A Preface

Image a thing so strange or terrible or foreign that it breaks you. Maybe its just for a little while, maybe its forever, its too soon to know.

This thing is spectral. You can understand the act or the mechanics of it, that's the easy part, but the results are horrible to behold. The malignant growth of it sickens you. It breeds itself into everything you love.

To sing is to cry. To care for yourself is senseless. You stink of your own apathy. This thing is a country. This thing is oppression. This thing is Grief.

Grief is my country now. Grief is my oppressor. I live in grief and its anthem is the very death of song itself.


Asong

"Some way to greet the year, your eyes all brushed and brimmed with tears."

And what a year it has been. Only twenty days in and so much has changed. I thought I was too old for change. I think too much. I welcomed in the new year in greif. Moved by sorrows I did not know existed. I lost a friend new years eve, this in itself is new and horrible, but lose a friend in your arms is hell. I can't recount the story again, to many people who don't rate have taken it from me. Peice by peice they asked, peice by peice they took. First the police, grilling and then suducing. Then the freinds, well meaning and curious in one fell swoop. Finally the spectators, "So I heard you killed someone?". Oh God.

A friend died in my arms. I don't know why I would say to a screen what I could not say to my friends but here it is. He is dead. I didn't know him long enough or full enough. My greif shames me. His family his close friends they all condemn me for my greif. I see or think of any of them and know I don't deserve to feel this. This feeling is for them and them alone. I feel I have no right.

Why is this?

My Sister once called me the rock. I stand and mediate while others greive. I hold true and abandon everything to be with those who need me. But No One is here for me. Not because they're not available but because I can't access them. I don't know how to ask. I don't know what to say. If I ask for help I can't hel myself. If I give over to anyone I'll lose myself, my ability to stay in one peice when I'm alone. And I like being alone.

I hate the word Catharsis. I read a definition once that said "A violent venting of the bowels." To me that is how I see it. I've learned though it also means, "A purifying or figurative cleansing of the emotions, especially pity and fear, described by Aristotle as an effect of tragic drama on its audience."

Thank you for being my audience.

The TITLE-er

It has always been my little game to come up with titles. Titles for everything; people, books, incidents, unwritten books, films, etc. I find myself doing this a great deal more lately, mostly for blogs I never write. In honour of this I'll share a batch of them as a blog, in lieu of 8 blogs (hey! atleast I'm trying)

The Needles Tender Kiss: While cleaning out a room here in the hostel I had the misfortune of finding the last tenants needles, methadone and knife collection. While Shoving clothes in a bag I was pricked, not by a needle, but it sent me reeling none the less. All I wanted to do was call my dad, I rarely think "I NEED to call my dad", hi Dad.

The Siren Song Of Hate: I like to sit in the Public Bar, a bar on the main floor of the hostel. The other day while reading in the bar I was approached by a rather nice White Supremesist. (Yes it is an oxymoron) We talked with the utmost civility. I was informed that Canada has some of the most comprehensive hate laws in the world, but this was not a good thing for my new friend. I was struck dumb when I found myself saying, "I don't agree with the sentiment, but......" It was that fatal 'but'. Was I being wooed by hate? ME? I grazed the worst sort of fear.

We Together Make A Limb: This is actually a song lyric. The Decemberist wrote a stunning song called 'Red Right Ankle'. The entire verse flows thus -
OH, adhere to me, for we are bound by symmetry
AND regardless what are lives have been
WE together make a limb
This is the title of film about a Canadian man and an English girl who meet in Melbourne and become passionate almost violent friends. The "Henry and June" of platonic relationships. Through this they become something new, something like a limb.

Well until next time.......

Fictions

The Reclining Cat


Early Morning
Cloudless Skies
The still of the bay at my back and open road in my eye.

The morning is spotless. The winter sun hangs low and glares off the asphalt, blinding. Our van lumbers down the road. This road is wide, divided and lined with small homes set back from the street. The houses are small, mostly bungalows. I guess they are post war. There is a 50's suburban feel. The sea are is crisp and clean and warm. I squint smiling into the sun.

