Sunday, July 23, 2017

london. the headlines are splashed across the streets, the mad crowds, a horde of multi ethno tribes all being polite yet seething under the surface, it's a j b ballard story bursting at the edges, supressed tensions spilt the infinite possibilities into one chaotic resolution.
now, the new fashion amongst the young are the savage acid attacks that seem to result in the theft of a few mobile phones and scooters, mopeds and cycles. yes, a gang will approach a target who is just minding their own business and throw acid into their face while stealing whatever they can. i see faces burnt up like scarred war veterans under agent orange, it's just business as usual in the city, a spent police force can't offer solutions despite the millions of surveillance cameras. the perpetrators are all young men, not even reached puberty in some cases. it's a system in decay, something is seriously wrong with the host if these types of virus run rampant.
 
i walk along the dark streets, i have found walking at night less traumatic than day time where i am exposed for all to see, like some circus freak with a day pass into the community. my skin deep plasmic red, violently radiating it's strange aura.
the dark clouds forecast rain ahead but for the moment there's a reasonable yet unusual humidity in the air. i like these nights, a scattering of people wandering around, the traffic moves through the arterial roads and the pulse of london throbs with it's vital life signs.
i think i am on a side road, quite close to my parents home, i am looking for stars but london's ambient light kills the natural sky, smog and pollution keep the universe at bay. 
i can smell the danger first, a strange overwhelming flood of pheromone activity, assaults me with some brutal force. my spine tingles and the strange patterns on my skin begin to glow. 
out from several directions they came, shadows, hooded and lithe but it's the glimmer of blades that reveal their intent. 
knowledge, understanding, action, it all comes inherently within my new skin, a movement behind me, the elements are disturbed, i spin around and catch the mans arm as it swoops down dagger in hand.
the truth is instinctive, i surrender to my strange new skin, let it do the work. there are movements, swift and gracefully i spin around and face three more of them. they look shocked at the fall of their comrade but are not unenthusiastically seeking revenge. the glimmer in their eye is fear but also madness, and then horror as they see my face.
i've already won this battle, my skin takes care of them, it's over instantaneously as i find myself standing over their broken bones and blood. it's impossible not to be overwhelmed by this stigmata, this strange new power. i gaze at my arms and hands, the pulse seems to fade and the bright glow begins to dim.


 
           

Saturday, July 22, 2017

i have a strange affliction, a terrible skin condition, a giraffe pattern of bright coral like maroon overnight appeared upon my body. highly noticeable for it's vibrant sheen and gossamer like finish as it reflects the summer light in my home city as i stand upon my parents balcony looking downwards at the train station and the disembarking passengers at the end of the jubilee line. it was not unexpected, i have always reacted to returning to london in strange psychosomatic expression.
once i couldn't even walk, pain searing through my legs every time i attempted to take a step or even stand upright but this time i am mobile and move with unusual grace and stealth. however in public i am the freak, like the tattooed man, or the monster, the alien being who magnetises attention of all. even children in their prams gawk at me and then burst out crying in terror at the hideous creature they see before them.
yes, i disguise myself as much as possible, i even wear long pants instead of my board shorts, i wear a neck scarf despite the warm evenings and i attempt to cover my face in sunglasses and a low brimmed hat, however up close you cannot fail to see me, in all my awful naked truth, a creature in the shape of a man.

Friday, July 07, 2017

countdown the days, the final program as heat is sucked from bones, birds struggle with flight and fish are in a state of deep freeze. my pond life is a solid state, my home life is a state solid. nothing can move in the permafrost of winter. even time is frozen. decay defeated in the snap freeze of the moment.


all we wanted was that frozen now, the naked breakfast, on a spork bending with natures psychokinesis. ever thought about that fraction of deep freeze. 
adversity is opportunity, as an old friend told me just before he died. he was incorrect, it's a chance at opportunity and if your well trained in some buddhist or magickal techniques a choice. 
my mind flies free. it weaves through time and space, it seeks and finds, but is never trapped, it is free from all these equations of physics and philosophy. through the needles eye we all pass, once in a lifetimes transmigrations. passing on with full consciousness, it's improbable but not impossible.    

Thursday, July 06, 2017

i wake up pretty early, it's still dark as i drive into the sunrise at terrible. it's intense colour, these winters days have a certain clarity, a sharpness about them. the definition of things becomes much clearer in winter light, less distractions. 
on the beach the sun shines across the water, each drop a crystallised future, quantum foam, no surf. a few swimmers out there pushing through the temperature, not me, i'm wrapped up in layers of warmth. the sun now eats through me, so good for my bones, my skin slightly burning, on days like these i feel alive. 
that's a good thing, as i take my breathes seriously. you never know when it's your last.

Wednesday, July 05, 2017

memory from yesteryear- outside i'm walking along one of those quaint english roads, where the houses are far to close to one another, where the width of the road is slim and narrow, where the some sort of strange soft blizzard falls, the trees have no leaves, just black frozen nerve endings meeting a dull grey sky today, the transmissions of a cities synaptic messages are dead ones, decay. nature suffers in the extremes, it's far to cold for polar bears and penguins, the city has it's own wildlife, the wild londoners, the gangs off ethnic tribes, the wailing police sirens, the old people in their rented rooms smothered in blankets as they fight winter in spring, old bones clasping a mug of tea that only has one direction to travel, colder. 
the fashionistas, the young good looking europian set, the glamorous, it's all here frozen in my moment as i walk through the scenery.
later i'm helping my mum shop, driving a small car around for her, the traffic is chaotic but we end up in some sort of massive supermarket, a hypermarket, my mother pushes a trolley around it talking to anyone who listens, and if they don't, to herself. i am attempting to help but my back injury makes movement impossible. 
i notice these shops are filled with unfamiliar products, and the familiar ones are very cheap, mangoes, here sell for much less than they do in australia (but they taste crap). how does that work? fish costs less?
there's a good range of products for vegetarians and vegans, there's a very good range of organic products and it's all really good quality, and cheap. australia we are being fucked over, free trade agreements, no competition and dumb politics has meant the customer looses out. i buy a book, and some dark chocolate from south america. the strange sleet gets heavier, falls harder, i drive back, i make garlic bread for my folks and swallow some painkillers.     

Tuesday, July 04, 2017

pull out my travelling bags, it's a mystery what i take, some reading matter. some swimming stuff, a few clothes. always travel light, never know what you will pick up in strange lands, amongst the natives. i was once given a big black stick in a village where a masai helped me. he said it would be good to carry in the city and as i wandered nairobi late at night it did indeed offer me protection, and a sort of profound confidence. no one dared approach me without respect. it was like i carried thor's hammer. i still have that black stick, along with several other strange things i have picked up on my journeys. 
mostly i return with books. as i get older my adventures become less intense and provocative. 
i notice the sun is up, no clouds or rain and the warmth nutrition feeds my bones. i wander down to my cafe and read the paper, it all seems so silly, like i am detached from it all now. watching absurdist theatre, acrobats and mesmerists. 
at least my coffee tastes good. 

