Last Big Push for the Bush...

It’s a hell of a thing, admitting all this stuff.

In the grasp of a severe fever.

The accumulation of all my fears and failings evacuating themselves en masse from my system, leaving behind the realisation that everything is spent, and nothing stands but what has fallen.

It has made me very sick trying to deny it.

Keeping it in.

Admitting that I have tried my hand at my most persistent dream…

& failed.

Miserably.

The hero returns from his journey, to confess to his friends and loved ones…

He has made a complete hash of it.

Nothing is salvageable.

The shame, desolation…degradation of the dream exposed for the delusion it is.

The illusion not of lofty aspirations toward restorative art…

But smoke and mirrors.

Fiction and fancy.

Sound and fury…

signifying nothing.

As sick as it has made me coming out with it…

I must say it for the sake of my health and well being.

I…HAVE…FAILED.  

I have family here; & it is particularly painful having to admit defeat to them, especially.

So sure I would be the exception…

I am the rule.

The ruler of the rule.

That which I set out to do…remains undone.

& to find in my illness that there is not only nothing left of the dream…

But of the dreamer.

Which leaves me with the inevitable question- as I look about me for something to grasp hold of, some flotsam or jetsam from the wreckage of my furious see- what do I do now?

What AM I to do now?

What AM I?  To do…

Anything??? 

How can I define myself any other way but according to that which I saw myself doing for the remainder of my existence??

As an artist? As writer…as film maker?

Keep on going? 

How?

With what?

There is nothing left.

No other stories worth telling than the ones I failed to tell.

No other medium that comes close to who I am than the one that has beaten me.

So what is there left to do?

Kill myself? 

Please!! 

We all know that is not an option.

It might be a brief existential indulgence…like Morrissey I could jam tulips down my pants and wail about how Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now…

But it is not now a long term solution.

Not MY long term solution, anyway.

I would never kill myself.

Too much of a coward, you see…

So?  What else can I do?  

What everyone else does when they have failed…spectacularly.

What even I have done more times than I care to count.

Start again.

Again.

I could work in McDonalds.

They are hiring; I could do that.

I could flip a burger.

Want fries with that?

Upsize?

I could do it.

Anon.

However…I have one last dream, before I surrender to the corporate machinery.

Before I succumb to the half life of a failed dreamer.

One more dream before the dream is over.

A dream of having my Kurtz moment in the heart of darkness.

I take the last of my money, and buy an airfare.

And head North…on a Northern Safari.

North of Cairns.

The Daintree Rainforest.

This place…

To wander the jungle of my heart and mind…

To drop acid, chew peyote or do whatever the local shaman prescribes…

In order to find out if there is anything left- any shard or remnant- before I don the uniform of fast food militia. Before I enlist in the hurling of grease burgers down the throats of the world…

I want to drop acid in the jungle.

Up North.

Just once; to confirm once and for all, that there is indeed nothing left.  

That I am as I suspect… a phantom devoid of anything resembling soul.

Or artistic ability.

A ghost.

To see if there is indeed anything beneath the failure.

I grasp one last shred of hope that something remains that distinguishes me from the herd…

The zombie horde.

The faithful worshippers of Big Brother & X Factor.

Something…just enough…that might help define me for a new path…

A new direction.

Just a spark of original thought or inclination…

To reinvent myself, according to this new realisation.

That I am not who- or what- I thought I was.  

That the world has changed…

Art has changed…

And I will need to approach creativity in a new way.

To live a life aligned with my desire to live more simply…down to earth in nature.

To rely on myself…& my own resourcefulness.

& never to rely on others again.

Self sufficient.  

A more sustainable artistic life…

A more sustainable life full stop.

Perhaps not the one I was used to, or hoping for…

But one that would nonetheless offer me a new direction to redemption.

Peace with you…   

When When The Road Less Travelled Turns Out to be a Poop Chute.

I don't know about you, but when I'm sick...feverish, & can't sleep...

