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 that...love 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.

Monday, October 30, 2006

Blood on the motorway.

Be still now
I am with you,
I am deep within you;
You are at peace.
You cannot be harmed;
You will not suffer.
Breathe deeply,
Breathe in the healing love of the universe,
And breathe out the sickness which has taken you.
I am with you.

I press my ear gently against the stone wall and hear dot, dot, dash. Dash dot dot dash. I close my eyes, press my lips against the cold stone and reply, I know. A hundred yards to my left, there is a queue forming at a doorway which leads behind the wall. A hundred yards to my right, there is a queue forming toward my position. The queue to my right is a line of humanity, waiting to kneel before me so that they may be kicked in the teeth. I do not know the purpose of the queue to the right. All I know is the short message I am sent in morse code. I do not think, I just release, and eyes on the horizon, stride back out to walkabout country. I don't look back. I don't need to look back. What lies behind me is a vision I cannot escape.


I wake up and do seventy push ups. I have a shower, shave, and slide into my uniform. It feels wrong. I don't feel right in this uniform anymore. I open the kitchen window above the sink and fill it with water as I stare at my next door neighbour who is painting our fence. I think of someone, whom I know wants to run. I think, I will stand and fight.

At that moment, two things happen.

My next door neighbour stops painting and stares directly at me.

And I say out loud, What is there to fight for?

He looks at me quizzically, and turns to renew his brush.

Later, I sit on the edge of my deck, my bare feet nestled in the grass. Next to me, the cat drools and snores. On the apex of the Hills Hoist directly in front of me, a minor bird stands laconically attentive, and next door I hear the oratory of Junior the Scottish Terrier, telling the world that which it cannot understand. I smoke a cigarette, though I have given up. And at my feet I notice a dead moth, covered in dancing ants. I am not sad, though I wish I could have offered it a cocoon.


The best thing to do when you feel sad, is put the sadness in a pot with garlic, onions, veal, vegetables and ricotta. Drink some red wine and throw some in the pot. Eat crunchy bread, and enjoy the now. Take a bath and read. Tomorrow, you can take your book into a small room in the back of your house and let the sadness flow down to where the goldifsh and crocodiles live. Then you can have pancakes for breakfast and start over.


I ask The Godfather for a map and a key, and he gives both to me. Tomorrow, I will load up and fuck off. I will tell one person where I am going. I will even make a copy of the map and say, here be not dragons, but sanctuary. But I will travel alone, and cook alone, and walk alone, and let the water tickle my toes, and the sand massage my heels. And I will run. Fuck will I run. I will run the length of the beach as fast as I can, and I will leave tiny diamonds behind me like breadcrumbs so I can find my way back to the house. I will lose myself for three days in the serenity. And I will forget, for a moment, that a holiday is like a love affair. The pleasure of beginning it tempered by the gentle melancholy that marks its end.


When I'm driving, I am untouchable. Everything passes, and there is a destination. I could drive forever and be happy. I could walk forever and be happy. I like movement, I like change, I like growth. But now, for the first time in a long time, I love the thought of coming home. I like the the thought of standing on my roof so I can see the Emerald City. I like how above my decking is laserlight and tin, and now I pray for rain so that I can sit in my chair, in my backyard and just listen. I like that hanging by a wire is a Singing Telegram bicycle, with the words, "your's for a song" (that apostrophe is sic by the way...), and I like how I can switch my phone off and feel at peace.

Last night I was asked, are you going to the party on Saturday Night? The something something party where someone is playing and everybody will be there, and before the sentence had even ended I was already at home cooking.

That's what I am staying for.

For now.


I want you to write to me.


Let's write to each to each other.

Sunday, October 29, 2006

You're gonna be remembered for the things that you say and do.

I stood in the centre of the universe at my best friend's wedding. And I stared straight at the sun, and it returned my gaze and inched toward me. All eyes were on us. And the sun and I gave unflinchingly to each other, until it disappeared over the horizon, and night fell around me without a single star in the sky.


I put on cowboy boots and became the man I have always dreamed of being. I put on cowboy boots and happily, without a single whisper in my mind, drank water when everyone collapsed around me, and baby, I was tall and it wasn't the boots. Amongst a hundred people, I confided in two, two old friends, I confided my deepest secret and they hugged me and stared me in the eye and said, never let go of your dreams, no matter what. And I didn't. I held them tight and though they were far, far distant, I kept my gaze upon them and dreamed of the day I reached my goal. And later, the sun rose just after midnight, to kiss my face with it's love, before disappearing again, to burn itself out on the other side of the world.


Archie sat on the porch and drank the words in. And it was all so surreal, and it was the end of the dream. But the end of the dream is the beginning of reality, and he had never before thought of it like that.

He said to the dream, Show me.

And the dream danced and showed him.

He said to the dream, I know why you're here.

And the dream giggled and smiled and nodded, and said: Yes.

He said to the dream, never leave.

But the dream left and Archie awoke and he was no longer on the porch he was in his bedroom alone, and his tears soaked the floor until his reflection drowned in pools of yesterday's fantasies.


I cried at my best friend's wedding, I cried joy when they locked eyes and spoke the words. I had known him asleep in a nightclub on a Sunday morning, I had known him in a hospital bed having narrowly avoided death, I had known him happy, creative, confused, angry, heartbroken, in love. I had known him as my friend. And now he had found his partner in life and I cried joy for them. And during the ceremony, I reached beside myself and squeezed the hand of an absent dream.