Monday, July 03, 2017




hello winter my old enemy fighting from outside, penetration is your strategy. i got you figured out after years of australian resistance, a cultural anomaly, i need a russian girl to survive this year, nothing else would do but i would settle for a canadian  i need fur and whiskey, a fire burns. that's the long of short of it. i need some heat from a soft body that knows how to generate it. 
may have to escape from this and seek refuge someplace groovy.


Sunday, July 02, 2017

i often wonder what happened to the realians? remember them?
the last of the new age cults. 
i met a few realians at some palm beach parties, they were all very foxy older women, i was in my thirties but they must have been 40 or something, really successful switched on, actually come to think of it, very bourgeois. anyway they explained it all to me and although not as cerebral as scientology it did have the science fiction landscape of a great novel. 
i am always interested in the origins of these ideas, i would have enjoyed hanging out with crowley, heinlein, jack parsons and those guys. it was crowley who gave l. ron scientology, it was crowley's idea shared over a long lunch, he also gave that hack buckland a heads up for his witchcraft movement but discuss that with any witch and they deny it. 
raelism is different group, softer, liberated, hippy type stuff with a science fiction edge, cloning, extraterrestrials, the transference of consciousness mixed with a liberal dose of free love, positive vibrations, they kinda were really all waiting for the alien. whereas scientology was more of a process, healing etc but then at the higher levels again becomes science fiction. harder sci fi, technically a space opera, that bit is hubbards contribution being a science fiction writer. i would have focused more on the mystical, less science more fiction. just like organised religion but with an edge, i probably would have thrown in more sex. a religion based upon sex. now there's a novelty. 


  

Friday, June 30, 2017

the gig is over, my contract ends and with it a new change as i am unable due to some bureaucratic fuck up in my dept. to return to my unit. it is not surprising, the dept is abysmally dumb, filled with middle management who are just thugs, bullies, incompetent and brutal. in their trail lay hundreds of ruined lives and turmoil. i am a survivor, my deep trauma is in every atom of my being but i have always stood my ground and pushed back. i am an anomaly for them, they fear me.
the phone call comes late in the afternoon. i tell them that if i am moved from my current situation and have to deal with any new managers or staff with psychopathic behaviours towards me i will sue the dept. i add that given the biggest thug in the whole dept. is now the general manager i will not really raise my expectations.
then i am informed they have put me on speaker phone and the whole office has heard. 
later i get a call from my boss. he's okay, not part of the group thug mind. he says he will place me somewhere good. he does.
i receive my roster, big drop in hours and pay but lots more time. i figure time will be the resource i need for the next year so i can live with it plus surfing starts soon.
back at my work a woman tells me how a sexual assault was covered up a few years ago. she starts crying and sobbing and i tell her it's important she finishes telling me, which she does. i am not shocked, the number of people whom have been fucked over by this stupid dept.  grows every day. i have heard hundreds of stories from people. many people leave, some are damaged  some become drug addicts, alcoholics  some stay and just do no work at all which is why everything is fucked. all i can do is direct them to the online survey they are conducting and encourage them to be honest. one day there will be a royal commission and i will be there singing every single name of every single manager who fucked me over, in turn ruining the lives of my clients. 
i head home, the trauma bubbles away under the surface. these things  are heavy matters.   

Sunday, June 25, 2017

slow lazy weekend, i wander around with nicole and veronique rambling in a fluid kind of way through the crowds and hordes out celebrating the diversity day at our local beach. a black kid sings a stupid song to an empty seated arena, not one person stops and listens and to be honest it's a painful wailing modern pop song al la the voice. my head hurts and i have to move away but the girls want to enter the eye of the storm. 
the stalls all seem to have some sort of agenda, refugee groups, african food, south american music, indian jewellery. ironically veronique and i are the only exotic looking people in the crowd apart from a couple of dark skinned people. we wander over to the stand where a man is offering some south african bread for tasting. this is our national dish he proclaims. it's bland as fuck, i wouldn't eat it but in the interests of society i nod my head and offer various platitudes. 
an australian man obviously taken by veroniques attractive look moves in, 'where are you from?' he asks.
now i hate it when i am asked this, i only get asked this in australia where racism is so entrenched in the blood of it's left wing harmony groups they are able to be rascist while declaring it something they fight against. no one else cares where i am from, only fucking australians have to have an ethnocentric label so they can divide you into a tribe. idiots!
veronique and i have discussed this, we never get asked anywhere else but australia. i mention i have a strategy which shuts people up when i always answer, iceland. veronique says she always says bondi. 
we leave the beach and go find some healthy juice bar. nicole buys me lunch. 
the world is okay today. the winter sunshine is wonderful, blue skies, the birds are happy, i was in perfect harmony until the united nations fucked up everything with their stupid harmony day. 
    

Saturday, June 17, 2017

student: does the dog have a buddah nature ?
master : mu 

this reminds me of the schrodingers cat theory. neither alive or dead until observed. but the master says, much more. he say's it does not matter. who cares! 

it makes no difference if the dog has buddha nature or not, the cat is alive or dead, it does not matter and therefore mu means un-ask the question. there is no yes no answer. one's mind must move from simple binary answers to some other form of intuition or awareness.  
often the master will answer the question with a yes, or sometimes a no. but the answer is really mu.
so unless you look inside the box and see the cat, it is a pointless question with no answer. 
these zen monks were pretty smart.

Thursday, June 15, 2017

first week ends thankfully, i'm fucking exhausted. i have so much to do but first i have to save my fish again as i noticed the pond is almost empty. there's some weird things going on, my gate is broken at the side of the house and it looks really damaged as if forced open. the pond empty could be just the stream being clogged with leaves so i don't add that to my suspicions but when i enter the house the tv is on, and there are a pile of leaves on my rug. 
everything is secure so i can't understand what has happened but, weird things happen.
i have a weekend to myself, going to do some hard core reading and laundry. i have just finished 'the frozen dead' and 'a song for drowned souls' by bernard minier which are excellent french detective novels. 
i finally got hold of another copy of the book i left in the cinema 'dark matter' by blake couch, i only had about 20 pages left to read so i can now say i read the book. not sure if i liked the ending but it was a good idea and food for thought.
i also read my first chuck wendig 'invasive' which i felt was a bit similar to micheal crichton in style and story, not really my cup of chia.

