Who the hell do you think you are??

For those who have only just met me, this is a humble clarification.

About four years ago, I came onto FB the first time, & I played with it much the same as everyone else does. I was just as excited by the possibilities as everyone else.

But it was here…I was able to confront not only THE possibilities of the technology...

But MY OWN possibilities.

My potential.

Good and bad.

Just as I was able to explore my skills and inclinations…

I was also able to confront my fears, flaws & neurosis.

I also saw the benefit of the medium to do something about them.

It was a first for me; at a time when I had lived a largely unexamined life, crashing from one failure to the next- finally I saw a way to not only socialise with other human beings…

But be held accountable to them.

Some have asked…is this a place for therapy?

I don’t know; FB is what you want it to be.

Is it a place to let people know what you have eaten, or what you are watching on TV?

I simply saw more potential in the medium. That’s all; my aims are not loftier, or better- just different.

When I first came onto FB, and when I began to examines the sins my flesh is heir to- I saw myself as a bit of a bastard.

Literally.

I behaved selfishly, with scant regard for the feelings of others.

This shock soon became a blog, called the ‘Bastard Watch’.

Seems funny now, which I guess is a good thing. Funny I did something like that.

Not everyone understood it.  Least of all my girlfriend at the time.

Poor woman.

At least she had access to my truth.

So did everyone else.

Funny business... 

But that’s what I did.

I wanted to be held accountable for my behaviour- & do something about it.

And I wondered if by recording...I might find clues to my behaviour and the correction of it...

And perhaps even encourage others to examine themselves the same way.

But it was mainly about fixing me.

It was like- I saw my behaviour as something separate from me.

Like it was another person doing it.

I spoke of my darker self as if he were the enemy.

Imagine if you could do something about, say Donald Rumsfeld.

I mean…I am not a bastard on his scale- I did not bomb Iraq, killing thousands upon thousands for oil…but a bastard is a bastard.

Scale is semantics.

In my view- you deliberately or with blatant disregard hurt another human being…

You are a blight on the landscape.

And should be held accountable.

It was not enough to say ‘I will stop being a Bastard’…

I had to resolve to actually do something about it.

The blog held me accountable.

I used the opportunity, the technology, to explore not only the extent of my bastardry, but the reasons for it, with a view to understanding why I do it…

And what to do about it.

It was, of course, a mixed bag.

When you aspire to something like this…a complete dismantling of a faulty human being…

It can become all sorts of things you don’t expect.

It became worst of all tiresome, at times.

Sometimes...It went nowhere.

Just became a place to wallow in the muck.

It even became a self fulfilling prophecy; I called myself a 'bastard'…

Admitted to my nature…

Which in a way, condemned me to remaining a bastard.

Didn’t actually STOP me being a bastard?

I simply transferred my skills for bastardry to the Internet!

It turned out to be a way of maximising my efforts!!

Which meant there was certain fundamental flaws I was not confronting properly.

(You might ask why I did not seek professional help? I have done all that. Professional help is a sham- the worst of all shams. Even when you can see someone- it is night on useless. There is no practical effective sustainable adjustment of the personality but the work you do yourself. None.)

So…I knew that from experience.

I will not go into much detail about the way in which I was able to explore my character flaws, because I took a camera with me, & filmed them.

Over a period of years.

The upshot of all the work?

There is no film to show for all that work…

But there seems to have been an improvement in who I am.

I literally feel like I am no longer a bastard.

I have my moments…

And there are times I feel like being a bastard- but when I am aware of it…

I STOP.

I simply don’t go there.

Which is, to my view, an improvement.

A reason for doing all this.

Given that it has worked so well…

I continue to do it.

Here.

And I have a small group of friends who have agreed to help keep me accountable to my intentions.

Which brings us to where I am right now.

As I look back on my work, & I ask myself- where do I go from here?

My weapon in this battle against my base nature has always been the truth.

I have tried to stick to the truth- as elusive a concept as that might seem- it has served me well.

I have tried to define my truth and align it with my core being by asking myself questions.

A good one has always been- ‘if I was treating myself this way- how would I like it?’

Putting myself in the place of the person I was hurting.

Empathy.

I look at myself at a turning point…at the crossroads, and in the face of serious illness, I am asking myself some fundamental questions of life or death.

I look at my truth.

Who I really am.

Not who I claim to be, or aspire to be- because I know myself well enough to know these things can be worse than bastardry- they can be a lie.

A lie we tell ourselves.

I am asking myself the questions; on the edge of illness-

Who am I?

What do I want?

And for that, I ask myself a series of other, more direct questions.

Questions about the questions.

What was I put here to do?

Born to do?

If I have my basic needs and desires met- & for the most part, I do…

What do I want?

And of course it was then…I found out something I had been hiding.

For a lifetime.

I knew it in part…

But I did not know all of it.

I mean…I knew what I wanted- I knew what I was put here for…

In a way I have been chasing it my entire life.

THE IMPORTANT THING- and I think it is something we ALL hide from ourselves in one way or another…and it has to do with the extent to which we saboutage ourselves…

Stand in our own way…

We KNOW what we want.

