a silk purse from a kangaroo’s nutsack.

OK, it’s about 6.30 and change in the AM, & I have been awake since 4ish.

I have been keeping strange hours with writing the book-

(‘Writing the book’.

For some reason, that phrase sounds kind of pathetic.

It’s like…some voice telling me, ‘oh, he’s writing a book, but he’ll never finish it, and even if he does, no one will read it’, etc.

The voice of doubt.

If I could remove that…I’d have a hundred books.

I have a hundred books…other people’s. )

Anyway…

That’s part of what I want to talk about.

Indulgences.

Like self doubt.

So…I have been working the material.

Hundreds of pages of it.

Over and over again.

Shifting the pieces around.

Here is a small excerpt from the book;

What drama.

Exhausting.

You want drama??

If you knew how often I have been moving chunks of text from one part of the manuscript to the other…like a…

Let me give you an example…

Some idea of how tricky this stuff is;

untangling all this soul work, and looking at it.

One of the challenges of this book has been the structure.

That has been the most elusive thing of all.

I write for a little while…

I work my memories…

And then I hit a dead end.

I have tried to fit them every which way…

And failed.

And then I fall into a heap in my bed from exhaustion…

All the words, the memories…

Swimming about in my head.

A chaotic soup.

I drag myself to this very position, in front of the laptop, for the umpteenth time over the twenty years I have been working on the book…

And as much as I would love to just leave it as it is…

A collage of memories and speculation in random order like a Burroughs novel…

I know in my heart of hearts I cannot do it.

I have to finish this book.

Or it will haunt me.

That little boy’s face…

Will haunt me.

That’s just the way it is.

So I sit here…

and I wonder.

What next??

I won’t go into too much detail here- it’s dull, it’s not what I want to talk about today and anyway, and some of the process is in the actual book.

It’s a book about writing a book about writing a book, etc…

And a book as well.

About…

well, I guess it’s about being a man.

I’d say it’s about being me, but that sounds arrogant and pompous, which might be one of the problems with being a man.

The impediments.

The doubts, fears, neurosis and self-loathing.

It’ll kill us, anon.

Anyway, I have taken a day or two off, because…

Well, this is the occasional gift you get as a writer.

I had almost driven myself insane the last few weeks, working the material in a feverish state, on the verge of eating my own head off…

A few days ago…

I just collapsed.

I could no more.

a few hours later I woke up to find that the material works.

For so long…

I could never get past page 50.

It got so bad…

I even pruned things back to page 8.

I thought it was never gonna’ work.

In a haze, I read through the stuff when I woke yesterday morning…

and it was working.

Past 50.

Past 100.

Past 150.

I got to 175 pages, and counting, and couldn’t believe my luck.

I stopped reading.

I didn’t want to spoil my good fortune…

& I didn’t want to get too excited in case I was dreaming.

Dreaming I had a good book.

I liked my writing.

So…

I think the book is half finished.

So I took a day or two off to get out of the house, go for a drive, check out the kangas.

A Picnic at Hanging Cock.

I didn’t see many kangas, but I saw a family of emus coming into Halls Gap.

It was a fair day.

Any day above ground…

But I don’t like to stray too far from my book.

But I had a copy in my pocket on a usb, so we were still tight.

As I was driving, I was listening to the radio.

And…man???

The bullshit???

OK…

I need to get something off my chest.

Truth be told?

I want to travel again.

I want to head back to the States.

(Even though the threat of terror is peaking again…

I love it there.)

But the book is calling the shots.

And the usual crap about money.

I don’t complain.

I have it good.

But on the radio…

People are complaining.

One of the big issues at the moment…

Down under…

Our milk and fruit growers are complaining because they cannot find a market for their goods.

They are priced out of the market by cheap imports.

They want government to step in.

I don’t drink milk, but I do eat fruit.

I would prefer to eat local, and do when I can.

But my point is…

It’s an open, free market.

What do they expect the government to do?

Strangle free trade?

I get a little nervous when people talk about ‘protecting domestic markets’.

Seems kind of racist to me.

I’m not so sure I am opposed to free trade.

So these guys have been forced into the ground by cheap imports?

Well…tough shit.

That’s the way of the world.

I’m an artist.

It’s a tough racket.

To survive…

I have to write the best shit out there.

I have to write shit that sets asses on fire.

That’s just the way it is.

I have been sitting here, in my room, working on my book, tearing my hair out.

