Wednesday, 30 April 2014

Sera & Dopey

Sera and Dopey could be the best of friends, or the worst of enemies. They've seen each other around the campus, but whilst they often visit the same or neighbouring areas, they rarely use the same pathways. Thus, their meetings are infrequent, and unpredictable.

Realistically, it is their mixed priorities that separates them.

Sera is all about the material. She wants to understand it, and remember it. She wants to be in bed at the same time every night. She wants to wake up feeling the same way, every morning.

Dopey is compulsive. He wants everything, and he wants it now. And now. And now. He wants to sprint and drink and fly and eat and fuck.

Perhaps the best of friends and the worst of enemies; but ultimately, the only 2 things that have ever, really made me happy.


Sunday, 27 April 2014

Happiness is an Old One

It was a story about a pig who had contracted German Measles. It wasn't very good, but that didn't matter. My parents were proud of me - five years old and writing my first story on an electric word-processing typewriter. It was cutting edge. It had a tiny LCD display that allowed you to edit the line of text before you committed it to paper. Spelling mistakes and accidental strokes could all be adjusted and corrected. I hit the enter button, the text disappeared from the screen and appeared on the paper behind. No more need for white-out and strike-through and readjusting a jammed ribbon. The words printed out in a screechy hum that sounded like the future. Looking at the page, the prognosis for this pig was not looking good. He'd been ill a while. The doctor was called. The doc said he might not make it through the night. If pigs received last rites then the best thing now was not a doctor but a priest.

 His family rallied around him, encouraging him through the night. They brought him moistened towels, emptied his sick bucket and made sure he was hydrated. They saved his life that night. Of course, being a contagious disease, they'd put themselves all at great risk. But what is life lived without risk? Without putting yourself out there for the ones you love? Even pigs know happiness.

Hope May Spring Eternal - But You Should Not Let It

She searched for him her whole life. The perfect man. The perfect dream. He had a secret. A head full of secrets, with a pensive face - moody, perhaps, but never loured. The classic cliche: tall, Darcy and handsome. She was clever enough to know that he wouldn't suddenly appear out of no where to sweep her off her feet. She was assertive. Proactive. During her career, in which she travelled the ever shrinking earth, she would look for him. In lonely bars and crowded clubs, at the ballet and in the slums. She could never shake the feeling that he was out there, somewhere, waiting for her to find him. Two souls calling to each other across the vastness of the universe.

She had never felt whole. She never felt as if she knew what love was, what it could mean, how it could feel. She was loved by her friends and family of course, but her heart felt like a balloon that had never been inflated. It longed to be filled with something, stretched out, to wrap around something and hold it tight. To find out the limits of her ability to love, to care and to feel emotion. To be brought to the point of bursting. Yet instead it sat, sad and deflated, perishing on the mantle. She spent her whole life looking. Filled her emptiness with searching. Until no one was good enough.

Thursday, 24 April 2014

I know I could be happier if I were more depressed

So I said to James I said, "mate, you've got it going on."

He retorted that the only thing he had going on was a bit of my mother. He implied that it was a small but otherwise good bit. That the bit kept him warm and satisfied even if I'd said she were dead or what have you.

I sat a while, wondering whether I should be offended, or whether I was just happy for the two of them. I decided to stay happy and let my three twitter followers know, after all it was the 99th day of my 100 days of happiness: #100daysofhappiness #day99 #stillhappy #mumsgettingsome. Twitter didn't respond. #noresponse #isanyoneoutthere

I lay on my back in the sunshine, that's the happiest thing one can do. I tweeted a pic of my toes wriggling against the sun - a spray of light rays spitting out around them like a mandorla. #100daysofhappiness #day99 #lazinginthesun. No response again, but when I thought about it, no one had ever responded to me on Twitter. Perhaps it wasn't as "social" a media as everyone banged on about. #amialone #whydoesithurt 

I'd done a touch too much thinking. I deleted my three twitter followers. They were bands and spammers anyway. Now I was on my own, ready to take on the world, ready to be myself and ready to... I remembered the one time anyone had tagged me on twitter. It was my mother. She'd accidentally done it in a post she was making about the dangers of wheat germ. She signed off LoL thinking it meant lots of love. At the time it annoyed me - how could my mother be so unsavvy - but now I'd give anything to receive a single tweet from her. A letter. A call... just to see her face again, smiling at me.

