My Headaches.
This year I have had about 4 of my cluster headaches and none of them have lasted more than a few hours. No month long cycles, no waking up in agony and throwing up, no ice packs at midnight, no stumbling to work only to collapse in a chair, no shaking, no puffy face and a desperate need for caffeine, no wondering if this is it, if perhaps this is when I finally call time out and make sure that I can never suffer again, no planning my own death and wondering if I will need a will or if a few scribbled lines can suffice.
And god damn it if I don't miss them. Sometimes I think that I can feel them coming and I sort of look forward to it, I think this is it, no doubt, in a few hours I will be sitting up in bed with my legs twitching waiting for that golden moment when the pain eclipses everything else and then starts to fade, that glorious moment where they have peaked and have started to subside, the sweat cooling on my body as relief floods over me like a sunrise, where the three hours sleep that I will get will be sweeter than any sleep that I have ever had.
As much as I hate them they are like some terrible lover that has left me, perhaps never to return, perhaps she will be back next week. Her embrace drains me and leaves me limp and shivering. I have had lovers that have drained me completely and left me exhausted but none have left me with the feeling of relief that I get when she leaves me. She is terrifying and comforting all at the same time, beautiful and vicious, awful and awe inspiring. As much as I wish that I had never met her, I worry that without her I am nothing. I miss her, I love her and I hope to god that I never see her again.
Miss Mary Jane.
She is another lover who has kept me warm and safe and solitary. Hers is an embrace which helps keep me isolated but in an entirely different way. When I am with her I can be alone in a room full of people, I can ostracize myself from my best friends and only regret it until she enters the room again. When I am with her she is the only thing that I will ever need, when I am away from her I know the she is the last thing in the world that I require.
We have been broken up for nearly six months now but I can not deny that I have fallen into the age old trap of sleeping with the ex. Her touch is tender like no others, insidious and addictive. She has been a part of my life for so long that I can't imagine what my life would be like without her. I have this unfortunate feeling that she will always be around, lurking at the edge of my sub-consciousness, she is the booty call that always answers, the lover that never refuses, she takes more than she can ever give and I am prone to weakness and have nothing left to lose.
In reality.
This year the only lovers that I have had have been loss, regret, addiction and despair and not once has any of them told me that they loved me. Not once have we lain in bed whispering sweet nothings to each other, not once have they leaned over and run their fingers through my hair and told me that there is no place that they'd rather be, not once have I looked them in the eye and thought 'I could die happy now'. They fill me only with empty space in the same way that the distances between planets is what makes the solar system the lonely cold and desolate place that it is.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Monday, September 13, 2010
Thy father who art in a hell that he created for himself and in my opinion fucking deserves it.
I ran into my biological father the other day while I was at the supermarket showing my new house mate around. Wow, talk about awkward. I didn't introduce them to each other because I didn't think it would be worth it. What would I say, "House mate, this is my estranged father, estranged father this is my house mate. I hope you never meet again because then it will mean that I will have seen the estranged father again and I'm just not comfortable with that. It is nothing against you, house mate, and trust me when I say that you would be better off not knowing him".
It was awkward man, it was weird. He kept asking me questions, like where I was living and where I worked and I was not inclined to tell him on the off chance that he would just turn up one day. I do not think that he has anywhere to live and as much as it pains me as a person, I could not offer him my couch because I would rather that he slept out in the cold. That way he might get pneumonia and die, and then we would all be rid of him. He is a bitter and angry man and desperately unhappy and to tell you the truth it lightens my soul to know this.
My childhood memories of him include him pacing, walking for hours for whatever reason be it collecting money he'd loaned to people or more likely, collecting money people had loaned to him and me, crying and unable to understand why he was so angry at everything. Him swearing under his breath, telling me to hurry the fuck up.
I regularly give money to one of the many homeless junkies in my area, not because I want to support his habit but because he is nice. He says please and thank you and seems to be almost embarrassed to ask for spare change. When he smiles at me he makes me feel like I have done something right, even if what I'm doing is helping a man kill himself, slowly, day by day. I would not offer my father any money because he's the sort of person that would resent being given anything. But he would take it just the same and utter false promises to pay it back, but never would.
My father is grey and gaunt like a junkie, his teeth are black stumps and his hair is long and greasy. His eyes are cruel and sharp and despise everything that they see, they are jealous of people who worked hard for what they have and people who haven't worked at all. I don't know if he's ever held down a proper job, he is a musician and used to work in the film industry. Apparently he was good at what he did but fell out of favour because of his toxic personality.
Sometimes I meet people who have never met their fathers and sometimes I envy them, I have met mine and what's worse, I know exactly what sort of person he is. I am sometimes ashamed to be of the same blood of him.
Another one of my child hood memories is being told to stay in the lounge room with my sister while my mother and father fought and when the noise got too much I remember rushing in to find her pinned up against a wall, his hand around her throat, one hand cocked back ready to strike her. I remember punching him in the balls to get him off her. Later, one of his friends tried to tell me that you should never hit a man 'there' but they never once mentioned that you should never hit a woman. No one ever mentioned it to my father either, and if they did, it never stopped him.
I have never wanted to kick the shit out of anyone so vehemently as I have my father. I used to think that one day it would end with a show down between the two of us and I would kill him, strangle him with my bare hands or maybe stove his head in with a brick but this is not how it will end. It will end with me at his funeral trying to suppress a smile, the only reason I will be there will be to watch his coffin get lowered into the ground so that I can be certain that he is dead.
In the supermarket he must have sensed how much I did not want to speak to him, it took him a few minutes but he seemed to get it in the end. He kept picking things out of my basket and asking me about them, "Is this the soap you use?" he'd ask and I would reply with one word answers, not giving anything away, not giving an inch. We parted, he arm raised slightly like would try and shake my hand but he must have realised that I would not. I realised this might be the last time I saw him alive but I did not care. A look of hurt flashed briefly in his eyes, hurt and regret. It was not enough and never would be.
He does not realise but he has given me a gift and that gift is hate. Hatred for him, hatred for everything that he stands for, hatred for everything that he ever was and has ever done. This is a gift that will burn with a biblical intensity and last just a bit longer than he will, when he is gone it will burn out and and with it will burn the part of my soul that he inhabited and leave it clean and new like fresh tissue, tender and young, ready to be used again for something else, something new, ready to grow again and cover what was once a wound. It will free up that part of my heart that was once reserved only for anger, free it up to be used for something beautiful, something wonderful, something pure and untainted, like grass grows after a bush fire, new green shoots pushing up through the blackened earth.
It was awkward man, it was weird. He kept asking me questions, like where I was living and where I worked and I was not inclined to tell him on the off chance that he would just turn up one day. I do not think that he has anywhere to live and as much as it pains me as a person, I could not offer him my couch because I would rather that he slept out in the cold. That way he might get pneumonia and die, and then we would all be rid of him. He is a bitter and angry man and desperately unhappy and to tell you the truth it lightens my soul to know this.
My childhood memories of him include him pacing, walking for hours for whatever reason be it collecting money he'd loaned to people or more likely, collecting money people had loaned to him and me, crying and unable to understand why he was so angry at everything. Him swearing under his breath, telling me to hurry the fuck up.
I regularly give money to one of the many homeless junkies in my area, not because I want to support his habit but because he is nice. He says please and thank you and seems to be almost embarrassed to ask for spare change. When he smiles at me he makes me feel like I have done something right, even if what I'm doing is helping a man kill himself, slowly, day by day. I would not offer my father any money because he's the sort of person that would resent being given anything. But he would take it just the same and utter false promises to pay it back, but never would.
My father is grey and gaunt like a junkie, his teeth are black stumps and his hair is long and greasy. His eyes are cruel and sharp and despise everything that they see, they are jealous of people who worked hard for what they have and people who haven't worked at all. I don't know if he's ever held down a proper job, he is a musician and used to work in the film industry. Apparently he was good at what he did but fell out of favour because of his toxic personality.
Sometimes I meet people who have never met their fathers and sometimes I envy them, I have met mine and what's worse, I know exactly what sort of person he is. I am sometimes ashamed to be of the same blood of him.
Another one of my child hood memories is being told to stay in the lounge room with my sister while my mother and father fought and when the noise got too much I remember rushing in to find her pinned up against a wall, his hand around her throat, one hand cocked back ready to strike her. I remember punching him in the balls to get him off her. Later, one of his friends tried to tell me that you should never hit a man 'there' but they never once mentioned that you should never hit a woman. No one ever mentioned it to my father either, and if they did, it never stopped him.
I have never wanted to kick the shit out of anyone so vehemently as I have my father. I used to think that one day it would end with a show down between the two of us and I would kill him, strangle him with my bare hands or maybe stove his head in with a brick but this is not how it will end. It will end with me at his funeral trying to suppress a smile, the only reason I will be there will be to watch his coffin get lowered into the ground so that I can be certain that he is dead.
