THE HUMANITARIAN DILEMMA

IT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH GAY MARRIAGE AND I KNOW IT. 

People will always bitch about insignificant things because it makes them feel important, and it keeps our attention away from the BIGGER, more important issues.

I've done it myself. 

It's human.

We crap on about the petty stuff...

Because it keeps our attention away from the BIGGER problems.

The insoluble ones.

Like GENOCIDE. 

Cruelty.

Inhumanity.

Most people just turn away.

Sadly..I cannot do it for long. 

I think it was watching Dr James Orbinski last night, and his humanitarian work in Rwanda & Somalia. Listening to him trying to come to terms with treating a woman in the field in the middle of GENOCIDE...who has had her ears and her breasts hacked off with a machete and is covered in seven varieties of dried semen...

& seeing people today waving banners about the right to sign CONTRACTS??? 

sheesh. 

It became too much for me, I'm afraid.

Overwhelming. 

In my life...

I feel peaceful and happy for a while...

but then man's inhumanity to man sneaks into my room at night and nudges me awake. 

I was always a sensitive lad...& I can't lie straight in bed without feeling it. 

That wave of cruelty and brutality I KNOW is out there. 

It's either a mood disorder...or I cannot stand the fact there is so much unkindness...& I don't know what to do about it. 

Here's to finding peace in doing our bit to right the wrongs, I guess... 

Don't sweat the big stuff.

If you're unlucky...It'll sweat YOU.

Fertility Right; (what we talk about when we talk about our dick...)

I am utterly exhausted with writing my book- and the last thing I want to do is write.

I just want to close my eyes and sleep.

The problem is, the book is dealing with EVERYTHING.  From my abuse as a child, to my tortured middle years, to my fumbling for some kind of redemption.

Yesterday, I posted something about gratitude.

When I am tired…

I am trying to force myself to be grateful.

Something weird was the 'dick' reference.

I don’t censor or judge what I post…I just do it.

 

That way...I know it's coming from a truthful place.

No matter what the consequences.

 

Then I wonder…why did I write that?

Then the guilt.

The fear I made no sense…

Or shame. Or embarrassment.

There is nothing as off putting to other people as talking about your genitals.

And it bothered me; why did I talk about that?

I even added Robin Williams from the 'Fisher King'.

Then I thought about it…'Fisher King'.

Flapping his dick in the wind.

When I spoke of this…

It was NOT intended to be titillating, or evocative.

I have NEVER been sexy- not now, not ever.

So I am under no illusions about being in any way teasing or tempestuous.

But I do have a dick, and it does get hard.

So what?

Well, I will tell you.

I am fascinated by signs and symbols.

And mythology.

Sometimes, saying something random (seemingly channelled from the subconscious) makes sense in ways other than what you would immediately assume.

The comment was less about sex…& more about fertility. 

The Fisher King is basically a fertility myth.

I am fascinated by it, because I don’t really get it.

Most scholars agree, this myth is elusive; there are many versions of it, and it has been claimed by everyone from Christianity to Hollywood.

I have been fascinated by the myth, trying to understand it.

I even read a child’s version of it as a kid- Goff the little guardsman.

But…we DO know that the Fisher King was wounded in battle…interestingly enough, in the genitals…rendering him impotent, and the land infertile.

Why was it so important?

Celebrating my bounty- indeed, celebrating the ability to get an erection is essentially a pagan fertility rite. 

They didn’t have the same hang-ups about sexuality we do today; in their day, getting you dick to rise was no different than the sun rising.

A part of nature.

Think of Chaucer; he was not considered bawdy, so much as earthy. 

Natural.

In my own case…I see parallels between my life and the myth.

I see a long period of darkness- of drought, and failing crops…

All of a sudden…the wound is healed, and not only I…but the kingdom also seemeth fertile.

My creativity also fertile. 

Like the Fisher King myth…this is a myth of redemption.

This is what my book is.

A redemptive journey.

PLUS…it is also considered a fertility myth.

If you read the myth…

The Fisher King

The Fisher King is a character found in several mythological sources, mostly Celtic in origin. However, he is best known from Arthurian mythology, particularly in the story of Perceval. There are several versions even of that story, but the basic elements are consistent.

