Part 17: Becoming a man

Hey.

G'day.

Welcome.

I'm going to discuss what it means to be a man. Y'all might lose me, but that's okay, there are some things that I see and understand that I am going to try and write down, and we'll see how we go.

I never had a father. Well, I have one somewhere, but I never knew him. The only real Father Figure I ever had in my life was a drunk and a rapist and a murderer, so I try my best not to emulate him. Though in a lesser sense, I have.

But on and off, throughout my life, I have spent time trying to understand the meaning of being a man.

And tonight, I found myself coming close to understanding.

I'm going to randomly start to write, occassionally list, it's for myself you must understand, though voyeur that you are, feel free to browse. Lurk.

I think being a man is different to just being an adult.

I think being a man is a conscious decision, and yet cannot be just decided upon and acted upon. You can't just choose to be one, and it is so. You must be sculpted into one. Hardened maybe. But in my eyes a man is not an impenetrable rock. He is so much more.

I think being a man when you look like a skinny pale rock kid is difficult, because who will take you seriously? How can anyone possibly see that underneath that exterior lies wisdom? Well you can read it here on occassion that I hit the mark, but I guarantee, stand in the same room and your expectations of me will drop. He's a kid, and a shabbily dressed one at that. But it's all about the eyes kids, it's always about the eyes. And frightened; mine are not.

This is as close as I can come to the thoughts that lie within, and even then, now, words are not enough. It is not enough to know the meaning of being a man, it must be acted upon, it must be burnt in, branded into your daily habits until every single fucking hour, you are ten feet tall.

Please, please, do not mistake this for either ego or machismo. Surely you, the reader, are smart enough to understand the difference.

Being a man means living with the knowledge that this is all there is, understanding the universe, but helpless in its grip.

Knowing that your path is made by you alone. And bearing whatever burden is cast your way without tears, without suffering. Grin that grin fucko, sweat it out and keep on keeping on. Laugh in the face of death, of heartache, of pain. Take it, learn from it, move on.

Johnny had June, but June did not make Johnny. June softened Johnny, held his hand and gave him a fireplace and a home, next to which they sang songs and ate dinner and entertained. But I think June understood Johnny. And let him be. And in return, found the truest friend that could be found.

A soulmate.

But the simple fact is, no-one NEEDS their hand held. It's just nice. It's more than nice, it's beautiful. It's the motherfucking meaning of life, whatever you believe. And if you believe differently, well then, let's disagree. Because you're wrong.

But it's not a need.

Sometimes, I think, to grow I have to leave everything behind. Well, everything but my two, three best friends. Who know more than my exterior, who patiently let me be, and understand me, and stay close even when I falter.

But more often than not I think, I don't need you. In fact, if you have seen me down, then best I get the fuck away from you. I don't need to be reminded. Don't need to be looked at with disappointment...

Because, deep inside, further than even I can go, is a man. And when the day comes for my cocoon fucking kid to be shed, I will stand tall and do anything, everything for you, my friends.

It's easy to write this shit, it's easy to write it and understand the theory. It's harder to wake in the morning when all you want is a word, a reassuring word, but all you get is life. POW.

But that's the fucking test isn't it?

Bring it.

The catharsis of Part 16

The dream was about the man who invented monopoly. Played by Morgan Freeman. He told the story of inventing the game as a young boy in his lounge room. He became known as BAR123. [it was a dream, I don't know what that means] He built a nationwide society of players, an underground game, until finally he sold the rights for a pittance. Monopoly went on to become huge, and he was forever embarrassed by its success. People would whisper behind his back, and would travel for miles to tournaments to play with him, so that they might laugh at his failure. Eventually, having secured himself as the all time champion, he retired to a jetty by the bay and began to attend detective school.

I don't understand it either.

********

It is six am and the hotel is cold and dark and empty.

There is a girl in my head, a long forgotten girl, a girl I once knew. I'll tell you the story.