In the supermarket he must have sensed how much I did not want to speak to him, it took him a few minutes but he seemed to get it in the end. He kept picking things out of my basket and asking me about them, "Is this the soap you use?" he'd ask and I would reply with one word answers, not giving anything away, not giving an inch. We parted, he arm raised slightly like would try and shake my hand but he must have realised that I would not. I realised this might be the last time I saw him alive but I did not care. A look of hurt flashed briefly in his eyes, hurt and regret. It was not enough and never would be.
He does not realise but he has given me a gift and that gift is hate. Hatred for him, hatred for everything that he stands for, hatred for everything that he ever was and has ever done. This is a gift that will burn with a biblical intensity and last just a bit longer than he will, when he is gone it will burn out and and with it will burn the part of my soul that he inhabited and leave it clean and new like fresh tissue, tender and young, ready to be used again for something else, something new, ready to grow again and cover what was once a wound. It will free up that part of my heart that was once reserved only for anger, free it up to be used for something beautiful, something wonderful, something pure and untainted, like grass grows after a bush fire, new green shoots pushing up through the blackened earth.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Omaha
Here come
Omaha,
Hot now
I got,
Hot hair hot eyes, high tits hot mouth.
Misheard lyrics from the song Omaha by Tapes n Tapes.
To use a time worn cliché' this girls skin is like milk. Spun silk, a spiders web, a gossamer thread. Her hands are chapped and rough in her eyes is an innocence that only exists for a short time before the fires of life burn it out. I know, because I've seen it before.
She tells me that she hates when people look at her 'like that', which I find strange, because she is so outrageously beautiful that she must get it all the time. I honestly don't see how men would look at her any other way and I don't know how she doesn't see me looking at her like that. I swear, if my eyes had teeth they jump right out of my head and devour her.
Is it the essence of youth that I find so appealing, is it the unblemished skin or that churlish giggle that makes me wonder what her mouth would taste like, is it the way that she holds the hot water bottles I make her, is it because I have not lived with a women for so long that I forgot how the bathroom smells after they have showered, the heady smell of steam and shampoo. Is it all of those things and plus lust as well.
We seem to be playing that game where she says that she is fat and that she used to be perfect and then I take my cue and tell here that she is not fat and that as of now she is as perfect as she could get. She does not understand that some people would kill for those long limber limbs, that her body is the envy of almost every woman on the street, that older men see her and sigh and remember what is used to be like when they were young and that in fact girls like her are the very thing that they miss the most.
She makes me nostalgic for times that I never even had, makes me wish that I had more experiences when I was a teenager, makes me hungry in ways that can not be described but only felt. She makes me feel like I remember my time as a teenager with unblemished psyche and shoulders free of responsibilities.
She tells me that she is cold at night and I can only bite my lip and try not to mention that I could warm her, I long to suggest that she crawl with me into my bed because what if she accepts, what would I do then? Beside then have to spend the night desperately resisting the urge to fuck her. And I don't think that I could hold out that long.
I imagine her biting her lip as her pubic hair rubs against my chin, I wonder what it would be like to have her lay her hand gently on my head and then pull my hair as she climaxes. I wonder if I deserve it or whether she is a young mans game and I would be taking advantage of her trust and naivety. The thought crosses my mind that I may be holding myself back for no reason other than so I can say 'Look at how in control and mature I am', which is exactly the same thing that I'd say if I let myself go.
Let me admit that I want to fuck her more than anything in the world. I did not think it possible and the more that I realize that I probably never will the more it burns. See what I did there, used the word 'probably', I think its probably a form of denial. We were talking earlier and she flinched at the word 'vagina' and said 'ew' when we said anus. I wonder what she'd do if I told her that I wanted to taste both of those parts of her.
I have never met anyone so straight that I have wanted to bend so badly. Bend her morals, bend her will, bend her over.
I am being vulgar and I need not be. I could talk about her skin, how its white and smooth like cream. About how when she blushes the contrast between the pink and the pale makes me think of what she'd look like flushed with excitement, short of breath and pupils dilated, the tip of her index finger resting on her lips, eyes screwed tight and fluttering.
Goddamn it, I'm doing it again. I turn into a wolf when I am around her and see her only as my prey. My teeth grow long and my pelt grows grey. I stalk the ground around her looking for any sign of weakness, an opening in which I can insert my snout, any hole in the fence or gap in the wall in which I can drag her through, leaving behind only feathers and traces of blood.
Everyone says that I should get her drunk but I wonder if that will even work, she's almost straight edge. What if I awaken a beast within her that ravages menfolk for miles around, would I be proud, ashamed or indifferent? Would I be happy knowing that she could use her powers of sex over men, would I cringe in the night worrying that she would be out there somewhere being penetrated by some undeserving hipster, scared that her scary unbalanced sex worker friends might turn her out as it were. I imagine her in a club turning around and some guy asking her to bend over so that he can look at her asshole.
I am crazy and without boundaries and without reason, there is no limit to the depths in which my mind will sink and with it no limit to the discomfort it causes me. I once said that no girl really has a good losing her virginity story and I want to be her terrible story that she tells. The only thing I'll fuck is myself and the only thing I'll ravage is my sanity.
Omaha,
Hot now
I got,
Hot hair hot eyes, high tits hot mouth.
Misheard lyrics from the song Omaha by Tapes n Tapes.
To use a time worn cliché' this girls skin is like milk. Spun silk, a spiders web, a gossamer thread. Her hands are chapped and rough in her eyes is an innocence that only exists for a short time before the fires of life burn it out. I know, because I've seen it before.
She tells me that she hates when people look at her 'like that', which I find strange, because she is so outrageously beautiful that she must get it all the time. I honestly don't see how men would look at her any other way and I don't know how she doesn't see me looking at her like that. I swear, if my eyes had teeth they jump right out of my head and devour her.
Is it the essence of youth that I find so appealing, is it the unblemished skin or that churlish giggle that makes me wonder what her mouth would taste like, is it the way that she holds the hot water bottles I make her, is it because I have not lived with a women for so long that I forgot how the bathroom smells after they have showered, the heady smell of steam and shampoo. Is it all of those things and plus lust as well.
We seem to be playing that game where she says that she is fat and that she used to be perfect and then I take my cue and tell here that she is not fat and that as of now she is as perfect as she could get. She does not understand that some people would kill for those long limber limbs, that her body is the envy of almost every woman on the street, that older men see her and sigh and remember what is used to be like when they were young and that in fact girls like her are the very thing that they miss the most.
She makes me nostalgic for times that I never even had, makes me wish that I had more experiences when I was a teenager, makes me hungry in ways that can not be described but only felt. She makes me feel like I remember my time as a teenager with unblemished psyche and shoulders free of responsibilities.
She tells me that she is cold at night and I can only bite my lip and try not to mention that I could warm her, I long to suggest that she crawl with me into my bed because what if she accepts, what would I do then? Beside then have to spend the night desperately resisting the urge to fuck her. And I don't think that I could hold out that long.
I imagine her biting her lip as her pubic hair rubs against my chin, I wonder what it would be like to have her lay her hand gently on my head and then pull my hair as she climaxes. I wonder if I deserve it or whether she is a young mans game and I would be taking advantage of her trust and naivety. The thought crosses my mind that I may be holding myself back for no reason other than so I can say 'Look at how in control and mature I am', which is exactly the same thing that I'd say if I let myself go.
Let me admit that I want to fuck her more than anything in the world. I did not think it possible and the more that I realize that I probably never will the more it burns. See what I did there, used the word 'probably', I think its probably a form of denial. We were talking earlier and she flinched at the word 'vagina' and said 'ew' when we said anus. I wonder what she'd do if I told her that I wanted to taste both of those parts of her.
I have never met anyone so straight that I have wanted to bend so badly. Bend her morals, bend her will, bend her over.
I am being vulgar and I need not be. I could talk about her skin, how its white and smooth like cream. About how when she blushes the contrast between the pink and the pale makes me think of what she'd look like flushed with excitement, short of breath and pupils dilated, the tip of her index finger resting on her lips, eyes screwed tight and fluttering.
Goddamn it, I'm doing it again. I turn into a wolf when I am around her and see her only as my prey. My teeth grow long and my pelt grows grey. I stalk the ground around her looking for any sign of weakness, an opening in which I can insert my snout, any hole in the fence or gap in the wall in which I can drag her through, leaving behind only feathers and traces of blood.
Everyone says that I should get her drunk but I wonder if that will even work, she's almost straight edge. What if I awaken a beast within her that ravages menfolk for miles around, would I be proud, ashamed or indifferent? Would I be happy knowing that she could use her powers of sex over men, would I cringe in the night worrying that she would be out there somewhere being penetrated by some undeserving hipster, scared that her scary unbalanced sex worker friends might turn her out as it were. I imagine her in a club turning around and some guy asking her to bend over so that he can look at her asshole.
I am crazy and without boundaries and without reason, there is no limit to the depths in which my mind will sink and with it no limit to the discomfort it causes me. I once said that no girl really has a good losing her virginity story and I want to be her terrible story that she tells. The only thing I'll fuck is myself and the only thing I'll ravage is my sanity.
Monday, August 2, 2010
My secret girlfriend.