Wednesday, June 14, 2017

australia could have once been the clever country, now, it is just the dumbest i think. a dumb county run by dummies, for dummies. yes, i am a dummy. so are you if you so wipe that smirk off yer face. 
we are all dummies as we put up with it. the fucking corruption that flows through every single institution in australia is appalling, it's so toxic that eventually the only way to beat them is to join them. 
our political system is a tool of the chinese communist party, it's so fucking broken we need a revolution more than ever, not a dumb one either but one where we just start making good rational choices.  every issue should be judged on merit not through ideological lenses. this sort of thinking takes us backwards. 
people use the word vision a lot but there is no vision, even the greens have no vision just the same old fucking tribal shit dressed up in a strange weird united nations of beniton advert with political correctness spilling from it's brainless drivil. they have to be the most conformist party out there, dare not think outside the un agendas. 
all these parties are more obsessed with control. the liberals are about being controlled by economics and controlling economics, labour is about being controlled by unions and controlling the workers while spending their fees on strippers and champagne and bourgeois things (is craig thompson in jail?) 
the greens are controlled by cookie cutter ideology straight from university of brainwashing and they would like to brainwash you.
personally i would just not vote anyone until they get the message. do not vote! we should never encourage these people. 



Monday, June 12, 2017

first day of a three week contract, the gig is tricky but the guys all like me so that's an advantage. gotta get through this week and it's been tricky, lots of dramas from women with to much time on their hands. to much unfinished business they wanna drag me into old dramas. i have to navigate this madness plus work with some very difficult clients. oh well old captain mission just has to take one day at a time. day one over.
the old polish woman seems happy and sad, she occasionally burst into tears, she occasionally laughs, but one thing is certain she has no idea what to make of me. weather to hug me or knife me. she knifed me last time, i think she feels some remorse for her actions. 
this time she's spilling her guts, sharing her secrets, full disclosure. i joke around with her, she's okay i guess but you can never tell really can ya. 
people are tricky animals, can't say i think highly of them at all. i used to but these days i'm to switched on to agendas and ulterior motives, it's dog eat dog only most dogs are pretty cool, so let's stick with zombie eat zombie.
faith in the future? not me, i'm roger waters without the anti semitism, i'm much more democratic in my prejudice  i'm anti everything.  
maybe it will pass soon but i doubt it.

Wednesday, June 07, 2017

let's talk about trump, earlier i mentioned i don't actually have a problem with him. i know i would loose most of my readers and friends over this but it must be said and i will try to explain why i rather have trump in there than almost anyone else. i did like bernie, he was genuine but he's a socialist and globalist which makes me feel he would fall under the united nations agenda. (have you heard hillary's speech to the goldman sachs people) ironically bernie has similar policies to trump, and they have more in common that separates which is why the republicans hate trump as well. 
so trump. the circuit breaker. firstly i agree he is a sexist, can't speak very well, has no wit, style or qualities for diplomacy. however, for me it's not about trump at all, it's about the way his opponents react to him.
the media, the commentators, the fucking internet, the democrats, the washington elite, the governments of europe. it's actually quite refreshing to have someone be hated like this in this day an age when islamofascists are held up as heroes, appeased and made excuses for. when anyone with an opposing view is demonised, killed or humiliated. 
the other great issue i have is the double standards of the left, be it from the false feminists to the pro obama / clinton people who never once mentioned the corruption of the democrats. 
people need to understand why trump won, he won because people rather have a moron like him than the elite idiots who have sold them out at every chance they get. his supporters know he is a buffoon  they know he's a tv reality star who has no right in the office but his opponents are such moral cowards and crooks it's better to have him there. 
drain the swamp. 
that's a three word slogan i fucking respect, i just wish all people understood the importance of doing that. 
as far as the left go, you are now more right wing than ever, you block free speech, you don't allow people to have an opposing difference, you push the agenda not the issue, your enslaved to ideals so much they enslave you. 
and if you are not convinced, pretty soon the truth will come out about seth rich and that is no conspiracy theory! 

Tuesday, June 06, 2017

bob dylan's speech

When I first received this Nobel Prize for Literature, I got to wondering exactly how my songs related to literature. I wanted to reflect on it and see where the connection was. I'm going to try to articulate that to you. And most likely it will go in a roundabout way, but I hope what I say will be worthwhile and purposeful.
If I was to go back to the dawning of it all, I guess I'd have to start with Buddy Holly. Buddy died when I was about eighteen and he was twenty-two. From the moment I first heard him, I felt akin. I felt related, like he was an older brother. I even thought I resembled him. Buddy played the music that I loved – the music I grew up on: country western, rock ‘n' roll, and rhythm and blues. Three separate strands of music that he intertwined and infused into one genre. One brand. And Buddy wrote songs – songs that had beautiful melodies and imaginative verses. And he sang great – sang in more than a few voices. He was the archetype. Everything I wasn't and wanted to be. I saw him only but once, and that was a few days before he was gone. I had to travel a hundred miles to get to see him play, and I wasn't disappointed. 
He was powerful and electrifying and had a commanding presence. I was only six feet away. He was mesmerizing. I watched his face, his hands, the way he tapped his foot, his big black glasses, the eyes behind the glasses, the way he held his guitar, the way he stood, his neat suit. Everything about him. He looked older than twenty-two. Something about him seemed permanent, and he filled me with conviction. Then, out of the blue, the most uncanny thing happened. He looked me right straight dead in the eye, and he transmitted something. Something I didn't know what. And it gave me the chills.
I think it was a day or two after that that his plane went down. And somebody – somebody I'd never seen before – handed me a Leadbelly record with the song "Cottonfields" on it. And that record changed my life right then and there. Transported me into a world I'd never known. It was like an explosion went off. Like I'd been walking in darkness and all of the sudden the darkness was illuminated. It was like somebody laid hands on me. I must have played that record a hundred times. 
It was on a label I'd never heard of with a booklet inside with advertisements for other artists on the label: Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee, the New Lost City Ramblers, Jean Ritchie, string bands. I'd never heard of any of them. But I reckoned if they were on this label with Leadbelly, they had to be good, so I needed to hear them. I wanted to know all about it and play that kind of music. I still had a feeling for the music I'd grown up with, but for right now, I forgot about it. Didn't even think about it. For the time being, it was long gone.
I hadn't left home yet, but I couldn't wait to. I wanted to learn this music and meet the people who played it. Eventually, I did leave, and I did learn to play those songs. They were different than the radio songs that I'd been listening to all along. They were more vibrant and truthful to life. With radio songs, a performer might get a hit with a roll of the dice or a fall of the cards, but that didn't matter in the folk world. Everything was a hit. All you had to do was be well versed and be able to play the melody. Some of these songs were easy, some not. I had a natural feeling for the ancient ballads and country blues, but everything else I had to learn from scratch. I was playing for small crowds, sometimes no more than four or five people in a room or on a street corner. You had to have a wide repertoire, and you had to know what to play and when. Some songs were intimate, some you had to shout to be heard. 
By listening to all the early folk artists and singing the songs yourself, you pick up the vernacular. You internalize it. You sing it in the ragtime blues, work songs, Georgia sea shanties, Appalachian ballads and cowboy songs. You hear all the finer points, and you learn the details.
You know what it's all about. Takin' the pistol out and puttin' it back in your pocket. Whippin' your way through traffic, talkin' in the dark. You know that Stagger Lee was a bad man and that Frankie was a good girl. You know that Washington is a bourgeois town and you've heard the deep-pitched voice of John the Revelator and you saw the Titanic sink in a boggy creek. And you're pals with the wild Irish rover and the wild colonial boy. You heard the muffled drums and the fifes that played lowly. You've seen the lusty Lord Donald stick a knife in his wife, and a lot of your comrades have been wrapped in white linen.
I had all the vernacular all down. I knew the rhetoric. None of it went over my head – the devices, the techniques, the secrets, the mysteries – and I knew all the deserted roads that it traveled on, too. I could make it all connect and move with the current of the day. When I started writing my own songs, the folk lingo was the only vocabulary that I knew, and I used it. 
But I had something else as well. I had principals and sensibilities and an informed view of the world. And I had had that for a while. Learned it all in grammar school. Don QuixoteIvanhoeRobinson Crusoe, Gulliver's TravelsTale of Two Cities, all the rest – typical grammar school reading that gave you a way of looking at life, an understanding of human nature, and a standard to measure things by. I took all that with me when I started composing lyrics. And the themes from those books worked their way into many of my songs, either knowingly or unintentionally. I wanted to write songs unlike anything anybody ever heard, and these themes were fundamental. 
Specific books that have stuck with me ever since I read them way back in grammar school – I want to tell you about three of them: Moby Dick, All Quiet on the Western Front and The Odyssey.
Line.