According to the story, Sir Perceval is out questing for the Holy Grail, as are all of Arthur's knights.

While traveling, Perceval comes across a strange, ruined land.

In the midst of this land he discovers a castle, and inside there is an old man. The old man has a regal bearing, but is deathly ill; in some versions of the story, his hands are wounded.

The old lord invites Perceval to stay the night. The old man even gives the knight a special sword. After dinner, Perceval witnesses a strange procession.

A youth enters the hall, carrying a white lance that holds a single drop of blood on its tip. Next, two more youth enter bearing golden candelabra. Finally, a beautiful maiden enters bearing a dazzling golden cup.

Perceval wants to ask about these items, but he holds his tongue for fear of offending the old man.

The next morning, Perceval awakes to discover that everyone is gone. He leaves the castle, which then disappears.

Later, he encounters a woman who informs him that the lance was the one that pierced Jesus' side, and that the cup was no less than the Holy Grail itself.

If Perceval had simply asked about these things, he could have brought about the healing of the old man, who is the Fisher King.

If the King were healed, then the land would be healed as well.

Percival wondered what this was all about, what the strange objects were, and why the fisherman should be denied healing, but he unsure whether he should speak or not, so he held his tongue and did not ask for information or explanation. He guessed what the glowing cup was and wondered how it could heal, but felt shy and uncertain, so did not ask. In the morning, Percival arose. He found the castle deserted, mounted his horse, and rode out the gate. Behind him, the castle faded into the mist and disappeared.

The farther he rode, the more Percival realized that he had failed his guest and himself.

 

The greatest mystery and quest of his life lay behind him. But the castle was now gone and when he might again come across the old fisherman, he could not guess. Percival continued his training in knight errantry however and for many years fought and jousted with the knights and armies of Arthur's enemies.

 

Twenty years passed. Gradually, as the years passed, he grew grey and tired of the constant warring and suffering. He lost the certainty that he was fighting for the forces of the light and that the enemy knights he faced were defending the dark. The faces of the enemy began to remind him of his own friends and his younger opponents reminded him of the faces of his own children.

 

He felt the meaning go out of his work and life and began to question whether he should retire to a small house in the forest where he could sit and rethink his life.

Old King Arthur however asked him to go on one more quest, and so he set out late in the afternoon. At twilight, he stumbled across a small lake where none should be, and there near the shore was a small boat with the figure of a man in the stern.

 

It was the same fisherman he had encountered twenty years before, looking unchanged from the first time he had seen him. Percival hailed the fisherman again, asking for a place to stay the night.

 

Again, the Fisher King invited him to stay the night at his house: "just down the road a little way, turn left, and cross the drawbridge."

That night, Percival again witnessed the strange procession, the bringing of the Grail, and the healing of the guests. This time, when the King failed to rise, the aged Percival rose and spoke:

 

"Whom does the Grail serve?"

A voice sounded in the silence: "The Grail serves the Grail King!"

At his question, the crippled King rose from his litter, healed.

 

The court erupted in cheers and all gave thanks. For many years, the castle had waited for a hero who would come and ask this question. Outside, the Land began to change, as fields and pastures began to form in the midst of the forest, crops sprung up, and wildlife returned.

 

Gradually, over the next three days, the castle slowly settled firmly onto its foundation and life returned to the old kingdom. Free of pain, the Fisher King celebrated his healing, but again part of this world; he rapidly aged and after three days, died an old man.

Percival retired to his forest home with his family and was happy, seeing that his life had led up to this moment: despite all the years he had spent fighting useless battles benefiting no one, he had finally had the opportunity to serve something greater than himself.

 

How was I healed?  How was I restored to fertility, to being bountiful?

Because I ASKED the questions.

But it is essentially a fertility myth.

Further…

Archetypally the Fisher King is not only the guardian of the grail mysteries…but is a father god who’s potency is restored when the feminine principle which is also part of him (as manifested in the grail) is freed, and when it is re-united with the masculine principle, as symbolised by the lance, It is only when the wound heals that fertility and abundance are restored.