What we DO NOT ALWAYS KNOW…

Is why we will NOT allow ourselves to have it.

I wanted love.

BUT I NEVER FELT WORTHY OF IT.

Never.

Never did…

Never do.

Will I ever?

If so…

How?

SICK TOWN

As some of you may know, I live in an industrial town- admittedly an attractive seaside one- but industrial nonetheless.

For the most part- we are told we live in a healthy environment.

I have never had any problems…until now.

I have been sick as hell lately, worst I have ever been, with some strange unspecified viral infection which seems to be common- indeed, almost epidemic- in this town.

One by one, my family and neighbours have been coming down with it.

It’s not an age thing; my little nephew is sick as I am.   

We are talking sick for weeks. Two, three courses of antibiotics.

Debilitating.

This is not normal.

You may remember I mentioned not long ago, there was a hazardous chemical spill in town, wherein residents had to seal up all their doors, windows and vents in their house, & stay indoors.

There were the usual denials and white wash…but it all blew over.

Now- the town is experiencing unprecedented viral & respiratory illness of the type I have mentioned. Co-incidence?

Well, apparently not.

You know me…I have my special challenges, & weird ways of working through them.

Nutty as a fruit cake, you might say.  And not always in a cute cuddly Frank Spencer way.

I accepted that…hell, I think from childhood.

It’s no big deal; I work with it.  Like you work through your shit.

And people keep the sharps away from me.

The sharpest thing I have is my pen.

All I can do is record what I see as accurately as possible, document the chaos, & hope to make some connections with my fellow man, get some corroboration, find some patterns, some links.

Affirmation. Verification.

I record what I see- not only in the world, but in my mind’s eye.

I have been a bit odd lately- to day the least. If you read it- it’s like an organism under attack.

Which…in effect…is what is happening.

Internally…externally…& not only me.

It would seem I am not alone; such strange illness is rife, & on the increase. 

It’s like the movie ‘The Crazies’ here.

Small town, in the grip of some weird virus, goes mad.

For those living in Australia, it will be in the papers.

The usual denials, the usual cover ups, etc.

You know the drill.  

We have been through this before.

But at least it’s comforting to know it is not just me.

A doco opportunity fallen into my lap?

Well…not really.  Because it is simply a reminder of things to come.

Another doco on the effects of toxic industry on a town? Who would care?

We know. We already know.

And I’ll bet there are worse towns than this one- much more poisonous.

All over the world.

Right?

As pretty as a town is- if you live near heavy industry…you take certain risks.

Frankly- the local Aluminium smelter is like a giant spaceship at night.

Some days, you can almost taste the fertiliser as the fumes from Hi-fert and Pivot factories make their way out to sea.         

I don’t need to tell you about chemtrails, and the like.

I guess we are choking on our own crap.

On some level, we all know this.

But when you start to feel the effects in your own home…

You start to take note.

It’s a wake up. & it is important I do my usual thing.

Write my way through it- stick to the word, hold on tight, and see if it will get me through the maelstrom with something useful to report at the end of it.

I had a feeling I was in the middle of something the last few weeks…& the best plan is to hold on tight, ride it out, and see where she goes.

Tomorrow will see me in the Doctor’s Office again- if I can get in.

And over the coming week- we will find out more in the news.

And I will try again to find a way out.

But…that’s not the cut and thrust of my story.

This is going somewhere.

I hope you will come with me for a little while...

PANIC MERCHANT

You can get anything on the Internet.

I had my first online panic attack.

I mean, I didn’t know that was what I was having – but I was.

Yesterday. You might have seen it.  (Hope you didn’t get any on you.)  They are slimy bastards.

I used to get panic attacks years ago. Toward the end of my Police career- I had quite a few of them.

Which is why I am now out of the force; you don’t want cops going around feeling things. They carry guns and shit. The system would break down completely if they went around feeling things.

Bad enough the regular humans feel things, without cops crashing the feel a thon.

Robots are always best in law enforcement; can’t have feeling things administering the law.  

So what the fuck?  What gives? 

What is the panic?

And before we go any further, this is not brave or courageous for me to go here.  So let’s cut that new age shit out right now.  

Some of you are out there- you say it…and it is sweet and caring…but this is nothing to be proud of.

Nor ashamed, for that matter.

Like a case of the shits. You get it, learn from it, then move on.

It’s not a Purple Heart kind of deal.  Takes no special courage to have a panic attack.

I had it…& then it was over.

Don’t encourage me…I don’t want to specialise in having these fucking things & working through them for a living. I had one, and I never want another.

There was no bravery; mainly a lot of panic…

Nor is there any bravery in the telling.  

A thing ‘aint brave unless it scares you.  Doesn’t scare me to tell this…it comes naturally.

Scares me to be IN a panic attack…but not the telling about it after the fact.

That’s just me.

Doesn’t take any particular courage to be me.

I would not wish it on my worst enemy…but as I got the task…here I am.

I am no braver than the next pair of pants along…This is just what I do.

If you were me…you would do it.

I experience something…unique to me…then I write about it.