Literally tearing my hair out, eating my own flesh, sweating blood, and looking at my own nightmares over and over again to write this bastard.

That’s the way it works.

To do this right…

I have to write in a room that is on fire.

Burning with…

Shit that I have created that is nothing like anything else out there.

These farmers have become complacent…

producing what they have always been producing at a good price.

And now things are starting to tighten up.

Competition.

This separates the chaff from the wheat.

The men from the boys.

These boys have had it too good for too long.

They complain about parity, as they flick the channels of their plasma TV…

Sitting in their own homes, on their own land.

While the competition…

Poor Asian families in straw huts whose only indulgence is a little rat meat and cold rice?

???

I can tell you now…

These are tough times.

Tough times coming.

For many, already here.

Been here.

Tough times don’t last…

tough people do.

I’m a writer.

That’s my choice.

I don’t ask for concessions.

I don’t ask for shit.

I don’t get shit.

When times are tough…

I do my work.

I tighten my belt.

I eat soup and rice.

I don’t buy shit.

I watch the sunset.

I scour my soul for inspiration.

And I PRODUCE.

I don’t sit around bitching…

asking the government to stop other writers from writing better shit than me.

More profitable shit.

Cheaper shit.

I tighten my belt, I starve a little, I bleed a little, and I shiver in my bed sick with the flu like fever of pure creativity…

Until it works.

I make it work.

There it is.

Harsh?

To the poor farmers??

You tell me.

Harsh times.

We are spoiled.

We don’t know from hard times.

But we will.

We better be ready.

And three quarters of these squealing motherfuckers will die quick deaths.

Nailed to their plasma tv’s.

The strong will survive.

Those who can make a silk purse out of a kangaroo’s nutsack.

Something out of nothing.

I know the team I wanna’ be on.

The real deal.

REAL.

If this book has taught me anything…

It has taught me how to suffer again.

REALLY suffer.

PASSION.

It’s been a hell of a struggle.

And you know what?

I don’t mind.

Headaches, bad dreams, shitty eating habits…

The half-life of the sickness of real work…

The toughest work I have ever done.

Writing.

I have done some fucked up jobs…

As a cop, I have been around dead folks, put bits of human body into clear plastic bags, eaten shit, had the stuffing beaten out of me by mindless brutes, I have punched cows and thrown hay bales, eaten my own liver out in mindless dead end clerical jobs, and scrubbed rich men’s puke and shit and piss off the walls of restaurant toilets and…

Writing is the king of them all.

All these other jobs?

A breeze compared to writing.

Why??

Why is writing so fucking hard??

Don’t ask me.

Maybe that is a book all its own.

I would have thought writing was a job for pussies…

In fact I used to.

Like theatre, and cross dressing.

Before I tried it.

Even now…I meet guys I used to know in the job…

They look at me, like…

‘you still doing that writing thing’?

Like…

‘you still sucking dick for a living’??

They don’t know shit.

They got it

WRONG.

If I didn’t know otherwise.

I would have said the same.

If I wasn’t so in love with…

So POSSESED by the idea of…

Wrestling with the word.

This battle…

It’s like I want to beat it into submission.

I want to make it my bitch.

But it will NOT go down easy.

Sometimes…seduction becomes rape.

I try to rape the word.

& it turns on me.

Bends me over the basin, prison style, and fucks my ass.

Right back.

You know I know what that is.

I have written about it.

Tried to.

Matching the word with the reality.

The thing.

That’s the thing.

Head to head, toe to toe…

Lining them up.

The deed, the act, the actual thing…

& the telling.

The story.

If your words don’t bleed…

Start again.

Do it again.

That’s all.

This shit…this pain and suffering…

It is real.

& I don’t mind saying that…

It’s not self-indulgent…

Because it is FACT.

Come and see.

It is…

In my case…

The art of CONFRONTING WHO I AM.

& I don’t like much of it.

Fuck you!

Child!

Queer!

WHO CARES?

Fuck you don’t like it.

Do it anyway.

What else is there???

Most people don’t get it.

Don’t do it.

It’s tough work.

Too hard.

Other things to do.

Stuff on tv.

Hard shit.

Don’t ask me why.

Just is.

Maybe because it is…

Shitty emotional work…

Looking at your own guts.

Keeping crazy hours…

& there is no guarantee of any results.

Any reward.

NONE.

Death, maybe.

Some horror.

That’s it.

So what?

Child.

It’s what it is.

I don’t sleep anymore…

Who cares?