Moby Dick is a fascinating book, a book that's filled with scenes of high drama and dramatic dialogue. The book makes demands on you. The plot is straightforward. The mysterious Captain Ahab – captain of a ship called the Pequod –  an egomaniac with a peg leg pursuing his nemesis, the great white whale Moby Dick who took his leg. And he pursues him all the way from the Atlantic around the tip of Africa and into the Indian Ocean. He pursues the whale around both sides of the earth. It's an abstract goal, nothing concrete or definite. He calls Moby the emperor, sees him as the embodiment of evil. Ahab's got a wife and child back in Nantucket that he reminisces about now and again. You can anticipate what will happen. 
The ship's crew is made up of men of different races, and any one of them who sights the whale will be given the reward of a gold coin. A lot of Zodiac symbols, religious allegory, stereotypes. Ahab encounters other whaling vessels, presses the captains for details about Moby. Have they seen him? There's a crazy prophet, Gabriel, on one of the vessels, and he predicts Ahab's doom. Says Moby is the incarnate of a Shaker god, and that any dealings with him will lead to disaster. He says that to Captain Ahab. Another ship's captain – Captain Boomer – he lost an arm to Moby. But he tolerates that, and he's happy to have survived. He can't accept Ahab's lust for vengeance.
This book tells how different men react in different ways to the same experience. A lot of Old Testament, biblical allegory: Gabriel, Rachel, Jeroboam, Bildah, Elijah. Pagan names as well: Tashtego, Flask, Daggoo, Fleece, Starbuck, Stubb, Martha's Vineyard. The Pagans are idol worshippers. Some worship little wax figures, some wooden figures. Some worship fire. The Pequod is the name of an Indian tribe. 
Moby Dick is a seafaring tale. One of the men, the narrator, says, "Call me Ishmael." Somebody asks him where he's from, and he says, "It's not down on any map. True places never are." Stubb gives no significance to anything, says everything is predestined. Ishmael's been on a sailing ship his entire life. Calls the sailing ships his Harvard and Yale. He keeps his distance from people. 
A typhoon hits the Pequod. Captain Ahab thinks it's a good omen. Starbuck thinks it's a bad omen, considers killing Ahab. As soon as the storm ends, a crewmember falls from the ship's mast and drowns, foreshadowing what's to come. A Quaker pacifist priest, who is actually a bloodthirsty businessman, tells Flask, "Some men who receive injuries are led to God, others are led to bitterness."
Everything is mixed in. All the myths: the Judeo Christian bible, Hindu myths, British legends, Saint George, Perseus, Hercules – they're all whalers. Greek mythology, the gory business of cutting up a whale. Lots of facts in this book, geographical knowledge, whale oil – good for coronation of royalty – noble families in the whaling industry. Whale oil is used to anoint the kings. History of the whale, phrenology, classical philosophy, pseudo-scientific theories, justification for discrimination – everything thrown in and none of it hardly rational. Highbrow, lowbrow, chasing illusion, chasing death, the great white whale, white as polar bear, white as a white man, the emperor, the nemesis, the embodiment of evil. The demented captain who actually lost his leg years ago trying to attack Moby with a knife. 
We see only the surface of things. We can interpret what lies below any way we see fit. Crewmen walk around on deck listening for mermaids, and sharks and vultures follow the ship. Reading skulls and faces like you read a book. Here's a face. I'll put it in front of you. Read it if you can.
Tashtego says that he died and was reborn. His extra days are a gift. He wasn't saved by Christ, though, he says he was saved by a fellow man and a non-Christian at that. He parodies the resurrection. 
When Starbuck tells Ahab that he should let bygones be bygones, the angry captain snaps back, "Speak not to me of blasphemy, man, I'd strike the sun if it insulted me." Ahab, too, is a poet of eloquence. He says, "The path to my fixed purpose is laid with iron rails whereon my soul is grooved to run."  Or these lines, "All visible objects are but pasteboard masks." Quotable poetic phrases that can't be beat.  
Finally, Ahab spots Moby, and the harpoons come out. Boats are lowered. Ahab's harpoon has been baptized in blood. Moby attacks Ahab's boat and destroys it. Next day, he sights Moby again. Boats are lowered again. Moby attacks Ahab's boat again. On the third day, another boat goes in. More religious allegory. He has risen. Moby attacks one more time, ramming the Pequod and sinking it. Ahab gets tangled up in the harpoon lines and is thrown out of his boat into a watery grave.
Ishmael survives. He's in the sea floating on a coffin. And that's about it. That's the whole story. That theme and all that it implies would work its way into more than a few of my songs.
Line.

