Namago.

Powered today by the realisation that I am nowhere near as important or significant as I thought I was...

and that most of what I have done to date was done in an attempt to hammer my indispensability down the world's throat. 

'Believe you are special'?  'Believe you are a miracle?'

'Believe you are extraordinary?' 

No...I am no more extraordinary than that rock, or that puddle. 

& to imagine I am will not make leaving here any easier.

Just because I jump up and down, gibber & screech like a frisky marmoset does not automatically make me more important. 


When I die...

it will be no more of a loss than the leaf that falls from the tree. 

You know it's true.

This is not sad or morose...on the contrary. 

It is liberating.  

I am but a falling leaf, making my way to the ground. 

The miracle is...some of you noticed me as I fell. 


THAT is extraordinary.

Even more extraordinary...

that this selfish vessel saw you.

& not only that...he saw the TRUTH of his existence.



Namaste, as they say... 

Until it is time to Namago.
 

Kill Zone.

Laughter KILLS hate. 

Love KILLS pain. 


Life KILLS Death... 

'Being Here...'

I'm definitely a dreamer. 

I know that's a pathetic thing to be...this was plastered all over my school reports as a kid.

'Dreamer'.

'Clown.'

'Traitor'.


My school reports home...

The scarlet letters of my sins and iniquities...

& the attendant punishment...for my profound laziness, my dreamy wonder at the world outside...

My dissidence.

My flaws and failings...

Recorded for posterity, in all likelihood sitting in a scrap book somewhere at home...

kept by my mother, who still wonders...


What is he doing??

What the hell is he doing???


Who the hell can say.


So I know, you don't have to tell me.

I'm a dreamer for life.

&

God slaughters dreamers like unwanted dogs. 


And yet...

Here I am in Halifax. 

(I never felt quite right in Truro; it was like Interzone.

I couldn't quite make it work for me.)


I can make Halifax work for me.

I know it. 

I can feel it!!!


I can function here.


This place had literary overtones;

which is perfect for me. 


Soon as I checked into my room,

I still full of energy...

So I went for a walk along Old Garden Street. 


First thing I noticed was the watchful eyes of Hakim Optical...

Just like those glasses...watching over the narrator in 'Great Gatsby'.  (a novel I don't much care for, from a writer I care for even less, incidentally.)


But I felt those eyes.

Watching me.


I felt a little paranoid...

just like I felt about the watchful glasses in 'Gatsby'.

But they could just as easily be the watchful eyes of the kindly Gods. 

It's all just a matter of how you look at it. 


Feeling all literary...

I found myself a bookshop café.

  
I browsed awhile, and made a choice.

 

 

I bought a cup of coffee, and leafed through my nice clean hardcover copy of 'Being There'.

NOT a first edition...

But in the first few runs.

Probably fourth or fifth.


Kosinski was a mad man; he murdered himself in cold blood.

Like so many other of my favourite writers.


I don't dwell on these poor, wretched, beautiful bastards.

Brautigan springs to mind as one such troubled soul.

Right.

It doesn't do to celebrate their deaths.

But it's OK to sing their lives.


& it's OK to sing mine.


So here I sit...

Full of energy,

Full of the life force...


Replenished in mind, body and spirit.


'What is he doing???'


If you have to ask...

You will never understand.  


There is a guy sitting opposite me now, in the literary café...

& he is a dead ringer for Mishima.


I think he understands.


If I asked him?


You know...


I think he would know what I'm doing.



It's enough...


for today.


  




 

Slow Towns...

 

Raining.

Again.

 

It’s funny. 

When I was a little boy, I remember riding my bike about the town in the pissing rain…

doing my paper round, wet to the arse and thinking to myself…’thank God I have somewhere to go.’

Of course, home soon became a safe place no longer.

But the idea was...comforting.

 

In a way…I can never go home. 

Even if I knew what home was.  

There is something strangely appealing...perversely fascinating...

about wandering strange towns, lost.

It’s where we belong.

We, the dispossessed, the sequestered, the marginalised and disenfranchised...