A long time ago I went out with this girl. It was a desperately intense Love. Deep and frightening. I looked at her and saw Venus herself. However, we were both broken and raw, smashed by life and messy inside and out. We had serious problems, she would battle the temptation of men who found her beautiful, while I would battle the demon Drink. We would fight incessantly. I would grow jealous and drink, which would in turn, lead my Love astray, wishing to escape me.

One day she finally broke, and opened her heart to me. Told me her darkest secrets, and I held her close and together we cried and found true love. She began to grow, from that day forth. She began to blossom.

I was out of work and began to secretly fight my inner depression, my sense of worthlessness. I would try and fight the urge to drink, the craving for easy release and complete numbness. I kept failing. I would last three weeks and seem to find my way out, only to falter if I grew complacent, and all my good work would disappear in a night. Leaving a bitter taste.

I could sense her impatience, and it frightened me. I could see my Venus tapping her foot and beginning to glance from side to side. A new boy arrived in town, I grew nervous, but she stayed by my side.

Finally, I found work, and smiling began to see a brighter future, grew in stature, felt as though my demons grew weaker, the taste for alcohol grew further away. I began to become a man, well, a little man...I'm proud of you, she said. And I of you, I replied. I love you. And I you.

And then, she left. I'm sorry, Venus said, it's too late, it's not enough. Goodbye.

And I never saw her again.

And tonight, she haunts me.

********

Never work for another, I mean, inside. For you can never meet the expectations of anyone but yourself. I've been awake all night going through some things in my head, and I've come to realise that though some may look down upon me, others might see me in a more positive light.

The reason this blog has been so damn fucking serious is because I've been going through a really intense internal battle now for so long I can't even remember my life before it began.

And an hour ago I lay in my bed, and I was really fucking down about it. Really bone fucking tired of having to THINK. To fight.

And then out of the blue, catharsis. Zen. Just, relax. Just let whatever fucking happens, happen. And you might lose some battles, and you might even lose some Loves along the way, and sometimes you're going to have a really fucking crap day, week, month. But pretty soon, you'll be on the road, or holding someone's hand, or eating amazing food, or laughing out loud [guffawing...I like the word...] and this moment right here, right now, will be long gone.

I'm in love with the girl from that story. I even wrote to her tonight, out of the blue, two emails. One way tickets. Time hasn't changed that, and it may never. But there are a thousand loves and a thousand lives to live, and I'm really, really fucking glad that I decided to stay and watch the sun come up.

Because with it came a new day. And I am reborn. For the millionth fucking time. Hahaha.

Hi.

Welcome to the next day in the rest of our lives.

x

Tabula Rasa, or how in Part 15 I climbed the mast and gazed forward forever more

There are no more soundtracks.

********

I was the sort to stop the train if I saw a tear and a waving hankerchief. I was the sort to pull the emergency lever for one more kiss, one more goodbye. Put off the trip, fuck the Call of Duty, what can possibly lie ahead that is as perfect as a bittersweet embrace? The unknown. Or better still, nothing, The Void, freefall and oblivion, no me and you, back and forth, just me. Forever.

So stop the train. Confuse the driver. Let them go without you and stay here on the platform until eternity itself folds and collapses around us.

Except, now I'm on a ship, and there is no stopping the tides. So I climb the mast and the wind stings my eyes and I bleed salt water from them. And the lurching of the boat makes my stomach a stone, and placing my hand on my chest I realise, shit, there is no beat beating inside. And I have left my heart on the shore, but there is no turning back to retrieve it.

********

Bitter and twisted and burnt and angry and filled with lava hot lava and hate and pain and sorrow and clawing at the walls and scratching at the windows and kicking the door and trying the lock but to no avail. I lie in the hold of this prison vessel, trapped and alone, fearful of where they take me.

And every hour on the hour I howl, an almighty, gutteral howl. And the wind cries not, though Mary doth occasionally bring me food.