All Quiet on the Western Front was another book that did. All Quiet on the Western Front is a horror story. This is a book where you lose your childhood, your faith in a meaningful world, and your concern for individuals. You're stuck in a nightmare. Sucked up into a mysterious whirlpool of death and pain. You're defending yourself from elimination. You're being wiped off the face of the map. Once upon a time you were an innocent youth with big dreams about being a concert pianist. Once you loved life and the world, and now you're shooting it to pieces.
Day after day, the hornets bite you and worms lap your blood. You're a cornered animal. You don't fit anywhere. The falling rain is monotonous. There's endless assaults, poison gas, nerve gas, morphine, burning streams of gasoline, scavenging and scabbing for food, influenza, typhus, dysentery. Life is breaking down all around you, and the shells are whistling. This is the lower region of hell. Mud, barbed wire, rat-filled trenches, rats eating the intestines of dead men, trenches filled with filth and excrement. Someone shouts, "Hey, you there. Stand and fight." 
Who knows how long this mess will go on? Warfare has no limits. You're being annihilated, and that leg of yours is bleeding too much. You killed a man yesterday, and you spoke to his corpse. You told him after this is over, you'll spend the rest of your life looking after his family. Who's profiting here? The leaders and the generals gain fame, and many others profit financially. But you're doing the dirty work. One of your comrades says, "Wait a minute, where are you going?" And you say, "Leave me alone, I'll be back in a minute." Then you walk out into the woods of death hunting for a piece of sausage. You can't see how anybody in civilian life has any kind of purpose at all. All their worries, all their desires – you can't comprehend it. 
More machine guns rattle, more parts of bodies hanging from wires, more pieces of arms and legs and skulls where butterflies perch on teeth, more hideous wounds, pus coming out of every pore, lung wounds, wounds too big for the body, gas-blowing cadavers, and dead bodies making retching noises. Death is everywhere. Nothing else is possible. Someone will kill you and use your dead body for target practice. Boots, too. They're your prized possession. But soon they'll be on somebody else's feet. 
There's Froggies coming through the trees. Merciless bastards. Your shells are running out. "It's not fair to come at us again so soon," you say. One of your companions is laying in the dirt, and you want to take him to the field hospital. Someone else says, "You might save yourself a trip." "What do you mean?" "Turn him over, you'll see what I mean." 
You wait to hear the news. You don't understand why the war isn't over. The army is so strapped for replacement troops that they're drafting young boys who are of little military use, but they're draftin' ‘em anyway because they're running out of men. Sickness and humiliation have broken your heart. You were betrayed by your parents, your schoolmasters, your ministers, and even your own government.
The general with the slowly smoked cigar betrayed you too – turned you into a thug and a murderer. If you could, you'd put a bullet in his face. The commander as well. You fantasize that if you had the money, you'd put up a reward for any man who would take his life by any means necessary. And if he should lose his life by doing that, then let the money go to his heirs. The colonel, too, with his caviar and his coffee – he's another one. Spends all his time in the officers' brothel. You'd like to see him stoned dead too. More Tommies and Johnnies with their whack fo' me daddy-o and their whiskey in the jars. You kill twenty of ‘em and twenty more will spring up in their place. It just stinks in your nostrils.
You've come to despise that older generation that sent you out into this madness, into this torture chamber. All around you, your comrades are dying. Dying from abdominal wounds, double amputations, shattered hipbones, and you think, "I'm only twenty years old, but I'm capable of killing anybody. Even my father if he came at me." 

Yesterday, you tried to save a wounded messenger dog, and somebody shouted, "Don't be a fool." One Froggy is laying gurgling at your feet. You stuck him with a dagger in his stomach, but the man still lives. You know you should finish the job, but you can't. You're on the real iron cross, and a Roman soldier's putting a sponge of vinegar to your lips. 
Months pass by. You go home on leave. You can't communicate with your father. He said, "You'd be a coward if you don't enlist." Your mother, too, on your way back out the door, she says, "You be careful of those French girls now." More madness. You fight for a week or a month, and you gain ten yards. And then the next month it gets taken back. 
All that culture from a thousand years ago, that philosophy, that wisdom – Plato, Aristotle, Socrates – what happened to it?  It should have prevented this. Your thoughts turn homeward. And once again you're a schoolboy walking through the tall poplar trees. It's a pleasant memory. More bombs dropping on you from blimps. You got to get it together now. You can't even look at anybody for fear of some miscalculable thing that might happen. The common grave. There are no other possibilities. 
Then you notice the cherry blossoms, and you see that nature is unaffected by all this. Poplar trees, the red butterflies, the fragile beauty of flowers, the sun – you see how nature is indifferent to it all. All the violence and suffering of all mankind. Nature doesn't even notice it.
You're so alone. Then a piece of shrapnel hits the side of your head and you're dead.
You've been ruled out, crossed out. You've been exterminated. I put this book down and closed it up. I never wanted to read another war novel again, and I never did.
Charlie Poole from North Carolina had a song that connected to all this. It's called "You Ain't Talkin' to Me," and the lyrics go like this:
I saw a sign in a window walking up town one day. 
Join the army, see the world is what it had to say. 
You'll see exciting places with a jolly crew, 
You'll meet interesting people, and learn to kill them too.
Oh you ain't talkin' to me, you ain't talking to me.
I may be crazy and all that, but I got good sense you see.
You ain't talkin' to me, you ain't talkin' to me.
Killin' with a gun don't sound like fun. 
You ain't talkin' to me.
Line.

The Odyssey is a great book whose themes have worked its way into the ballads of a lot of songwriters: "Homeward Bound, "Green, Green Grass of Home," "Home on the Range," and my songs as well.
The Odyssey is a strange, adventurous tale of a grown man trying to get home after fighting in a war. He's on that long journey home, and it's filled with traps and pitfalls. He's cursed to wander. He's always getting carried out to sea, always having close calls. Huge chunks of boulders rock his boat. He angers people he shouldn't. There's troublemakers in his crew. Treachery. His men are turned into pigs and then are turned back into younger, more handsome men. He's always trying to rescue somebody. He's a travelin' man, but he's making a lot of stops.
He's stranded on a desert island. He finds deserted caves, and he hides in them. He meets giants that say, "I'll eat you last." And he escapes from giants. He's trying to get back home, but he's tossed and turned by the winds. Restless winds, chilly winds, unfriendly winds. He travels far, and then he gets blown back.
He's always being warned of things to come. Touching things he's told not to. There's two roads to take, and they're both bad. Both hazardous. On one you could drown and on the other you could starve. He goes into the narrow straits with foaming whirlpools that swallow him. Meets six-headed monsters with sharp fangs. Thunderbolts strike at him. Overhanging branches that he makes a leap to reach for to save himself from a raging river. Goddesses and gods protect him, but some others want to kill him. He changes identities. He's exhausted. He falls asleep, and he's woken up by the sound of laughter. He tells his story to strangers. He's been gone twenty years. He was carried off somewhere and left there. Drugs have been dropped into his wine. It's been a hard road to travel. 
In a lot of ways, some of these same things have happened to you. You too have had drugs dropped into your wine. You too have shared a bed with the wrong woman. You too have been spellbound by magical voices, sweet voices with strange melodies. You too have come so far and have been so far blown back. And you've had close calls as well. You have angered people you should not have. And you too have rambled this country all around. And you've also felt that ill wind, the one that blows you no good. And that's still not all of it. 
When he gets back home, things aren't any better. Scoundrels have moved in and are taking advantage of his wife's hospitality. And there's too many of ‘em. And though he's greater than them all and the best at everything – best carpenter, best hunter, best expert on animals, best seaman – his courage won't save him, but his trickery will.
All these stragglers will have to pay for desecrating his palace. He'll disguise himself as a filthy beggar, and a lowly servant kicks him down the steps with arrogance and stupidity. The servant's arrogance revolts him, but he controls his anger. He's one against a hundred, but they'll all fall, even the strongest. He was nobody. And when it's all said and done, when he's home at last, he sits with his wife, and he tells her the stories. 
Line.