I let the dream go. And it came back. And left again. And now it's that hazy memory you get when you first wake up with a single phrase or image in your mind. But every night, I go to sleep and try to take myself there. Because I trust the people who tell me, don't ever give up on your dreams.


Tomorrow, a resting place for bums, a trap set in the slums, but I know the score...

In my head, live the dreams and the thoughts, and the fantasies. But that's all tomorrow isn't it. What does that leave for today? I want tomorrow to be today, whatever it brings. Because maybe living for dreams means missing out on reality. Fuck nose. Yes, I'm calling you fuck nose.

I'm going to keep searching for answers is all I know. At least a search is something solid.

Wednesday, October 25, 2006

It's something I write, but everything I do.

I'm communicating in morse code with whoever it is on the other side of the wall. It's fun, we tap tap tappity tap at each other, and in this way kind of appreciate the fact that the wall exists in the first place. On my side of the wall there are wild horses butting up against me. They have chains attached, as though they're looking to draw and quarter me, but I just ignore them and keep tapping from time to time. When I don't tap, I take deep breaths and let it all flow through me. It seems to work.


The Fixing Lady and I have similar ideas. She believes that the universe is made of energy. So do I, I believe what you put out to the universe, you get back. Energy man. It's a good word, energy. This is my version of spirituality.

I put out to the universe: The Continental in Hepburn is for sale! Oh mighty universe, I shall buy a tattslotto ticket and win, and I shall buy this beautiful building which sits on beautiful land, and you Universe will be happy because I shall not develop it into some sort of bollocks apartments or health retreat. Surely oh glorious all powerful universe, you see the sense in that!

The universe replies by shooting particles of light across itself.

I hand it a tissue.

And later, when I'm walking down the street I think about mankind and wonder if we are truly a virus which has infected this random creation we live in. Then, scarily I come up with a twisted logic which ends in the fact that actually, George W. Bush is good. I think, well, we have infected the universe. The universe must therefore have invented war to get rid of us. It didn't work. Because we had Hippies. So then it invented George W. Bush. This way, as an agent of the universe, he will destroy us all. So in fact, in terms of the universe, he must be good.

I wish it just sent some sort of gigantic meteor to squash us and save all the bullshit.


Inside my head I am filing each issue into some sort of order. And it's fun, because following what the fixing lady said, I'm allowed to feel an emotion each time I think of something as long as I let go of the emotion afterward. I think of Issue One, I get all angry and reactive, and then I let it go. It's really cool, you should try it. It's like a carnivale! No. it's not like a carnivale at all. But I think we should have a carnivale soon.



Every time I hear tapping from the other side of the wall, I feel happy. But I don't get carried away. I don't listen for sounds of digging under the tunnel, or chipping away at the wall from the other side. I am purely happy to listen to the tapping and tap back my silly messages.

Dot dash dot. Does that even mean anything? Maybe I'm talking gibberish, but I don't care.


I still have the rock n' roll in me. Last weekend proved that. But I think sometimes with a reputation like mine, people maybe expect something wild, or if I'm in a fit of side slapping giggles, they read it as something else.

For example. Last weekend I decided to continually talk about fingering sluts. Not everyone got the joke. People are strange. No sense of humour. I said, hey don't you love it when you're like, fingering sluts and they're all like, FUCK ME and shit. And maybe I took the joke too far, but I was on a Buck's Weekend and had heard not one dirty joke so...ah well. No sense of humour.

Funnily enough, after all that, ah...never mind.


The other day I found out that every single person in the universe is standing between me and my dream. Oh, well there was one exception, but all the people in the universe minus one is still a lot of people. And I replied by saying I was very determined, in fact, I replied by saying there was no-one more determined than me. It was tough talk man. But it has a lot of truth in it. In reality, all I am determined to do is become a happy little bundle of light and energy particles, and whatever happens after that, must be the right thing.

But a guy can still dream right?



Two unfortunate business names in Sydney Road, Brunswick:

FKML accountants.

and my new personal favourite:

Fatti Tae Kwon Do
(unfortunately for those tenants below, this is on the second floor...)

Tuesday, October 24, 2006

If you don't know how to do it...

If the universe is energy and we are all made of mass and energy equals mass in relation to the speed of light in a vacuum, then I really should get my light fixed in my room. And give it a bit of a vaccum. But on a day like today, when I have a sitting seat under a tree on my front porch, I let Einstein clean my room and I put my energy into other matters.


I kind of feel I went Walkabout. Walkabout is a native Australian term. It means...well, I need to research it more, because I don't feel I know enough about its spiritual significance. But I know that the person goes walking, about. And they look for things. Inside themselves. And then they come back. Maybe some don't come back, I don't know. Maybe people go walkabout and sneak behind a boulder somewhere and smoke ciggies and don't actually walk about, and months later they walk back from behind the boulder, maybe when they've run out of ciggies, and they're all like, WOW...AMAZING. And maybe people believe them, that they walked about. But they missed the whole fucking point, because there's no badge to sew on your jacket or trophy to claim or sponsorship deal to snaffle if you complete walkabout. You just do it. Then you come back. But I need to know more about it. Even though I kind of feel I went walkabout.