#100daysofhappiness #day1 

Saturday, 19 April 2014

Shrink Wrapped Life.

It comes in waves in the dark. Waves that ripple through my chest. A shimmering kind of pain that flows through my lungs and ebbs softly. Each wave a crescendo peaking in my throat with a caught breath followed a sharp intake of air and finally a long slow painful sigh.
I draw my hot water bottle closer to my chest willing the warmth to penetrate the cold broken thing residing within. Willing it to radiate through my body so I might feel alive again.

Life gets smaller and smaller.

All that's precious to me now fits inside a shoe box. I take off the lid to reveal within two ornaments. One a broken porcelain dove that fits in the palm of my tiny hand, the other a precious little golden eagle, wings spread poised to take flight. It looks as though at any moment it could come to life and fly away but before it is able I quickly put the lid back on the box. Must the dove be abandoned again?

What has flying gotten anyone anyway? Melted wax and drowning?

I know one day I will be too slow and that little golden eagle will come to life, break free of her confinement and soar the skies. As she well ought.

Life will grow smaller still.

Friday, 18 April 2014


Another random pain - further proof that I am dying. The cancer is eating my insides away, of that I'm nearly certain. But I'll never see a doctor. No, I don't want it to be definitive. You only die when they pick it up. When they start the treatments - that's when you start to expire, not before. You get a cough, you go in, they tell you its cancer and then you die. But what if you just ignored it, just kept coughing, never went to see a doctor at all. That's the secret to longer life - never be diagnosed with anything. To diagnose is to kill. We're all walking around with timers counting backwards toward zero. Some people just have faulty parts that's all, their time is up before others. You can't tell. I thought we would spend the rest of our lives together, but you can't predict ill health. It sneaks up on you as the timer nears zero. And then they diagnose something and that clock runs faster than ever.

It's not responding, they say.

Another course of chemo, they suggest.

And that was it. I put you in a box.

Eccentric Evocations Pt2

I feel like I am waiting for a bus that is never going to come. Waiting for a change that cannot be forced or coaxed and only hoped for. I feel it solid as a mountain side: no change to come. Or it's a glacier. I come up against a wall of bleak cold granite every time I try to imagine significant transformations beyond the tiny ones I am attempting to effect. The world moves on around me and I am still here. Worrying away my little hole. Digging frantically with tools I am making from the little found bits of root and stone and getting no where fast. Why is the ground I gain so minuscule compared to everyone else's? Do I not try hard enough?

Who does an atheist turn to for hope?

I tell you this. A life of financial and career stability is worth a thousand times more than one where love is won. One may hold you close in the night but the other puts roofs over heads and fire in hearths and shoes on feet and gives you purpose in life. It can take you across the sea on your own terms.

Give me a life of certainty where the tools I forge are no longer made of roots and pebbles and effect the greater changes for which I aim. Give me the right opportunity so that I can fill my hearth, and boil some water, and fill my hot water bottle to keep myself warm at night - whilst sleeping soundly for the certainty that my life embodies.

Thursday, 17 April 2014

Eccentric Excursives Pt1

It's been written. Rewritten. Rewritten again. It's hard to let go of the first person in years that I have let into the darkest recesses of my psyche, and trusted with all those secrets. Unfurling is a very rare thing... even to close friends. No one knows me like I've allowed him to. Out of everyone he is still the person I talk to most frequently. I'm going to lose a lifeline in this process....