The road streches forward happily. In the near distance a cat lolls on the road. Rolling in pure joy. I see it's tail flapping kittenish against the glare. There is an innocence in its joy. Cats are too smart for their own good so when they give up on that for a moment you can feel how happy they must be.

-

I grew up with cats. I've seen the arch of a few lives. My mom has always been a sucker for them. She would threaten with her mouth to give away the kittens my sister would bring home while visibly melting with her eyes. I could see how much love she had to give through those tiny creatures. At the most we had four cats in the house and at least two at all times.

Shadow. Purby (slightly used and not named by us). Pepper. Henry. Fyador. Elvi.

I don't know which was worse, the deaths that came all to quick and senceslessly or the slow decline. We put down at least two of our treasured friends. "Put Down". What the hell is that supposed to mean?? We killed them with mercy and I pray they don't hate us for it. I loved them all. shadow would sleep with me at night. In the winter he would crawl under the covers and sleep at my feet. He was somber and wizened, almost before his time. He would let us kids drag him around like a rag doll without a peep. When we were old enough to know better he was old enough to let us know we knew better. A little flick of the tail or a gentle hiss. The only scratch I received was from an ill advised bath with him. I may never know what was going through my head at the time.

All of these gentle creatures were friends and teachers. I love them still.

-

The purest of joys can be found in watching a cat rolling on an open road in morning. Sadly, the greatest of joys can be a thin wrapper on a fanged horror and athis horror a catalyst.

With a slowly grown unease I think, 'He should move soon. I wonder if Zac sees him? Somethings wrong. Nothings wrong. Look at his tail waging. Somethings wrong. NOTHINGS WRONG!'

"I think the wee kittys been hit," Zac says. I barely hear but answer anyway.

"--------." What the fuck did I just say??

We pull up the wagging of a happy tail. I just catch enough of the scene to feel nauseous. I turn away even though the van covers all view.

"Ahh, its back end has been crushed."

"Oh. What should we do?"

WHAT SHOULD WE DO?? Crush it you idiot!! Let it go! Free It!! Nothing deserves this! Shut Up! Your sadistic. Like this is your choice.

"Ey, it must just be the nerves. Its tail is slowing now. Yeah, we can't do a thing."

"But its tail?"

What came first? My question or his answer? We pull away. I think how much of a beast I must appear. I barely said a word staring in the opposite direction the entire time. Zac must think I'm a monster. I am a monster. If I had been driving I would have reversed over the thing until it was smeared all over the street and my conscience was clear.

I'm going to cry.

-


The fallacy of permanence

I've had discussions once or twice on the permanent nature of the tattoo. I've been on the business end of argument on how tattoos are forever. I say now, "Stop fooling yourselves." This body was not built to be forever. If it were I may have had second thoughts. Nothing is forever. Not a single mountain, building, planet, blade of grass or tender creature will last through out time. I'm no nihilist and certainly no fatalist, nor will I hide behind the realist banner. I say these words with hope. Without a lifespan nothing has meaning. In the idea of loss all things gain importance.


-


Sun shining, Thunder flowering

Early afternoon
Clouds threatening
The bay is lost to my eyes filled with tears.



.....to be continued

On Loss or Terribly Sorry or Glen Tawdry (take your pick)

Sorry For The Silence Kids!

It's been about 2 weeks and so much has changed. After learning that it is, in fact, very difficult to work overseas illegally I have finally found work. I work as a dishwasher in a very pleasant cafe. The co-workers are tops and the work is Easy. As an added bonus I share beers with the boss after work and get a solid helping of humility. On Humility: A wonderful asset for all people and more so for the generally capable. To live by your wits and get fat off them is a sure recipe for lethargy or worse snooty-ness. All I think while scrubbing pans and picking food off plates is that I am Mase. (for those who don't know Mase is a Shrilankan dishwashers at my old work place and a sullen yet solid guy) To be Mase is not the most coveted position, however it is Honest work and when no one will beleive you are capable of anything else you must revel in said work or perish.