I'm stuck in a relationship that I've been in, off and on, more on than off, for the last ten years. Its passive aggressive and terribly self destructive and I can't see myself getting out anytime soon. I love her but I hate her at the same time. She has made me complacent with my life where as I need a partner that pushes me to be all that I can be. She has convinced me that what I do is good enough and that there is no point in trying for anything better. We spend the weekends on the couch, we hardly ever go anywhere and when we do, even if its something as normal as a party, it wears us out and we can generally only stay for a few hours at the most. We don't do drugs and we don't drink so it seems that nothing really exciting happens in our lives unless we make it happen, and my baby, Mary-Jane, doesn't seem to want that. We are so wrapped up in each other that our grip on the outside world and our perceptions of reality are tenuous at best.
Tonight though, I am wrapped in her loving embrace so I can hardly think of anything bad to say about her, but tomorrow I know I will curse her presence and wish for a life without her. But I will do nothing about it because I am trapped, a slave to her and everything that comes with her. Such a sense of security, as fragile as it is, so warm and loving when needed, comforting and calming, reliable. She fills the empty places inside me and helps keep the night from braying in. I mean, I think she does. I've spent so long with her that to be honest, I can hardly tell anymore. Perhaps she is the creature in the night, the reason I sleep funny, the reason I get uncomfortable in crowds. She has distracted me so much that I can't even finish this properly.
I wrote this a few months ago, 3 and a half to be exact, and we've been broken up for about two of those months now. I feel great. I saw her on the weekend for the first time and we spent some time together. I don't know how I feel about it. It was nice to see her, I can't deny, but she bought up some old memories that I'm not keen to relive. I think it was a mistake to see her, on reflection, because now that we are apart she calls to me. And it would be the perfect time to see her, you know, there's new episodes of Cops on and later there is new Entourage. If I see her tonight, then I'll definitely want to see her tomorrow, and then the day after that and the day after that and so on and so forth. You know how it is, just a little at first and then a little won't do so a little gets more and more, to quote Guns and Roses. I would like to be strong, but I am unsure how long I can last. "Just a little" she whispers, "one or two tokes won't hurt". Her voice is alluring and her embrace, to be honest, just can't be beat. She comforts me when there is nothing to be comforted about, but the feeling of insulation she provides is better than any bullet proof vest.
On the positive side, I'm feeling a lot more stable mentally without her. I'm not up and down like a roller coaster, I don't wake up feeling like I've been hit in the head with a mallet, I can remember what happened yesterday and where I was last week. Not with the greatest of clarity, I'll admit, but things are a lot clearer. I have this thing now called focus which is very weird for me, I mean, I sort of have a life plan now. There are things that I want that are no longer just vague outlines, I am no longer just reaching for things that I could never reach and then being unjustly disappointed. True, I've hardly written a word since we broke up, but I honestly feel like nothing has happened that's been worth writing about. Every little thing does not seem to make itself into something that its not. Things make sense and don't confuse me as easily. I can remember people names and faces and every trip outside is not some huge adventure. Everyday things are not confronting and I can almost see how everyone else sees the world.
It sucks, but its better than faking everything and being wrapped in uncertainty.
Oh yeah, and did I mention the dreams? I am dreaming more now than I ever have in my life. But that's a whole other story for a whole other time.
Tonight though, I am wrapped in her loving embrace so I can hardly think of anything bad to say about her, but tomorrow I know I will curse her presence and wish for a life without her. But I will do nothing about it because I am trapped, a slave to her and everything that comes with her. Such a sense of security, as fragile as it is, so warm and loving when needed, comforting and calming, reliable. She fills the empty places inside me and helps keep the night from braying in. I mean, I think she does. I've spent so long with her that to be honest, I can hardly tell anymore. Perhaps she is the creature in the night, the reason I sleep funny, the reason I get uncomfortable in crowds. She has distracted me so much that I can't even finish this properly.
I wrote this a few months ago, 3 and a half to be exact, and we've been broken up for about two of those months now. I feel great. I saw her on the weekend for the first time and we spent some time together. I don't know how I feel about it. It was nice to see her, I can't deny, but she bought up some old memories that I'm not keen to relive. I think it was a mistake to see her, on reflection, because now that we are apart she calls to me. And it would be the perfect time to see her, you know, there's new episodes of Cops on and later there is new Entourage. If I see her tonight, then I'll definitely want to see her tomorrow, and then the day after that and the day after that and so on and so forth. You know how it is, just a little at first and then a little won't do so a little gets more and more, to quote Guns and Roses. I would like to be strong, but I am unsure how long I can last. "Just a little" she whispers, "one or two tokes won't hurt". Her voice is alluring and her embrace, to be honest, just can't be beat. She comforts me when there is nothing to be comforted about, but the feeling of insulation she provides is better than any bullet proof vest.
On the positive side, I'm feeling a lot more stable mentally without her. I'm not up and down like a roller coaster, I don't wake up feeling like I've been hit in the head with a mallet, I can remember what happened yesterday and where I was last week. Not with the greatest of clarity, I'll admit, but things are a lot clearer. I have this thing now called focus which is very weird for me, I mean, I sort of have a life plan now. There are things that I want that are no longer just vague outlines, I am no longer just reaching for things that I could never reach and then being unjustly disappointed. True, I've hardly written a word since we broke up, but I honestly feel like nothing has happened that's been worth writing about. Every little thing does not seem to make itself into something that its not. Things make sense and don't confuse me as easily. I can remember people names and faces and every trip outside is not some huge adventure. Everyday things are not confronting and I can almost see how everyone else sees the world.
It sucks, but its better than faking everything and being wrapped in uncertainty.
Oh yeah, and did I mention the dreams? I am dreaming more now than I ever have in my life. But that's a whole other story for a whole other time.
Monday, June 7, 2010
The gentle executioner.
I was recently in the country at my parents house celebrating my step-fathers birthday. I have tried to write about my time in the country before but whenever I do I find that whatever I have to say is boring and stilted and to be honest, it really is because nothing seems to happen in the country when I'm hanging out with my parents. It's a nice time, we do nice things, we might go for a nice drive, we might go for a nice meal, visit a pleasant little country market or a garage sale or two, drink cups of tea and smoke joints as we walk around the garden. It's lovely and I love it, but it is no way exciting and that is exactly what I like about it.
Although it can be very interesting. Things happen, but they seem to blend into everything and do not seem bizarre or out of the ordinary when sometimes, they really are. The 'Easter fair Dancing in the Street' for example, when they block off the main street with a truck and a guy with a sound system gets up and takes everybody through every popular dance routine that has ever existed, ever, and all the kids dance and all the adults drink and the whole town turns out and its really quite a scene come to think of it, you should check it out some time. I'd give you a blow by blow run down of what happens but its far too awesome to ever truly describe. Imagine hay bales and flannelet and 200 people doing Grease lightning, The Nutbush and the Macarena, drunk and badly. Wow, just thinking about it is blowing my mind.
But there's other stuff too, like how on my step-fathers birthday we did out traditional have a cup of tea and then walk around the garden when we found that the sparrow trap had caught some sparrows and then what came after.
Fist off, let me try and describe the weather, I have never been to the moors in Scotland but I imagine that they are like this. It wasn’t quite a drizzle and it wasn’t quite a mist (later I asked my step-father if there was a word to describe and he said it was a “drizzly mist” so, you know, thanks for that). How do I give you the impression of just how beautiful it was. I know, how about this? You know when you go outside and there seems to be moisture in the air but you don’t get wet and then a few minutes later you realize that moisture is collecting at the end of all your hairs and that all the loose fibers on your clothes are now adorned with a shiny new drop. It’s the kind of weather where if you were with someone you loved you would turn to them and notice that all the moisture is collecting at the end of their eye lashes and making them sparkle and you’d say to yourself “I’ll remember this for ever” and you would. It was that kind of weather. Beautiful, poignant and life affirming and all the plants glistened and shone like they were in a commercial photo shoot. The air was almost grey, but it was stunning, the temperature was just above bracing, crisp, but not cold.
Anyway, so we had drunk our tea and were walking around the garden smoking a joint. I had not been smoking any weed for a while so the beauty was flowing in and the pot heightened the experience no end. My parents ducks', Agnes and Madeline, were following us around. Presently we found ourselves down the back of their property where the ducks have their pen and where, at the moment, my folks were keeping their sparrow trap.
They have a sparrow trap because they don't like sparrows because they are over breeding and are threatening some of the local populations of bird life. The trap itself is a big cage with a trap door that they fly into but then can't fly out of. Four had flown in, and as it was meant, they were now trapped.
My step father went to get a plastic bag while I stood around and tried to help my mother scare the sparrows into one end of the trap. Presently my stepfather arrived and began reaching into the cage and grabbing the sparrows and stuffing them into the plastic bag. It sounds horrible and cruel but in fact he was gentle and calm, trying as hard as he could not to hurt them and was cooing at them, trying to calm them. 'Easy little fella', he'd say, 'You exhausted aren't you?' Soon he had all four in the bag so we reset the trap and walked up towards where the cars were parked. My mother suggested that we go and see of the corn in the veggie garden was ready to be picked while my stepfather started one of the cars and held the plastic bag of sparrows over the exhaust pipe. In about two minutes they were dead from carbon-monoxide poisoning. It was quick, clean and efficient.
