Hotel Tijuana

Each to their own and I am one and we are all together

2006-05-01T20:06:00.000-07:00

[post self censored]

I pack my stuff, take the Do Not Disturb sign from the door and hand my key in.

I'm done here. See you in Hell.

I'm staring at the fireplace and the familiar flicker of fire

2006-04-30T23:35:00.000-07:00

The dream was of Giant Frogs who raced to cure the sick. They were call Amphibulances and wore large white smocks with large red crosses. Of course. They did not require sirens, for they were able to employ their ample Frog Leaps to soar over the other vehicles.

[these other vehicles I assure you were all automotive, completely NON frog related, though the occasional one was green or had those pop up headlights which I always envied as a child and believed to be thoroughly frog like. the porsche 911 too resembles a frog. i always liked that car.]

I can't remember if paramedics rode in the frogs or on the frogs or if the frogs themselves were able to administer the cure, all I can remember is that these Amphibulances were present when they were needed, or present at the scene.

Perhaps they are more sinister than I originally believed, I thought in my dream, and as I pushed the curtain aside and looked out onto the street the frog, ever...so...slowly...turned to look at me, and said, "........................................"

I woke up.

********

I am awake, I am asleep and never the two shall meet. Or was it Twain? Who rode his caboose all the way to Ballarat and proclaimed, that's enough practice for now, better get back on board before I lose my...thought pattern?

Weirdo. That's what runs beside my bed when I open my eyes on the floor of the Hotel. So I pull the blanket way overhead, and pull the emergency lever, screeching straight back onto the dream....

********

There are no frogs this time. Just ring pulls and pulleys and push me pull you with three other girls. Perhaps it's best not to go into this one, I think as I type, but my dream self sweats and grunts and ignores me, cold biting on hard hot shoulder and melting into that soft marshmallow of...the sea, spit, drown, salt, crash land on the beach, and WAKE.

[the beach features almost every night in my dream. i do not know what it symbolises. when i was younger and in love with a cancerian, we used to gaze into each other's eyes and say that it meant her water crashing on my earth. this sort of talk was usually followed by my dirty earth hands parting her red sea. moooooooses yeah, is exactly how barry white would say it i'm sure...]

********

This time I'm out of the dream for good because I can hear the automatons outside clambering and scratching. I make cars, I clean rooms, I feed your children, I am in charge of air conditioning filters, I cure people, I can't cure myself, I make pictures, I make words, I am your destiny, I ain't yours, I, I, I, I, I, I, I, I, I, I, I, I, I, and the replies....Oh, oh, oh, Oh, OH, Oh? Oh! OH! oh...oh! 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0....

And that's what we're becoming, and that's all I am here. Don't you fucking see? Our children dressed in all their binary, a spare button once sewed beneath the collar, now marked:

Enter.

I press it, and realise I hadn't left the dream at all.

********

I think the way out is back through Hell, and I ain't afraid at all.

Aural be right

2006-04-30T11:53:00.000-07:00

Just had to stop by quickly and tell you something exciting.

Work was typically work, I cleaned H-Pie things in front of drinkers. Vibe.

And then my world was changed.

I walked home with it in my hands. I walked faster than normal, dizzy with excitement. I saw horizons shift, I saw night after night of pleasure and bliss. I foresaw my new love and I falling asleep together, every part of me lavishing attention, dripping, soaking it all in. I AM IN LOVE.

I have been given a BOOK ON A TAPE.

I grew up falling asleep to Dark Side of the Moon. Music has been my constant. My companion and my inspiration. The soundtrack to my life long before the Walkman let alone the trendoid iPod.

But now I have a real, true friend. A connection so exciting I have climbed from my bed-on-a-floor TM to come and tell you of it. I HAVE BEEN LISTENING TO A BOOK ON A TAPE.

It's amazing. It's beautiful, SO beautiful. WHY HAVE I NEVER DONE THIS BEFORE?

To quote a song and a blog, this could be the love of a lifetime...

Part 19: I was watching, with one eye on the other side.

2006-04-21T02:09:00.000-07:00

If I am humble, quiet and ponder life as it parades before me, I am trampled by over the top personalities and agendas.

If I am loud and stake my claim in the world and fight for what I believe in, I am seen as a mess and too much hard work.

Goodness me, there's a cheery opening. Where's the party?

I am beginning to know exactly what I want from life. Or should I say, I am beginning to listen to myself, and understand.

I am not a Take What I Want sort of a guy, though I believe in mental projection. Put it out there and it will come. Fuck you Kevin Costner. Go hit a baseball or something. A potato perchance.

And on the internerd it is written that I am an ass. And yea, the truth is spoken. And there is a fine line between being an ass and being a dick. And walking a tightrope sometimes brings out my ass.

Hmmm.