 

wander about in the pouring rain in unfamiliar surroundings…

Perpetually looking for…

trust.

Hope.

Something to believe in.

However...

 

Don’t be tempted to help us…

We, the lost…and wandering.

 

We are not in pain.

We tramp the long lonely miles…

Not because it hurts…

But because it ceases to.

 

We don’t feel a thing any more…

 

most of us.

 

Don’t be suckered into helping people like me.

Don’t feel sorry for the abused, the molested, the raped, marginalised and the disenfranchised.

No good can come of it.

Sooner or later…

We will fuck you up. 

 

UNLESS…

You have spectacular compassion and breathtaking grace.

And this awakens something inside us...

A way of trusting again...the way we did before the grand betrayal.

Miracles have been known to happen.

It would take a major leap of faith for someone to make a home for the likes of me…

Maybe THAT is what I seek.

Compassion…kindness…

Audacity.

Stubborn, bloody minded, unrelenting philanthropy.

Generosity.
 

Imagine a whole town like this.

 

And entire community.

 

Built on kindness and good heartedness...

 

Of a systemic type & variety.

 

NOT an aberration…

I see evidence of it, from time to time.

Fleeting glimpses. 

 

This is why I travel; my blind faith in human beings.

And those pockets of compassion that we find occasionally.   

 

One thing I have noticed in Canada…

Wet to the arse, trying to cross busy roads…

People slow down for you.

You know in Australia and the US, when you are trying to cross the road, and the oncoming traffic has to thin so you can cross behind them?

Well, in Canada…

They literally slow down to a stop so that you can cross.

They don’t even need a cross intersection with lights for a reason.

It can be a little…

uncomfortable at first.

Then you get used to it.

It’s kinda’ nice.   

Maybe it’s good for us, the abused, the molested, and the betrayed…

Good to find a place where people ‘slow down for us’…

That’s hopeful.

 

 

 

 

Authentic Romantic.

 

 

 

 

I was called an 'authentic cowboy' the other day in the street...& it wasn't by someone deranged or demented.  She was young, attractive, and cogent.  I didn't have the heart to tell her...that I don't sit by the fire as the moon rises, thinking 'bout women and glasses of beer...closing my eyes as the dogies retire...I have an ACTUAL beer...in a Motel Room bed, watch the ladies do their thang on the YP...then pass out.  More bogies than dogies.  But for a fleeting second there...I wished I were an 'authentic' cowboy.  Every once in a while...I have that romantic notion. 

 

Do you??

 

 

 

Earning My Wings.

 

Everywhere I go in the US and Canada, they are mad for Wings.

Every bar, every restaurant...

Everywhere.


Wing this, wing that...

'Wing Nights'. 

Chilli sauce, BBQ sauce...

yummy.

Wings. 


As someone who wants to fly...

Swooping and soaring, ever upward and onward toward the Heavens...

I can't countenance the idea of eating something some other creature has been flapping with. 

I don't care if chickens can't get airborne. 

They try.

Just like me.


I can't think of anything worse than taking something else's wings...

& gobbling them down.

urp.


I'm sure if Angels dwelled among us...

There would be humans trying to kill them and eat their wings.

Global Postitioning.

Kind thoughts today from my friends. 

Thank you.

I appreciate that you understand me.

or at least endeavour to.


You don't want to be me- trust me on this...

but you see me.

& this means a lot.


I read yesterday's blog again this morning, and I wondered; is this not a little strong? 

Do I come off as depressive?


I stand by it.

& I'll tell you why.


I was talking to this beautiful guy on the train the other night on the way from Montreal to NS.

A kindred spirit.

When we spoke of in mutual agreement about our accountability as human beings, and our implicit responsibilities to the planet and other people by virtue of the contract of our birth...

& when I told him of my quest for vigilance when it comes to the dark places my human frailties, my insecurities, fears and moods take me...

he asked me, 'aren't you being a little hard on yourself???'


Nope.  Just right. 


Because I know me. 

I know what a petulant child I can be at times.


I got off the train in Truro..

and for a small town, it was pretty tough.