Apparently today I have a spirit watching over me. It has another hour and fifteen minutes before the piece of paper I'm holding says it will leave. I've been testing it out. Like, closing my eyes and crossing the street. It worked. It channelled the power of the HONK to warn me that I was being a dickhead and that I should open my fucking eyes when I'm crossing the road. IT'S A GENIUS. I hope it left the room last night before I went to sleep, and um, when I woke up at 6am, and um, when I woke up at 7.30...and umm...no, that was it. I'll wait until it's gone next time. But apparently this is healthy, and I don't really mind if the spirit is watching. I've done shit like that before. And besides, I know what my spirit looks like. I wish it would stay longer.


Last night I ate at a restaurant, even though I knew the chef there had completely stolen the menu from another of my favourite restaurants. But this new restaurant was closer so I chose convenience over morality, or loyalty. Is that wrong? My dining companion and I began to debate this. Until the duck arrived. Then we forgot what we were caring about. I still feel it's a little wrong. But fuck it was good.


When I got back from walkabout I noticed there had been built a gigantic wall. Kind of like the Hedge in Over The Hedge. But bigger. And concretey-er. I thought I knew that I wanted to get to the other side of the wall. I even heard my name being called, softly, from within. So I did that deep-thought-rubbing of my unshaven chin thing. Hmmmm. And thought, maybe it could be taken down by determination. Or ferocity. Or a team of squirrel engineers all wearing little squirrel hard hats.

But instead, I sit with my back to the wall, and look back over walkabout country. It makes me smile, remembering that valley, that peak, that desert, the journey, just the journey and while I'm looking the wall behind me makes a good back rest. So I don't mind that it's there. So for now, I'm just going to sit and enjoy the view. And the thought of squirrels wearing hats.

One type of ambiguity

I go and see another person who knows how to fix stuff. This is good. Because I'm actually fucking READY to be fixed. In more ways than one, perhaps this is not a bad idea. This time, as my friend puts it, there is a certain "oogabooga" to the whole process, but the Fixing Person just has something cool about her, so I sit down and open up to everything. To the process. And boy is it a fucking ride.

She says, there's heroin in your family, isn't there, is it you? I say no. It's no lie. She says, you have sinus troubles when you were young? I say, yeah. When I was five I had an operation. I took my teddy into the operating room. When I woke up, teddy had a bandage on his nose too. She says, now boy, your lungs and pancreas are taking a beating so I'm going to tell you straight up and you're not going to like it. Break this cycle, that's what you better be here to do, break this cycle. Because, like, don't you want to? You look like you want to.

I say, I know Fixing Lady, that's why I'm here.

She's says, Good.

Then we get to work.

She gives it to me straight. I talk to her about love and shit. She gives me straight answers. I like that. I like that a completely objective observer can give straight up fucking answers. We talk about work and creativity and the fact that it's okay to not have a title or to have ten concurrent careers and really the main focus of everything is just to be happy.

I'm digging this.

Then she does kind of kooky energy things and I visualise, and I start to giggle but it's not at the process. It's because I am actually feeling really damn good.



When I'm talking to myself later that day down by the creek, I'm hearing things that perhaps may have made me explode six weeks ago. But now, I just drift with them, I let them feed my new powers. And everytime I take a bite out of what's being said, I gain nourishment from it, and do exactly what the Fixing Lady said, I just look after me. On the inside I mean.



At the internet cafe, I look after all sorts of people online, some strangers because there's no emotional connection, and some who ain't so stranger and yeah kids, highway to oblivion, I'm crazy and so are chicks so look the fuck out.



On Friday I do a pressed ham against the restaurant window because I think the Buck's Night needs some spice. It gets some later. I wake up and do the walk of shame with a stolen book in my hand. On Saturday I make up for everything I did wrong on Friday by DJing with a modicum of sobriety. And on Sunday I almost have a threeway with my ex's husband. Instead, I laugh my fucking ass off.



Back on the creek there ain't nothing to do but sigh.

Hey me, I say.


It's time to start loving you.

What, here? BY THE CREEK?

Yup, here by the creek.

Giggity giggity.

So I do.

Thursday, October 19, 2006

All the girls like a funny guy / somethin's changin' and I don't know why

Sunday 22nd October: Kill Devil Hills at The Tote. I would very much recommend you see this band. Insane swamp country rock blues folk. And shit.


I open the venetian blinds and impregnate my room with seeds of sunlight. I put on the CD that I was sent. I live at number six, it was sent to number seven. Yesterday I walked over the road and rang the doorbell and behind the screen door the suspicious suburban housewife with ubiquitous cigarette dangling from her life encrusted lips said, What? Hi, I replied, my name's Mattyb and I believe my friend may have sent a package to the wrong address, I live over the road at number six, if you happen to receive it, would you mind terribly dropping it over? No problem, she replied. The cigarette never left her bottom lip, and not one speck of ash fell from it. Ten minutes later she knocks on my door, a CD in her hand. Ah well see, my son has a friend called mattyb so we opened it and...

That's totally fucking fine, I reply. Thankyou so much for bringing it back.

So I listen to the song about drinking too much, and I listen to it LOUD.

This morning there's an unmistakable presence in my gut. So instead of coffee and cigarettes for breakfast I make bacon and drink tea and juice and approach the day one step at a time. I have a long weekend ahead. I have my bestest's Buck's Night tonight, after which I will have to DJ until 5am. The next night I'm DJing again until 3am, and the day after that...my new favourite band play at The Tote and I'm taking a friend who really wants to see them but needs moral support as the gig is being promoted by her very recent ex. I promise her we'll drink whiskey, and I will make sure I look kind of hot so he won't know what the fuck she's doing. Sometimes, these things need to be planned.