Rachel from Robits punched me in the tongue

You vomit so hard you bleed from the eyes. Everything has to come out. Everything inside you is rotten. Life is a mistake and you're paying for the sins of a thousand generations of uncertainty and fear. The misery crushes you down, presses upon your chest like a cauchemar, until you're so heavy you can't bear to breathe. You lie flattened, pushing out tiny frantic puffs of humid air and steamy perspiration. It's feasting greedily on your life force, flashing a sinister grin. Images run through your head of all the people who hate you. All the people who want you dead are smiling, snarling and tipping their heads back and laughing. All you want to do is die, but you can't move anymore. You close your eyes and pray to god that you've thrown up enough to drown in.

Saturday, 12 April 2014


I caught a bus to see him. Figured he could use a friend. He met me at the station in a beat up old datsun. He was leaning against it as I disembarked the bus, holding a lit cigarette. The cigarette burned away unperturbed, whilst it's distrait owner looked out over the field behind the bus stop. I slung my pack over my shoulder and walked over to him.

"Hey," I said as I approached.

His eyelids grew a little wider and he moved his head ever so sightly in my direction. But his eyes never moved from the middle of the field.

We stood in silence a small while, until the warmth of the cigarette approached his fingers and he dropped it to the ground and stubbed it out with his shoe.

He turned to look at me now, his face was ashen and his eyes were far away. Even though he was a full grown man of perhaps 55, he looked like a little boy who had just seen his mother die. As if he was still trying to take in the fact he was suddenly all alone in the world.

"What am I supposed to do now?" he said, his eyes focusing on mine and suddenly flashing to life, as if he'd suddenly regained consciousness and was searching for an answer. "Yes... yes..." he muttered, drifting away again, and then pulling the driver's side door open.

I climbed into the passenger side and we drove a few miles down the road. The visitation period at the funeral home was nearly over when we pulled into the parking lot. We stayed in the car with the headlights on, ready to follow the hearse to the crematorium. He said he couldn't bear to go in there again.

Stephanie Bendixsen Put A Hex On My Heart

Keep pushing yourself through the darkness. Until your heart begs for you to stop. Ignore it. Let it break. Those tightening tendrils of nostalgia that grip your heart and hold it back - let them snap. Push forward and let them pull it all apart. The guilt will fade as your heart begins to crumble. Let the hollow cavity in your chest bask proudly in the darkness. Accept the numbness. Let the blackness cauterize the wound. Put your fist inside the scar and pull out all the lead that weighs you down. Nothing to hold you back. Full steam ahead toward solitude and nothingness.

Thursday, 10 April 2014

na na na, NA NA NA NA, na na na na, HEY DUDE

So I'm a pretty sweet guy. Sweet as in awesome, not sweet as in a lame prissy pants flower boy playing church organ on a Sunday or whatever. Sweet as in stylin'. They call me Stylin' Sam, but my names actually James. I'm so sweet that instead of shortening my name they made it longer, put in a second word for christ's sake, that's how sweet I am.

I have it sweet, and life is fuckin' sweet, mate. Steve Biddulph even wrote a book called "Raising boys like Stylin' Sam." The books shit though don't read it, you can't simply capture my essence in a fucking book of course. As if any of you plebs out there could be as styling as Stylin' Sam just from reading a book. Plus that Steve Biddulph guy has a face like a sad armchair - flat, sad, droopy and like you'd be wary to even stick your arse in his face. Anyway, reading a book is for girls mate, so don't go reading a book. Unless it's mine. Or unless you've got a really good reason, like you're trying to impress a chick with big tits. Not fat girl tits either, I'm talking legit floppy woppy faceslappers, bouncing against a tightly toned torso. If you require a book to pick up a fat chick with fat tits, then I don't even know where to begin with telling you how much of a loser you are. So I won't, I don't have time. Go back to your mum, crawl back in there and die.

Anyway the reason I'm writing this shit like a girl writing her diary is not real complicated and its totally worth reading and totally worth writing, so you can suck a fat pair of nuts if you don't think so.

