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.

Hahahaha....

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...

1 comment:

  1. My dark hair tangled
    As my own tangled thoughts,
    I lie here alone,
    Dreaming of one who has gone,
    Who stroked my hair till it shone.



    When I think of you,
    Fireflies in the sand rise
    Like the soul's jewels,
    Lost to eternal longing,
    Abandoning my body.

    As all the bright stars in the sky slowly fade away.

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