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.


  1. What kind of description is that..?


    I say nice things too.

    And have sexy underwear.


  2. 24 hours in a day, 24 beers in a slab, coincidence, i think not.

  3. You are STRANGE davey, unless of course, you're saying we should drink a slab now. In which case, you are some sort of yuri-esque spoonbending psychic wunderkind.

  4. I gave my all to someone who needed it more, there is nothing left to write with. Stay cool.