He emptied the bag of now dead sparrows into the compost and we picked the corn.
The ducks followed us everywhere and they watched us the entire time. I couldn't help but wonder what they thought of it all.
The next morning I woke up to discover that my nephew had survived quite a serious car accident and we spent some time at the police station before we all went out to lunch. I'm not even close to joking.
And here's me saying that nothing ever happens in the country.
Although it can be very interesting. Things happen, but they seem to blend into everything and do not seem bizarre or out of the ordinary when sometimes, they really are. The 'Easter fair Dancing in the Street' for example, when they block off the main street with a truck and a guy with a sound system gets up and takes everybody through every popular dance routine that has ever existed, ever, and all the kids dance and all the adults drink and the whole town turns out and its really quite a scene come to think of it, you should check it out some time. I'd give you a blow by blow run down of what happens but its far too awesome to ever truly describe. Imagine hay bales and flannelet and 200 people doing Grease lightning, The Nutbush and the Macarena, drunk and badly. Wow, just thinking about it is blowing my mind.
But there's other stuff too, like how on my step-fathers birthday we did out traditional have a cup of tea and then walk around the garden when we found that the sparrow trap had caught some sparrows and then what came after.
Fist off, let me try and describe the weather, I have never been to the moors in Scotland but I imagine that they are like this. It wasn’t quite a drizzle and it wasn’t quite a mist (later I asked my step-father if there was a word to describe and he said it was a “drizzly mist” so, you know, thanks for that). How do I give you the impression of just how beautiful it was. I know, how about this? You know when you go outside and there seems to be moisture in the air but you don’t get wet and then a few minutes later you realize that moisture is collecting at the end of all your hairs and that all the loose fibers on your clothes are now adorned with a shiny new drop. It’s the kind of weather where if you were with someone you loved you would turn to them and notice that all the moisture is collecting at the end of their eye lashes and making them sparkle and you’d say to yourself “I’ll remember this for ever” and you would. It was that kind of weather. Beautiful, poignant and life affirming and all the plants glistened and shone like they were in a commercial photo shoot. The air was almost grey, but it was stunning, the temperature was just above bracing, crisp, but not cold.
Anyway, so we had drunk our tea and were walking around the garden smoking a joint. I had not been smoking any weed for a while so the beauty was flowing in and the pot heightened the experience no end. My parents ducks', Agnes and Madeline, were following us around. Presently we found ourselves down the back of their property where the ducks have their pen and where, at the moment, my folks were keeping their sparrow trap.
They have a sparrow trap because they don't like sparrows because they are over breeding and are threatening some of the local populations of bird life. The trap itself is a big cage with a trap door that they fly into but then can't fly out of. Four had flown in, and as it was meant, they were now trapped.
My step father went to get a plastic bag while I stood around and tried to help my mother scare the sparrows into one end of the trap. Presently my stepfather arrived and began reaching into the cage and grabbing the sparrows and stuffing them into the plastic bag. It sounds horrible and cruel but in fact he was gentle and calm, trying as hard as he could not to hurt them and was cooing at them, trying to calm them. 'Easy little fella', he'd say, 'You exhausted aren't you?' Soon he had all four in the bag so we reset the trap and walked up towards where the cars were parked. My mother suggested that we go and see of the corn in the veggie garden was ready to be picked while my stepfather started one of the cars and held the plastic bag of sparrows over the exhaust pipe. In about two minutes they were dead from carbon-monoxide poisoning. It was quick, clean and efficient.
He emptied the bag of now dead sparrows into the compost and we picked the corn.
The ducks followed us everywhere and they watched us the entire time. I couldn't help but wonder what they thought of it all.
The next morning I woke up to discover that my nephew had survived quite a serious car accident and we spent some time at the police station before we all went out to lunch. I'm not even close to joking.
And here's me saying that nothing ever happens in the country.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Deep in the arms of my favourite leper.
Well hello there, is this thing on? Testing testing, one two one two. It's good to be back, I've been away trying something new and different but unfortunately, it did not quite work out. I gotta say, I missed you baby, I missed you and all of your fucked-upedness, I missed you cold cynical humor and I missed your warm comforting naivety. Now I'm here in your arms though, I can think of nothing to say.
Here are some things.
I got my first headache of the year today. I've had a few sort of mild ones, but today I had my first sort of proper one. It wasn't too bad, although it did leave me feeling retarded for the rest of the day. I forgot how dumb they make me. I just couldn't think. I kind of liked that. It was a nice break.
I was watching 50 First Dates and I found myself getting emotional. What the fuck is up with that.
I'm watching Dr No on tv and James Bond just got held up by a guy wearing what are very obviously womens sunglasses.
I ran into a girl the other day whom I'd had some sort of liaison with years ago and apparently written something offensive about her in one of my blogs. I can't even remember what it was and just then when i tried to find it I couldn't find anything. She seemed to still hold a grudge. Which was funny, because she has gotten fat.
I've been having these surprisingly dirty conversions with someone who I had previously thought of as very coy. Its hot. I'm wondering how I can make them dirtier and physical. Suggestions please.
It turns out that I couldn't even be bothered with this. Some other time perhaps.
Here are some things.
I got my first headache of the year today. I've had a few sort of mild ones, but today I had my first sort of proper one. It wasn't too bad, although it did leave me feeling retarded for the rest of the day. I forgot how dumb they make me. I just couldn't think. I kind of liked that. It was a nice break.
I was watching 50 First Dates and I found myself getting emotional. What the fuck is up with that.
I'm watching Dr No on tv and James Bond just got held up by a guy wearing what are very obviously womens sunglasses.
I ran into a girl the other day whom I'd had some sort of liaison with years ago and apparently written something offensive about her in one of my blogs. I can't even remember what it was and just then when i tried to find it I couldn't find anything. She seemed to still hold a grudge. Which was funny, because she has gotten fat.
I've been having these surprisingly dirty conversions with someone who I had previously thought of as very coy. Its hot. I'm wondering how I can make them dirtier and physical. Suggestions please.
It turns out that I couldn't even be bothered with this. Some other time perhaps.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
So anyway
I'm done with this. I mean, I'm done with this blog. For now anyway. 'Salright though, got 'nother one. Maybe a little cleaner and happier, but, you know, probably not. We'll see. Thanks for coming.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Can you please not look me in the eye while you do that
So this one time in a fit of almost apoplectic sexual frustration I fucked a blow up doll, and for reasons that escape even me, I wore a condom.
It seems that I have got to the stage where just being weird is not good enough for me, I have to add on that extra sprinkle of the bizarre and unexplainable. Anyway, the whole thing was an odd experience and later I was puzzled as to why I had done it. There was some kind of anger there that left me feeling like there was much much more to it but did I really want to work it out, would I have been stunned and ashamed at the answer? In the end I did what I always do and pretty much forgot about it as it seethed in my subconscious and fed my anxieties and psychosis. Every now and then it bubbles up in my mind and I think 'wow, a therapist would have a fucking field day with me' but mainly I just go about my life as if nothing really significant had happened, because it hadn't.
At the moment I am trying to write some sort of business or life plan for this course that I am doing and the main goal that I have written down is 'Make a website and get my writing out there' but after reading the above passage, is it really necessary? I mean, do people really want to read about my weird failed masturbation experiments? Is this really the sort of thing that the general public would be into? And I am not using this as a Trojan horse to say 'they are not ready for me yet', and its not a question of quality, I guess it's a question of need. I worry about pollution and one of the forms of pollution I worry about is people polluting the internet with their stupid thoughts and opinions. I've read so many blogs that just shit me to tears, seen so many websites that all it takes is a second for me to realise that tears of shit are not far off. Am I this guy as well? Am I interesting, funny, amusing to some and sick to others, is there a certain je ne sais quoi that I have that no one else has? Is my point of view unique or is it just like the thousand of other disenfranchised voices that sing in the choir of self pity.
I know what I represent, and what I represent is the lost and resentful, those who have not taken chances and are jealous of everyone who has, those who have something but are too lazy to do any thing with it, those who were raised being told that they would be rock stars and now that they are approaching middle age they are angry that the bright lights are not on them yet but have done nothing to put themselves on the stage. I am one of the many losers in the world, in our loser jobs listening to our loser anthems writing painting drawing about our pathetic loser lives and never once seeing the funny side of how hilariously doomed we really are. Stuck in a rut of our own creation, stretched on a rack of our own devising, subsisting on nothing but our inner monologues of self loathing and disgust. Suicide is too good for us, we deserve to live out our worthless lives lamenting everyday and misconstruing any meanings that we find. Our very existence is shallow and offhand and questionable and our deaths will be the same.
I once received an anonymous post card and on it was scrawled 'Nothing is good enough for people like you' and it was not until I had the displeasure of hindsight did I realise just how right that stranger was.
If this were someone elses life I would have so much to say about what they should do to improve it and why, but because its my own, all I can do is shrug and wonder if perhaps there is any thing good on television.