Sleep is a rehearsal for death anyway.

No rest?

That’s the price you pay.

For being WICKED.

I don’t sleep as much as I…

As much as i…

I write for a few hours until I can’t think straight, and then I lay my head down and pass out for a few hours. Wake up and write, pass out. Wake up and write, pass out.

When I really need to shut it down…

I take some sleeping pills.

Not too many.

I have enough to do the job there, by my bed, just in case…

But not yet.

I’m not going down without a fight.

I’m not there yet.

This is how close to the edge REAL writing takes you.

It SHOULD ask you to open a vein.

It should make you want to blow the top of your head off.

Most people never consider suicide.

A writer SHOULD.

Otherwise…

You aint a writer.

You’re a hack.

A con artist.

It must ask things of you…

Things, it doesn’t ask anyone else.

In any other profession.

I’m not working hard enough, trying hard enough…

if there are not times I want to cut my own throat.

Let the blood trickle over the keyboard.

Bash this laptop over my own head.

Tear my teeth out with plyers.

Gouge my eyes out with rusty chisels.

Puncture my nuts with spent pop rivets.

If you are never there…

Testing your mettle…

Checking your guts…

Your NUTS…

You are masturbating.

Not even that.

Dry humping.

A dead leg.

Fuck that.

Work.

That’s all there is to it.

I KNOW what’s expected.

I know what I demand of myself.

I always did.

The rest is horse shit.

If I’m gonna’ do this…

If I’m gonna’ LIVE…

I better live HARD and HELLISH.

I better see the darkest places I know.

Eyes wide open.

Mouth…

Taste the suffering spew, the sick of dark dangerous nights…

As well as the light,

Be here, do it well, do it painfully, take the challenge and live the nightmare of endurance in order to express yourselves willingly, generously…

Or stay home.

Or die.

A liars death.

You want to be a writer?

You better LIVE.

Not just exist.

But SUFFER.

Even die.

Open up your chest like a cheap overcoat & let the night air see your heart beating slow death.

Nothing else comes close.

The rest is just tomfoolery.

Confectionary.

Be a hack.

Or be a demon of the word.

A storm trooper of the art.

a

God.

I want to be blind.

This is so ghastly...

what happened to dear Rehtaeh Parsons.

It is unimaginable.

Unspeakable.

Unthinkable.


Tell me this did not happen.

Because if it did...

I want to be blind.

Deaf...

and Dumb.

There are no words.  

I can't even think straight.

I can't write properly.

What now is even 'proper'?

What is there left to...

Believe??

How does one live while this horror goes on...

anywhere???? 


I can't...focus. 

I want to tear my fuckin' eyeballs out. 

I want to weep like some grandmother. 

I don't know what I want to do.
 

Rehtaeh Parsons...

you poor, dear, sweet soul.

this world was too ugly for one as beautiful as you. 

We should have provided a safe place for you here on the planet...

& we did not. 

We were too busy making money, shopping, dropping bombs on each other and watching TV.

Anything but looking after the little ones. 

As one who had my share of hell in my early years...

I want to say I know...but the truth is...

I can only imagine.

No, I don't WANT to imagine...

the HORROR of your final hours.

Dear young woman...

You deserved a gentle, kind, courageous young man to take you in his arms and love you...

make love to you sweetly in your own good time...

and love you 'til old age claimed your willing, adorable soul.

Instead...

you were torn apart by a savage pack of evil demons...

too horrid even for Satan.

Let them burn in the fires of the hell of their own guilt and shame...

If it ever catches up with them.

For there is no other punishment available in this 'civilised' western world...

NONE to fit these crimes.

I can only hope...one day...

these bastards will see what they have done.

I hope one day...the enormity of their crimes creep up on them, and take them from behind like they took dear Rehtaeh...& torture them into turning out the lights...

As she had to extinguish her own.

Rest in peace...Rehtaeh Parsons

I am so sorry, poor sweet gentle soul.

I am sorry I have not worked hard enough to create a world that is safe enough for your beauty to flourish. 

I'm SO sorry. 

I am stuck with this wretched, filthy legacy...

but you...you are free. 

The concerns of this selfish, petty, lost world need no longer bother you. 

There is a much better place for souls like you. 

MUCH better. 

I have to believe this. 

Otherwise...there is nothing. 


The gods help me make it through this day...

<3 p="">

STURDY BOOTS

This book is causing me to be political again.  I can feel it in my gut.