My mind does a stocktake.

Almost as if...something in my psyche has made me physically sick in the first place, & I am busily trying to rectify it toward a speedier recovery.

I am awake at 4.30 am…

& I’m trying to track back to when I first became a slave to the illusion that not only was the truth sacrosanct…but I had to tell everyone about it.

Like a child with shitty nappies…

I show it off.

My ‘truth’.  Proud as punch.

So what??

It is truth. There is no denying that.

But the question occurs to me louder than ever before…

Why the hell do I imagine anyone else cares about the contents of my diapers??

Here is the thing; about the only time I feel awake, alive, creative…

Is when I write.

And film…I guess, when I get to do it...

But when I’m not filming…I write.

When I am moved…I write about these so-called truths.

That’s fine.  Like keeping score.

Moral inventory.

'The unexamined life', and all that.

Fine. OK.

But when did I become enslaved by the notion that this was of any use to anyone else?

Why do I imagine I am showing any particular special integrity by telling others about my extraordinary inroads into the ‘integrity’??

My truth is hideous enough for me.

Why do I feel duty bound to show it to others?

The real truth?? My search for the truth has been one disaster after another.

I have done more damage to people in pursuit of my integrity than as a result of any lies I told.

A few days ago…I was on the verge of posting these words-

“My truth is the most hideous of ungainly ugliness.

It frightens small children and adults alike.”

Clearly a preamble to what I write now...but I dismissed it.

Not truthful enough.

Somehow…too trivial, ephemeral.

Even pompous.

Or perhaps it was the most truthful…indeed the most USEFUL truthful of any of my indulgences in the realms of candour to date??

 “My truth is the most hideous of ugliness.

It frightens small children and adults alike.”

Spot on, really.

Because over time…somehow…I have come to convince myself that just because I am driven to ‘the truth’…it follows that there is an audience for it.

It has some cache with the public.

Why?

Why would I assume this?

By virtue of the fact that it is what I perceive to be the truth alone?

As if- even were it true, & perception renders it at best, arguable- by virtue of the fact that I had some inherent truth contain therein…it had become automatically publishable?

Consumable?  A commodity?

My quest for truth has been disastrous enough.

I have even captured on film what a nightmare this quest has actually turned out to be.

I real terms, and in real time.

Real emotions, real hurt, real people.

The truth is…I am hideous at relationships; mainly because I am useless at the little deceptions necessary to keep them afloat.

I am honest to a flaw.

And the average relationship cannot last 5 minutes without lies.

And it was this I wanted to capture on film. 

But why??

And...more to the point...where??  As I was asked recently, pointedly...

"Where is this famous film?" 

It hurt, certainly- but truth often does.

For I was asking the self same thing.

Where is this famous fucking film I have been crapping on about for YEARS??

The truth is…I claim to be a film maker…but really…

I am not.

I have spent all the money & time I have, capturing this elusive truth…

When the real truth is…

There is no film.

And it is unlikely there will ever be one.

Because the truth is just too bloody difficult to capture.

On film, video, a box brownie or otherwise. 

At least...I can't seem to manage it. 

Truth is just too tough.

It does not make for a good story.

I wasted my life, my time, and my money on truth.

And I have to show for it…

What?

A lot of crapping on about this ‘famous truth’…when the truth is…

The truth has cost me dearly.

The truth is…

Peel back the layers…searching for truth in relationships, in me, truth in truth…

There is actually nothing left.

I tell people I am a film maker.

Bullshit.

I have not made a film at all.

I have lost almost everything in this quest.

I took the road less travelled...& it turned out to be a poop chute.

A turnpike into nowhere.

I have painted myself into a corner; & there is nowehere left to go. 

Spent a lot of time…

Captured a lot of footage…

But there is no 'film'.

I doubt I will ever live to see any film.

I am not a 'film maker'.

Lie of lies.

I thought I was…but I am not.

Why?