This is why I never question what I write when it seems to spring from somewhere…beyond my control.  When I post something despite myself, seemingly from some other place.

Because I know it has some deeper meaning.

That is why I’m not keen on censorship.

I might post stuff.

I might think- ‘WOW!  What’s that all about??’

I have faith.

I don’t mind being embarrassed, or made a fool of by my words.

You are welcome to laugh, cry, hurl…

Judge.

Even turn and walk away.

I can take it.

I live alone, have no family, no real life friends.

Like some kind of weird shaman…

I plumb these depths looking for the connections.

Trying to do the hard, painful work…in the hope that I have something of value to pass on.

I told you I wanted to be thankful for my bounty.

(fertility)

I wanted to share it.

This is what I share.

I beg you to allow your ideas and creativity to flow.

Let it out.

No matter what.

Others think of it.

YOU think of it.

Expressing yourself is all that really matters.

The only duty you owe yourself.

Let your freak flag fly.

It might seem weird, bizarre, and even offensive.

But I promise you…eventually, if you are disciplined and determined…

Patient…

It will make sense.

And it will tell you/show you what to do next.

How to be who you need to be.

‘There are no accidents’.

Have faith. 

It always means something…if it comes from the subconscious, and try not to second guess it.  

Have faith in the story.

YOUR story…

9:11 in the morning...

I still get a chill when the time is 9:11. 

It happened again this morning.

What must it be like for people who actually LIVE/D in the Apple? 



I believe in America. 

I believe she will be restored to her former glory. 

I truly believe that. 

(If I didn't...I would not allow myself to be shamed, molested and humiliated at customs every visit.  I would just stay home.  There are cheaper ways to be defiled- and much closer to home.) 

I keep coming back because I love America. 

It's as simple as that. 

As a Foreigner, (I won't say 'friend', because I am treated like an enemy at the airport- even though I come from a country who went with you on that bloodthirsty excursion into Iraq to hunt for the Fruit Loops of Evil...)...

As a Foreigner...

I can look at things many of you consider ugly.

And I think they are beautiful.

America IS still for the most part VERY beautiful.

Most of the people are just wonderful.  

I can see things you can't see. 

You're too close. 

But I can show you.

Remind you. 

And I'm telling you- you have everything you need to turn it all around again.

Speaking from personal experience- as someone who has gotten his shit together...

I KNOW this.

You CAN recover.

Provided, while you are looking at things like your homeland security...

you can take a look at a few home truths as well. 

And I will continue to do the same.

I hope we ALL will.

Fuck Hemingway.

 

 

It is almost impossible to work at home with a new carpet going in.

I have my doubts about the value of posting inconsequential crap like this...except for the fact that it reminds me what Bukowski said about writing.

You should be able to write in a war zone.

Which is what he and I- at one time or another- both felt we were already doing.

Abused children cogent enough to write about it talk about 'war'.

'The war in my head'.

'My childhood was like a war zone'.

I have said it.

Another part of me says 'fuck that'.

That's the duality, right there.

Understanding 'war', and the mythologising of war.

We have all done it, at one time or another.

(well, most men have...)

My Father believed it to such an incredible degree...he actually TOLD people he had been to Vietnam. When of course he had not.

Most people who talk about a 'war zone' have NO idea about war.

People who have actually BEEN to a war- don't even want to talk about it.

And anyone who would imagine themselves in a war they had never experienced...

Has a screw loose.

There is NOTHING beautiful about war.

Fuck Hemingway.

Don't give it any more energy than it already has.

Despite everything society tells you...

War is never a good thing.

Never.

Not even in your own mind.



     

Know How...

Blessed are the forgiving, for they shall inherit...

actually, I don't think these kind of people give a damn about their inheritance. That's how they can be so forgiving.

They know how to let go of things...  

Drama, right?? (for Bukowski)

 

Some people just become addicted to the struggle. 

I wouldn't know what to do with a happy ending even if I had one. 

Drama, right? 

Who watches a film without drama?  (unless you are a Tarkovsky fan.) 

Remember how Bukowski battled right to the end- even when there was no one left to do battle with but himself? 

'War All The Time', he wrote? 

Peace- like war- is a choice.  

