Part 4

Soundtrack: Gutterville Splendour Six / Unzip the Monkey

In which we return the story. And get covered in mud.

********

Some people can't leave well enough alone, but this year, this time, in this Hotel, I find my Zen Place and let it all evaporate, let it all form in puddles of nothing and shine some fucking heat, some real-time sunshine on that shit. Mix my metaphors and stay cool at the same time. Get it?

Eight stars, a skip and a jump.

********

In the country I stood by the side of the road as she held her thumb out, tiny shorts a recipe for success. We clamber into the Jackaroo and the Little One is grateful as she slurps water from the esky lid. It's hot, it's friendly and it makes me giddizzy.

It's adventurous, and though I am too, sometimes I'm not.

I hope this road goes two ways. I hope this road leads further on. I hope this road goes for longer than what we thought. I hope it is not merely a small side street, a service road, good for parking and getting ready for a U-Turn. I hope so much and for so long that I have no idea why I am even hoping anymore, but think, maybe I'm just hoping because it keeps me distracted and gives me comfort, and if i stop hoping...

At night, I look through the canopy of trees, stretch out my hand and one by one pluck stars from the sky. No-one sees me do it.

I slide them into my pocket.

I might not need them tonight, for the fire in front and the warmth beside me are enough. But I will keep them hidden and close. Because my one thing is wisdom and wisdom knows:

The wolves are always close by.

Fuck the wolves. I got the stars.

********

I've never asked for a guarantee. Guarantees aren't worth the shit they're shat out on. Poo to them with knobs on. Besides, a guarantee, an insurance policy, it cheapens everything, it makes everything seem less organic. And everyone knows, or should know, that true beauty is found naturally. True beauty evolves and grows and forms long and slow and languid over time. Catastrophes, disasters, rains, storms...ain't no black clouds that don't help form a marvel of nature. And the more something gets weathered, the sexier it looks.

I grab the nearest piece of paper, draw a letterhead on it (texta) and a wax seal (pencil). I write INSURANCE POLICY: EVERYTHING in red like a stamp (BAM!) across lines of gobbledegook and border it with a thick red line.

Then I roll it up (trumpet) and set it alight.

No net. No ropes. No helmet.

Only Life, adventure, this day and the next.

Part 3

Soundtrack: Queens of the Stone Age / Regular John

Having set up my room here, emptied my boxes of crap, placed my furry animal collection on a shelf and the photo of my love next to the bed...I find myself at a loss for words. Is the comfort of the Tijuana sapping my creative strength? Were the fires of Hell necessary for meto be able to write the words that kept me alive?

Don't care.

I'll be here, but not as often. I'll be here when I need a break from what is out there. Life, love, work...reality.

********

I did the same thing for seven years straight. Every morning I climbed into my chair and repeated the steps from yesterday, lived the same day over and over, keeping the future by my computer, just next to the mouldy coffee cup and stacks of CDs. But now the future is here and I am ready. Now the future is here and I have never felt lighter, and the flames inside are no longer the flames of Hell, but an old flame long forgotten. Passion returning, cobwebs fleeing, a cool breeze fanning my excitement about what is to come. And soon I will have sentences to write that speak not of internal battles or what it means to be alive in a dying world, instead these sentences, these links to you, will be building blocks.

And my bridge will be perfectly constructed, not a Temple of Doom rope bridge.

And we can all jump up and down on it and smile.

********

I started a band. We play March 7th. I'll keep you posted.

Part 2

Soundtrack: The Undertones / Teenage Kicks

It's a nice feeling here in room 101, knowing that my company is my own. The Tijuana offers me anonymity and, though short lived as it may be, respite from the fires of the Inferno beyond and behind. The couple next door I rarely see, though often hear through the thick stone walls of my room. Outside...outside...outside is a pulse, a beating heart of Real Life that pumps twenty four hours a day. Worker ants morphing into a feeding frenzy at sunset, transforming into robotic drinkers as the night wears on until the Garbage Truck Drones, all sirens and horn and steam engines, end the cycle and drown the gutters with liquid amnesia.

The sun rises and all that has passed floats toward the sea.

And everyday I watch this from my room.

And the world makes sense.

********

I realise, without caring, that from your vantage point across the street, my face looks black, blue and bleak as I stare out my window. But the lines around my eyes and the furrowed Luke Perry I keep on high, well you'll have to take my word. It's a whole lot happier than what it seems. Ask someone close to me, they'll tell you how light it is inside me, and how these words are just another painting, another sculpture, another form of expression.

I like to paint in colours dark.

I like my music heavy, with meaning.

But if I was a party trick, I'd be a balloon animal.

Twisted into many forms for the joy it brings to others.

********

Heehee.

********

Part 2 is a bridge, for it is late and the tea isn't a coffee and the new picture above my bed that I snuck into the Hotel when no-one was looking is inviting me to lie beneath it. I hung it above my bed see, and the red in her stockings matches the mist in my belly, and also the cushion I keep on my bed to lend colour to a drab room.

Always keep red in your bedroom. Trust me.

Part 2 is a bridge between starting from scratch and picking up pace, remembering what it feels like to feel the flow, the flow, the rhythmic flow and the subtle melodies that the keys make when you tap them deep into the night.

Tap tap tappity tap click tap.

It's a music I can't leave behind, a song I can't forget, and listening to it now, right NOW, I smile and think, one more cigarette, one more sentence, five more minutes.

Because like all good music should, this song brings us closer together.

If you've made it here, I'm really happy to see you.

Hi.

Part 1

Soundtrack: Lions & Tigers & Bears / On The Run

If you want some background-future-past you can read the link.

I'm not going back there.

I'm staying here in the Hotel Tijuana, tattered couches and dark corners and red velvet so old it feels like sandpaper, yet sexy, dirty and old, when you slide your fingers slowly across it.

I have a room upstairs. It has a bed on the floor, two pictures on the walls and a view over the street. I wish I could move my typewriter there so that I could feel the rain on my face when I wrote, but I can't. It's not a writing window. It's purpose is to remind me that there is a world out there, right there in front of me, and all I have to do is put my dirty white shoes on and head downstairs.

Join the noise and the chaos and the masses.

********

I open my eyes and I like what I see. The window is open and the rain is soft, but best of all, behind the mist, is a single finger of pure golden light. Straight from God or whoever pushes the buttons up there.

Straight from "them" to my window sill.

Beautiful.

I take a shower and wash away the stories I have left behind.

Wash Hell from under my fingernails and feel all the better for it.

I think I'm going to like it here.

I think I feel at home.