In addition to the washing up I delivery phone books. Telstra/Sensis White Pages 2005/6. Said books weight 2 kilos a piece and I throw 1320 a day. I wake with hands so swollen I can't make a fist as well as elbows that ache like a rheumatic old dog. I Love It. I have been privy to the most beautiful and strange sites Melbourne has to offer and I now know how to infiltrate the most heavily guarded condos the world has to offer. I delivered a phone book to a brothel the other day. HEY! The oldest professionin the world still uses the phone! All told this is a 7 day affair, just until I have a bit of money in the bank. HAHA! You all know me and my oil/water relationship with money.


On Loss: A short list of the items I've Lost thus far.

1 hat: purchased in Thailand with my family years ago, I didn't cry but regretted not giving to Svet before I left.

All my Ribs: Phone Books are hard work. Hard work takes energy. Energy requires food. I gained 10 kilos. Mostly Muscle. ;)

Clothes (lots): mostly to my own intents, I have rid myself of Alot of my traveling wardrobe. Oh Liberty, No One Told Me You Were An Empty Backpack.

My Preconceptions: Oh Yes! The Aussies are not the louts I once believed. They are course (It's not G'day it's Get Fucked You Cunt. Really.) but they are far more welcoming, friendly and warm than any course-ness could erode.

My insecurities: Yup! Most of them are gone. Self acceptance is a hostel full of drunk kids from all over the world who just like you because you are you and don't care what you wear or how you speak or who you'd like to fuck. And I feel kinda sexy too, that's a good one.

My Youth: Peter Pan is dead. I am a Man. Sad as it may be I am an adult. Sadder yet I realized this in a pub watching the violent, ferral, oversexed frission of youth. That isn't me. This in it self is not sad, more a right of passage. In honour of this I'm growing a Handle Bar Mustache. HEEEHEEEHEEE.

1 pair of sunglasses: This one is a book end. In Vancouver airport while acting the part of a seasoned first class passenger I drunkenly left my very expensive and very pretentious sunnies in the lounge. Good riddance to the glasses and all they represent.

I digress.

Melbourne is New Orleans South. Wrought Iron Lace Work on Victorian cottages. Two story Bourbon Street homes facing parks. Sculpture. Wisteria. GREEN! It's autumn, here that means lilies and irises in bloom. Markets are everywhere. I live across from Victoria market. Vegetables, cheeses, bakeries, butchers and fish mongers everyday. I can buy kangaroo and lamb fillets and a side of salmon while being fed wine by the small vintners. Bliss. The Catholic cathedral has the most stunning piece of sculpture I've ever had the priviledge of touching. St. Catherine of Sienna holding a crown of thorn above here head. She is loosely hewn the thorns however are crystalline. Perfect spears of gold held to the sky, the counter point complete all you are left with is awe. And hopefully a stunning photo. While delivering phone books I found the most beautiful part of town. It is lousy with Victorian cottages and everyone has a name plate on it. Almost all are Gaelic. Names I could barely pronounce. I thought Lord of the Rings and then I thought better of it. Ahhh to be in awe it renders you speechless or at least impaired. (And for once the drink is not to blame)

Strangely, or better yet, gratefully I think of every one back home constantly. Beauty reminds one of beauty. Around every corner there is a reason to think happily of every one back home, we love you all.

And I'm learning Scottish. Did you know Fanny in Scotland is slang for vagina. Lends a very humourous and horrific bent to "Fanny pack". And dear means expensive. Who knew?? The Scottish I suspect.

Wow.

I'm Off. I need new material. Oh yeah I've started sewing clothes for people I meet and I've made a bit of money off it. I love this place, lets hope I don't get deported, again.

Bye!

Tim Burton Has Nothing On Us

Melbourne- 6:30 am Sunday May 15th (My Mom's Birthday ;), we've just arrived.

Fogged in. The sun isn't up yet but the stars, those foreign lites, are now hidden. It's been 12 hours since we caught the bus in Sydney. A 1 hour flight translates into a 12 hour bus ride, but you save a bundle. As painful as it was I watched the stars most of the way. They have more stars, and in a different order, a sure sign Kansas is far far away. If you can find one of those maps of the earth at night the northern hemisphere is lit to blinding. A stunning sight until you weight the implications. Lets Not. But not here. Between the 3 or 4 major cities your treading through pitch. The sky here rivels those northern maps.