But I'm doing all of these things and still the coccoons inside me begin to stretch and I can feel the butterflies getting ready. I don't know why today of all days. I just know they're there. And I either want to get naked and run down the street laughing, or pour myself a 10am Gin and Tonic. I do neither. I stay focused.

Yesterday my friend told me how something she put her heart and soul into has been hijacked by an artistic elite, stolen from her and is being taken overseas. She was fired from her own show. And I looked at her face and the emotion hidden within it and fumble bumbled jokes and puns to try and make her feel better. She asked me, What's wrong with me? Why don't they like me? What is it about me? And I tried to explain that some people are just cunts. And she knew that but wouldn't have it. Yes, but what's wrong with ME? Why don't they think I fit in? I couldn't answer, because I thought about it and if they can't work with an amazing brain like that, they're obviously a bunch of fucking art wankers. It made me sad.

And today's post is a stream, or maybe a kite skipping and dancing on the wind, because if I just keep writing the nerves will chill, I know they will.

Where's the freaking guru today.


I meet Yelza for a drink at the pub. He has his head in his hands when I arrive. He's quite a sensitive soul. A singer / songwriter. I say, what's up mister? I think many things, because there was a period in time at the start of the year when we both seemed to share the exact same problems. I wonder what could make him put his head in his hands now as I'd heard that his boat was in calmer seas these days. Thankfully, when he looks at me, his eyes are smiling, though his mouth remains hidden behind his whiskers.

I am a DICKHEAD, he laughs.

I know you are but what am I? I say, getting the joke wrong. Tell me...TELL MEEEEEE....

He tells me his story.

Last night I was working behind the bar, and I was a bit sad because you know, it's all over now with Chrissie and I miss her like crazy and shit. So I'm working, pouring one drink for the customers and one drink for me...

Don't so that shit, I say, trust me...

Ha, he laughs. Anyway all of a sudden this GORGEOUS girl walks in. I think my heart actually stops. I even giggled for no reason. She walks in and orders a drink and I pour it for her and smile and she smiles and it's there, no doubt. And I'm like, what the fuck? So anyway she starts playing pool and I'm watching her and everynow and again I see her gaze dancing past me, and tiny fireflies floating between us and I'm starting to get the shivers and so the next time she looks I hold her eyes in mine....beat....2,3,4,5,6,7,8....then I turn away. Now the feeling is in me, you know...

Oh trust me, I say, I know that feeling...

THEN. She walks over, pulls up a stool and we start to talk. And I'm ignoring customers even though it's a one man bar, and we're just laughing and smiling and flirting and it's fucking fantastic and she is like, drop dead my friend, and I knows and she knows and she leans over and...actually says...would you like me to make you breakfast in the morning?

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! I love it, people actually SAY THAT? That's fantastic!

Yeah, fantastic. Except...oh man...except for some reason....I reply....Sorry, I have to get up really early in the morning and I've got to work and...and as I'm saying this I'm realising my mistake, and I'm watching her eyes and it's like watching someone pour a bucket of water over a campfire, it's like I can hear the sizzle of smoking bracken and I try to fix it, I say, but you know, maybe another time and...and she just gets up, knocks back her drink and walks out the door.

I'm trying not to laugh, but I have to smile. Ah brother, I say rubbing his back, you are a genius. Absolute genius.

I order two beers, and we talk women all night long, happy to be two men in a pub.


There are two ways out. Walk or drive. And when I'm doing either of these things nothing can catch me. No man, no life, no problems, no sex, no drugs, no wine, no women, no fun, no sin...Haha. So I make sure I smell good, make sure I feel good, make sure what I wear doesn't give me that feeling when it's too late to turn back to my house that all of a sudden I'm uncomfortable or unattractive. I do these things, and start to walk, and the chillax wraps around me like a blanket under the stars.

Wednesday, October 18, 2006

The Church of Halcyonology

When I get up in the morning I do 50 push ups, then shower and cover myself in baby powder. I slide into tight black jeans and dirty sneakers. This is my uniform. If it is warm I leave my top off and every now and again surprise myself still by catching a glimpse of my tattoo. I walk onto the deck in my backyard and read the newspaper with a cigarette and a strong coffee. If today I am not wharfing, designing, bartending, painting, writing or DJing, I consider it a good day and have learned to be able to relax when I can. I drawback smoke and tilt my head back so the sunlight makes me feel like I do just before I kiss someone and begin to drift...


Mark leans forward and stabs the air with two fingers, like a gun. Man, when I first met you, I thought you were a cunt. I thought, who the fuck does this guy think he is? And now, NOW YOU DON'T EVEN REMEMBER ME. Jesus Christ, you are a fucking guru.

A guru?

A guru. Let me remind you. Months ago, you met my best friend Sylvia. You were working behind the bar and you gave her a shot of jagermeister. Here we fucking go, I thought.

Mark begins to grow more frantic, more animated, and his hands go from guns to Brother Lee Love from the Kenny Everitt Video Show. Brother! Brother! Brother Lee Love! Directing the traffic in his one way street monologue.