I had a helluva time with directions from people; (internet was hard to find.)  anyone would think they had no idea about their own town!

(Maybe there is a reason for that!!)

I was in one bar, and the waitress told me the motel I booked into had closed down YEARS ago!


Not even the taxi driver knew where I was staying!

This is NOT a big town!


And it occurred to me briefly...

like a petulant child, I whined to myself,


'why won't people be kind to me?


Poppycock.


Why the hell should they?

Where is THAT written?

I was behaving like a tired spoiled brat.  


Too hard on myself??

Nope.  Just right.  

If I start behaving like the planet and it's people owe me something just because I choose to step out of my comfort zone...

(Something MILLIONS of other people do ALL the time, incidentally...I didn't invent it...)


No good can come of it.
 

I should NEVER coddle my tantrums and hissy fits.

nor should you.


I think it is healthy to admit these truths...even the ugly ones.

Otherwise I am just a lie with a backpack.


People have been kind to me for the most part in Canada and the Americas.  For some reason...

they like Aussies. 

(or maybe they think I'm an ok person too.)


It won't do for me to forget that.

Forget the good things that happen.

& when things just inexplicably WORK.

In those darker moments where they do not. 


That's the deal.

For ALL of us.


Thank you all again for taking an interest in my trajectory, and my well being. & thank you for understanding my way.


You wouldn't want me in your spare room, frightening the children and stealing the peanut butter...

But you persist.  

& that means a whole lot. 
 

From time to time, I sense people wondering why I speak so openly, so consistently. 

I'll tell you again- as much for me as for you.


Number one...it helps a lot.

Number two?  I can't seem to stop it.  (No good can come from a denial of authentic self.  It usually ends up badly.)

also...

When I was a boyish sprog...my father used to say to me...

'TELL THE BASTARDS NOTHING!'. 


Right there is number three.  

'tell the bastards nothing'?  where do I begin deconstructing that one??

Let's leave out which ones are 'bastards' & which are not for now...I suspect being a particularly hateful man- he was talking about everyone.

ok;  let's tackle the 'tell them nothing' bit.


Why not?

Why shouldn't I tell you the truth?


What are you going to do...report me to the open heart police?

You can take my word for it...they DON'T have that.

& they never will. 
 

This place is a comparative ghetto I live in.

This skid row of candour and fearless personal inventory. 
 

Being open, searching, seeking the right path...

is NOT as common as the self help industry would have us believe. 

It's still on the fringe.  


A lot of people are somehow afraid of it. 

they might be afraid to see who they really are.

I'm not.

Nor am I afraid for you to see it.

So you can make up your mind if you want me in your life or not.


I'm not fucking anything up...

giving the game away, exposing highly sensitive military secrets.

or losing some intellectual property.


I'm just trying to tell the truth- the way I see it...

as genuinely as I am able.

Because I believe you are worthy of it.

I am worthy of it.


I might not get invited to as many cocktail parties...but I DO find like minded souls along the way.

We can see each others membership cards...in our eyes. 

We seem to find each other!! 


This sweet guy on the train who said I was being too hard on myself? Well, let me tell you this.

When we took a break from talking...I put my earphones in to watch a show on my computer.

As I waited for the show to load...the fellow took a phone call.

He thought I couldn't hear him...but I could.

He told his friend on the other end he had been talking to a 'fascinating Australian guy'. 


What the hell more could a human being want from his last human connection?

What more could I possibly ask of myself?



Stay focused on the path...

have faith in my truth...

keep cool when the weather gets overcast...



& keep making connections like that.


Sure...it's hard work.

Takes courage.

Patience, and persistence.

& vigilance.



It is so tempting to give up hope. 

Especially when tired.


I am broken hearted by the developments in Fukushima. 

I am mortified to hear stories of Monsanto's stranglehold on the nation's farming community, and the poisoning of the food supply. 

I am...

overcome.

at times.


The future looks bleak...

but I MUST be with my brothers and sisters. 


& my truth is my gps. 

THIS is it.


Frankly...nothing else will do.