Because of my dogged perserverance to find the elusive truth.

Like capturing time in a bottle.

If i found any kind of truth... 

It is that the lies were a lot easier, less costly, a lot less destructive to other human beings…

& would have made a MUCH better film.

So what am I doing here?

I am sifting through the remnants of my existence, trying to make sense of this mess.

Trying to salvage something from the wreckage of my foolish crusade.

Trying to camouflage the pathetic charade with the cloak of ‘integrity’.

"The truth will set you free…"

Bullshit.

I flew like an eagle on the wings of bullshit.

The truth will bring you down to earth like a lead balloon.

And leave you...

Sick as a dog, at 4.30 no, 4.50 am.

So what conclusion do I arrive at, here??

I have done all sorts of jobs.

All sorts of jobs that I hoped would take me to other, better jobs.

I have made a job out of looking for my job.

Until my so called job became ‘truth hunter’.

A 'made up, invented job'.  Like the ‘crocodile hunter’. With an inherent fallacy contained in the name that escapes all but the rigorous.

Built upon bullshit...escaping all but those trained to scrutinize for bullshit. 

This beast has chewed me up, and spat me out.

And what is left?

Something I knew all along.

I have searched a lifetime to find the truth of who I really am.

And the truth?

Under all the bullshit…

There is nothing here.

Except an overgrown child…

Still showing people the contents of his shitty nappy.

That has never paid off.

Not even in the most pathetic, desperate of scat sites will such a spectacle find an audience…paying or otherwise.

Here I am…a product of the same world I have come to despise.

A man…built on nothing more than the piss and wind of his own…

Nothingness.

And I have the gall to wonder why I never married.

THE 'SNAG' TERMINATOR.

I woke up this morning, like a man with a hangover…

Wondering, ‘what the hell did I do last night?’

My God…what did I say? What did I post on FB?

As if trying to distance myself from my actions, as if they were a momentary lapse of reason.

An emotional blackout.

Or a schizophrenic episode.

But I cannot distance myself from my words. 

They were...ARE...me.

As unattractive as they may seem…

This is who I really am; and it comes out when I am tired, or emotional.

When the defences are down.

Some time ago, I made a promise with myself (& others, for in my opinion we are one and the same) to show my truth, in good times and in bad.

I look now- today- at what I wrote last night...in the cold hard light of day, and wonder…how can I write something like that?

Something so truthful?

That which comes out in the dead of night almost seems to evaporate- to somehow not make sense...the morning after.

Almost as if another person, was out at night, betraying me.

Spreading rumours about me.

But no...it was not someone else.

I cannot distance myself from these words.

They were mine.

What did you do, John?  the voice in my head says.

You bared your soul for all to see?

Are you fuckin' nuts?

But then, is that me talking?

Or the authority figure in my head?

My words are in part a rebellion against my father, who always warned me “TELL THEM NOTHING.” ‘Don’t complain, don’t explain and NEVER apologise!’

(To be fair to dear old dad- he merely echoed the sentiments of the broader community.

And in the end…it turned out to be NOT who he really was.

And his denial of self eventually drove him mad.)

I guess deep down, I hope to avoid the same fate.

By flying in the face of popular opinion, and showing who I really am.

Rather than hiding behind a façade.

But it is not easy.

As Nagisa Oshima said, “Aren’t Directors supposed to search out the path to human freedom…even if it’s difficult…even if it’s painful?”

I incite the anger and judgement of my harshest critic in doing so.

Myself.

But I am not alone in this animosity.

I know how unpopular being open, honest and true to oneself is.

Getting in touch- and staying in touch- with our core being…

And going on the record with what we find.

As if holding myself accountable to others in the process.

In short- I conduct myself in safe passage to a better way of living…

Being…

As if I am being watched.

I engage- with due sense of caution and dread- upon my quest, as if every move is being scrutinised.

I understand how this confuses most people, in their inexplicable lust for privacy.