I actually seem to think I can do something about the real issues.  The grand illusion.  I must be out of my mind.  I'm finding it hard to separate the personal injustices and the collective. 

But I HAVE to follow this through, see how far it goes.

Once the book is finished- in about six weeks- I think I will head back to the states to see if I can connect with the homeless i met there.  (I will do them the courtesy of not asking their position on marriage, and instead offer them something dull and mundane, like food & cash.) 
Who knows?  I might even get to Milwaukee to find out what tf gives with all these poor bloody black women being evicted.

Where tf do THEY go?  & their children??

Poor bastards. 

I might even get lucky and happen upon a decent publishing house in Chicago.  

Could happen!!

I LOVE that town.  I hope some of you will join me. 

It's a rocky road out of hell...bring a good pair of boots.

Everyone should have a good sturdy pair of boots...    

Red Flag of Bull to a Bull...

I tried three or four times to write this piece, but it just wasn’t working.

I was trying to say too much…

& it was a mess.

& I was wasting precious time….

On nothing.

Much ado about nothing…

And THIS nothing Is something WORTH writing about.  

 

I took a break from my book to get this down...

 

 

Everyone has their breaking point…& last week, I must have reached mine.

I’m afraid I blew a gasket with the Gay Marriage debate. 

Like a Red Flag of Bull to a Bull…

And I wanted to get it all down.

For a variety of reasons.

One likes to make sure one has not just had an insane tantrum.

I have noticed when something comes up on FB that upsets me, or causes me to react vigorously…it touches something deep inside me.

My anger was not about hate…but love.

It’s nice to know that the way your react on the spur of the moment…

Is something that resonates within every fibre of your being…

& is not just a tantrum.

Indeed…whenever this happens…not only does it say something about things I need to process in my work…but reflects things I need to understand about myself.

My past…& creating a better future for myself.

And ultimately a better world.

So this is worth doing. 

 

But it seemed to be a mess of ideas that could not find their form.

Like my book.

Like my life.

The role of the historian is to find order in the chaos.

And any work I can do along these lines in my day to day life…

Can only serve to help my ability to process the chaos in the book…

And find order in the chaos that is my life…

The reconciliation of my life with the chaos of the world.

My brain wants to think- folly or not- that if I can find order in the chaos of the world…

I can send that order, that peace, that tranquillity back out into the world again.

 Arrogant?

Plain wrong?

I don’t know.

This is about instinct.

And my reaction to the Gay Marriage debate was instinct.

Impulse.

And I needed to find a way to find order in the chaos of my own anger toward the meaningless, futile debate ensuing. 

So I started to write as if I were writing a letter to my friend Francie.

Now...I am NOT suggesting that makes her supportive of my position...

It simply means I find it easier to talk to her about these things with a clear, decisive head.

She is a great friend- a perfect friend for me- because she helps me steer clear of bullshit. 

And I need that, now more than ever.

I am easily distracted by bullshit- & I can’t really afford to be.

I have wasted too much of my life on trivial matters…

Lies my father told me, lies the church and the state told me…

Blow jobs in the oval office, Anna Nicole Smith, slipped nipples…

& so called ‘issue’ of Gay Marriage.

Simply put- I have nothing against ‘Gay people’.

 

I thought they were just people...but apparently not.  

I might have something against ‘Marriage’.

I definitely have something against groups of people changing their profile pics on FB to these manufactured flags and logos advertising the latest cause.

Live and let live?  Indeed.

That also applies to me. 

I believe I am worthy of it.

I resent people advertising these causes on my wall, without my permission.

I am angered by it; the assumption that I would be in favour of it.

Like Dirty Harry said, ‘I think you people have misjudged me’.  

I became overwhelmed by it.

It was like the jack boots were storming the barricades.

Panic attack.

 

I just saw red.

 

I made a comment about how seeing people marching under the same banner made me nervous.

A lot of flag waving jingoistic bullshit.

Symbols are for the symbol minded, Carlin said.

It’s true. 

People said it was in solidarity with their gay brothers and sisters.

(none of the flag wavers were gay, curiously enough)

‘Solidarity’ bothers me;

for any cause. 

Blind faith in anything can put a gun in your hand, and send you to war- to kill and to be killed.

We have seen it time and again.

Blind faith can see ovens built by monsters to cook large numbers of people.

I am VERY fearful of symbols, flags, and people marching in solidarity.

Especially for something as dubious as ‘gay marriage’.

Civil action needs to be used very carefully.

Lest it’s currency be corrupted.