So what does it all mean? Myself and a lot of other songwriters have been influenced by these very same themes. And they can mean a lot of different things. If a song moves you, that's all that's important. I don't have to know what a song means. I've written all kinds of things into my songs. And I'm not going to worry about it – what it all means. When Melville put all his old testament, biblical references, scientific theories, Protestant doctrines, and all that knowledge of the sea and sailing ships and whales into one story, I don't think he would have worried about it either – what it all means.
John Donne as well, the poet-priest who lived in the time of Shakespeare, wrote these words, "The Sestos and Abydos of her breasts. Not of two lovers, but two loves, the nests." I don't know what it means, either. But it sounds good. And you want your songs to sound good.
When Odysseus in The Odyssey visits the famed warrior Achilles in the underworld – Achilles, who traded a long life full of peace and contentment for a short one full of honor and glory –  tells Odysseus it was all a mistake. "I just died, that's all." There was no honor. No immortality. And that if he could, he would choose to go back and be a lowly slave to a tenant farmer on Earth rather than be what he is – a king in the land of the dead – that whatever his struggles of life were, they were preferable to being here in this dead place. 
That's what songs are too. Our songs are alive in the land of the living. But songs are unlike literature. They're meant to be sung, not read. The words in Shakespeare's plays were meant to be acted on the stage. Just as lyrics in songs are meant to be sung, not read on a page. And I hope some of you get the chance to listen to these lyrics the way they were intended to be heard: in concert or on record or however people are listening to songs these days. I return once again to Homer, who says, "Sing in me, oh Muse, and through me tell the story."

Sunday, June 04, 2017

glad to hear people fought back, throwing beer glasses (a common east london sight in most pubs) at their attackers, along with tables and knives and whatever was at hand. a taxi driver attempted to run a killer over with his cab. i wonder if the mayor will mention it's all part of living in a big city in his statement. 
well it is now the new normal, however the new normal shouldn't be accepted by people. it's absurdity. however i do not completely blame the attackers, i blame our stupid politicians and media who have just done nothing for 30 years while this brewed. not only did they do nothing, they stopped people whom wanted to talk about the dangers from speaking about this form of radical islam. they wouldn't even let people speak it's name. well it's heartening to see the general population generally knows the score. 

as far as jc leader of the left in uk politics i'm personally baffled how someone so stupid could become a leader of a party. he will destroy the labour party much like mt has destroyed the liberal party here in oz. 
the only people that vote for these pricks are the cashed up inner city elites, university types and the champagne socialists of twitter.

very happy to read the brilliant clive james piece in the australian  a completely wry and accurate look at the hypocrisy and mindlessness of the global warming alarmists. everyone should read it, even if you don't believe him, it's a marvellous refreshing piece of writing and very brave. 

watched the tv adaptation of childhoods end. the book by arthur c clarke was pretty remarkable, and although the series is somewhat slow moving, disjointed and cumbersome it does work well.  

Friday, June 02, 2017

she looks like a cuddly grandmother, warm slippers cake and tea, she moves slowly and speaks with a slight accent. at first i slipped under her spell, it worked on me like a charm. she was very sweet.
as time progressed i noticed a streak of passive aggressive behaviour. it was subtle, but it worked very effectively and when she thought her tactics were failing she brought out the heavy artillery, tears. yes her ultimate control was to cry and get sympathy. she manipulated everything and everyone. 
the younger ones felt frustrated, every idea or suggestion they had was shot down by her resistance to change and need to control. 
gradually i began to see the truth, it's hidden under the everyday routines and responsibilities but very occasionally it surfaces and is witnessed. she can't help it.  
to begin with i start gentle. she presents as some sort of spiritual being. in my experience they are the most difficult, deep in denial about their own personality defects, it's that ego trap. it's a fixed fortress, difficult to penetrate which is why psychedelics are so useful, however slipping a massive dose of mescaline in her tea is not really practicable. i read her cards, she has requested this from me. it's an accurate reading, she starts crying when i mention her children, one supportive and the other not. she blubbers a bit, and then i speak to her in subtle ways about the need to sometimes just let things go, let other people have a win. resistance is low and she acknowledges something in my words but a flicker of resistance passes over her face. 
later she denies everything, asserting the dominant persona, the one that needs to control. 
one of the younger staff approach me, they are concerned about an issue and i offer my support. when it comes down to it we are opposed by the old lady, she makes a big song and dance. manipulates  people and makes it impossible for us to bring about a change. 
once again i challenge her, suggesting that she need not feel so competitive and assist younger team members to have a win now and then so that they feel valued and part of the team. she gives me a look. it's neither bad or good, it's a look of complete victory.
later when i leave every single member of the team comes to thank me, they all say i managed a difficult situation very well and they enjoyed working with me, except one. 
she wants my position so she tells my boss i have a bad back and cannot work there as manual handling is required. she figured i would never find out who it was that spoke with my boss, a man i actually respect. she was rejected for the position and this is her revenge. 
i'm angry, somewhat dismayed that this is the type of person i have to work with but my strategy has to be to let it go. it's going to be very hard but i have to. however truth has a habit of rising to the surface.
  

Tuesday, May 30, 2017

not quite sure how i did it, paid off two huge bills, one left although it's going to hurt. however after this i will be in the black again. 
the pressure of debt is awful, i hate it but these days it's the normal. credit cards just eat ya up, bills drown you, tax suffocates, fees for this and fees for that. 
my postman pulls up, i have not seen him for months, he calls out my name and we have a chat about a few things. he's aboriginal so i talk to him about the reconciliation meeting at uluru. he disagrees, he thinks we should have one law, one govt. one culture, australian. he says the dangers are when other cultures start wanting their own arm of government. me, i disagree on the fact the committee didn't ask for a seperate government just an advisory body. 
anyway we have a good chat outside my front garden, the winter sun warms my skin. he tells me about a lee scratch perry gig he saw, we both agree that cat is a cosmic anomaly  tapped into some extra dimensions. i heard him speaking once at a show i saw and i couldn't understand what he was raving on about but i liked him a lot. he was some sort of rambling stream of rastaman consciousness. 
my son rings from overseas, he's packed in his old job and has a couple of weeks off before the new post. he tells me he's nervous about the change. we talk strategy, dealing with change is tricky, you really gotta immerse yourself in the whole thing and stop resistance. it gets harder as you get older as the neural network calcifies. you settle into patterns. when change comes you resist, get stressed and fight it. that's fear. you have to acknowledge it, feel its energy and begin to take control. breath it out, let it go, embrace the unknown.
anyway i offer him some counsel. 
it's getting cold here in sydney, that bite is in the air, at dusk i can smell the fireplaces in the street as people fire up. winter is coming.