Basically I was just hanging out, doing my thing, covered in bling. Sitting on the front steps having a quick fag, when one of those roomba auto-vacuums whiz past wearing a good deal of familiar looking jewellery and one of my favourite caps. What the fucks going on here then - some cunts either having a laugh, or I'm the first victim of a drive by spoofing. "Who you trying to mug off then, cunt?" I yelled at the vacuum cleaner as it got to the edge of the pavement, stopped, reversed to turn around and revealed some writing along its rear as it did so. "DICKHEAD SAM" it said, scrawled haphazardly in lipstick. "What. The. Fuck." I said, as I mashed my knuckles together and made them pop. "What the fuck is this?" I yelled. The roomba tipped off the footpath and got stuck see-sawing against the grass with its wheels spinning in the air helplessly, hissing like they were going far too fast. It reminded me of an upturned turtle. Turtles make me mad. I ran over to it and kicked it as hard as I could, sending it flying clean across the other side of the road and skimming into someone's house. My hat floated down into the middle of the road and a car soon crawled by. The driver slowed down, looked at me strangely, as if I was the retard, and then slowly drove over my hat.

Some cunt would pay dearly for this indignity. Dearly indeed.

Wednesday, 9 April 2014

Untitled 1

I can't fucking believe I had a dream, about her. The second worst thing about it is that it upset me enough that I'm telling people about it, and mentioning her name is crazy embarrassing for me. Seeing her face in the dream made me as anxious as that time I thought I saw her in the street. And even just acknowledging that to myself, makes me embarrassed for my subconscious.
I think of subconscious Tim as a co-tenant of this crown real estate. We each mostly stick to ourselves, although he'll occasionally leave his dirty night time dishes in my otherwise clean day-time sink. I can not exaggerate on how distant our feelings on almost all matters. I am not into the things he likes.
He woke me up. He woke me up, and wasted a good 15 minutes of my time, while I shooed him into oblivion, and seized command. There are few greater reliefs than realising your personal Armageddon was an hallucination.
This time at least.
He sneaks into my time more often than he really should, and it's probably inevitable that eventually I'm on the wrong end of the eviction. But maybe he'd be better at it. Maybe conscious thought and consideration of consequences are what cause my problems to begin with.

Maybe he should get a turn.

Tales of Caution from the Decrepit Spinsters #1

When I was young and lithely,
With skin like Keira Knightley, 
And cheeks that lit so brightly, 
Doing moves that were so sprightly, 
I could bend a man so tightly, 
And love him oh so rightly, 
Every day and every nightly, 
Forthrightly, not politely, 
They would call me their Aphrodite, 
For I'd touch them so precisely, 
That they'd think I was almighty,
But I'd cut them off concisely,
So their tighty whiteys, 
Would only slightly be unsightly.

But now, I'm not so lively.
And my outlooks not so blithely.
And my heart is not so feisty,
Now that I am ninety.

Now that I am ninety,
My bits are not so tidy,
And my humour has gone wryly,
dryly, like my lower ivy.
Yet slyly has replaced shyly,
And wily has entirely,
Along with wisely,
Replaced kindly,
So now they call me fiery.
And that shit...
That shit makes me smiley. 

- Memoirs of a Decrepit Spinster. 

Monday, 7 April 2014

Something George told me.

I'm going to be a commercial property developer.
I'm a real go-getter. I can't be doing nothing. I can't even watch a DVD without getting up and painting or building or doing laundry. I have to be good at everything I do. At everything I do, I have to be good.

I can't stand bureaucracy.
I saw an old farmer fork out a fortune in fees, contesting a bullshit decision.
It repulsed me. I have to be good to everyone I meet. To everyone I meet, I have to be good.

“Are you worried that your morals could get in the way of success?”

“Could your need to be good, be hampered by your need to be good?”



Sunday, 6 April 2014

Love Will Taurus Apart

She peeled the sides of the can away as easily and confidently as if she was peeling a banana. Her fingers were like sharpened teeth and her head rolled around on her neck entirely too much.

I woke up. A teacher once told me that heads were attached to spines via a series of little beady balls which you could feel at the back of your neck. If you rolled your head around too much the balls would slip out and you'd end up an invalid. Reminded of that bumpkin teacher. Her dumb bug eyes bugging in my groggy early morning brain. I hated my job, I hated my life, and I hated this fucking duvet.