So do me a favour, if you've ever read anything on here that you've liked, why not send a link to a friend who you think might enjoy something a little different, fuck it, why not send a link to The New York Times or enter me in a competition, what ever you think might suit. Go on, you know you want to.
It seems that I have got to the stage where just being weird is not good enough for me, I have to add on that extra sprinkle of the bizarre and unexplainable. Anyway, the whole thing was an odd experience and later I was puzzled as to why I had done it. There was some kind of anger there that left me feeling like there was much much more to it but did I really want to work it out, would I have been stunned and ashamed at the answer? In the end I did what I always do and pretty much forgot about it as it seethed in my subconscious and fed my anxieties and psychosis. Every now and then it bubbles up in my mind and I think 'wow, a therapist would have a fucking field day with me' but mainly I just go about my life as if nothing really significant had happened, because it hadn't.
At the moment I am trying to write some sort of business or life plan for this course that I am doing and the main goal that I have written down is 'Make a website and get my writing out there' but after reading the above passage, is it really necessary? I mean, do people really want to read about my weird failed masturbation experiments? Is this really the sort of thing that the general public would be into? And I am not using this as a Trojan horse to say 'they are not ready for me yet', and its not a question of quality, I guess it's a question of need. I worry about pollution and one of the forms of pollution I worry about is people polluting the internet with their stupid thoughts and opinions. I've read so many blogs that just shit me to tears, seen so many websites that all it takes is a second for me to realise that tears of shit are not far off. Am I this guy as well? Am I interesting, funny, amusing to some and sick to others, is there a certain je ne sais quoi that I have that no one else has? Is my point of view unique or is it just like the thousand of other disenfranchised voices that sing in the choir of self pity.
I know what I represent, and what I represent is the lost and resentful, those who have not taken chances and are jealous of everyone who has, those who have something but are too lazy to do any thing with it, those who were raised being told that they would be rock stars and now that they are approaching middle age they are angry that the bright lights are not on them yet but have done nothing to put themselves on the stage. I am one of the many losers in the world, in our loser jobs listening to our loser anthems writing painting drawing about our pathetic loser lives and never once seeing the funny side of how hilariously doomed we really are. Stuck in a rut of our own creation, stretched on a rack of our own devising, subsisting on nothing but our inner monologues of self loathing and disgust. Suicide is too good for us, we deserve to live out our worthless lives lamenting everyday and misconstruing any meanings that we find. Our very existence is shallow and offhand and questionable and our deaths will be the same.
I once received an anonymous post card and on it was scrawled 'Nothing is good enough for people like you' and it was not until I had the displeasure of hindsight did I realise just how right that stranger was.
If this were someone elses life I would have so much to say about what they should do to improve it and why, but because its my own, all I can do is shrug and wonder if perhaps there is any thing good on television.
So do me a favour, if you've ever read anything on here that you've liked, why not send a link to a friend who you think might enjoy something a little different, fuck it, why not send a link to The New York Times or enter me in a competition, what ever you think might suit. Go on, you know you want to.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Yesterday was dramatic, today is ok.
Yesterday I was caught in the great flash flood of Bourke st Mall, March 6th. It was amazing. I was in Myers with a friend and we went outside and it had suddenly become extremely dark, almost as if it were night time, although it was only 3:30. Then the hail started, great balls of ice falling from the sky (because that's what hail is) and then almost suddenly things were going bat shit crazy. There were people running screaming, although it was happy screams, and every body was drenched. We sheltered in Myers cosmetics section for a little bit and then when we went out we slowly realised that we were trapped. Just a side note, those women who work and hang out in the cosmetics counters at Myers wear so much make-up that they look like clowns. It's actually kind of gross. Anyway, Bourke st mall was like a small river, it was pretty cool. As my friend, if only we had boogie boards. Also, thank you to the world for having people upload shit up onto youtube quicker than you can say 'hey, you should youtube that'. Gives me a whole new sphere of visual reference.
The best thing about all of this though, was that I was with my good friend Spookyrumpus and her new baby girl. It was scary being amongst it all with a baby but Spooky is an excellent mother and kept it cool calm and collected. Spookys baby, whom I will now on refer to as Spookette, pretty much slept through the whole ordeal. And drooled. Although, according to Spooky, that's her response to almost everything. I tell you, and you may have guessed this already, but I don't really have a 'cute' area in my brain, for example, recently a friend of mine showed me a picture of her new kitten and I said, and I thought it was sweet, that it looked like a malnourished baby monkey, but this kid, wow, cute doesn't even come close to describing her. Truly amazing. I held her a couple of times and she fell asleep on me. I thought that was pretty cool. A tiny little human with tiny little nails. All in all, it was one of my better days.
Today I wanted to go to the gallery and see the Ron Mueck exhibition but it was closed due to storm damage. I decided that I was going to go see Avata so I got all ready, picked myself a little picnic to eat in the cinema, got lit, went on down and totally did not anticipate the masses of people that would be there. The line was huge and it was all people with their kids and all I wanted was a quiet cinema experience, not 300 retards laughing at the dumbest shit imaginable. So I turned around and came home and am now watching Lethal Weapon and drinking grape juice mixed with coke. Its a bit odd but it tastes ok.
I was so ready to hate on Avata so I feel a bit disappointed. There was some good opportunity for some cathartic hate, so I feel like it was not so much an event that was missed but an outlet. I am thoroughly enjoying Lethal Weapon though. Mel Gibson plays a great psycho cop. I think we're coming up the the torture scene where they rub salt into Danny Glovers wound. I remember this from my childhood. I watched so many violent films as a kid it's no wonder I turned out as I have. Also, in the scene where Mel Gilbson is sitting on his couch and is putting the gun to his head and is on the verge of committing suicide, I noticed that his pants are undone. What's with that?
The best thing about all of this though, was that I was with my good friend Spookyrumpus and her new baby girl. It was scary being amongst it all with a baby but Spooky is an excellent mother and kept it cool calm and collected. Spookys baby, whom I will now on refer to as Spookette, pretty much slept through the whole ordeal. And drooled. Although, according to Spooky, that's her response to almost everything. I tell you, and you may have guessed this already, but I don't really have a 'cute' area in my brain, for example, recently a friend of mine showed me a picture of her new kitten and I said, and I thought it was sweet, that it looked like a malnourished baby monkey, but this kid, wow, cute doesn't even come close to describing her. Truly amazing. I held her a couple of times and she fell asleep on me. I thought that was pretty cool. A tiny little human with tiny little nails. All in all, it was one of my better days.
Today I wanted to go to the gallery and see the Ron Mueck exhibition but it was closed due to storm damage. I decided that I was going to go see Avata so I got all ready, picked myself a little picnic to eat in the cinema, got lit, went on down and totally did not anticipate the masses of people that would be there. The line was huge and it was all people with their kids and all I wanted was a quiet cinema experience, not 300 retards laughing at the dumbest shit imaginable. So I turned around and came home and am now watching Lethal Weapon and drinking grape juice mixed with coke. Its a bit odd but it tastes ok.
I was so ready to hate on Avata so I feel a bit disappointed. There was some good opportunity for some cathartic hate, so I feel like it was not so much an event that was missed but an outlet. I am thoroughly enjoying Lethal Weapon though. Mel Gibson plays a great psycho cop. I think we're coming up the the torture scene where they rub salt into Danny Glovers wound. I remember this from my childhood. I watched so many violent films as a kid it's no wonder I turned out as I have. Also, in the scene where Mel Gilbson is sitting on his couch and is putting the gun to his head and is on the verge of committing suicide, I noticed that his pants are undone. What's with that?
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
The Rise and Fall of the Cybernetic Policeman
Man, it's amazing the things you can find out about. I read this thing the other day about this experiment they had in Detroit back in the 80s. It was the peak of the car industry and just before Detroit turned from the city of industry into the city of mass unemployment that it is today. I think that this experiment might have even had something to do with the downfall of that once great city. At the time, Detroit was basically owned and controlled by this company called O.C.P who were into all kinds of crazy shit. They could do what they wanted with the city, so on one hand they had these crazy expensive cybernetics and robotics programs that had something to do with the police, on the other hand they controlled all of the major crime networks. They would amp up police presence on the streets and the gangs would retaliate so that in the end O.C.P were making money hand over fist on both sides of the fence.
Anyway, one of the cops got pretty badly shot up and somehow they transferred his brain into this amazingly advanced robot and, I'm serious, it fucking worked. There were problems which I'll get to but the fucking thing got up and walked around, it did shit, it could shoot a gun, hell, they even made it go out and be a actual policeman, well, robot. I mean, fucking take that Roomba, sure you can vacuum my room and I don't have to bother with you, but that robot police, man, it was something else. It could make judgment calls. It could drive a fucking car. They're still having those competitions now where people have to build robot cars that drive themselves across the desert. It pains me to think of all the wasted technology just sitting in some warehouse in Detroit somewhere, waiting to be used.