Why on earth hide who you really are?

What point are 'you', if no one else sees it?

Did you really exist?

Who knew about it?

Who knew you???

Have you actually allowed anyone to see you??

Really SEE you??

I have always had the nagging suspicion this is important.

Nay…CRUCIAL.

Despite its patent unpopularity.

Most of the women I have dated- whenever I attempted to be open, or candid- would ask me point blank ‘why are you doing this’?

As if I were plotting a child abduction.

They seemed ill equipped to grasp my yen for complete candour.

Affirming my belief that most people claim to want the truth…

But actually don’t.

Why am I doing this?

It could be a mutiny against the lies inherent in the system.

However, I am more inclined to believe it is nothing more than my S.O.P.

My prime directive.

Inexorable, unrelenting…

like some kind of Sensitive New Age Terminator.

‘It’s what he does! It’s ALL he does!’

And FB- for better or worse- seems to be where I do it.

Ironic, to find out I seem to use the social media not only to have a better relationship with other people…but also with myself.

I seem hell-bent on finding out who I really am.

& what I really think, and feel.

I thought last night’s post was about funerals.

It actually turned out to be about no weddings.

After a lifetime of denial- apparently it bothers me that I never married.

Amazing how hard we will fight to be absolutely anything other than who we really are.

Also amazing how- in the end- we cannot allow ourselves that denial forever.

Eventually… we HAVE to meet ourselves…

Ultimately…we have no choice.

I could stop at any time…

but I don’t.

I also can’t turn back, now the work has begun.

It is no longer about anyone else- who I offend, whom I may impress with my sentiments…

But about me.

Even if I end up alone, as I have always been…

with nothing more than my truth…my fundamental truth…no matter how ugly or pathetic…

It seems to be imperative.

What is important is the truth of who I really am.

Warts and all.

And as for my yen, my desire for companionship...

what of that??

I am reminded of the wonderful Spaulding Gray, in that amazing movie 'TRUE STORIES', when he talks about how Texas; 

He tells of how God took a night off from making the world, & when he came back the next morning, he saw the earth had hardened like concrete.

He thought...'what will I do?' 

Then he had a brain wave. He said "I know; I'll make some people that like it this way."     

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hvU10OzGDv4

I think I need to be very clear on who I really am, and try to defend that.

Take pride in it.

Keep on marching on this, my blurred crusade.

And who knows? 

Maybe God made someone who likes me this way!

My thanks to you, dear friends, for helping me with this...

:)

The wonders of the Internet.

I was looking at my friends list today, and it occurred to me what amazing people I know.

I’m not going to do you all at once- I would find it far too tiring to do you all in one go- but let me just pick DA as an example.

She is fascinating. Intelligent. Artistic. Passionate. Driven.

I hate to reduce her to a stereotype, but as I will never know her well enough to do much more, she is the Sigourney Weaver character in Ghostbusters to me. She is Dana to my Venkmann. (only she would know whether or not- and how often- she transforms into a Demon.)

I would NEVER in real life be able to meet and associate with such a fascinating human being in the real world. I am just not interesting enough myself.

But here…I can be the person I imagine myself to be, with people I want to attract to myself- in just the kind of world I desire.

That’s what the Internet does for me.

What about you??

Brain Tumouresque.

There has been a lot of death in the family lately.

We have already established that.

I told someone yesterday I was concerned for my mother- but was NOT afraid of death for myself.

I went as far as to say…basically…I didn’t give a shit about death.

I was ready for it.

The typical macho bullshit some men crap on with occasionally.

Even as I said it…I began to have doubts.

But I dismissed them.

These doubts must have been legitimate.

I dreamt last night I was in a surgery, waiting for some tests to come through.

Of course there were the usual problems with the tests not coming out right, no staff around to talk to, etc…you know how hospitals run. (if you are lucky enough to live in a country where you don’t have to be RICH to see the inside of one.)

Finally the correct tests came through, and I found someone to talk to about it.