Here we fucking go. Look at this fucking sleaze...and then when you finished, you sat down at the end of the bar and lit a cigarette and what the fuck does Sylvia do? Buys you a shot and sends it over to you! I said to her, what are you doing? You don't have to do that you know. It's only polite, she told me. Fucking HELL. THEN! THEN! You fucking walk over and, this still blows my mind, you walk over and say, does this mean we're going to make out later? WHO THE FUCK SAYS THAT? And now I'm thinking, this guy is a fucking DICKHEAD. And I know Sylvia, boys throw themselves at her all the time, and I'm actually looking forward to the moment when you get shot down, that exact moment, waiting for you to turn tail and run. And all of a sudden you're sitting next to her and I'm fucking astounded and you're talking about writing and you're talking about breakups and I'm thinking, this guy has all the fucking moves, SHOOT HIM DOWN, SHOOT HIM DOWN, and then YOU GO AND TOUCH HER LEG, just briefly but you fucking touch her leg and then the barmaid comes up to me and says something inane, I can't remember, and when I am talking back to her she looks beside me and starts to laugh and I turn thinking maybe she's thrown a drink on you or something and you're actually making the fuck out. Like that.
And this goes on for about twenty minutes until all of a sudden you stand up, put your jacket on, and walk straight out the door, without even saying goodbye. Sylvia's laughing and my jaw is on the ground and I'm thinking this guy is either the sleaziest fuckwit I have ever seen or without a doubt an absolute guru.

Oh, I remember you now, I reply. I'm neither, I think I was just in a good mood that day. And she had beautiful eyes. And I'm no guru sir, though I believe no fuckwit either. I am just a very strange, complicated young man with a cheeky smile.

And then, I pinch him on the bum, pick up my jacket and keep walking in the direction of home.


The SEARCH for the meaning of Life is a little far away today, but the meaning itself is very close. I know because there are many things that I could upset myself with, and do not. And there are escape routes all around me, and I take none. Instead I read Martin Amis and make home made pizza, goats cheese, prosciutto, semi dried tomatoes...I was going to put some figs on top, as an experiment, but I eat them all instead while I wait for the simple little pizza to cook. Instead of Queens of the Stone Age, I put on Ryan Adams because I don't know his stuff very well and I want to learn more about everything. It's the album, Heartbreaker, I like it. I like how it starts with a conversation about Morrissey. I get a couple of texts from a few different people. They cover the entire emotional spectrum. And I don't answer any today, because today is mine and mine alone. Tomorrow I will give back to the world. But today I...god porn is good, sorry got distracted...today I want to continue feeling like it's all okay without having to question too much, or without having to explain too much. I just want to feel it, flowing through me. The okayness of everything.

Then my phone rings, and things get a little crazy.


A real life telephone conversation between my friend BB and her father:

Dad, Nick is such a sweetheat, last night he brought me chocolate ice cream, and tim tams and some muffins...

Oh. He must want you to be a fat bitch. Some guys like to fuck fat bitches.



Hope you are well.


Tuesday, October 17, 2006

And Jesus fucking wept...

Soundtrack: I don't know, you put something on...

The next time I meet myself we take a walk down by the creek near my house. I bring a book, in case I have nothing to say or I just feel like laying with the mosquitoes in the grass, but as the sun peeks through the willow tree and we sit on the grass, there is no thought of anything but...

Ah me oh my...


This sun sure does make a man dizzy.

Giddy even.

Giddy. Delightfully giddy.

And a little bit...naughty.

Yes. Naughty. It's a shame...

...yes, shame.

That I am here with myself.


Since I have made a very important decision in my life, shit has seemed a little less...urgent. Intense maybe. This is good thing. A good thing. See, what I did was, I sat outside in my backyard and I took out every piece of me that lay within, good, bad, indifferent, and I...

made a jigsaw out of it.

And when I had finished putting all the pieces together, there was the solution. Not the ANSWER, but the solution. Same same but different. In bold colours bright as the sun reflecting on the water of my favourite beach. And funnily enough, the solution told me that there were no answers. And for the first time EVER, I was kinda cool with that.

So instead of worrying about shit, I watched some porn. 'cause sometimes, I'm just plain BAD.

I think back to the Bee's advice: Just fucking do it, if that's who you are, just fucking DO IT.

So I admit to myself that I'm a naughty pumpkin, and decide to get out of the house and see the world.

Because somedays I feel that if Jesus is weeping, I might as well grab a motherfucking surfboard.

Thursday, October 12, 2006

Tic Tac Toe

The other night I went to Carlton to watch a movie. I was early, so went across the road to eat at Tiamo. It was busy but I got a good table facing the front and an incredibly cute waitress who I swear I know from somewhere. About halfway through my meal I saw the door open and two girls take the seat right next to the front door. It was Jane, my first ever girlfriend from High School, TWENTY YEARS AGO (fuck me) and her sister. I'd recognised her straight away and I was pretty sure she had seen me. I was unshaven and hadn't slept much from the night before when I'd ended up in the company of a lanky rockstar until some ridiculous hour, so I wasn't really feeling that impressive. My shoes were, are, covered in dirt, my hair has grown that little bit too long, from time to time the night before kept dripping from my nostrils...you get the picture. In comparison, she looked like she'd had a nice, happy, peaceful twenty years, and was smiling and laughing and leaning forward in a girly way to share some sisterly secret orsome such. I fininshed my meal, mopping the sauce with bread, drank my beer and began to wonder how the fuck I was going to get out without having to say hello. They were literally right next to the door and also directly across from where the cash register was, meaning they'd get me as I stood there fumbling in my empty pocket anyway. After about fifteen minutes of pointless procrastination, I decided simply to avoid all eye contact and without making it too obvious, walk a little crab like by them so that my back was facing them most of the time.