And what a robot it is, I mean, this thing is bullet proof, can move independently, it's like the ultimate fucking cyborg, I mean, it's insane that they're not still using this technology now, who knows what sort of awesome robot world we could be living in. Just think, we could have Stephen Hawkin up and running around and not just running around but laughing as he kicked the doors off cars and juggled hand grenades as they blew up harmlessly in his face. Fuck, we could have had Christopher Reeves not only still alive and playing superman, but being an actual superman, you know, flying around and shit. I mean, imagine that.
But of course, there were problems, you can't just go sticking a human brain into a robot body with out some side effects. Like, the brain had kind of forgotten who he was but then he kind of remembered and realized that his previous life was over and of course, freaked the fuck out. I mean, come on dude, you know what its like when you go out and have a big night and kind of wake up some where that you're unfamiliar with and it freaks you out? Well imagine that but you slowly wake up and your entire body has been replaced with steel. I mean, that shit will fuck you up for years, not just days. This is not waking up lying in a bikies bed with womens underwear on surprise, this is waking up to find out that you may no longer have any genitals or internal organs or a need to breath surprise. The other kind of bad surprise.
See, this is one of those situations where in hindsight, perhaps jumping straight in and building a deadly, almost indestructible robot wasn't the best idea and maybe experimenting on something smaller and less lethal might have been a better option. I mean, they built him with and in-built gun and holster. And yes they fucking regretted it. He stormed the O.C.P head office and shot a bunch of people, I mean goddamn, it was a robot with psychosis what did you think was going to happen? They were just lucky it didn't decide to take out its anger on suburbia or decide that every blond woman resembling his wife needed to join his robot harem, you know, heaps of things could have happened, what if this robot cop had a thing about black people, how would they have explained that? Luckily, the only people he killed were the evil O.C.P executives otherwise we would have never heard the end of it.
Oh, and I almost forgot, for some reason it ate baby food.
Anyway, one of the cops got pretty badly shot up and somehow they transferred his brain into this amazingly advanced robot and, I'm serious, it fucking worked. There were problems which I'll get to but the fucking thing got up and walked around, it did shit, it could shoot a gun, hell, they even made it go out and be a actual policeman, well, robot. I mean, fucking take that Roomba, sure you can vacuum my room and I don't have to bother with you, but that robot police, man, it was something else. It could make judgment calls. It could drive a fucking car. They're still having those competitions now where people have to build robot cars that drive themselves across the desert. It pains me to think of all the wasted technology just sitting in some warehouse in Detroit somewhere, waiting to be used.
And what a robot it is, I mean, this thing is bullet proof, can move independently, it's like the ultimate fucking cyborg, I mean, it's insane that they're not still using this technology now, who knows what sort of awesome robot world we could be living in. Just think, we could have Stephen Hawkin up and running around and not just running around but laughing as he kicked the doors off cars and juggled hand grenades as they blew up harmlessly in his face. Fuck, we could have had Christopher Reeves not only still alive and playing superman, but being an actual superman, you know, flying around and shit. I mean, imagine that.
But of course, there were problems, you can't just go sticking a human brain into a robot body with out some side effects. Like, the brain had kind of forgotten who he was but then he kind of remembered and realized that his previous life was over and of course, freaked the fuck out. I mean, come on dude, you know what its like when you go out and have a big night and kind of wake up some where that you're unfamiliar with and it freaks you out? Well imagine that but you slowly wake up and your entire body has been replaced with steel. I mean, that shit will fuck you up for years, not just days. This is not waking up lying in a bikies bed with womens underwear on surprise, this is waking up to find out that you may no longer have any genitals or internal organs or a need to breath surprise. The other kind of bad surprise.
See, this is one of those situations where in hindsight, perhaps jumping straight in and building a deadly, almost indestructible robot wasn't the best idea and maybe experimenting on something smaller and less lethal might have been a better option. I mean, they built him with and in-built gun and holster. And yes they fucking regretted it. He stormed the O.C.P head office and shot a bunch of people, I mean goddamn, it was a robot with psychosis what did you think was going to happen? They were just lucky it didn't decide to take out its anger on suburbia or decide that every blond woman resembling his wife needed to join his robot harem, you know, heaps of things could have happened, what if this robot cop had a thing about black people, how would they have explained that? Luckily, the only people he killed were the evil O.C.P executives otherwise we would have never heard the end of it.
Oh, and I almost forgot, for some reason it ate baby food.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Plastic Angie and the children of the corn or Angels with dirty faces.
People ask me why I hate South Yarra so much and I struggle to explain myself properly. I've been trying to thing of an appropriate metaphor or simile I think the best thing that I can do is try and describe one one of my customers whom I think signifies everything wrong with that area, everything sick about that awful fucked up place.
So now we're going to talk about Angie. I have no idea of how old Angie was, she'd had so much plastic surgery done that it was almost impossible to tell. I'd put her neck and her hands at about 50, her tits looked about 25 and her face was not so much a face but a pastiche an unusual collage of abstract conceptions, of what lips were, of what a cheek should look like, a different interpretation of eyes. In my opinion she was just hideous to look at. You know that game you play as a kid, Exquisite Corpse, you know, where you draw a head then fold the paper over then someone draws the next bit and so on until you end up with some weird fish woman with bicycles for hands? Yeah, well it was like that but just for the face. I guess at one stage she must have been someones' trophy wife, now she was vainly trying to claw her former looks back, trying to avert the tide of time with the scalpel. It was sad and it was one of those situations where a persons psychology was laid bare on their face with no hiding it at all, where their inner turmoils were such that they had now become outer turmoils.
And that ain't all. She also had triplets, boys, with white blond hair and empty blue eyes. They would have been about 6 years old. There is no doubt in my mind that they were the result of some fertility package, some IVF gone super right. They were weird kids and they never wore shoes. Angie would just leave them in the kids section to play by themselves while she would read self help books in the cafe. The triplets would run riot scaring the shit out other other kids. The never went to school and they alienated even the adults. They seemed to be like those wild children that turn up every 50 years or so, those one who have been raised by wolves or chickens or some shit. They were always filthy and they always had food smeared all over their faces.
These kids were weird. If they were paintings their eyes would follow you around the room, if they were statues you would not have them in your garden, let alone your house.
They were strange and unnatural and, I think its obvious by now, the whole scene gave me the fucking creeps. I tell you, typing this now some of my hairs stand on end when I think about how fucked up the whole situation was, this crazy Barbie who have been left out in the sun, these genetic aberrations running around like their very existence weren't no thing, I mean, how much much they have cost to produce and for what? There is no doubt that she was terrible mother and that their lives were wasted from the get go, I imagine pickings up a newspaper, actually, I'm more likely to go to The Age but anyway, one day I imagine consulting some news source and seeing some crazy story about some wild gang of triplets who have kidnapped some chick and endured her to hours of torture and rape, I imagine I'll read this story and I won't go 'huh?, like, 'really?'', I'll go 'huh', with a finality that means 'of course, I knew it all along'.
So now we're going to talk about Angie. I have no idea of how old Angie was, she'd had so much plastic surgery done that it was almost impossible to tell. I'd put her neck and her hands at about 50, her tits looked about 25 and her face was not so much a face but a pastiche an unusual collage of abstract conceptions, of what lips were, of what a cheek should look like, a different interpretation of eyes. In my opinion she was just hideous to look at. You know that game you play as a kid, Exquisite Corpse, you know, where you draw a head then fold the paper over then someone draws the next bit and so on until you end up with some weird fish woman with bicycles for hands? Yeah, well it was like that but just for the face. I guess at one stage she must have been someones' trophy wife, now she was vainly trying to claw her former looks back, trying to avert the tide of time with the scalpel. It was sad and it was one of those situations where a persons psychology was laid bare on their face with no hiding it at all, where their inner turmoils were such that they had now become outer turmoils.
And that ain't all. She also had triplets, boys, with white blond hair and empty blue eyes. They would have been about 6 years old. There is no doubt in my mind that they were the result of some fertility package, some IVF gone super right. They were weird kids and they never wore shoes. Angie would just leave them in the kids section to play by themselves while she would read self help books in the cafe. The triplets would run riot scaring the shit out other other kids. The never went to school and they alienated even the adults. They seemed to be like those wild children that turn up every 50 years or so, those one who have been raised by wolves or chickens or some shit. They were always filthy and they always had food smeared all over their faces.
These kids were weird. If they were paintings their eyes would follow you around the room, if they were statues you would not have them in your garden, let alone your house.
They were strange and unnatural and, I think its obvious by now, the whole scene gave me the fucking creeps. I tell you, typing this now some of my hairs stand on end when I think about how fucked up the whole situation was, this crazy Barbie who have been left out in the sun, these genetic aberrations running around like their very existence weren't no thing, I mean, how much much they have cost to produce and for what? There is no doubt that she was terrible mother and that their lives were wasted from the get go, I imagine pickings up a newspaper, actually, I'm more likely to go to The Age but anyway, one day I imagine consulting some news source and seeing some crazy story about some wild gang of triplets who have kidnapped some chick and endured her to hours of torture and rape, I imagine I'll read this story and I won't go 'huh?, like, 'really?'', I'll go 'huh', with a finality that means 'of course, I knew it all along'.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
There is truth in fiction.