I haven't written because instead of taking time to reflect and share, I have taken time to actually DO. To work on myself and to work hard at my jobs. To right wrongs, financial and emotional. And I have accepted the humble pie and eaten it. Eaten it good. And the voice, the ego, it's not as loud anymore, and it's easier to ignore when it speaks. Though, ying pong tiddly I po, it's not fucking dead man. Because you need it every now and again. For drive reasons. For the AMBITION and self belief. And for PROTECTION.

But here I be, and I don't know, I'm thinking of heading back into Hell. I'm thinking about where I've been and where I'm headed and while I think, I lower my thumb and the headlights scream past in the rain. And I don't want the first lift that comes along, I want the one that's headed where I'm headed. Just means I'll get rained on for a while.

Coming down is a curious thing. It seems like the end of the cycle, you've been up and now you come down. But the cycle never ends, and tomorrow, I'm ready to start curving skyward. A fire proof Icarus baby. Headed for shiny and grinning with every beat of my wings.

And there are people who can never look at me the same, and that's a shame. But that goes both ways too, for there are people who can never look at me the same, and that's fucking cool.

I had to take a break. But I've missed this, and I'll make sure I find the time to return, because my brain, twisted little fuck that it is, says to me, that someone has got to be themselves on here. Warts and all. Normally sober or not.

*bounces*

x

I hope that you are happy.

And I forget and am reminded...

2006-04-15T19:57:00.000-07:00

[this post isn't particularly well written, as I am purely trying to relate facts not emotions. so stick it.]

Last night I was invited to Japan to help negotiate with a dubious dealer of antiquities for the return of some stolen buddhist scrolls.

Excuse me?

It's true. Weird huh?

Well, the thing is, many years ago I was sent to Nagoya at the bequest of Western Mining Corp to immerse myself in the culture and become fluent in the language that I could become their representative in Japan. I stayed for three years and became, Japanese.

Being Japanese is not a concept that is really understood by anyone who is not particularly Japanese. It can get very confusing, but it all made sense to me.

So I studied Yagyu Kendo, and Go Rin No Sho, the Book of Five Rings by Miyamoto Musashi. I studied Feudal Japanese History and discovered that although it was Tokugawa Ieyasu who eventually became Shogun and began a dynasty that lasted 200 years, it was really the work of his predecessors, Oda Nobunaga and Toyotomi Hideyoshi, that enabled Japan to unite. Meiji Restoration? Well that interested me, but not as much as Sasaki Kojiro understanding the flight of the swallow in order to perfect his swordsmanship. Need to know more? Try Musashi, by Yoshukawa Eiji. Great story, and all true.

You with me? Cool.

Of course, I also studied Sake, Kirin and Sapporo beer, and having sex in Love Hotels with beautiful Japanese girls who cried out, "I'm GOING, I'M GOING" at the time of the Heavenly Opening.

Gigitty.

But besides all of that, I secretly studied how to become Japanese. Without a doubt, this was my yearning to leave my fucked up Australian life behind and just become someone else. A whole different set of rules, of beliefs...and there was just something perfect for me in the understated discipline that Japanese society offered.

Long story short, after ten years of studying and three years of living there, I returned to Melbourne, started a band, started smoking pot, got laid, got heartbroken, and got lost. Again.

But Japan is never far away.

Three years ago I met a guy called John Gunn. We were both barflies at a pub called the Rob Roy. Except, one day over our fourteenth beer, we started talking about Japan. We'd lived there the same time, for the same amount of time, and each knew things that no-one else would know. DO YOU KNOW WHO CHIYONOFUJI IS? AAAAAAAAAAH!!!! THE BLUE HEARTS? AAAAAAH!!! NAGABUSHI TSUYOSHI! AAAAAAAHHH. ASANO YOKO!!! HOT HOT HOT!

And shit.

We became friends and have remained in touch ever since.

Last night he was at my work and ended up sitting with me after close telling me the following story and asking my advice:

His mother owns some sort of multinational corporation, I didn't ask which or what they do, suffice to say, there seems to be large sums of money involved. Now, three years ago his mother decided to purchase for her PRIVATE LONDON MUSEUM, a series of scrolls originating from Japan c. 1500AD. Buddhist scrolls...hang on one tick...

ISN'T THIS EXCITING?

Ok.

Anyway, being the astute collector she is, she decided to first ascertain the origin of the scrolls by carefully shipping them to an expert in Osaka. A... procurer of rare antiquities. He was able to help discover the temple from which they came, and also made a promise to restore the scrolls to their original condition. Or close to.

After a month or so, he sent back two of the five scrolls, perfectly restored. However these two were the lesser scrolls in comparison to the three that he retained.

Which he promptly confessed to losing. Somewhere in his house.

John was called in to fly to Japan and find out what the fuck had happened.