And here my friends witness the magic of my technique. All of a sudden as my eyes were blatantly saying, "yeah, I know, you guys, you saw me I saw you blah blah" and I'd already kind of put my hand on her shoulder just out of instinct, my arms began to horizontally gyro flop in different directions, and I did this mexican body wave breakdance move that began in my neck and rolled all the way down to my knees as my voice shrilled into a restaurant piercing shriek, OH MY LORD HOW ARE YOU? that sounded like thirteen demons raping one pure virgin and I swear to god a big white blob of snot flew through the air toward their table and the only thing that was missing was froth in my mouth and they both kind of recoiled backwards into their chairs in horror and so there was my chance to escape and for some reason I waved and said HI!!! as I walked out the door.

The movie was Thankyou for Smoking, it was entertaining if nothing else.


Yesterday I told someone that I was basically searching for the meaning of life. And they said, that's a pretty big ambition, or something like that. But you know what? I can't help it. It's what I do. And besides, they laughed at Stephen Hawking when he first spoke about the creation of the physical universe (they also laughed at him when he accidentally tipped backwards in his wheelchair and lay floundering on the floor like a turtle [somebodyhelpme]) and of course I'm not going to find the be all and end all question and answer to everything and everyone, but I'm going to try and find the meaning of life for me. And my pen pal says, as we all know, that we take our insides with us, but sometimes they just manifest themselves in a nicer way in different climes. And that doesn't sound so bad.

I'm a bush baby. I wanna go country.

And in the supermarket, out of the heat, I almost die. But instead, as my insides plead with me to change my mind, and my soul cries a million tears, my brain takes charge, and I take one step closer to becoming a man.

The only part I wish I didn't have to admit is, I know I have to do it all alone.


New word invented by me: Dildonic.

ie: That Guiness Tap / Cucumber / Crown Lager bottle is quite dildonic don't you think?

Wednesday, October 11, 2006

Dream a little dream of me

I walk in the sun with the smell of eucalypt leading me on. I walk to the secret garden near my house, lie down on the grass and stare up into the clouds. Myself lies beside me.

What's going on matty?

Ah fuck, good question my friend. I don't know...I'm still trying to fold back reality to uncover the river of consciousness that binds time and space and love and the very core of human existence. Sometimes I think the Village Idiot has the key. Just EXIST. Sometimes I think the more I question things, the further the answers are. And sometimes I think, in fact sometimes I'm sure, that there are no fucking answers to any of it. And all this questioning is just some sort of masochistic insanity. That's why I've come to this beautiful place. A creek, a tree, a kookaburra and my book. Maybe that's enough.

But it's not enough is it. Otherwise you wouldn't be talking to me.

Sigh. I JUST DON'T KNOW. FUCKY FUCK MCFUCK. I don't think I can stop my fucking internal journey just because I think I deserve contentment every now and again. And I don't seem to be able to spar with many people, on a conversational level, on a fucking DEEP level. But to progress, to evolve, I feel like I need people who not only question what I say, but who can make me think differently. And I'm a pretty fucking stubborn cunt to try and persuade. Hey, look! A skink!...

[skink skitters past]

...I just finished reading On The Road, and it hit me far more than when I first read it. And it's filled with exactly the same sort of fucking conversations as this one. And the temporary answers they have? MOVE. Keep moving, East, West, experience, adventure, follow the sun, follow your nose, follow your cock, your heart, your friends...but move move move! That really resonated with me. Except today, today I want to sit in the shade. And talk.

I guess, being you, that I know what you're saying. You're saying you don't want to talk to me aren't you? You don't want to be talking to you.

Kind of. But this is what you and I have to talk about. I think today, I'd be more than happy for someone I liked to walk past and make me laugh and take me swimming and analyse other people and make fun of their clothes or their walk. Someone to make it all EXTERNAL instead of this shit. Any ideas? And don't say go to the pub...

Trust me, I wan't going to. I suggest focus. I suggest listening to Craig when he talks about London and Paris. I suggest there is someone in London who you can talk to about all this shit and still have fun with. I suggest you fucking realise that the world is bigger than that goddamn tiny, but fun, suburb you live in. Head down, do the wharf shit, get the fuck out.

Yeah. I'm impatient though, you know?

Oh for fuck's...shut UP Sook!

Hahaha. So that's what we think huh? Right then. Let's set a fucking date and blow this fucking one horse town.

Don't call her a horse.


I disappear from beside myself and am alone once more. And the clouds form a thousand dreams and I think of all the dreamers out there who made them. And if the dreamers in Melbourne can dream such beautiful shapes, then what the Hell do the clouds look like in France or in London or in Brooklyn or in LA...

Tuesday, October 10, 2006

Saturday, October 7, 2006

The idea of north

The idea of North in Oz is like West in the US of Aye. A land where the air is so sweet you can spread it on your toast like honey. And there's all the honey you can bear and it's brown and gold baby.

But even still, I do believe I am in love with the idea of heading West.

West! Down, around the bottom of the earth, along the cliffs, across the Little Desert or past the Fairies, through that ghost town named after a Queen until I reach the flat, sandy belly of the world. The Nullabor. Wolf Creek Dreaming and spinnifex and dirt man, but best of all...HEAT. Hot so hot I sweat my nightmares out until they form pools at my feet and slowly shrink into nothingness. And at night the inky black comes closing in from each side, marking the end of each act and allowing intermission, respite and a sky filled with diamonds. And if I'm fleeing from it all, whatever it all is, I won't care. Because I'm following the sun and the sun knows it's way. West baby, west. Alone is best.