So anyway, this morning I was sitting at the dinner on the corner and I was waiting at the counter for the guy to pour the coffee and, get this, he fills it only halfway and before I could even argue he was looking out the window at somebody coming in. Like seriously dude, pay attention. I only got half a coffee because you were checking out a piece of ass, I mean, really? Anyway, so the lady comes in and the barista is all "Oh its so nice to see you" and she shakes her umbrella all over the place and then they are kissing their hellos and by this stage I'm feeling pretty pissed so I just lean over and grab the milk and pour it myself.
I can feel them staring at me but by this stage I could give less of a shit. I ignore them completely and open up the paper, there's some article about some actor, apparently he had died while he was drinking but it was no one I had heard of. I'm like 'fuck this' so I turn to the horror scopes and I'm looking for the funnies when I get that weird feeling you get when someone is watching you and so I raise my head.
There is some lady on the outside looking inside, but I'm not sure if she's looking at me. She squints for a bit and I realise that she is looking at her own reflection. I realise that she is hitching up her skirt and while she is straightening her stockings her hair has gotten wet.
Man, this rain it will continue through the morning as I'm listening to the bells of the cathedral. I am thinking of your voice.
And of a midnight picnic once up on a time before the rains began.
But I finished up my coffee 'cause it was time to catch the tram.
I can feel them staring at me but by this stage I could give less of a shit. I ignore them completely and open up the paper, there's some article about some actor, apparently he had died while he was drinking but it was no one I had heard of. I'm like 'fuck this' so I turn to the horror scopes and I'm looking for the funnies when I get that weird feeling you get when someone is watching you and so I raise my head.
There is some lady on the outside looking inside, but I'm not sure if she's looking at me. She squints for a bit and I realise that she is looking at her own reflection. I realise that she is hitching up her skirt and while she is straightening her stockings her hair has gotten wet.
Man, this rain it will continue through the morning as I'm listening to the bells of the cathedral. I am thinking of your voice.
And of a midnight picnic once up on a time before the rains began.
But I finished up my coffee 'cause it was time to catch the tram.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Hardly worth dying for.
So I gotta tell you about how I was watching this fantastic documentary the other day on this ‘hero cop’ in Los Angeles. It was freakin’ AMAZING! Did you ever hear about that hostage situation that happened in the late 80’s at some place called the Nakatomi Plaza? The story is that some guy, a policeman, was there visiting his wife for her corporate Christmas party. Man, shit went off the hook. First up a bunch of German guys took the whole place hostage, demanding that the executive of the company opens the vault. Apparently there were a whole stack of ‘bearer bonds’ (whatever they are) inside that they wanted and when the executive didn’t open the vault, the executed him! Man, that shit was fucked up. I mean, it’s like if someone came into my shop and shot me because I couldn’t open the safe, I mean, Jesus, I don’t even have a key!
I tell you, the human spirit is one to be reckoned with. I mean this cop, I think his name was John, he got stranded with no shoes and no gun in a building he’s never been in and what does he do? Does he lie back and say ‘fuck, guess I’d better play some getting-to-know-you games with the other hostages’? No, he mans the fuck up and goes hunting, that’s right, hunting the other terrorists.
I don’t want to give too much away but lets just say that this guy is like MacGyver meets Stallone. I mean, he’s resourceful and kicks ass like it ain’t no thang. For instance, mother fucker is so pissed at this posse of terrorists that he kills one and then dresses the corpse up in Christmas lights and writes a message on its jumper and then puts it in a lift and sends it to the floor where all the other terrorists are hanging out. No joke, these guys almost literally shit they are that scared. I swear, could you imagine their faces when the elevator chimes and then out spills Corpsy McMessage-written-on? I mean, you couldn’t write this stuff if you tried.
So while all this is happening the terrorists have made the building look like nothing is happening, they cut off all the phones and they even put a pretend security guard out the front. After Mr McClane sets off a fire alarm the police do the pissyest drive by ever, the cop drives up, doesn’t stop and almost drives away. I was on the edge of my seat at this stage, I mean, I knew that somehow Mr McClane had to survive (to sign away the rights to the documentary) but man, I had no idea how. Wanna guess how he did it?
He threw a corpse out the window and it landed on top of the police car. That’s how that mother fucker survived. Like, damn, that is some serious shit. It’s almost like that plane crash years ago in the Andes, you know the one where the people had to eat each other? I mean, it’s a bit like that, but not as extreme. I mean, if someone came to you and said “So here’s that corpse that you have to throw out the window” surely you’d be a little bit like “say what?” I mean, its pretty impressive that this guy did all of this and hardly bats an eye lid.
The thing is though, as the hostage drama progressed you could tell that it was starting to wear ol’ J.M out, I mean, just the mental pressure must have been almost unbearable. Could you imagine being so focused for so long? Whew, makes me tired just thinking about it.
I think the thing that impressed me the most was the amazing camera work. I don’t know if it was CCTV or what but it was excellent. If anything, the more CCTV cameras the better, because look at how good the footage is, I mean, a few more documentaries can’t hurt right?
After all of this though, I can’t remember what the damn thing was called. I’m tempted to say ‘One day in December’ but I’m pretty sure that’s not right. ‘Hardly worth dying for?” something like that? Anyway, check it out, one of the better non-fiction film I’ve seen in ages, almost as good as the one they did on that island off South America, you know, where that guy did all those experiments and ended up creating those giant lizards? Man, that was awesome.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Pretty much all true except for the lies.
After I walked past the gaggle of cute 16 year olds I thought “thank god I don’t have to serve them today, I just don’t have it in me”. Then later they walked into my shop and I didn’t so much as thank god but curse that mother-fucker out.
Hey hippies, yeah, you, hippie girl with that awful haircut, you know, the one with the dreads and the undercut with the lines in it, sort of like a mullet gone feral, I understand that you are making a statement, but do you realize that the statement is “I have rats in my vagina”? You don’t have rats you say? Explain the cheese then.
Also, you dancing barefoot after the show, you are the reason I’ll be sending my kids to a private school and making them read books on the corporate world, maybe books by Malcom Gladwell or Jack Welch. They will know the ‘Art of war’ backwards. Sure they’ll be wankers, but they’ll be rich wankers who wash.
Hot girls who drive vans make you wonder if perhaps getting kidnapped might be a little bit worth it. I got room on my body for a cigarette burn or two.
I’m having a mini holiday soon but I’m not telling anyone about it because all I want to do is smoke joints and play video games and I don’t want to be disturbed.
I saw a band last week and I was so high that I can’t really remember them. I’d call it a waste but I know that I had a good time so, call it even?
I went to the Tote on Sunday. It is always good to indulge in a bit of culture tourism. Needles to say I felt a bit out of place.
I had a dream the other night that me and a bunch of actors from action movies were all wearing power armor and getting ready to rescue some politician from some terrorists. I told my friend about it and he called me a child. I told him, “Nah uh, you are” and ran off before he could respond.
Jenny Craig (the weight loss program) is owned by Nestle (the people who make chocolate and whose negligence results in mass infanticide in third world countries). I swear you couldn’t make this shit up. David Letterman said it best last night when he said that while we (first world countries) have entire channels devoted to food, 24/7, children in other poorer countries (ie the rest of the world) are often forced to eat dirt or newspaper to sate the gnawing in their bellies. Think about that next time you can’t decide between Mcdonalds or KFC.
I just had a customer tell me that sodomy should be illegal. Someone’s girlfriend has issues in that department I’ll bet. Has anyone ever heard of the Church of Euthanasia? I like them. A lot.
Has anyone ever reused a condom? If so, can you tell me about it? I’d be interested to hear and also I have a rash that needs explaining. No I don’t, I’m so sexless at the moment I’m basically a virgin. I’ll keep talking about it though, I hear that’s what entices the ladies these days, that magic acronym, self-pity, apathy, desperation AKA S.A.D. And being broke, I heard that works too.
At least I have a sense of humor, I mean, I just made that shit up. If anyone ever needs a comedy writer that specializes in self-deprecating humor, call me, just incase you happen to be writing a show with a lead character that hates himself. I got that shit down pat yo.
So I’ve been watching this show called The Wire, I forget who I’ve talked about it with so lets pretend this is the first time we’ve had this conversation. Anyway, it’s all about drug dealers and cops. My language is suffering terribly. I now sound like a cross between a valley girl and a corner boy. I don’t know whether to sling rocks or gossip about Paris Hilton. Bitch be givin’ it away like they was tatter tots at lunchroom yo, word negro, she be vile and shit.
Monday, January 18, 2010
And another thing.
So the other day I had to run across the road to the 7-11 to grab something to drink. I run over there and at the counter is this crack head lady wearing an overcoat, tracksuit pants and some sort of ineffective singlet, every time she’d lean forward one of her breasts would fall out. She was buying something’s, I think a packet of garbage bags, some other random crap. In her right hand she had a packet of cigarettes and a Tupperware container with a mix in it ie weed and tobacco. She had something cradled under her left arm and it was making it awkward for her to put all her random shit in her bag, so she takes the thing out from under her arm and pops it on the counter.