A nurse looked at the tests, and said, ‘we will look at getting a special toilet installed in your home over the next few weeks.’

I was dumbfounded. I asked, ‘why’???

She replied, ‘Because you are going to shit yourself uncontrollably.’

I shat myself uncontrollably for time number one. ‘WHY THE FUCK WOULD I DO THAT??’

‘That’s what people with a Brain Tumour do.’

My heart discourteously stole the Brain Tumour’s inexorable thunder by stopping.

Momentarily.

Then it started up again, with the questions.

‘I have a tumour?' 

‘Yes, didn’t the doctor tell you?’

‘NO!!’  I calmed myself a little, and inquired, ‘Where is it?’

Then it was that guessing game, as I went through all the regions of the cerebellum. ‘warmer…' the nurse murmured tight lipped as I went through all the possibilities. '...warmer…getting warmer…warmer…’

Finally…I was able to establish the tumour was in my left ear.

Then the nurse had a brain wave- pardon the pun;

‘Come with me, we’ll find a Doctor.’

There’s an idea.

So we went looking for a Doctor.

Suddenly, I became seized with panic.

I let the nurse hurry on out of sight, and I went in another direction.

In a fever, I was turning things over in my mind. All the usual Kubler Ross bizzo; ‘why me, what’ll I do, who’ll look after the kids…oh wait, I don’t have any etc…’

I looked down, and found two cigarettes in my hand.

Oh well, why not, I thought. Can’t hurt me now.

But I did not have a lighter.

I found two women on the street smoking, and asked if they had a light.

They looked at me suspiciously as if I might infect them.

I wandered on alone.

Completely and utterly alone in the universe.

Turns out…I DO care.

All the rest is bullshit.

UTTER bullshit.

So much for my alleged aversion to bullshit.

That, too, is bullshit.

Sometimes- we forget who we really are.

And it takes who we really are to remind us…politely.

I woke up…'ah…it was all a dream’.

Thank God.

What? Now I believe in God, too????

Yikes.

The point of all this?

Watch what you say, if you shoot your mouth off thoughtlessly...indiscriminately...like I do.

Your subconscious might have a different opinion.     

Like me, you might actually find…

You value your life more than you think.

Written with love for myself, & my mates.

YOUR DEEPEST DARKEST FEAR...

Last night, I had this dream.

I got up in the morning, and looked at the newspaper.  (It wasn't that free local thing we get down here in the arsehole of the world; it was one of those big city bog rolls.) 

And there on the FRONT COVER- it was announced they had irrefutable proof that my brute of a Father and I were indeed the same person. 

They had it all; facts, figures.

Photographs, statistics, graphs, charts and interviews.

All of it.

For the world to see.

Clearly...this is my deepest darkest fear.

I knew that already.

My job is to get past it to the other side.

Set myself free. Or die trying.

Which is part of the reason I am here.

So...

Why are YOU here?

What praytell is your deepest darkest fear?

What is blocking YOU??

What imprisons YOU from being 'all that you can be'??

Do tell.

Sheepish Shoe Feetish.

OK. Confession time. 

I love looking at women's shoes.

Not a sexual thing...& not necessarily while they are wearing them.

And I DO NOT wear them. (I'd tell you if I did it would be no biggie. I just don't.)

I just reckon some of them are miracles of design. 

(I love all sorts of design...i collect hats, & certain toys, and marvel at the ingenuity of the design.) 

So if i'm in a thrift store..I browse the womens shoes.

Don't buy...just look.

(Altho, every so often, I find a really lovely set for a steal- & for my money, the Italians are the best at making them- & i can't help myself.)

So...if the shoe fits, I guess..

;)  

OK, I wrote this at 2am, so it should be the truth.

I never told a lie at 2 in the morning.

2 in the morning is a lie.

And so am I.

Listen.