I worry that I choose that which brings out the best writing in me.

For it's own sake.

Which makes me no better than the war mongers, really.

Like those people who say you have to go mad to write a decent book.

I like the idea that peace (like LOVE) is an elusive dream...

a will-o-the-wisp...

always just out of my reach.

Something to strive for.

& I am Puck. 

Or 'Fuck'.

Because I'm telling you- when I actually GET A TASTE of it...

I always fuck it up.

I remember how when I was a child- marriage between my parents was synonymous with conflict.

Throughout the hammering and screaming from the room next door...somehow it was woven into my consciousness that you cannot have love without war.

I'm still to this day not certain how you can separate them.

Remember how Bukowski came from a traumatic upbringing?

I'm not as tough as Bukowski- I could never hit a woman- but I can see where he comes from.

Bukoswki did finally find peace.

Linda Lee said she saw it in his face when he died.

We're all 'living on luck'. 

& the luckiest find that peace a little before their final breath.

The Devil Wants You For a Sex Toy...

I wish I were more like Lemmy, but in reality- I'm mostly like Pooh Bear.  Always getting my fat arse stuck in tight spots looking for the honey pot. 

I guess in the end...all you can do is be yourself.  Play to your strengths...learn from your weaknesses.  One day you won't know the difference. 

So suck it up, roll the dice, let the chips fall where they may, mix all your metaphors and play like the devil wants you for a sex toy.

Because he does.

Snake Oil Salesman

Sometimes I crap on as If I'm some kind of guru. 

I go back over old stuff and read it- & I see this. 

Maybe I'm being too hard on myself- but I don't think so. 

My bullshit detector is sharp, and I'm always on the lookout for it. 

At home...and away. 

That's fair- don't you think?

Sometimes I speak of 'letting go' as if I'm some kind of fucking expert.

But I think I ought to tell you...

Every day I struggle with my base self.

Every goddamn day- every second of the day...

Listen to this; only five minutes ago, I almost said something unkind to someone.

It came from a hateful, spiteful self satisfied egotistical holier than thou kind of place.

Not at all from a loving, gentle, kind place.

I had to bite the tongue in my head before I spat the poison out.

Who cares where it came from; faulty parenting or the formaldehyde in my lager. 

It comes up...a little more often than I like.

And I have to be on my guard, all the time- so it doesn't get out. 

Like a basket full of snakes- & I really STRUGGLE to control them. 

It's just habit; I guess I can set the basket down...but I have been carrying them for so long...

I actually have myself convinced it is preferable to carrying nothing at all.

Until I set the basket down...I can never hope to love.

And love- like Latin- is a dying language
 
Part of that struggle- what helps me- is this blog.

This blog is pretty much exactly as I intended it to be- right from the very start.

A kind of diary, filled with messages, observations lessons for ME.

It's written like it's for everyone...

(Actually I'm not sure why that is.) 

Maybe because...I figured if I wrote it like I was aiming it at everyone else...

It would seem like it came from someone who knew what they were talking about.

Instead of me. 

Because most of this stuff is NOT what I do...

But what I aspire to do. 

And be. 

Every day.

I WRITE DOWN the man I want to be...

So that one day...it will stick.

So when I say 'let go'...

I'm mainly talking to me.

And it's no picnic. 

Negativity plagues me.

I cannot sleep lately; I'm not sure what the problem is.

But I can tell you this...those negative thoughts slither in like bad company.

And I spend the night trying to fight them, block them, cuddle them...

Yes, even make friends with them...

Until I don't know what to do.

And then, when I get too tired for words...

I pass out. 

I try to let love in...

But it 'aint that easy.

It takes time.

I think I miss the PHYSICAL side of love.

I cuddle a teddy.

Yes...A TEDDY.

Like I did when I was a boy.

It's OK...but I miss having a person, flesh and blood to cuddle.

If you don't cuddle someone occasionally...

You wither up and die.

The boffins have proven this- somehow.

The irony is...until the snakes are all gone....

Love will be too frightened to take residence.

& I don't blame her.

So what do I do?

I keep this blog.

There it is.

I might sound like I know what I'm talking about...

But I write like a person being chased by things that want to take a bite outta' my arse.