********

I live on high atop the mast. The bosun brings me food and water, and tries to engage me in conversation, but I cannot tear my eyes from the horizon, nor my mind from the past I leave behind. I will stay here, closer to god, until I see land ahead, my fresh start. From time to time I repeat my mantra, "we are all made of stars, we are all made of stars" for it reminds me that all things will pass, though it reminds me of another, and a marking, and skin.

We are all made of stars.

********

I will not stop the violence. I will not take the dank surrender of captivity, the drama will keep me warm, cloak me in its aggression and feed the fire that keeps me sane. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.

But when Mary arrives with my gruel and water, I bow my head in shame and thank her softly.

********

I smile at the parchment. The plans are complete! Two weeks I have lived on my mast and to ease my mind I had begun to design a shelter. The bosun brings me lumber as I smile, laugh and hammer. I build a larger platform, I build strong, sturdy walls and a bench for sleeping.

When I am finished I realise I will never have to descend.

I will live in my lofty house forever.

I keep building, I build a roof, I build a table, I place windows in three of four walls. I do not build a window in the wall that faces behind. I do not wish to look back.

The final piece is not a nail, but a white rose. Hung above the door. And it is then that I realise, I have built myself not a shelter, but a prison.

********

Carefully I take the rusty nail and incise my chest. I scream with pain. I reach inside, and angrily tear out my dead heart, placing it on the floor before me. It does not move. It mocks me. I scream and scream and crush it underneath my foot, over and over and over before,

I wake and crying, realise that it remains trapped inside me, as I am trapped on this ship.

I am tired, tired of fighting these walls I cannot defeat, tired of the drama of my own inaction.

I cross my legs, and breathing slowly, close my eyes.

********

I take down the flower. Careful not to bruise it. I hold it in my hands, sit cross-legged on the floor, close my eyes and begin to meditate.

********

We travel, our souls find each other and we travel, soaring over the water, both escapees of a self imposed captivity. We travel beyond the speed of thought, higher than God himself, further than the edge of the universe.

********

I stop writing. Smoke a cigarette and read it back. I spell check my own work, never allowing a machine to correct me. Exposing my mistakes for you all to see.

I do not cry. I simply switch off the computer. And say:

Bon Voyage.

Parts 12, 13, 14

I want to get in a car and drive motherfucker drive. I want the south of France, maybe Spain, maybe Greece. I want an endless road and each night a new spot to pull over and sleep. I want to run from this brain of mine, this town of ours, your knowledge of me. I want to see foreign cities lit up like an emotional El Dorado, a beacon, A New Hope. I want someone to stare deep and straight into my eyes and say, "I fucking understand. Let's do this shit. Together".
Isn't that what you're all looking for? I want to never run out of petrol, to eat in three different countries in three different days, to see the sun rise in Europe and set in Africa. I never, ever, want to stop moving.

I want to be responsible for me and me alone.
But I want a girl and kids and a dog. So I think you're lying to protect yourself.

I don't want to carry the weight of emotion anymore.
But truly, isn't that what makes you real? Not what job you do, what you own. But all the cool feeling shit?

People can go suck a fuck.
Well now you're just being a cunt.

Bad days are a sign that the life you are living is not the life for you.
No. Bad days are all a part of it. It's up to you whether or not you spank those bad days. SPANK! SPANK!

Writing morose sentences in bold makes you realise how stupid it is to think depressing thoughts.
And writing little comments underneath, make you realise how high you are sitting on that horsey.

I wrote all this to clarify myself and don't really need to press publish.
Yeah, but it feels better when you do. Like closure.

CLOSURE.
Yeah, closure.





********





I've been waiting at this crossroad for a really long time. Every five minutes or so I light up a Stuyvesant and slowly draw back on it. Staring down the dusty road for any sign of movement. I tap my feet, I whistle a tune, I count the cows that graze in the paddock, I give them names. I see the sun rise and set, day after day, and I do not move. From time to time I think, "am I standing in the right spot? I've been waiting for a fucking long time, am I even standing in the right fucking spot? Why did I choose this spot?", but those thoughts pass and I look around and realise how beautiful it is where I am, and how much time I have to myself, to think upon things that need to be thought about. Sometimes I think, "Well, I'll give it another hour and then I'll head home" and at that moment I hear a noise far down the road and I realise that I want to be here to see it, when it finally comes, I will be standing, alone, the only one to see it as it comes, here, right to this very spot. Then the noise fades away and I am left again, standing alone on the side of the road. Tapping my feet and whistling a tune.