I try to keep fairly positive, but the truth is, well…

Let me put it this way; I usually post exactly the way I’m feeling at any given moment.  & people can tell what sort of mood I’m in by what I say.

I know they can; I have heard them say it.

They must care, right?  To even notice?

Then again, if there is one thing people love…it is to catch someone in their insanity.

It’s a victory for their own mental health.

To catch another loon with his pantaloons down is mental money in the bank.

I’m not here to win points…so I will speak freely.

Loons around my ankles.  

I carry a lot of darkness.  

I know that.  Because it is my truth. 

I feel pretty dark most of the time.

People often tell me to lighten up- right around the time they hit the lights and walk out the door. 

And really…who can blame them for walking out on me?

So…

Why So Serious???

It wasn’t just paedophile priests, abusive parents, corrupt cops & fucked up relationships that bent me outta’ shape; it’s more than that.

I think it is the fact that there is so much hate…

& so little love in the word that has cast a pall over my existence.    

Now…is this reality…or simply my perception?

Is there even a distinction between the two??

You see, I have ALWAYS been sensitive; even as a little kid.

When Dad would kick the shit out of Mum…I used to feel it.

Funny that.

Even more than when he would get around to me.

Look…

I can feel cruelty even when it is happening in a foreign land.

I can FEEL it.

I’m not so sure it’s necessarily a bad thing…

But I’m not convinced it’s all that good, either.

It…

just…

IS.

Times have not changed as I have grown old.

People are still cruel to one another…

& I STILL feel it.  

People are STILL kicking the shit out of one another today…in far greater numbers than I ever imagined…and I feel it even MORE now than I did as a child.

Now…

I would LOVE to be positive, think unicorns and rainbows and Zen Koans…

But all I can hear is the sound of one hand slapping.

If someone is suffering out there…

I can feel it.

I really can.

Well, actually- the Buddhists believe life is suffering.

So…what about love?

More suffering.

I have tried love…but love seems to hurt almost as much as hate.

Sometimes more so.

How the hell do they get so confused?

How do WE get so confused?

I have tried to love unconditionally…but frankly? 

I seem to be conditioned against it.

Maybe I should try loving air conditionally.

Even when I try…

To love, I mean…

When I speak of love- people look at me like I’m an insane person. 

Who wants that?

I’m only human. I don’t want to be ostracised.

For trying to love.

Is it really such a foreign notion?

How long will it stay so?

How long do I have to keep wandering about in the darkness?

Where is everybody?

I am getting to the point where I am wondering if it is really even worth going on. 

A man is supposed to live 70 odd years…but I’m getting really tired; & I’m nearly finished now.

I’m tired of all the hate and cruelty in this world.

I can’t even find much love inside myself any more.

And I have really been looking.

No gallstone unturned.

I can’t seem to do it properly.

Let go.

Let love.

??

I have let go.

I have held on.

I have waved my arms about frantically…

Like a boat person bobbing about in the icy cold waters of disillusionment…

& I have tied them behind my back.

I have jumped up and down, and gone placidly amidst the haste.

I have tried…& I have NOT tried.

I have yelled, and whispered.

I have loved…until it came out as hate.

I have hated…until love broke like new dawn.  

And then realised…it was not love at all.

Camouflage. 

I have hated love, and loved hate.

And vice versatile.

I’m not even certain where one ends…& the other begins.

Who measures that?

And how?

How long does it take?

HOW MANY hearts break??

How many careless whispers, or misheard lyrics?

When the heart strings become jangled…what then?

When do we know?

How long do we beat each other up?

How long do we leave each other alone?

How many quiet places until we realise we need each other…& how many madding crowds before we just go away?

The way so few human beings even care about one another…

Hell, I don’t know ME let alone you…

Who am I kidding?

I don’t know shit.

I feel like a truly insane person even clinging to this life raft I call ‘love’ in this vast ocean of ambivalence & unkindness.

I need a miracle. A sign; just one sign to tell me it’s worth going on.

& I need it now…