Because they do.

One day...

It'll all come together.

Or so Teddy tells me...

 

Intercourse With The Dead.

Broken promises... 

Words so full of possibility, without substance...they break over time in little increments.

Our bones, the brittle child-like sense of expectation, that finally snap with the realisation...

Twas all for naught.

the bitter memory we carry of the casual, careless utterances that sail triumphantly from the mouths of fools- flawed vessels on waves of empty passion that break on the shores of our vulnerability.

Like compound fractures- we can carry them around like nonsense memory.

The dull ache of the pain of a lost hope...

we carry around with us...

Words that once seemed like a new born infant, stagger on like zombies eternally, kept alive by our child like belief in them.

They can stunt our growth, and we walk eternal with the limp of bitter disappointment.

In time, if we hold onto these fractures long enough, we become conversant ourselves in the art of the broken promise. 

And others limbs we break in turn.

A world of staggering disability & disbelief.

We need to be so very careful that the language of the fractured expectation is not the only language we become conversant with. 

There are many languages out there.

Lies are one.  Truth another. 

Faith, peace and hope.

And if we must hold onto the bitter pain of the broken promise- & many among us MUST- then we would do well to ensure we do not break the most important promises of all. 

The ones we make with ourself.

To attempt to keep a promise with another without doing it for oneself- like trying to love another without first having self love- is like having intercourse with the dead.

Without their consent.  

Perverse.

My Life Lesson...

Learning

Spurning

Burning

Yearning.

Wipe Your Muddy Boots, You Look Like a Pilgrim...

 

 

We don't HAVE to do a thing. 

Not a bloody thing. 

Obligation is something we picked up somewhere out there in the wild, like shit on our boots. 

I'll bet that in most cases- like me- obligation is based upon the expectations of others. 

Not our own. 

If I'm wrong- scrape me off your boots like all the other crap. 

But if I'm right...lets do something about it. 

Today. 

Right now.

We don't want to track this shit all over the bloody house.

LET YOURSELF GO...

 

 

People are NEVER going to do what you want them to do...

be what you want them to be...

Nor should you expect them to. 

So unless you pay them, sign a contract or somehow otherwise hold them to ransom...

then let them go.

They owe you NOTHING.

NO ONE owes you a goddamn thing.

You owe yourself the gift of liberation.   

Every time you feel yourself yearning for some unfulfilled promised...

Groaning under the weight of expectation..

Feel a twinge of pain at their failure to fulfil some vague emotional contract...

Let it go. 

Let them go. 

LET YOUSELF GO. 

It's truly liberating.

Real freedom.

Try it. 

You won't be sorry.   

TRUE CONFESSIONS OF A BOOK HOARDER

My friend Tim has prompted me to make a confession. 

It is high time I came 'out of the closet'...and confessed to the world...

I am a collector of books...

but very SELDOM a reader! 

I AM an avid ARCHIVER, who has read only a FRACTION of his collection! 

In a way- I am a fraud. 

I admit it.

I just LOVE buying books, and putting them on shelves! 

I love collecting them, leafing through them, reading snippets of them...but so very rarely do I read them right through! 

I feel a twinge of guilt when I hear of others voraciously devouring the written word...

Those who work the golden seam of knowledge, creativity, ideas...

The eternal dialogue. 

I write plenty of my own words...but seldom absorb others. 

I confess, there is a part of me that worries that the writing of others might somehow dilute my own work- take something away from my own voice. 

That I might start to sound like someone else. 

It has taken me a LIFETIME to find my own inner voice...

to listen to it...

LET ALONE to record it with any kind of accuracy!!

I have a latent fear (i guess from childhood conditioning) of being a copy-cat- so I resist the influence of others, that my own style might remain pure. 

I have a feeling that the words I have read to date have furnished me with the sufficient tools for carrying out the art or writing satisfactorily, & the only task remaining is to hone my own voice, and retain it's integrity, it's purity.

If it might indeed boast such a thing.

But my sense of 'integrity' feels somehow challenged when I look at my vast army of untried, untested pulp & ink soldiers. 

Why do I do it?

It has to be more than some sense of artistic sanitation. 