********




They said they would be waiting, but I am in no rush. I dance as I drive, head swinging from side to side, shouting the words, some correct, to an imaginary crowd. Imagining myself the protagonist, the hero, the lover. Imagining the velvet surrender of the girl in the song. I pass town after town, sometimes I turn off into a road for no reason, simply because it is there, though I know they are waiting it bothers me not. Each to their own, for I have things to see, trails to blaze and discoveries to make. Besides, eventually, I always find myself back on the road, the straight road, the road that leads to them, and if they are not there when I arrive, I'll just keep driving. Further and further. Forever.




********




I hear a noise behind me, startling me out of my reverie. There is a person there, here, standing right here beside me. Nervously I look up and down the road before saying, "hello..."

[Hello, why are you standing by the side of the road?]

"I'm...waiting. Waiting!"

[What are you waiting for?]

"Well, I can't really say, I mean, I don't really know, I just feel I should be waiting. I really feel that and so, that is what I am doing"

[Nothing ever happens here. I don't think you should wait here anymore. Come with me, I want to show you something]

"Umm...No, thanks anyway but I really just want to stand here and wait. I know it sounds silly, but this is where I want to be..."

[That is silly. You'll really like what I've got to show you. Maybe it's what you've been waiting for?]

"No, well, I don't think so, I think I'm going to know..."

[Well, okay. Goodbye then]

"Bye..."

I light another cigarette. And try to remember the chorus to a long forgotten song.





********




I never want to stop. I want to see the end of every road I pass. I want to follow every sign. Wherever it leads me. I never, ever, EVER want to stop.

Deep eleven and ever deeper...

Reading material: Tom Robbins / Even cowgirls get the blues

********

I wear blue when I feel the need to forget the bullshit. Not because I feel blue on the inside. I wear blue when I feel like being happy, not bothering with facades, letting go of intensity, shedding insecurity and remembering, it's not what you look like, but how you feel.

********

Every single fucking one of us has a secret. And most of us intend to keep it that way. Secrets are powerful, dangerous fucking things, whether they are secret feelings, secret information or secret squirrels. Secrets about ourselves live so far down inside us that though they may be easy to hide, they actually have a profound effect on our subconcious, little cerebral termites eating away at the frame of our lives.

This bugs me.

Ba-boom.

********

Initially, it was the lust. And the words. The words dense with passion and fire. An aching in each sentence. Reciprocated. Two computer screens scrolling longing and emotional rescue at one another. And behind the screens, the Writers-Readers drank it all in, and grew drunk and giddy on the Word Wine.

Every single morning, he would wake and think of three simple words: Send and Receive.

Get to that computer.

And when he sat down and tilted the screen just so and opened Outlook and there, BOLD was his treasure and bold indeed was its content, one hand would instinctively reach for his stomach, and the other for the keys, the contact, that blind road ahead...oh god.

Sometimes the only thing to type is: salkdhkajhdknsabvansjvb

Eventually the Golem that was created grew too strong to be held in cyberspace and was unleashed, destructive, upon the world. Its strength astounded them both but its hypnotic effect would not be tamed and so it was too late. Everything around them came crashing down and all that was left was two Lost Souls, raw, naked, afraid.

This was when the golem began to destroy itself.

********
Soundtrack: Dinosaur Jnr/ Raisans (sic)

The lights exploded
She stood burning in front of me
She ripped my heart out and gave it to me
My eyes wouldn't open, cemented to her face
Have I begun a feeble chase?
I'll be down, I'll be around
I'll be hanging where eventually you'll have to be
I'll just stare and hope you'll care
It's only everything standing in front of me

It's on now and it's loud and I am stripped down and I want rock and I don't and I want this city but I don't and oh god why does letting go of myself seem like freefall?