From his mother's description, he assumed he was meeting some Japanese Julius Sumner Miller looking cat in a dusty Top Secret style Book Shop filled with antiques and books.

The night before the meeting John checked into an inn and was asked his business.

I'm meeting an antique dealer, Morimoto-san.

Morimoto-sama? He is very famous, John was told.

Really?

Yes, but aaaaa, he has a reputation. Please be careful.

Okaaaaaay.....

Turned out Morimoto-San acquires Japanese antiques for museums all around the world. He lived in a four story mansion which was the converted headquarters of the old Bank of Japan.

He was serious. But John was on a mission. And resolved to be...inscrutable.

The negotiations did not go well. John's gaijin approach could not move Morimoto-San and eventually he returned empty handed, with vague promises that Morimoto would "shuffle through his house" in an attempt to find the "misplaced" scrolls.

Which leads us to the pub.

Now, as Pat from Dallas Crane would say, I'm humble AS FUCK. Great sentence that. But there are a couple of things in life that I am confident about. My ability in bed, my ability to read other people, and my ability to negotiate with Japanese Antiquities dealers. It's very much a game, and there are very defined, set rules.

1. Morimoto will NOT lose face by suddenly turning around and admitting that he really doesn't want to give back something so instrinsically Japanese, and incredibly valuable, as these ancient scrolls.

2. Any show of emotion from John, will be seen as a weakness and a very Western response, which will only serve to strengthen Morimoto's resolve to keep the scrolls.

3. Japanese like to make deals, and they like to win. I understand this applies to every businessman in every country of the world, but I also have incredible respect for the way in which the Japanese do business. Note I'm not saying I AGREE with how they do things, but I do RESPECT their strength.

There are more rules, but I'm cooking Party Pies right now and want to eat them, so I'll get to the end of the story.

After John had filled me in on all the details, I sat back and thought about his problem. I did not speak, I emptied my glass of Canadian Club and Dry, and drew back on my cigarette.

What you need to do is, choose your words, very carefully when you next speak to him.

For example:

Morimoto-San, we both understand the heritage and importance of these scrolls.

Translation: Dude, we both know you want this shit for yourself, and that's fucked.

Everything that needs to be said, needs to be not said. THAT is Japanese. Wakarimasu?

Eventually I came up with this solution:

John was to go back to Osaka and after making the chit chat with Morimoto he was to say something along the lines of:

I understand it might be difficult for you to find the time to search your house for the scrolls, so after consulting with my Mother, we have decided that it would appropriate for you to lend us an object of similar value from your own personal collection, that we may exhibit it at our Museum until such time as you are able to locate them. Then we would be honoured to return your piece in exchange for the scrolls. Our Gallery patrons will be most excited that they will be able to view a piece from the personal collection of someone such as yourself Morimoto-San. Thankyou for this opportunity.

It's a simple hostage exchange, and believe me, that was basically the basis of Japanese Government for over 800 years. The guy is going to understand, and he's going to have to play ball. It's an honour thing.

Come with me to Japan in August. Believe me, my mother will pay you a handsome reward if we can get these fucking scrolls back, said John.

I polished off my drink, put my jacket on and said, let me sleep on it.

And that's what I'm doing.

Hey, it's nice to have something else to write about from time to time.

x

beep..........beep..........beep.....

2006-04-10T06:17:00.000-07:00

I'm so far away from spilling myself on here I can't even remember how I have done it in the past.

So:

Today I was riding my bike along Brunswick Road and I saw a bumper sticker that read:

If you are reading this in English, it's because of a soldier.

Funny, I thought it was because of a teacher.

I needed to know more, so I rode as fast as I could but just as I pulled up to the window the Volvo sped off.

I hope to see this car again and either

a) learn more about the driver and their patently peace loving mentality
b) piss on the car
c) offer some vaguely witty alternative which should get me run over such as:

If you are reading this in braille, get your hands offa me duco!

I'm sick. That's all. Hope you're well.

Part 17: Becoming a man

2006-03-29T07:15:00.000-08:00

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

2006-03-28T11:07:00.000-08:00

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

2006-03-27T17:09:00.000-08:00

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

2006-03-26T17:05:00.000-08:00

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...

2006-03-23T17:09:00.000-08:00

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

2006-03-22T15:05:00.000-08:00

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

2006-03-16T07:48:00.000-08:00

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

2006-03-14T17:11:00.000-08:00

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

2006-03-12T23:14:00.000-08:00

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

2006-03-09T17:13:00.000-08:00

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

2006-03-05T20:33:00.000-08:00

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.

Part 4

2006-02-24T19:42:00.000-08:00

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

2006-02-15T16:18:00.000-08:00

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

2006-02-08T04:25:00.000-08:00

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

2006-02-07T17:32:00.000-08:00

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.