Monday, May 29, 2017

the world goes crazy as i dig myself outta debt, telephone seizure headache making demands all down the line, some tradesman banging on the door, the council want their cut, and all i seem to do these days is pay out. that's life someone says, yeah but it's not living. you gotta wonder what the fuck is going on, i mean when a government  wastes 50 billion to secure a seat in a stupid submarine deal, who picks up the tab, the vampyres have a blood bank of cash in us, the taxpayer. i hate being at their fucking mercy when the chips are down. 
on another note i'm deliriously happy, lots of groovy things happening soon. my fish are growing huge, the pond actually looks good as i get stuck into weeding it and getting the ph levels correct. the birds are sitting around in trees singing, the suns out and i'm actually returning to a good position where i can earn some cash and get out of dept again. just got to keep it all together for a month or two. 

Ali Farka Touré & Ry Cooder - Talking Timbuktu

Wednesday, May 24, 2017

older and no wiser i drag my strange hulk towards the city at 5am to meet with my dear friend who is visiting from toyko. i am excited as these days i have culled my friendships down to a bare minimum. iggy starseed is in town but we only have one day to catch up. 
he's looking lean and maintains that energy and vitality whereas i am on the decline, sluggish and somewhat jaded from it all.
starseed and i find an inconspicuous place to drink our coffee and catch up, the walls are plastered in mayday posters and symbols of communist russia, later i realize it's the maritime union building, health muscled short sleeved workers doing industrial work in communist shirts and blue and red scarves peer into a future so bright it dazzles us all, maybe it's the light from the plasma tv sets from their future. i feel like i'm back in the 70's when socialism actually had relevance. at least the coffee is good, we both require a lot for that kick start.
iggy is undercover, can't really give much away about his mission, me i'm enjoying his stories and perceptions the only thing we disagree on is trump. i am glad he won the election, he's not a politician, that appeals to me. i understand starseeds point, he's a buffon and idiot, yeah but he is not a politician. that's why i like him. the clintons were fucked, sanders was my man but never the clintons and soon it will come to light just how fucked the democrats were as they fucked over bernie for hillary. wikileaks knows who the leaker was, he's dead now.there are no russinas it was seth rich whom will be in the common arena soon as mainstream media cannot ignore his position and how fundamental he is to the whole current situation. seth the democrat. 
however that's another story.
iggy and i wander to the japanese bookshop, we search for our various interests, it's an excellent place to hang out, later we have laksa and iggy talks about his expeditions to k2. amazing stories. this guys has done it all, lived a fucking life. talk is cheap but iggy starseed is value, he's going to crack australia. we both share a love for christopher hitchens and his razor-like mind, last of the giants, however, iggy has the potential to be a giant, perhaps he already is. 
i had a fantastic day, i'm going to miss that cat.   
    

Sunday, May 21, 2017

i often wonder if water has it's own intelligence, a sort of biology that consists of variations of life just as the human body has it's organs and components perhaps whales and seahorses are following some unknown function in a body of ocean that operates in a different type of consciousness than human. it's something that has been played around within science fiction but never considered in philosophy until lately, as the ecology becomes more obvious to our way of life.
water and atmosphere are just components of a vast intelligence, the earth or gaia could indeed be a single organism, an intelligent design. it would be intelligent to follow that model based upon what we understand about our own biology. the issue is science itself is problematic as it is a few laws that only work in this universe but depend upon the observation. if one looks at the atlantic ocean it's just water. if one looks at the atlantic and all it contains it's an environment, if one looks at the atlantic and it's relationship to the land and skies it's an ecology.
ecology has no boundaries which is why i am more of an ecologist than an greenie. the green movement is a dumb version of socialism. i could never be a member of such a dimwitted group. 
one day after a voyage with my fave amazonian plant medicine i returned to the early morning light with some information. i was in the company of some very important people whom held quite significant sway in the environmental movement. i said 'the green movement is dead, it has lost its way and now requires to be superseded by a new political philosophy that embraces a wider perspective, the ecological party. a system that includes industry and resources with democracy as it's foundations. words like sustainability and environmentalism need reclaiming from the dumbed down socialist agenda and incorporated into wholistic functional reality. ecology would never exclude geological evidence from it's climate debate, it would consider solar activity within it's anthropogenic evaluations and it would never use the results as a political scare campaign. 
anyways the people that listened went on to form an ecological organisation. it's a real thing spawned from my brain, given to me from the south american jungles.    

Monday, May 15, 2017

my last day with the guy in the wheelchiar, i have been called in to run a meeting with his parents. an australian mother and a german father. instantly we connect as i talk about my days in west berlin, kraftwork and some german philosophers. 
they are quite political and i can respect their take upon the future f their son. i explain how to access the funding the ndis plan has suggested and how to deal with bureaucracy that obfuscates access which they seem appreciative about. later they are disappointed a staff member has called in sick which means they can't take their son to the therapeutic swimming pool. old captain mission throws down his pile of things to do, stands up and reveals his superhero costume by offering to help.
i drive down with the man and his mother, we get to the pool and i assist as best i can from the sidelines. it's amazing to watch this all happening and gain a little insight into how these parents work with their son. severe epilepsy has disfigured the man, his limbs are tightly contracted and in the pool the parents stretch them and attempt to reduce their rigidity.  
i'm not used to this level of disability, it's way out of my comfort zone however i am here. have to immerse myself in the whole thing and experience the situation.
i like this guy, i like the parents and despite my initial confrontation things have worked out very well. 