You'd think you were in Hell or something, all grown up and scared to make a joke. It happens everytime I sit here now. No more googling for a laugh inducing Tonic. Only a Slip-n-Slide that leads who knows where. Sprinklers optional.

********

Eventually, there was nowhere left to run. So they sat down and began to talk. And the secrets poured out and flooded them both. And drowning, all that was left was to hang on tight. Taking turns to hold the other's head above the water.

********

Fuck me, I want to finish this self-absorbed journey soon. I want to write it all down so I can be all grown and all good and OVER with questioning and OVER with doubting. I thought I was done, thought I had shifted the rocks, but everytime you take a step, it not only shows you how far you've come, but also how far you have left to go.

Bollocks. Titpoobumwee.

********

In my dream last night, I told everything I had to tell, sexual fantasies, sexual insecurities, ambitions, fears, cynical observations on the Human Condition, how I love to dance and haven't in so long, how in the afternoon I browse porn and think of...how my smoking of cigarettes is an attempt to slow the vicious speed of my mind, how I think possibly meditation would work better, how my shrink is trying to teach me that, how sometimes in social situations, around people I don't know, I retreat into a shell and seem withdrawn, when in fact, I am trying to seem approachable so that someone will be interested in drawing me into conversation, how I wonder at myself for other times I am the instigator, the Life, the cheeky trouble maker without a care in the world...how hard it is to balance everything and still focus on change, on growth. How I fear when I am finally ready, I will have no-one to say:

Well done. Now shut up and kiss me fool.

When I awoke and gazed, I had to smile because, I didn't need to say a thing.

********

When the waters receded they were both ashamed. Ashamed of what they had told, of what the other knew. Ashamed of the neediness that had presented itself, though circumstances had dictated that it had been the only way to survive the storm.

Nervously, they avoided eye contact and their hands slipped away. Turning their heads from side to side they jumble mumbled,

"oh, err, hey look over there..."

and,

"I should really..."

And both wanted to run, never stop, get as far away as possible. Flee the scene of the crime.

********

Is this a Love Story? I don't know. Everyone is looking for something deeper. But what happens when you find it? Are you prepared for the consequences? How much of yourself can you open up to someone before you start to feel ashamed? Before you start to grow wary and begin to feel the itch.

Before you want to surround yourself with people who have no idea of what lies inside.

Why reveal yourself when it seems happiness comes more easily when you keep it all hidden?*

*Says the guy that writes it all down for you to read.

I think beyond the frightening, raw intimacy, lies a greater reward, but that is one man's opinion, and I've been wrong so many times.

********

In the bar I smile and flirt with customers, keep my head down and work hard.

No-one knows me, this me, and I am relaxed and confident.

Ten

Soundtrack: Rolling Stones / Jumping Jack Flash

Last night I sat on my own eating pasta and actually, physically, fighting my demons in the flesh. I had worked fourty four hours in three days and I was a wreck. And out of nowhere was the voice, the "you deserve to get drunk" voice.

Why?

Why do I deserve to get drunk? That's a stupid thing to think. I deserve to fucking sleep, to eat well and take care of myself now that I'm [almost] back on track. What, I think because I work for three days I fucking deserve to get drunk?

I had some red wine with my pasta, and when my housemate opened the door for me, I was a happy man.

********

Dear Danni...

********

But the fact that that part of me still fucking exists makes me a little sad. And it shows how fucking far I have to go. That I even have to talk to myself like that, watch myself like that. It's easy to forget, to grow complacent and let down my guard. It's easy to let pride back in, though two posts ago I wrote how good it feels to shed that shit.

Guh.

How long does it take, when you start doing the right thing [mostly] to feel good about yourself? Is there a certain personality, a type of person, who just has to keep on the Self-Improvement tip the whole fucking time? I want to improve, to grow, but Anthony Robbins is a heavy fucker to carry around all the time. Sometimes I still feel like being a stupid, young, crazy fool. And when I do, all this wisdom is forgotten...

