I'm frightened, she said, this is scary and I don't think I'm ready to jump.

I just opened the door. Took off my parachute and opened the door.

Then I jumped. That's what I do.

What a fucking rush man.

Yesterday I thought I had managed to land on my feet. Today I'm not so sure.

On Saturday Night, the Angel's wings turned dark and I realised she was a Demon. And I was too busy, talking myself into seeing her dark as light, too busy hoping. Wishing. Just for something, anything.

You see, I'm not looking for someone to love me. I have that. I'm looking for someone who lets me be in love with them. And who decides to jump out that door with me and feeeeeeel.

People love me, but I only love people who can't love me.



I thought I was done with Bukowski, the minute I put the book down. Running With The Hunted. But he's inside me now, deeper than ever, and I'm starting to get scared.

I thought: It would be nice to have my funeral, because there are so many of my friends that haven't met each other.

I thought: Well, you are throwing a house warming party soon...

I thought: Yeah, but people actually turn up to a funeral.

I'm drinking again, but today I'm normally sober.


The Demon-Angel passed me a bottle of Tequila in the backyard of a wild house party. We took turns necking it and each other until I lifted the bottle one last time and the scorpion that resided in its depths fell into my mouth. Hey! She said, I wanted some of that. It was still in my mouth so I pulled it out and snapped it in half. I gave her the sting. I gave her the sting.

I could feel myself losing self control, getting wobbly and slurring my words so I said, I gots to go. Well at least help me find my friend, she said, wait for him and you can walk me to a taxi. But I needed to go. Needed. So I climbed out some window and started to stagger down the street. MAT. COME BACK. I heard the cry, but I just kept on walking. Made my way to the gutter outside my second home until my Little Sister inside noticed me and put me in a taxi.

When I awoke I got the scoop in an electronic kick in the face.

You're too passionate about me. I'm too volatile around that. You said if I told you to stop, you'd stop. So stop. My heart can't do this. I'm frightened.

So I showered, walked to the pub...and stopped.


The forest is but a voice now, and an occasional soft word. It's a memory of something intangible, another Queen of Hearts in the deck of cards that is my crazy fucking past.

I still dream of it every night. Every single damn night.


Everyday I get a text or a kind word from a multitude of friends, and that should be enough, and most days it is.

I get: When I die, I hope to be reincarnated as you. From a friend I wish I saw more, knew better.

I get: You know what you are? You're great. From the same friend.

I get all sorts of messages, dirty invitations, people that love me, where the Hell are you messages.

But it's all disconnected in a world between worlds and I still can't find where exactly I fit. Or why these people would love someone they hardly see. I'm the ideal of a passionate, restless, wild spirit. But maybe I'm just another thirty something, with another hard luck story. Or ten.


I compose a love letter to my princess. My forest. A real love letter, not garlands and memories, but an honesty letter, with real reasons, sincere and open but distant all the same. Respecting the distance. Despising it though I am.

I compose it but realise it's not the time. Right now it's time for solitude and clarity and the fresh air that can blow everything that is false from me and leave me standing, a naked soul, an empty vessel.

Fill it fucko.


I watch Batman Begins. And the line says: It's not who you are underneath which defines you, but what you do. I've always tried to make people see what lies underneath me, but now it's time to just do.

Oh and Universe? Bring it on you cunt.