We checked into the hostel around 7:30. The Mountains of beer bottles and the coma victims in our room are a warning, or a premonition. We'll have to wait and see. A quick wash and Steve and I are out to watch this sleepy town rise.

Melbourne is a patch-work. New and Old in relative harmony and Very close quarters. Beautiful Victorian clock towers and modern glass monoliths fuse. This is the town Tim Burton Built, or wishes he had. Strange 'Nightmare Before Christmas' like statues line the streets. The full scale corner of a Classical edifice juts from the sidewalk as if swallowed and you can just make out the word LIBRAR, before the Y is swallowed by asphalt. At this hour, 8 am-ish, with fog lazily burning off, Melbourne is a wonderland. Steve and I meander. Fatigue rules us. A chorus "Puppy!!" and "Pooper!" and "I'm Pretty!" falls from our faces punctuated by belches. (Sorry!! We're tired and we slept on full stomachs!! And How Would You Fair After 12 Hours?!?!?) Every animal I see is a "Puppy!" Remembering our friend Tigger back home we exhume his word "Pooper!" With every belch or crass remark we invariably remark, "I'm Pretty!"


We own the streets at this hour, but we are fair and gentle landlords.

Hiccups!! Ahh I Ate Too Fast.

Well you heard it,

The first Hiccups abound! Nothing too serious, but, you know.

I've been here 5 days and I seem to have run, ahh, low on funds. Steve was delayed in Heathrow, god love 'im. "Apparently 3 hours isn't enough time to get from Gatwick to Heathrow." The Royal Bank Of Canada or KFC- I mean RBC won't allow other people to DEPOSIT into YOUR, or in this case MY account.

OH the bureaucracy! You need faxed letters, home branches, blood and a Fucking Stool sample. Whew, that felt good, thanks for listening.

I've been Very generously put up bu my friend Demetra and her new beau, Michael. They Have been Brilliant, but I wear (you all can attest to that!) and have extracted myself from their love nest (grudgingly).

So as it stands I'm poor, alone and hunting for a hostel in Kings Cross. Nice name that, Kings Cross. Isn't it? Well so is Regent Park to every Aussie I pass! LOL. (Really its not that bad, not even close)

~

I just had a short pause, don't fret if you missed it. Nice smoke though, rolled it myself. The important thing is I hit up the chap here in the interweb cafe and he hooked me up with his hostel, Done and Done!!

Here we go again folks, I'm back at it.

Wow this is cool.

"I think that smacks of the worst kind of sophistry."

Time to get esoteric, or the like.

Someone asked me very seriously,
"What are you looking for on this trip?"
I replied, "I'm not looking for anything."

A truer statement I've rarely spoke.

10 days out and I realize I'm looking to know what I already am. I need to see what I've already become. I will move no further forward without a very long look back.

I've always held the answers, but, who can walk in the sky whilst looking at the ground.

I've been reading J.D. Salingers MasterWork, "9 Stories" on patios in Sydney's gay district. A stark contrast, and pointedly so. I was introduced to the small book when I was 15. It was described as "the most spiritual book you will ever read" (No one argue, I neither agree nor disagree). I've read it 6 or 7 times, I've rarely seen a favoured film that many times and I NEVER revist literature. But this one! Oh how it holds weight.

Its loose enough to apply, but firm enough to avoid mis-interpretation. Subltely hued and sepia lit. My favoured work. I digress, It all tends to this........

....."I grew my own body. Nobody else did it for me. So if I grew it, I must have known how to grow it. Unconsciously, at least. I may have lost the conscious knowledge of how to grow it sometime inthe last few hundred thousand years, but the knowledge is still there, because-obviously-I've used it.... It would take quite alot of meditation and emptying out to get the whole thing back-I mean the conscious knowledge-but you could do it if you wanted to. If you opened up wide enough.".......... from "Teddy", the final story in 9 Stories"

It is time to open wide. It is time to vomit up. It is time to know ones self better in the hope of knowing others more deeply.

AND, No I Am Not Drunk. Sometimes I wish I was, though,

All my love to all those who have ever felt love.