I hate that it's so easy to regress, and that lessons learned must be relearned over and over until you get it right.

********

In the shop I've had to fold jeans. Over and over, until I get it right. Now I know how to do it, and starting Monday I'm going to start painting, the next step in improving the shop.

********

All I write now is honesty. I feel I've lost the power of prose somewhere along the way. I might revisit the past and see if it comes back.

Hell. The Sequel. [What comes after an epilogue?]

Fante had it down, he had honesty in his sentences, and the rhythm of a true fucking writer. All I have is pretention, and a story or ten to tell.

Part 9: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Soundtrack: Glasses go clinkety clink

i got drunk and went on holiday all the time sometimes i got really drunk and went really on holiday you know it was like hip the fuckin hooray life man like my girl wants to party all the time party all the time party all the tiiiiime so i did there were many stories some involved drugs and mostly all sorts of up and down emotional rollercoasters which is what drugs do so then finally all my money started to run out and i was like hey fuck dude what's with this whole bill shit and angry letters don't you know i'm busy getting like hedonistic and fucked up and salivating over girls in short tartan skirts cause that's my fetish right well that and just fucking all the time but then i really ran out of money so i'm like to the dude i know i'm like hey dude i know can i have a job now and he's all like fuck yeah so i started to work at his pub then yesterday these other dudes i know are all like hey man what are you doing and i'm like well working at this dude's pub cause i spent all my money and they're like cool we wanna pay you too you can like design our entire shop and be in charge of everything and shit just make it all cool and i'm like how much and they're like this much and i'm like dude and they're like yeah and so then i went to the pub to work after that and it still hasn't sunk in yet but now i have two jobs and also on top of that i want to party all the time party all the time party all the tiiiiiiiiime cause you know that's an eddie murphy song hey what you didn't know that well it is and i had a really interesting day.

*********

I don't really want to party all the time. There's a big long freeway in front of me. I want to buy a motorbike and leave all of this tedious shit behind. I want to burn my memories and lean over the handle bars and just feel. Racing [on one wheel] smiling [sneering] letting go again.

Tact and manners are beautiful things. But so is letting the fuck go of the handelbars once in a while. Not just writing about it, but actually doing it.

I'm sleep typing. Night.

Part 8

Soundtrack: Pink Floyd / A Saucer Full of Secrets

Back in Hell I fought every fight, I fought tumbling into an abyss, I battled the possibility of losing everything I thought I had created.

Here in the Hotel, being on the bottom rung seems almost, right.

Like a fresh sheet of A4 paper sliding effortlessly into a Remington Electric Typewriter.

Like death, because that's all death is, another blank fucking canvas.

It doesn't matter so much, what I write now. Just that I have shed my old ego entity, and am ready to begin the first sentence of a new book.

********

After I finished cleaning under the Ice Machine, scrubbing the floor, laughing at oh-so beautiful karma I knocked off and poured myself a beer.

Archie sat beside me and said, we've never actually met, you're matty aren't you?

Yessir I am.

You have a reputation in this place.

Haha, yeah, no shit.

Tell me a story about yourself matty...

And I thought: Do I tell the one about the prostitute (s) the one about the stolen five thousand dollars the one about the murdered parent and the hitmen and the domestic violence and the three years in japan or the endless drugs and endless affairs the acid which made me god for a night the discovering more tolerance in myself than I thought I ever had - the threesomes the swingers the internet the two girlfriends the bands the heart ache the people talking out of turn behind my back and making things bigger than what they really are the furtive visits to sites unwanted the writing when there was nothing left to do but write because writing is better than crying and anyway all the tears are long gone but the writing still remains?

I said, I was the first person to throw up in this pub, the day they opened the door.

No wonder sometimes people aren't quite sure about me.