Marching for every little thing…

Making banners, flags and anthems for every social faux pas…

Causes fatigue on the minds of the populace, so that in due course, like the boy who cried wolf…the REAL ISSUES sound like the bogus.

Confusion over clarity is the weapon of facism.

Confusion.

Confusious say…  

This flag…a RED flag with two slightly less red sausages, apparently signifying Gay right to marriage, is deepest red. 

Stained with the blood of workers dead.

How soon we forget.

We can’t just hijack a colour that has soaked so much of the planet and it’s people in REAL blood.

Red represents Communism and Bloodshed.

Marriage has I guess a little to do with the former, and a LOT to do with the latter- because most marriages end up in either bloodshed or broken hearts.

One wonders why anyone would want to be involved in such a dubious proposition as marriage- doomed in most cases to failure.

But benefit of the doubt here…

If Gay people want to marry…

they CAN marry. 

Does it matter that same marriage is not ratified by the state?

Not to love.

LOVE doesn’t give a shit what you do in its name…

LOVE is not dependant on signed contracts & legislation. 

LOVE is about feelings and emotions, and NOT about legality.

Or people marching under red flags in its name.

THAT is religion & politics you guys are thinking about.

Not LOVE.

LOVE cares not what you do…

What you sign…

What your flag, your country, your race creed or religion is…

Just as long as you LOVE.

LOVE is not like GOD.

GOD- like the state- has rules and regulations.

Commandments.  

LOVE just has LOVE.

Less confusing that way.

And LOVE is all LOVE wants of us- if indeed it can be said to ‘want’ anything. 

 

So…if this is the case…

Then all the HOO-HAH must be about something else.

Gay Marriage is NOT about love.

According to my research…

It is about bureaucratic and financial matters.

Money.

In the end…it all boils down to money, property, pensions and financial benefits.

ALSO things that do not concern LOVE.

LOVE (unlike ‘God’) gives not the slightest shit how much money you have.

 

And it makes my blood boil, how far Marriage has drifted from any concept of LOVE…

To the point where it constitutes nothing more than a business arrangement.

 

I say ABOLISH Marriage…

And let’s get back to LOVE.

Real love, that differentiates NOT from Gay.

Straight, Black, White, Hindu, Muslim or Animal.

Yes, animal.

I love my cats.

I don’t need to marry them to love them.  

I don’t have a horse, but if I did, I would love it.

My imaginary horse.

My imaginary hobby horse.

Unlike this imaginary hobby horse of Gay Marriage…

At least my fiction is pleasant.

And doesn’t hurt anyone else.

And it is closer to a PURE impression of love than the fascistic red flag. 

What happened to good old fashioned storybook love?

What we have are a large number of sooks crying about things that would have made Bodicea rear back her head and howl with laughter.

My favourite argument for Gay Marriage Ordination (or GMO) is the one about…

’if we are not married…I cannot sit by my partner’s death bed’.

Wow.

What resignation.

What surrender in the face of impediments to true love…

Ilsa and ….. from ‘Casablanca’ must be turning in their graves.

Gram Parson’s FRIEND kidnapped his mate’s remains out from under his family’s noses.

If I was ever obstructed from gaining access to my one true love on her death bed by WHOMEVER or WHATEVER force…

I can tell you now I would think NOTHING of stealing into that HOSPITAL or health care facility on my trusty imaginary steed…

or even creeping in Ninja style to kidnap her, and take her to the desert to die.

THAT is what TRUE LOVE means to me.

Being with your loved one…NO MATTER WHAT.

To DIE to be with them.

What the hell has happened to romance??

What has happened to good old fashioned GUTS??        

& I don’t mean waving flags invented five minutes ago for the right to have your partner’s loot.

What happened to real guts?

Real love??

Having the guts to stand up to forces that want no part of you, and say FUCK YOU???

I WILL GO AND START MY OWN CLUB??

To want to fight to engage in an antiquated ceremony that has NOTHING to do with love…a ceremony that is a CONSTRUCT of the very organisation that hates gay people the most- the Christian Church….

Is madness.  

‘But John…that bit that says men cannot lie down together…that is in the OLD testament.

Correct. 

So is the bit about marriage.

A gay person wanting to marry is a little like a Jew wanting to join the Third Reich.

The people that RUN the weddings hate you!!

And if you think they do not…

You are deranged.

The Government is run by self loathing hypocritical gays who will NEVER let their own flock marry!