I rolled out of bed. Showered. Dressed. Breakfasted. All in quick succession.

I stepped out the door as soon as she pulled up. We'd been partnered for nearly five years and this was our last day together. We'd been through some shit. She shrugged, "I won't miss trying to find somewhere to pull up in this street," she said. She was always moaning and giving me shit about the run down street I lived on.

We drove to the edge of the woods on the outskirts of town. Tying up some loose ends in a case we we'd been working on. The last day I could get her help on it.

"You know I'm only going over there for a year or two. When I get back I imagine we'll... well... you know. Perhaps I'll be stationed..." her voice trailed off. It was one of those things. A mixture of not knowing exactly what to say, and something distracting on the horizon. Two lorries, presumably seeing a police car coming toward them had reversed a little too quickly and backed into a farm fence. Their wheels were now spinning in a frantic panic of acceleration and lack of grip.

By the time we pulled up the driver's side doors were open, cabins were empty, and the engines were droning a quiet lordless hum. The drivers were no where to be seen. In the back of each truck was a singular cow. A singular, fairly confused looking cow. Perhaps they were just reflecting my own confusion, or perhaps the crash had spooked them, but it looked as if they were trying to comprehend their current situation.

"Should we do curry tonight? We should do something right? That's the done thing, doing something." It sounded as if her mind was made up, so I agreed. We'd do something. Something to mark the five years of our lives that were gone for no good reason, and which were spent in close proximity to each other.

She cooked me curry that night at my place. It was good. She'd been taking lessons. Her parents were back in India so her mother couldn't teach her.

"Arranged marriage is like... the big family... the pressure... the scrutiny... " each slow pause was punctuated by a sip of light yellow wine. "...THE PRESSURE! Have you ever seen Monsoon Wedding?"

I must've pulled a face that betrayed my bewilderment. "Then you have no idea. Not even the beginning of an idea."

But she was wrong, I had an idea. An idea that we could be together. The beginning of a fantasy that she was taking cooking lessons to be a better wife for me, to make me those home-cooked meals whose pungent aroma would assault my nostrils as I opened the front door returning from a day at work. I would drift down the hallway, wafting on the smells of her curries, the toes of my shoes dragging just barely on the carpet. I'd set down in the kitchen and gather her into my arms. It was all for me, not some guy she'd never even met whose nostrils didn't deserve her.

I made out I was okay with it. She had to do it of course, so I supported her as best I could.

She slept on the couch. I drove her to the airport the following day. At the customs barrier as she walked away from me forever, she turned around briefly and said "you're a fool."

I walked outside and all I could hear were cicadas. I was in the forest from yesterday. Two cows were looking at me, their faces were our faces, both were wearing our puzzled expressions from when we slid open the lorry doors. Between us a circle of toads and frogs cheered as two of them at the centre of the ring battled to their deaths. One of the combatants moved its head around too much. One of the beady balls holding his head onto his spine slipped out and his head fell clean off. The other guy won by default. The cheering became deafening and melded into the cicadas hum.

I woke up. The curry plates from last night were still on the table. I hope we miss that flight.

Saturday, 5 April 2014

Merriam-Webster defines 'Glogsterbate'

I tried to get a dictionary definition of birthday.
The dictionary suggested birthdaies.
I googled birthdaies.
Google suggested poopsterbate and glogster.

Being 30 is one of those things. An event. People say that anyway, "a big event". Was it though? It felt like, tectonically speaking, not much had changed. I was still the same person. Or so I thought. It scared me, at least a little. I think only because they said it was important. I was just me, waking up again to another day in my shitty life. Yet somehow scrutiny had been poured upon me like a freshly boiled kettle of water. I became a steaming pile of yesterday's flesh.

Someone on facebook wished me a happy birthday. A relative I don't see as often as I'd like.

Kurt Vonnegut explained to me I'd only see her another once or twice before one of us died. That's how many days. That's how many days within the entire time span of the universe we would spend together - one or two. It didn't seem a lot, which was a shame because I liked her.

Most people forgot...
I would see them more often...
Some help you are Kurt...