********

If you want to be proud, I offer this advice. Save it until last. Save it until you have achieved everything you wanted to achieve. I suffered from premature pride, falsely believing it to be Self Belief, which is a beautiful and wholey different thing. Pride just fucks with you if you're still on the way up, pride is just another word for ego, and who the fuck are you or I to carry ourselves with such arrogance?

I believe in myself. Again. I always did, but I draped it in pride and so for every step forward, my ego took me ten steps back.

I believe in myself, and I don't care if you see me scrubbing a floor or smashing a guitar on stage, I can be both those people, but what really counts in the end is how I treat myself and how I treat you.

I'm not there yet, I still feel the tickle of pride, of derision, [this is the instinct to flee in a different guise...trust me], but at least it's just a tickle from the tickle man. And the apprehensive anticipation of BEFORE the tickle, well that's fucking sexy.

See you round.

Part 7: Honesty is the best policy

Soundtrack: Toto / Hold the line

Lately the cost of living has been creeping up on me. A gentle reminder becoming a pounding on the door. The holiday is over, and it excites me, to be honest.

********

I took a job in the bar of the Tijuana. In reality it is because I have so many phone messages, solicitor's letters, angry glares, disappointed undercurrents in my life based around Financial Status Fucked that it was time to get some serious grime under my uncut fingernails. Shake out the cobwebs, build some fucking muscle.

But as an aside, I think it makes sense in a life experience way. I think a guy like me, needed to do this once in his life. Stand in the other side and see just how fucking ugly it looks. How ugly I must've looked. I think more than anything that has happened in the last few years of my life, this will teach me once and for all, that there is a time to know when you have had enough.

I saw it in their eyes last night, sweaty, glazed, tired and red...and yet, coming back for more. One more, two more, three pots full. Unfuckingbelievable. It was a mirror, it was a lesson.

********

I had a talk over chocolate and donuts. It was a tough topic but I listened to what was being said, and I thought...no, I felt...I felt wonder that I knew someone who chose complete honesty. Who opened up to me and discussed the hard hitting shit, and grew more beautiful for it. I saw wisdom and strength and I was floored. And of course, flawed.

********

It's funny how the simple act of getting dressed for a job can instill in you a sense of purpose. Not the job itself, not always, but the thought that you're up and ready and after today you will be 100, 200, 300 dollars closer to what it is you are dreaming of.

Me, it's New Year's in Paris. And an end to hiding from debt. Debt is a crippling disease, the "one shot too many" of the financial world. I have suffered from both for too long, and I feel good about tackling both those issues.

********

There was a woman who passed away recently. A writer. She published her first story at the age of 41. And that inspires me, it inspires me to keep collecting experience, to file EVERYTHING away to be used and abused at a later date. Because fuck me, I've got a lot of stories and a lot of experience...

but that's no reason to grow complacent. Life is fucking bigger than that.

********

At the end of my first shift I gathered the staff together. And I said, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for leaning over the bar and taking my top off and swinging it around in the air, for shouting rudely for service, for being obnoxious etc etc etc. I said, it's fucking hard work here, and it's hot and you get tired and the easier someone is to deal with the better when you're working like a mule. So, I want to make up for it. Karmic styles.

They laughed and said, but you're mattyb. We've never cared, we fucking love you.

Now go clean the ashtrays fucker.

********

la Nadine is in my lover's bed. In reality that is even sexier than it sounds, so I'm absconding for now to lie next to her and discuss plans to travel to Glastonbury or Laugh Out Loud A Palooza.

Or maybe we'll just make out.

Life is good, and it's only going to get better. And remember, be nice to bar staff.

The B.

x

Part 666

Soundtrack: Frank Zappa / Dirty Love

Firstly, I lock the door.

********

In the past two years I have tried many different sexual combinations, aside from playing Doodle Fencing with another strapping young specimen of maleness such as [not] myself. It's not that I'm adverse to it in the throes and burnings of the moment. I'm pretty sure I get about as worked up as anyone can, and in those moments, I'll grab whatever's going...It's just, girl's make better noises, as far as I'm concerned. More mmmmm than argh. I like that. And they smell like sweet surrender. Not sweat suspenders. Different some.