It HAS to be. 

Even the greatest writers dip into the words of others at regular intervals. 

Why don't I??

Because I think also, at my core- I am strictly a book aesthete. 

I cannot bear the thought of an abandoned book.

I never could.

Nothing breaks my heart more than a book in a bin.

I don't care what it is...what subject, matter...I have to rescue it.

I cannot bear to be in a shop, and see a bargain...a book that is beautiful, in it's first run, in good condition, obviously of substance, fairly cheap, one that I will likely never read...

and allow it to just sit there!! 

A recent purchase of a beautiful mint condition edition of the life of George Gershwin...

I have only a passing interest and acquaintance with the man and his work...

& yet for a dollar I simply HAD to give it a home!!

My home is an orphanage for abandoned books! 

A repository of ideas! 

I cannot handle a volume without thinking...

"My GOD!!  The work that went into this!  The man hours devoted to fashioning such a wonderful piece of art!  THIS IS A SLICE OF SOMEONES EXISTENCE!"

And I have to take it home with me.

I am a HOARDER of the printed page!

My first job was a Librarian- perhaps I am still one!

Like the character in the Brautigan book The Abortion: An Historical Romance 1966



a man whose home was a 7/11 repository for the collective unconscious- a place for occasional scribes to submit their work for storage...

In the name of posterity...

A safe deposit box of true wealth. 

A bank of beauty. 

I delight in it...and yet somehow, carry a certain degree of shame! 

Like I am somehow a kind of fraud! 

Freud suggested that abused children 'collect' things and surround themselves in an attempt to hold onto...something...

we line our shelves with them, as a kind of protective wall against the oppressive, cruel outside world.  We live in a cave fashioned of our own sense of beauty...

insulated by friendly non toxic material- the one place we can function. 

We line our living space with materials that will remain; that will not desert, or let us down. 

And books will never do that. 

People let me down constantly, so I have given up relying on them; but books NEVER do. 

Whether it is an illness, an addiction, or just plain glorious madness...

I simply LOVE books.

My name is John; & I'm a biblioholic...

Time to get the BIG STICK out and spank a few bottoms again...

RIGHT!! 

Pay attention. 

I'm telling you this YET AGAIN for your own good, because I'm a mate.

Ease up on yourself, for heaven's sake!!!

I understand poor body image- I have been there myself. 

But ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!!

The way some of you ride yourself about yourself...

It beggars belief. 

It defies comprehension.

Would you let someone else talk to you that way?

I'm willing to bet NO!!!!!!!!!!!!

So why do it to yourself?

What are you...SCHIZO???

If you are- my apologies- and carrying on, Sybil.

But the rest of you????  JESUS WEPT SALTY TEARS IN HEAVEN! 

I have NO IDEA what most of you are talking about!

It's like you are talking gibbersih you found on another planet!!

Listen to me;

you are BEAUTIFUL JUST AS YOU ARE. 

Every single one of my friends is quite wonderful in every way- & yet I reckon 75% of you have some gripe or other about your weight, your butt, your boobs or your face...

It's madness.  Sheer bloody madness.

I see it all the time.

And it's UNNECESSARY. 

There is NOTHING wrong with any of you- you look just as you are supposed to, and life is unfolding for you exactly as it is supposed to. 

Trust me on this.

You're not a horse- so stop riding yourself like one. 

It does nothing for me...& I would be very surprised if it was doing anything positive for you OR for anyone else.  So JUST STOP IT. 

You look fantastic- JUST AS YOU ARE. 

So cheer up, lighten off, and go do something constructive for someone else. 

And GET OFF YOURSELF, as we say downunda.

If you cannot hear this...then it is not your body that needs attention.

It's your ATTENTION.

Go forth and prosper...

Heart.   

An Asbestos Flack Jacket for those Going to Hell...

If the fundamentalist image of God is one who is all seeing and all knowing and can do & create or destroy anything, 'he' can stop ALL the misery in the world.

It is THAT simple.

That 'he' would have some higher knowing or understanding beyond our ken, & is somehow 'testing' us, is nothing more than Vivisection.

Torture.  