It’s a bong, but not just any bong, it’s a giant pink cock shaped bong with balls and all. The Hindu lady behind the counter just stares at her while I start laughing. I hang around because, frankly, I want to see where this is going. Ol’ cracky can’t seem to get her head around putting all her things into the one bag so she gathers everything up and goes over to corner of the 7-11 and lays it down on the floor, spilling the bong in the process. Obviously, the water has not been changed in some time so it is like mud as it oozes out across the floor. Suddenly the entire 7-11 smells like a student house. I’m at the point where I’m just shaking my head doing the slow clap, ‘bravo’ I say, ‘bravo’. Crackhead lady still can’t work it out so she gathers everything up again and takes it outside onto the footpath where there is more room to lay everything out. On the way out of the Sev I step over her, laughing.
So then last night I’m waiting for the tram and there is this other smack head lady waiting also. She is totally on the nod, is built like a fridge and has a face as ugly as you could possibly imagine. Like, surprisingly ugly. That ugly that makes you go ‘maybe there is a god and maybe he does have a sense of humor. I bet if we were to get drunk together he’d do all that shit that’d make me cringe and worry about being beaten up or arrested but doesn’t make me stop hanging out with him, because he is just that funny’. She also has a massive herpes outbreak on her lip. She looks like a dugong and is lurching around the platform in a similar manner to Frankenstein’s monster. In a word, she is hideous. Just disgusting.
The tram comes and I get on, she tries and fails to butt her cigarette out on the ground, she gets on with one end still smoldering. At this point I am desperately hoping that she will put her lit cigarette in her pocket and set herself on fire because that would juts be fucking hilarious. No such luck, she realizes it’s lit and bends down to grind her cigarette out on the floor of the tram. Because, for once, ‘god’ is finally listening to me she falls and face plants into the ground, huge ass up and semi exposed. I laugh, loudly, without trying to cover it at all. I am the only one. Dugong lady moans ‘I hurt my shoulder’ in that hilarious smack head drawl and I tell her ‘’S’alright lady, the heroin will cut through it’.
I get the distinct impression that the people around me don’t like me. Someone helps her up and, get this, someone else give her their seat. I’m thinking, are you fucking serious? If I were to get all iced up and then get on the tram and start masturbating, would you lend me your hand? Would you be all “you can look my daughter in the eye while you do that”. No, you fucking would not, but if a chronic smack head falls face first on the tram, people leap at the chance to help.
‘Fine’, I tell myself, ‘I’ll just go home and watch Bumfights’.
Monday, January 11, 2010
You've got mail but thankfully no Meg Ryan or Tom Hanks.
I have a pen friend. Did you know this? We’ve been writing to each other for about 5 years now, maybe even longer. We’ve met I think all of twice. Our relationship is not based on fact nor does it have any grounds in reality, our relationship charts the unnamable. We never talk about what we are doing with our lives, the closest we come is sometimes we talk about what we’ve done, but only in passing reference. More often than not our postcards are random and of the bizarre, one of the last ones she sent me was a mathematical equation for how many molecules of iron there are in the human blood stream. She’s smarter than me that’s for sure.
The thing is, I want to tell her how much it means to me that someone will take the time out to write to me, will sit down and make a card out of scraps and then take the time to walk it down to the mailbox. But I can’t you see, because it seems an unspoken rule that we never discuss what’s happening, I can never call her up and say “How cool is they hey? How much are we like Griffin and Sabine, we are literary characters in a novel of our own devising, the end remains unwritten, maybe someone will make a film about us later” but I never can because A) what we have only exists between us and no one else and B) I am not that sort of wanker that would want a film made about him.
As much as this friendship exists, it doesn’t. I guess this is the closest I’ll ever come to real magic, something that is both real and imaginary at the same time. I could write to her today and then maybe never hear from her again and the only thing that I would have to prove that she ever existed would be a stack of beautifully written postcards.
And this is not some ‘postsecret’ type thing. That shit sucks.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Really wild life
I went to the country on the weekend and on the drive back I saw a dead kangaroo with what I thought said 'Slut' spray painted on it. Needless to say, this killed me. I puzzled over it for a while before I saw another dead kangaroo with 'Slow' painted on it. I figured that the first one must also have had 'slow' painted on it, because the alternative was far to awesome to have been real. Typing this now I sigh and think 'if only, if only the dead kangaroo had said slut, that would have been so much better'. Hilarious. Anyway, then I started thinking about what strange turn of events had led to a dead kangaroo with 'slow' spray painted on it by the side of the highway.
Firstly, what did 'slow' mean? Was it a comment on the kangaroos themselves, had someone been hurtling down the highway and seen the kangaroo on the road and had they perhaps locked eyes and for a moment and were they both somehow connected, was there some sort of psychic nod where they both agreed, "This is it, a race for death, car and kangaroo and only one winner", did the kangaroo lower its head and charge, perhaps the driver was screaming a war cry, foot to the floor with a death grip on the steering wheel.
Was it maybe a new initiative by the T.A.C. to warn drivers of the consequences, maybe other kangaroos had placed them there to warn each other. Who is dragging these carcasses here and why are they spray painting 'slow' on them. Is there a law against it? Should there be? Is it wrong to kill an animal and then paint on it, to mark it as yours, even if you killed it accidentally? What is right or wrong in this situation?
To be honest, I really don't know where I'm headed with this one. Where do you go with dead wildlife that has been vandalized? It's beyond a level of weird that even I have trouble comprehending. So I leave you with that while I reel out of here in a fog of incomprehension with mild brain damage, goodnight.
Firstly, what did 'slow' mean? Was it a comment on the kangaroos themselves, had someone been hurtling down the highway and seen the kangaroo on the road and had they perhaps locked eyes and for a moment and were they both somehow connected, was there some sort of psychic nod where they both agreed, "This is it, a race for death, car and kangaroo and only one winner", did the kangaroo lower its head and charge, perhaps the driver was screaming a war cry, foot to the floor with a death grip on the steering wheel.
Was it maybe a new initiative by the T.A.C. to warn drivers of the consequences, maybe other kangaroos had placed them there to warn each other. Who is dragging these carcasses here and why are they spray painting 'slow' on them. Is there a law against it? Should there be? Is it wrong to kill an animal and then paint on it, to mark it as yours, even if you killed it accidentally? What is right or wrong in this situation?
To be honest, I really don't know where I'm headed with this one. Where do you go with dead wildlife that has been vandalized? It's beyond a level of weird that even I have trouble comprehending. So I leave you with that while I reel out of here in a fog of incomprehension with mild brain damage, goodnight.
Monday, January 4, 2010
My moon my man(tra)
You know what passes my lips most often? And ha ha if you said ‘a dick’ because that’s actually funny, well played. No, what passes my lips the most often is my up until now secret mantra that I repeat about 20-50 times a day and that is a fairly conservative estimate. My mantra goes like this, it goes: “I’m going to shoot myself in the fucking head”. Or a variation of. It does not actually mean that I’m going to shoot myself in the head, although true, I was trying to buy a gun there for a while, no, what it means is something is happening that I can not cope with, something is going on that my little brain is unable to handle. And it is usually the simplest of things. In fact, its usually only the one thing and that one thing, of course, is women. Women, always women.
It is the smallest things that get me, a girl will toss her hair or cock her brow and I’ll think “that’s right, that what I’ve been missing” and out comes my mantra, ready to defeat me incase I even try. Maybe I’ll see two people holding hands and they’ll smile at each other like they are in love and I’ll think “you are pathetic for even watching”. It’s like emotional pornography, watching two people happy is almost as enticing as watching two people fuck. Yah I know, weird and creepy right? And then there is the ‘you’re not good enough and never will be’ interpretation of the mantra, the ‘end it now before you embarrass yourself’ mantra.
Oh it is pathetic, I know, and it will not get any better unless I stop thinking like this and start thinking a little more positively. (I just stepped away from the computer to think and I felt my lips moving of their own accord, what was it they were saying? Ah yes, my other old favorite, ‘I wish I were dead’, for when the other one won’t do). Where was I? Talking about how I need to think more positively. It’s a bit tough you know, to think positively when you are aware of how pathetic you are. One of my finest traits is to be able to look at something and criticize it. Doesn’t matter how good it is, I can shit all over it. And probably will given half the chance. Even if I like something, I am much happier criticizing than praising. Why is that I wonder? This is the sound of me thinking.
So anyway, the other night I got home and I was thinking of this last decade that we just finished. Was it good for you too? It’s bad enough looking back at one year but then ten of them? Here is an analogy. Me looking over my last ten years is much like a man looking at a room that he has just destroyed. First up, there is shit everywhere. Everywhere. Everything is broken, all the clothes are torn up and strewn around, all the books have been ripped from the shelves and kicked about, broken glass litters the carpet and there is what looks very much like fecal matter smeared on the walls. The man is breathing heavy, thinking, ‘what the fuck did I just do and why?’. His pulse races and his finger twitch for more things to break but his searching eyes find nothing.
A man amongst the ruins that he has created. Shitty low paying job, single, drug problems, fat, unhealthy, bored. The best thing about me? I have some very nice friends. Which is nice.
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