********

On the boat, legs are steady but as soon as you hit land, on come the wobbles.

And that is so fucking familiar now. Steady, fall, repeat.

Maybe now with extra yawn.

But on the boat is best so I stay there. Laughing and closing my mind to the real world.

I cook, I drink, I read, I laugh, I love.

Read that sentence again. Carefully. Because that sentence is my dream. Forever.

********

A while ago, maybe two years or so, I was outside, at a party, on cocaine. [I think I'll ride home to see if I can...but different] I was with a girl, we were talking about threesomes, two boys and a girl. Cocaine style. Eyes flashing with dirty promise as each sentence was laid out. A boy joined us by the fire and we kept our secret topic to ourselves, but when he got up and left to get a drink I said:

Would you do it with me and him?

Nervous reply survey says: Yes.

I didn't think about it. I got up, walked into the kitchen, found the guy, offered him some cocaine and said:

We've been talking about threesomes out there by the fire. Want to come have one with us?

He did.
We did.
Sort of.
Cocaine has its ups and downs, and this isn't THAT sort of blog. Yet.

********

I cook, I drink, I read, I laugh, I love.

Read that sentence again. Carefully. Because that sentence is my dream. Forever.

I'd like to think someone shares that with me.

********

Another time I went to a party and seriously there were people fucking right in front of me. I'd had a quarter of a pill and so had the girl I was with. We were, almost aroused. Is that a state? Almost aroused. She said:

Come into the other room, I want to suck your cock.

I did, except all we could do was laugh and laugh and laugh. Well, after a little while anyway, but I'm not going into that.

We laughed and laughed, and you know what?

More than hiding in a corner fucking like mad, that fucking laughter was the most intimate thing we could have done. I've never felt so close to another human being in my life as how I felt toward that girl right then.

********

I'm back on land now, and I've got the fucking boat legs bad. The ground beneath me is shaky. But this time, I let the feeling come. I let my legs shake and the ground split open if it has to.

I realise, I don't have the fucking power to change shit, to make the earth stand still, so rather than give a flying fuck about falling into some abyss, I'm going to dive in and find out what the fuck is hiding in the dark.

Maybe I'll pop out somewhere. Which reminds mne of another story, but this ain't that sort of blog.

Part 5

Soundtrack: Flaming Lips / Yoshimi battles the pink robots

I haven't checked in for a while.

********

When I stood on the top deck of the boat, ten maybe fifteen feet above the water, I got the vertigo, the prickly fear, the nothing will go wrong but still my stomach wants to scream at me WHAT ARE YOU DOING? fear.

Below I could see two ducks. And as I was waiting for them to slide from my chosen path I looked directly ahead. At the mountains surrounding the lake. At the horizon, where blue meets green without a hint of red. And as I jumped I thought:

EVERYTHING

It's true, I thought everything. And it sounded like this:

......

I hit the water, the fear was gone.

********

Ever felt suspended in mid-air? Ever felt like you've jumped, you did it, you jumped, but the results aren't in yet, you haven't landed. Is it a shatter crack crash or a soft embrace? You won't know until you hit the bottom, and you thought it was close, so why the fuck are you still suspended? Ever felt that?

You have?

Weirdo.

********

I used to have a blog. It got, umm, weird. It got all serious and cryptic. Which is fine like, but it didn't start out that way. It started with a post on Love. Then it was about sex and drugs, until finally, it became extremely introspective and...it died.

Did Hell go to Heaven?

I don't think so. I think the Hotel is a halfway house.

Lately hasn't been about fuck up and get better, fuck up and get better. It's been about keeping level, keeping sane, keeping nice. Which was always my worst nightmare.

Flatness.

Except, I'm starting to see that a straight line leads to peace and quiet. And the Englishman in me can appreciate that every now and again.

********

This morning the fires of Hell are lapping at my door. I place a wet towel under it and hold myself tight because a thought can only keep you so safe, so loved.