And in my imagination the car I am driving never stops or slows, and that's my favourite thing. Driving, forever. And I used to have cause to stop at the city that sits swanning on the river, but now, in my dream I drive straight into the ocean, off a cliff, and that's where time freezes, in mid-air, pointed west.

Thursday, October 5, 2006

The Rapture Revisited

...the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars...


I go walking out in the sun and find myself sitting in a park, eating lunch and reading a book.

That me looks up and shields my eyes with a salute and squint.

There is no need for introductions, just...


What's going on?

Okay, at the moment I'm swinging man, I'm a pendulum, I'm Damacles' sword, to and fro...on the one hand I can see, TASTE, the Rapture, you know, I can just cut loose and let it all soar and the freedom's in the walking and the talking and the seeing and the tasting and that's LIVING don't you see and some can call me mad but none can call me crazy because I don't see insanity in soaking in this fucking world while I'm standing on it, I see insanity in mediocrity and patterns, I see insanity in not doing the unexpected, in not being WILD...I see insanity in NOT being insane.


and then the pendulum swings and I think I read too much or think too much and the life for me is a fireplace and holding hands, is a tight circle and a happy home, and something REAL, something solid, compromise and sedation and simple fucking pleasures. Apple pie, a cold beer, an early night. Swing swing swing. But the RAPTURE fucko, I mean, it's bigger than big my split personality me, it's so much fucking bigger, and sometimes I feel duty bound to acknowledge it, to REPRESENT it, sometimes I look around me and see naught but plans and dreams and fears, and it all seems so...constricting? Fuck, I don't know...

So what do you want?

What do I WANT? I want it all, and none of it. I thought I wanted a family, and now I just want to walk the earth. I thought I wanted to party, and now I just want to read, I thought I wanted Love, and now I just want to feel whole and complete, within me. Me, a one man fucking micro-universe.

So you want to be God.

Haha, fuck you. Yeah, but I want to be the god of a happier world than this. Ever lay on your bed staring at the ceiling and wondering what God would make the world a place such as this? Fuck Catholicism and its guilt and repentence, I want to be god of a world where we can all find the final answer to the final question, but in this forsaken Hell, the questions just keep on coming.

I throw myself on the grass beside myself, and spread my arms and legs. I make a grass angel on the lawn beneath me and sigh.

Do you want to stop thinking all these things, will that bring you peace?

I have to actually stop and think about that.

No. I think the only way is to follow them to the bitter end, until enlightenment or exhaustion. To infinity and beyond!

At that moment a bumblebee rises before me, hovering, a little yellow and black balloon, busy, busy, busy...and it says,

Goddamn mr existential, you want to sit here and talk gibberish to yourself all day, and on a day like this? They call you B, so be! I may be bumble but I am bee. So you want to discover the meaning of life through philosophy and love, through adventures and catastrophes, through broken dreams and wandering souls and a thousand jobs and thrice that many beers. DO IT. If that's what you want, just do it. And as for your pendulum, well, one thing does not cancel out another my friend, one day of peace does not end your journey, one day's respite is one day's respite, enjoy it! Soak in its luxury, adore its attention, caress its soft skin. Just BE BE BE.

Oh buzz off, I reply, but secretly file the bee's advice, for it tickles me just so.


I have never been good at plans. I have been good at ideas, but never plans. If on any given day you ask me, what are you doing, later / tomorrow / next week, I shall more than likely reply, "I don't know!"

Once I worried about this, I thought, I am not well organised, I should make lists, where is my Capricorn,

or worse:

I am not so great a person, if I do not have exciting plans to relay when asked of me.

Oh my, now I see the person to please is me. And it pleases me, this unknown, this what will become of today, it pleases me no end.


Tips for making your brain happy and yet a tiny bit confused (see Pendulum above):

Read Carey's Bliss and Kerouac's On the road at the same time.

Tips for making your stomach happy and not at all confused:

File away a secret afternoon in the coming weeks to dine alone at Maisonette in Essendon where you may read both books at your leisure and eat Rack of Lamb even though the weather says Oysters.

Wednesday, October 4, 2006

Short and Curlies.

Sentences I actually heard in the Men's change room at the Brunswick Pool yesterday while I was standing there alongside at least 12 Aged Naked Gentlemen.

"I'd bend over backwards to help her"
"It's a real pain in the bottom"
"You've really got to use some elbow grease to get it up there"
"Have you ever sucked another man's cock?"

Okay, so maybe the third one is false, but the other three are true, swears.


When I was eleven years old I sat at Middle Park train station a boiling raging hormonal mess. Opposite me and the only other person on the platform was a woman. I honestly cannot remember how old she was, but I'd say early thirties if I had to judge back through 22 years of hedonism clouded memory.

Here's the thing.

And I have no idea why I'm telling you this, other than, I kind of want to take this whole writing thing back to what really matters.


So. She sat opposite me and I shived and glanced furtive snickers of lustful thoughts from across the way, and if I had've known my metaphors back then I would have appreciated the train on the opposite platform pulling out and straight into the tunnel past the station, and I guess at that moment my brain had a choice, discover the wonderous nature of writing and metaphors and descriptive prose and think romance and flowers and what could be dear woman if you and I were to tarry no longer and hark your angelic lips doth part like your subtle heavenly flower as moistened, they welcome my brutish yet soft embrace...

Yeah, I was eleven, me brain not think like that what?

Instead, and I just thought of this the other day and wondered at how perverted and weird I actually am...

my brain thought,

I wonder what would happen if I just got up, walked over to her, and asked her to fuck me.

