Wednesday, November 22, 2006

In search of the Oranges of the Universe.

Conversation yesterday:

I read your blog.


Yeah...most of it's good, but there was one that was really....insincere? Who are you writing for? For people who don't know you? One of them was all just words and shit, like poetry. YOU WROTE POETRY. WEIRD.

Which one was that?

Oh, I don't know, a while ago, the other day, ages ago...I can't remember. I don't know, I just really thought it was insincere.

Hmm...okay, I'll cop that. I think it's because sometimes I can't write honestly about some of the shit that happens...though I wish I could. I have good stories you know.

I'm sure you do. You always have stories. Why can't you write them? Are you trying to protect yourself?

No, I'm trying to protect other people.

Ok bye.


Last night I sat on a Chesterfield at the Supper Club drinking whiskey and musing the fuck out of life's whimsies. And the question of sincerity was tossed around in my head. The question of standing up and owning up to who I actually am. It's one thing to have an ever lasting quest to discover the meaning of life and the meaning of being an amateur writer and whether or not we as a race are in fact in possession of souls or if we're just cursed with a slightly higher consciousness which we mistake for something greater...but it's another thing to just say, fuck, I'm a psychotically sexual pasty little fuck who really needs more work and gets distracted very easily by the feel of skin on skin. Because I do a lot of crazy cool things that people might not know about, and a lot of people might want to do very badly. I get to do those things. But then I get all whimsical about them, and let myself talk myself down and out and round and round.

So don't, the conversation went, just be it. Just own the fuck who you are, I like you with all your crazy stories.

Yeah, it's probably not bad advice.

So at home, after Peking Duck and toasted sandwhiches, I water the plants and remember the times.


Ying and Yang.

A lot of the time, I'm a bad, bad boy. I have threeways in hotel rooms and go double ended dildo shopping with girls and love to make out and love to flirt and love to fuck. I get into that shit. It's wild and fun and I'm doing it because a long time ago I made the decision to find out what that's like. And it's addictive.

A lot of the time, I sit at home and love my plants and my garden. I like talking one on one with people, about Love. Does it exist? Or more importantly, can it exist when that other side of me exists also. I like eating good food and reading at the same time, talking books and trying to expand my brain to envelope more cultural pursuits.

A lot of the time, I spend right in between those two extremes. This is where the angst lives. The questioning of self, and this is the place where I am told the insincerity lives. Be one or be the other or be both, but don't waste time worrying about which you are. Just be B.



I want to get out of Brunswick, Melbourne, Victoria, Australia, The Earth, The Solar System. I want to dive into those black holes and see what's on the other side.

I'll send you a postcard.

Oh yeah.


  1. Hehe, I do like reading your truths Mr Sheriff. Top class, really!

    Honesty is the best weapon I ever found to cut things with. You have the humour to heal wounds. it's a good gift.

    have a wicked day!

  2. Why thankyou kind sir. 'tis mutual to be sure*

    *only half Irish.

  3. don't you find the chesterfields a bit uncomfortable? i don't like them but i like the place.

    how will i know who you are if i'm ever there, avoiding the chesterfields? i might like to say hi.

    got it. you need to wear a carnation in your button hole for the rest of your life.


  4. Can I just staple one to my forehead? Surely there are a thousand men with a thouand carnations in their lapel. However, a strange man with a bleeding forehead lolling on a Chesterfield would surely be hard to miss.