Friday, May 12, 2017

the pull of the blood moon it's vast topography stained red in the early evening sky, i catch it again in the morning as it sets, unbelievably large and luminous. 
as i turn into my street it is there, almost ablaze in the night sky, i can feel it's influence upon my own body but intuit that power as its agency has dominion upon all living things. pulled, moved, swayed, attracted, repelled, spawned, driven. whatever it may be it works upon this world in myriad ways.
i gasp from its sensual pleasure, such energy at work as i transport myself through the stars and using some weaker magick invoke the powers and realms of gods. 

later i see alien covenant. 

spoiler alert!

lets be clear i liked prometheus, i thought it was good science fiction except for the stupid bits, the bits where the geologist decided to become all psychopathic was cliche and there was an unnecessary amount of gore but generally the idea that the alien is a biological weapon created by  the mysterious engineers seemed smart amongst the more philosophical questions of who we are as humans. 
covenant takes place after prometheus as a crew of partnered up colonisers are woken up en route to a new home by the android copy of 'david' from prometheus who has found a transmission way out in the middle of nowhere. the plot is basically a revamp of alien, the first movie but it does incorporate into it what happened with elizabeth and david whom escaped in an engineer space ship at the end of prometheus. 
the movie is clever, there are not the clunky sentences from prometheus's script but there are some strange interchanges when the new android meets the old one and explore their differences.
the ending is smart, but the movie 'life' beat them to it thus dampening the effect.
i can see how ridley scott must have needed to cover a lot of bases, pleasing fans and hollywood, he diluted the philosophical element for repetitive large action and while the aliens look amazing and horrific i rather focus on the quest for answers. i heard there is another being made so i hope it returns to the philosophical story rather than repeats itself over as do so many sequels. 
    

Tuesday, May 09, 2017

Reality - Bowie

oh, finally a day off.
i can bury my dog.
i have bought some pansies for his plot. 
just need to get out into the garden and dig a few holes but somethings stops me, a weariness, a creeping lethargy tinged with a sadness i guess.
pan was probably the best friend i ever had.
he was loved by all. he was almost like the buddha but more like lao tzu. 

Thursday, May 04, 2017

i have my transcendence, some esoteric unit of measurement that's unknowable. i meet a strange man in a wheelchair, he has no ability to communicate with me as he is a quadriplegic but i can read him well. 
it's my new unit where i work for one month dealing with staffing dramas and sometimes interact with the clients. i never worked with people so damaged and it's confronting, you really never want to ride a motorbike ever, or do anything high risk. maybe unsafe sex is my limit but never ride without a helmet. i don't know, it's spooked me. this guy needs a hoist to get out of bed in the morning, it's operated by two people. i just need coffee. 
everything requires two people with this man, i watch people working with him and i'm impressed by their level of care. i don't know if i have that. i push myself. i can work with wild out of control people fucked up on alcohol and drugs people wielding knifes but here i am challenged by a man who has no ability over his body.
i don't want to think about quality of life. i mean this guy gets well looked after and the people helping him really love him, but me, i'm thinking if i end up like that i want the million dollar baby ending. 
each day i get to know the guy better, sometimes i speak to him like he was an ordinary guy, he likes that. his face seems to respond. i talk to him about girls, he's a sexual being, he must dig girls. 
his face lights up so i figure that's a good thing. occasionally i feed him, he eats squished up food, mush. no solids. to eat his food his wheelchair has to be tilted back at 45 degrees, he eats slowly and his head involuntary turns from side to side so the act of getting a spoon of food in his mouth is an art in itself. 
i don't know what to make of the situation, i'm really not set up to deal with this level of care. i work with mental illness mostly, never have to deal with personal care like this. it's not really my thing but i figure what the hell, this guy is surrounded by women all day, a strange freak like me may be entertaining for him. 
i play him various songs, he loves the church. i take that as a sign of vast intelligence and think i may stick around this guy a bit longer, see if he holds the secret to the universe.
i am sitting there all calm contemplating this when suddenly my man has a seizure, for on top of all his conditions he is saddled with this. i go into epilepsy management, timing the length of the seizure as i protect his head, three and a half minutes, which is short. if where longer than 10 i would have to administer medication. after the seizure i try to calm the man down, he's disoriented and his equilibrium all out of whack. 
i'm calm, cool and collected but i am out of my depth. it all passes and we are back to spoon feeding mush, talking about girls. what was all that about?

Wednesday, May 03, 2017

catching bullets with your teeth
by
captain mission

old man mission never died off the cancer that crept up his ass into his guts and spread to his brain, he was an old carny from way back so when they put him in the ground with his treasured things, he would chew on that bacco, and spit it at his headstone or whatever dumb inscription the charitable wrote upon it. stupid words, sentiment don't measure a man in words he thought as he fell to the ground in that long strange last moment.
it was an old party trick that killed him, an old carny act he used to preform and charge top dollar to the city folk to witness. once he made a thousand bucks in one night and filled a tent full of gawking spectators and drop jawed slackers, and many times his spirit was lifted by their rapturous applause, but not this time, not now, not ever again.
it was a trick from the olden times, a place long dead like he would soon be, a forgotten country. he never had accomplished much he thought in that fleeting space where lifetimes flicker by the echo chamber in the head. 
i perfected one skill and it's god dammed killed me. 
i never saw the sea, i never fell in love, i never baked alaska, i never ever took the locomotive cross the west like i dreamed. i had my chances but i was always practising and perfecting my trick. the trick that kills me.
people say you should die for your art but what if your art kills you. is that the same thing. tell me now.
my heads just exploding, it's all so beautiful, the way the blood just spurts out in some act of violent expression and my head recoils forwards nearly ripped from the neck, fragments of skull spinning through the air, precious shrapnel in front of me. its far to much violence where there should have been grace, such finality where once there was cause for rejoice and wonder. my legs inelegantly fail, at least my bowels are composed as gravity acts with it's unopposed precision. i'm not sure what's happening but my teeth have shattered like in pychadelica slow motion and those chunks of brain matter splatter like inedible jelly, my body twists around in a determined final gaze. do my eyes close or stay open, the sky falls over as the chimpanzee dressed in the cowboy hat comes running over to assess the damage, his pistol still smoking. i can almost see the look of anxiety upon his face, his mouth and lips puckering up. people said i was crazy using a chimp in the act, but training him was easy, keeping him off the coke and booze was a different story. 
his big bloodshot eyes are looking down at me, his left hand makes for my waistcoat and pulls out my wallet extracting a roll of bills he nods his head in approval as he plonks himself down upon my motionless chest and lights up a cigar.
'end of the road mission. end of the mission mission.'
i'm rising now, passing from the brutal body, i'm looking down at the absurd scene, my shattered face a rosarch test, the pesky chimpanzee holsters his pistol and perches upon my old body oblivious to the other dimension. he looks serene and at peace. 
it was our last trick, a performance we had perfected and we had rehearsed until it became second nature. i once had a beautiful assistant but she died of plague back in the bad days, i knew i would follow her shortly after but somehow i had an extended life till the cancer struck. then you know time is up. 
all i wanted was a nostalgic trip back to what i do best, after all it was my life's work. i'd perfected the art but there's not much control i could have over an unreliable accomplice. after all he held the gun. he had the power. i just had the power to stop the bullet but i didn't have eyes at the back of my head and murder is murder, even when it's committed by a malevolent chimp on a dead man walking.