Me. Eleven. Her. Lady.

And I sat there for probably no more than fifteen minutes with this IMMENSE decision weighing upon me and all I could do was drink her in and keep my legs crossed and I knew, I knew, of course I knew that there was no chance, but was there a .000000000000000001 percent of chance that she might be "randy" (11 remember...) and we might just click and and and and...the train came, we got on, crowded, noisy...deflating.

Do you think that's weird?

And I mean, nowadays, I actually just do go up and ask.

And it seems to work most of the time.

Ain't life beautiful.

Circles man, circles.


Craig and I have been friends for almost twenty years. In the nineties (AAAAAAARGH),

in the nineties (AAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH)...


In the nin..e....ties...we wer more than best friends, we were known as two inseperable soul brothers. All the cheesy shit, we finished sentences, we knew exactly what the other was thinking with one quick glance, in the band we played in together we consistently fired everyone else because no one knew how to communicate with us. Basically we were impenetrable. I spoke to him the other day, we still have it going on, though as he said to me, "dude, you just fucked off on all these chick adventures and never even said goodbye..."

See, soul brothers.

Anyway about ten years ago we were at a party and had scored some magic mushrooms. This had exactly the effect everyone who knew us, knew that it would. We disappeared into a room together and the rest of the world became non-existent and he and I just talked and talked and talked intense soul shit for hours and hours.

All of a sudden, a few hours into the trip, the door opened and a beautiful..hmm...sexy maybe? girl walked into the room, looked at us, smiled at us both, said nothing, walked out and closed the door behind her.


I turned to Craig who turned to me and ne'er two more serious young men have you ever seen in your life. I think, the conversation went something like this. It doesn't matter who is who.




"Well, I didn't think it would be so soon..."

"Yeah I know...and I mean what about the"

"the band.."

"yeah, exactly...the band.."

"But I mean...it's obvious isn't it, I mean she's.."

"she's it, isn't she..."


"man, I'm gonna miss you..."

"yeah man, me too, I really...I really hope..."

"it's okay man, we had a good run...let's just leave it at that...one of us will be happy...and that's the main thing..."


"Good luck brother"

"Good luck brother"

Our friendship was over. Right then. Because we had both seen the woman of our dreams and only one of us could have her and neither of us were the sort to back down. Such intense little boys....fucking hell.

We actually shook hands, hugged, straightened ourselves up, hair, shoelaces...cracked our necks and walked out into the party to find her.

Down the end of the hall. Look at her. Angelic but devestating. Legs, bottom, lips, eyes. Oh my fucking god...don't turn to look at him, this is your destiny, this is your moment.

And as we walked side by side into the kitchen to find our fate...

we heard her voice...


Or something.

Then she turned and spat on the floor.

I have never laughed so hard in my fucking life.

I actually lay on the floor in front of her pointing at her and laughing and screaming, "YOU ARE THE LOVE OF MY LIFE AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA"

Craig just slumped into the doorjam and put his head in his hands.

We remain, as stated before, the closest of friends.

Sunday, October 1, 2006


What did you do today? I asked.

Well, I painted the walls of the lounge room I built, learned how to use Flash, looked at carpet, made a Japanese-black-colour woodstain though I got the ratio wrong, it should've been 1:5 but I made it 1:3, is there a way to fix that? Now I'm going to cook dinner then I have a business meeting at 7.30 though I can't tell you what it's about, but it's not making animatronic dinosaurs which I do during the day. What about you?

Well, I went for a long walk, and umm...

Oh come on, you're STILL mopey? Just make the fucking decision to get on with it. I really think you're just being lazy. And you're too good for that. Now, come in here and keep me company while I re-organise my studio. Then tell me which sort of noodle we need to use for dinner.

I think I'm hanging out with the right person if I need to focus on self-motivation.


A chronological list of jobs I have done, inspired by having to make a resume the other day.

Assistant Manager of Chicken Shop.
Dressing up as a giant chicken and playing a mandolin in order to attract business to said Chicken Shop.
Marijuana Dealer.
Stacking newspapers as they came off a printing press.
Typesetting said newspapers.
Managing the typesetting division of said newspapers.
Ecstasy Dealer.
Production assistant of big sucky music streetpress.
Production manager of big sucky music streetpress.
Designing front covers of big sucky music streetpress.
Art Director of competition to big sucky music streetpress.
(this competitor went out of business after six weeks which led to...)
Going back to being production assistant of big sucky music streetpress.

And now...



This is going to be nothing if not interesting.
I'm really hoping I have to put a hit on someone.
Then I can blog about it.


Still mopey. Or still distracted. Or still some sort of weird stalker. I don't know.

But I guess I thought holding hands with gorgeous spunks at the Corner Hotel can't be a bad way to heal a heart can it? But I guess it can if it leads their heart down a dangerous road. And if I am really not in a position to give much in return. So much trouble this Love business.

So I shift all my focus (I'm lying, I mean I TRY to shift all my focus) on what I can do at the end of the year if I go to work-stay at home for the next few months. And how much I can save if I first pay every single person in the WORLD back the money I owe and then keep my money to myself.

Three months is not that long. And considering there's not a Hell a lot of places I can actually go out anymore in Melbourne right now, it can't be that hard.

So here we go...instead of thinking...

I take my friend, the busiest little egg in town's advice and think:


It almost works. But I grab hold of the rock I keep, the one with my soul in it, and grip it tightly all the same.

See you on the docks.