That 'he' does not intervene in such terrible suffering would be like a mortal parent allowing a criminal to come into their home and stab their children to death. 

This is abhorrent to even the feeble minded, and all but the deranged.

I want no part of such a cowardly human being, nor such a deranged God. 

If I am sent to Hell for not beliving in such an omnipotent scumbag- then I look forward to rubbing shoulders with other like-minded souls who believe suffering is wrong. 

I will gladly burn for all eternity to uphold the dictum that allowing others to suffer is CRIMINAL.

Althought I may at times fall short...MY religion is always KINDNESS.

'It is not that simple, John' I am told by Theologians.

Well...my God is simple, and can be understood by even the most moronic and brain damaged amongst our flock; for my God is LOVE. 

And the devil is quite simply...

LIES.

MY DAILY BREAD

Every day is a learning experience, if you are able to open up and receive.

Sometimes these lessons come from the most unexpected of places; but typically, they come from people who you just KNOW have wonderful things to offer.

 

This is for my mate Dave- part thanks, part apology. 

 

I'm not sure how long I have been mates with Dave- I haven't looked it up- but it feels like a long time. 

 

I feel like he has been there forever.

 

People speak of 'old souls'.  Maybe he is one.

 

Maybe I am one.

 

Who cares; the point is...

 

I am always happy to see him. 

It reminds me of Eric Oldthwaite's Father’s attempt to explain to Eric how some people are just a pleasure to see in ‘Ripping Yarns’.

‘Oh, there goes such and such…isn’t it grand to see him!’

A very child-like, innocent country style emotion.

The child in me thinks Dave is pretty cool.

When I was a kid, there was a guy in my class who was just simply ‘cool’.

His name was John Betros, and he was so hip. I admired him and his musical tastes immensely.

He introduced me to grass for the first time.

He came back from the city with the first punk haircut in our little country town.

Dave is like him, in a way.

(the coolness, not the dope thing; I don't know if he smokes dope, shoots heroin or juggles cats. but i do know he loves good music and is a terrific man)

Yesterday, when I saw him, I lit up like a Roman Candle and began to spout my adoration...

But before long, I realised...it was too much.

The adult in me realised...

That the child must have made him feel a bit uncomfortable.

If you are in any way empathetic...you get a sense from people.

He is a humble fellow, and I know NOW myself when people shower me with compliments...

I feel uncomfortable too.

In my case...I feel unworthy.

So today I am thanking him for his company, and for being a friend to me.

And I am also apologising to him for yesterday, when I took it a little too far.

The best lesson of all. 

Empathy.  Understanding.

Humbling.  

 

I give thanks for the gift of enlightenment. 

But, as if that wasn't enough...the gift just kept on giving.

I also remembered WHY I was so effusive with Dave.

 

This takes me back to my childhood.

When I see Dave and people like him- the child in me lights up.

It’s like children with mental disabilities; I have seen them hug one another.

Society has come to regard such open displays of affection as either a mental disorder, or the province of canines.

When I was so glad to see Dave...& the embarrassment I must have caused him...

I was reminded that this is the child reacting.

Plain and simple.

It was funny how I said what I said, and then felt a twinge of…

Remorse?

I wasn’t certain why I felt this, until another party had a shot at me when he said I was ‘buttering him up’. I suspect he was just making sport, and I don’t think any less of him for it- he’s not a destructive soul. But it did remind me how expressions of genuine affection can make certain parties very uncomfortable indeed.

Even angry.

When I was a kid, so starved was I for love and affection at home, I would try to reach out to other kids. Much as I did Dave.

I remembered how, the class bullies would tease me for it, and call me a ‘suck-hole’.

Then they would drag me into the toilet and dip my head into the bowl.

I was a piss-weak child; that’s all there is to it.

I found it hard to defend myself against this kind of behaviour.

I was indeed a lover, not a fighter.

As I grew older, I toughened up, and learned to fight. I came to love violence.

I killed loving feelings- drove them from my heart.

I was conditioned to it by my environment.

But now, I see myself reverting back to my natural state.

A loving state.

And imposing MY will on my surroundings.

Expressing myself in the way that is best for me.

My point?