Who would WANT to be a part of such insanity!!

Find you OWN island of beauty!!

If you’re unhappy…

Go and see!

I know it’s not easy to break away…

Get off the grid…

But NOTHING worth doing is easy!

And walking away from the insane asylum is a damn sight more worthwhile than trying to be another inmate!!

Why?

And it is an insane asylum.

Look around.

The homeless, the hungry, the miserable.

Ask any man in the street in any capital city, and ask them what they think about Gay Marriage.

You will most likely be asked for a few bucks; because chances are…the person is HOMELESS.

Eviction. A new study coming out of Milwaukee shows that eviction is for black women what incarceration is for black men.

One in 20 households there are evicted every year. In predominately black communities, that rate doubles to 1 in 10 families.

Ordinary, decent Americans are walking the street…& we are chatting about set dressing.

I’ll bet if they were WHITE we would be marching for them, instead of…

GMO.

All this talk about marriage, and people giddy with impatience at the prospect of more paperwork, more bureaucracy, more RED TAPE…

While so many just want a meal.

I wonder if the starving would feel any better if Gay Marriage was ratified.

I doubt it.

Bring me your poor, your hungry, your unmarried…

Right.

One or two other slightly more pressing matters on the agenda.

Debating Gay Marriage is like Shampooing the carpets while the house is burning down.

I cannot help but think something so vigorously, furiously debated has not been planted by…someone in charge…to take the attention of the public away from other more urgent matters.

Maybe this is a sleight of hand by certain government agencies.

Nothing up my sleeve…

Smoke and mirrors.

How else could we explain such vigorous debate, such rallying and banner painting over something so petty and insignificant?

Is this giving the people a little win, and achievable win, so they will not feel quite so bad about the important losses?

Losses of freedom, and REAL human rights?

Like the right to food, a job, a roof over the head, health care?

Or perhaps it is something even more insidious…a colourful distraction to draw our attention away from something not being removed…but put in place?

Something we would never in a million years countenance- something that could not otherwise be facilitated WITHOUT a populace of distracted drones?

We owe it to our children…

Not to mention OURSELVES…

not to be seduced by triviality, and light entertainment…

Fluff…  

If there are those among my friends who cannot see how offensive this blatant triviality is…

& the extent to which it has anaesthetised us to the REAL issues of concern…

To the point we have lost all sensible perspective…

Then I do not care to rub shoulders with them.

I even went so far as to remove my friends…so I could remove their flag.

I actually hesitated removing friends with this flag, in case I removed readers of my blog.

THAT is offensive. 

These are FRIENDS, not FANS.

& I don’t care to share air with friends such as these. 

This is a MORAL choice.

A conscientious objection.

Something to die for.

To LIVE for.

I don’t have anything against Gays…

Or Marriage…

Or Gay Marriage… 

Live and let live.

And let marry.

But I DO care about being distracted from the REAL work.

 

There comes a time you have to stand up for your beliefs.

And FB is one of the last places you can do that.

I objected…so I removed all traces of the dreaded Red Flag of GMO.

This invasion of my privacy…

my safe place for recreation from my work…

This beer fart in a space suit indeed DISTRACTED my attention and my energy from my work.

Largely because I could not believe we were having this conversation,

When there is REAL work to be done.

Dealing with the real crimes.

Making the world a better place.

NOT a more decorative, aesthetically pleasing place. 

And pretty red flags signifying…

NOTHING…

We have little enough time left to write some serious wrongs on this planet.

Frankly…

I MUST stay focused; keep my eyes on the REAL work.

I have fought hard for my sanity, my vision, my ambition to do good work.

Meaningful work.

I CAN make a difference.

As much as I love my trusty steed…I can think of better missions to embark upon than making her my lawfully wedded bride…

I shall leave you to chat about trivialities.

I’m going to plan my trip to MKE, to see if I can help out.

See if I can spend some time LOVING…

Feeding, helping, housing…

Before I even think about whether or not I should MARRY.

DAMN.

I have a long way to go- & a lot to learn about love, and sharing, and peace- before I can contemplate even a STRAIGHT marriage, let alone a Gay one. 

A long way to go.

A long road out of the Hell of lies and bullshit…

To the palace of LOVE.

 

In the meantime, once this book is finished, in about six weeks, I will be heading to Milwaukee to see if I can lend a hand.

Y’all can chat about marriage, taters, sod and whatnot...

But you can do it without me, thank you.

 

All the very best in the REAL world.  

 

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…