Age is relative. You're only as old as you feel.
How old is hollow? How old is numb?

"The big three-oh... hey, hey? Never thought I'd see the day!...."

Sludge and Other Catastrophes

I'm the salmon throwing itself upstream. Except the stream has stopped running. It's mostly dried up. And I'm just a fat lonely guy flopping about in the mud and silt. Without the flow it's impossible to know whether I'm going with or against it.

But perhaps... Perhaps it's not a stream at all. Perhaps I'm in a lake and I'm going around in circles. Like an elephant seal rutting around looking for potential mates in an endless and unpopulated beach.



Bald and wrinkled, with too much skin, barking into the nothingness. My whole existence is meaningless.

Why do you suppose god put me on earth to feel like this?

Friday, 4 April 2014


He said to me he was all out of ideas.

I said to him he should write a story about a newborn baby being fired out of a canon into outer space. 

He said he wouldn't. 

I couldn't see why. It would be a grand tale. The baby would be loaded in carefully, so as not to wake it. The barrel cranked and aimed precisely at the centre of the universe. 

He said there wasn't much point: stories begin and never finish, life ends and nothing matters. 

But the baby would be so innocent, a metaphor for missiles and weapons of mass destruction. Flying over the world without judgement or subjectivity. Taking in both the grandeur and the wretchedness with unflinching impassivity. From the beauty of snow capped mountain peaks, edging like crooked and sharpened teeth against the ġeolurēad mouth of heaven, to the continent size rafts of putrid rubbish bobbing sickly on the sea. The baby would soar above it all, looking down upon the little ants that stuck all over the earth's surface, fighting over what was left. Birthing, growing, dying and complaining all the time about something they called the human condition. How small their problems might seem to a baby exiting the earth's atmosphere and entering outer space. 

He said no one would read it anyway. 

And I suppose he had a point. 


I found out I was adopted when I was 34 years old.

Both of my parents... adoptive parents... parents had recently died, one after the other, and in their belongings I found a copy of some adoption papers. In black and white it listed two names I'd never seen before, preceded by the words "Birth Parents".

I looked for them for 10 years. I put ads in the local paper of the town which was listed as my birthplace, asking for anyone who knew them back then to contact me. I tried searching for them in the births, deaths and marriages registry, searching for them online and put in ads in national papers as well.

My search turned up nothing. It was as if they never existed. I'm still all alone in the world. Do I have brothers and sisters? Cousins? Aunts and uncles?

Bob and Sally, if you're out there... hello.

Birth of a Writer

Birth week huh? Well how about I cram your theme word right into the title? Bam! No time for thoughtful, well constructed prose here. Subtlety is for subckers.

I'm about to share a revelation that would invite my own crucifixion in the comments section, if we had more than zero readers. To be fair though, if anybody ever came here to read this, they'd probably still be stuck on an earlier piece where things were dead, or dying, or wanted to die, or knew something that was dead.

Anyway, here it is: I am not a writer.

It doesn't take much investigating to pick up what I'm putting down here. I don't even start with a goal. I just think things, and then type them. And then spend a day internally debating whether or not any of it makes sense. Then decide that it's probably as un-shit as it's going to get, and publish it. Then immediately ask Dom to read it and acknowledge for me that somewhere in the painfully self aware abortion of an effort, hides a speck of merit that warrants including me as a contributor.

Dom and Jim on the other hand; they'll take you on a journey. You want imagery? They'll set a scene so clear it makes you question your comparatively vague childhood memories. You want analogy and metaphor? They'll talk about things like they're other things until you eventually join the dots and get smacked in the face with a truth as pure as a child's laughter.

I'll confess to consulting to fully grasp some of their content in the past, but the bullet point is that these dudes will evoke an emotional response. And I think I have to immediately acknowledge that this is a skill that I do not, and may never possess. But I'm ok with that. It's just not my jam.

So I'll just keep typing the things I think, and hopefully I can add some perspective to this blog of things that suck. Unless Jim hates being called Jim, and immediately expels me from further contribution.