I had forgotten this about my childhood. It was yesterday’s exchange that reminded me.

Bringing up painful memories? Yes and no; because although it was painful- it DID remind me why I feel a pang of remorse when I am kind to people.

And if you can track back the reasons for these strangely dichotomous feelings- and dismiss them for the absurdities they are- then you can take a clear run at embracing your natural inclinations without a trace of shame.

This exchange was a gift.

Every day I learn something about my triggers…

& can work toward removing them…

Is a day well spent.

It’s a gift.

For someone such as me who had my childhood taken from me, I guess I am reclaiming certain things from my childhood as being ok.

 

I think somehow, on some level I have given myself permission to react as a child.

The child that was beaten down with the violence of home life.

On the other hand...as I am learning...just because I am coming to certain realisations...

This does not mean I can simply behave as I see fit at the exclusion of the feelings of others.

This would be the definition of selfishness- no matter HOW healing it is.

The gift of understanding comes from grasping the complexity of the situation.

 

And finding some simplicity in it.

 

My lesson, is to be grateful to people, try to keep the child respectful of others.

But if the child pipes up with excitement to see you any of you…

I hope you will understand, and take into account.

 

My Facebook Addiction

OK...admitting to a problem is the first step toward a solution.

I'm a FB addict.

Or am I?

How much is too much?

And who says it's a problem? 

And why is it something that needs solving?

Go with me on this; it's deeply personal, but there might be something that touches you too.

I really hope so.

A dear friend here has been sweet enough to call me 'cool' and 'clever'.

I have my doubts about that...pride comes before the fall...but it is lovely to hear.

Twas not always thus. 

Frankly?  It was not all that long ago I was a CUNT.

Sorry, but there is no other word for it.

I was an utter shit. 

I'm not being overly hard on myself- if you knew me then, saw some of the things I have done in my life, seen the way I have treated people- you would be in agreement.

I have moved on since then.

It wasn't easy; but it also wasn't as HARD as I thought it would be.

It's about opening up your heart, and being ready to LOVE...

Really LOVE...

Not use, abuse, insult and degrade...treat people as conveniences for my own self satisfaction...

But LOVE.

I had to learn to love MYSELF, so I could love others.

Forget all the stuff about my tormented childhood; it's no excuse.

There have been myriad mass murderers who have come from tortured backgrounds.

Doesn't make it alright.

I changed; because being a shit was NOT what I wanted to be.

NOT what I wanted my life to amount to.

It took time; I frankly didn't even realise I was a bastard.

I thought I was a STAND UP guy.

But eventually, I saw the way I was hurting others...

And I saw the way I was killing MYSELF.

So I took a look at my behaviour, and I stopped.

And over time...better habits, better choices, better feelings drifted in.



On the way into town today, I was thinking to myself how beautiful everything is.

I love my morning cup of coffee. 

I love my animals.

I love my house.

I love the road that takes me into town.

I love the trees along the side of the road.

I love the people driving past, and the pedestrians.

I love the magpies that swoop past.

I love the music on my radio.

I love my life. 

And I love FB, and my friends here.

I love the fact that in about 20 minutes, I will shut off the computer, and go home and write for the rest of the day. 

I might break for a lovely meal.

Later on, I will take a vigorous walk in the fresh air.

I will watch the ocean, and look at the boats on the horizon.

And tomorrow- Gods willing- I will get to do it all again. 

But there is NO DOUBT IN MY MIND...

That I would not be in this magical place were it not for my FB friends. 

I was a tortured, tormented soul who had scant ability to socialise with others.

I was in danger of becoming a social pariah.

A misfit. 

If not very literally, then very metaphorically...

Dead.

Fact. 

I am here, alive and grateful because of FB.

This is what people used to do BEFORE technology. 

They used to socialise, and commune. 

Help one another. 

An extended family.

We don't have that irl so much anymore; but we have it here.

I have beautiful friends, all over the world.

And these friends have helped me to live and LOVE.

And I am doing the best work I have ever done, AND being truer to myself...

To who I am really supposed to be...than at any other time in my life.

I am who I am supposed to be, doing exactly what I am supposed to be doing.

And I have never been HAPPIER.

So what's the problem???