If I took steroids and pumped iron and hurled my baby through the TV in a rage fuelled roid fest…then I would write about that.

I would much rather write about…

well, I guess if I was driven to do something else…I would pretty much be doing it.

Then write about it.

This must be it.

My thing.

I write about shit that happens inside me, shit I don’t get to hear much about because…let’s face it…who would choose to write about mad shit in their head??  Not me I’d rather write about adventures and rings & goblins and world tours and what not.

This is what I am built to do. Most of you already know this.  So I do it.  Because no one else is.

Far as I know. If they did…I would likely do something else.

So…WTF??  Panic attack, you say? 

What happened, bro??

It’s a combination of shit. It’s never just one thing…anyone who had such an attack will tell you it’s a conflagration, a confluence of events.  A bunch of shit all at once.

For starters… well, it didn’t help that I was already recovering from my worst ever illness.

Nothing worse than people chatting about their illnesses…we all know what it’s like getting sick…& more and more of us are going to get sicker and sicker as the world gets increasingly more fucked up.  You know this. To pretend I have some inside dope on this that you don’t have makes me more deranged than even I imagine.

So…I was about as sick as I have ever been with some virus or another…

And I wanted to be better.

We might want a day off work time to time…but deep down…I think most of us yearn to be better than we were before.

It takes a special kind of malingerer to want to be so sick you opt out of shit you love.

I want to be productive again…so I creep back online.

There is work to be done.

However…I already know as of yesterday…I’m still not well.

But what am I going to do?  Lie in bed another week?  How will that get anything done?

Life is tough enough as an artist, without adding ‘doing fuck all’ to the already precarious mix.

It also didn’t help that I am back in research mode.

Research mode…you’re in yr head.  There it is. 

A lot of data…not much interaction with real humans.

That’s the deal.  

A doco film maker doesn’t just wait for jobs to fall into his lap…inspiration doesn’t waltz down the street and knock on your door.

You go out and find the story.

I did take a temporary diversion; I decided to download a stack of films on 9/11, and see where we are with all that folderol…over a decade later.

I watched one.

Then another. Then another.

I realised…we still have no hard fast answers to that nightmare.

Still.

9/11 Commission whitewash REALLY the final word?

I mean, I KNEW this was the case…but I did not want to believe it.

The evidence looks good for an inside job.

A demolition.

Still…as much as I don’t want to believe it…there is nothing solid to the contrary.

I don’t know what I was expecting; maybe I thought the truth fairy was going to come in and fix everything in the meantime if I looked the other way.

I hoped to wake up one morning, & find the loose change of justice under my pillow.

But nope; still no word on what I know from the evidence to be the case.

9/11 was a giant con job.

I have managed to keep a lid on the insanity that is this crazy messed up world post 9/11 pretty well.

Being a depressive personality…I know I have my issues. And I work on them like everyone else.   Keep trying to find my way to contribute like everyone else.

But after all the 9/11 stuff…it began to build up inside me. 

The outrage that had lain dormant all this time.

This morning…Friday…I’m online.

And I am already down on the government, down on the world…for this insanity.

Why doesn’t someone do something about it?

Why didn’t I do something about it?

WTF have I been doing????

Heart rate goes up. 

Panic sets in. 

IT MUST BE MY FAULT!!!

MY FAULT!

MUST BE MY FAULT!

(I’m already conditioned to accept that, right? Since childhood.)

So…

MY FAULT MY FAULT GOTTA’ BE MY FAULT…

So I’m already attacking myself.

Next thing I know…I’m confronting Mum with my failures.

Mum I fucked up.  I did bad. I failed. I’m so sorry.

Dad was right.

I am a no-good piece of shit mongrel dog traitor scum vermin etc…

All the stuff from childhood.

So I got that soup going good and strong.

PLUS…by this time, I have an intruder in the midst…

an imposter with a fake profile, I been tracking for a little while, coming to a head. And I’m trying to keep THAT going, in case there is a film in it.

Who knows; you never can tell.

Fake profiles on FB; multiple personalities.  

Could be juicy. You just never know.

I knew there was one person with 2/3 id’s & another with two. 

(this was not a product of my paranoid mind…happens all the time; & to be fair, I did get a heads up in advance.)

And I’m trying to keep that going…almost forgetting which one I’m talking to, and who I am supposed to be.  But I’m stirring the pot…keeping things going…

But it’s getting harder; I’m forgetting my script. I have lost track of which one I am talking to…& what I am supposed to say.  And it is working out almost identical to one I almost caught last year in NZ.

Why do I do this shit to myself?

Do I hate lies that much…that I will drive myself nuts to confront them?

Maybe.

Does it really matter in the long run I expose another fucking liar?

YES. 

Because we just watched a bunch of shit on 9/11.

Right.

So I’m working that over in my head…trying to keep it going…

But I’m losing my routine.  Losing track of where I am. 

Too many things going on.

It’s not like being an undercover cop…you forget which lie you told…that’s yr ass.

This is different. & I’m not even on full strength…& I’m not even sure I care about it as a project any more.  But I keep going with it…it’s not life or death.

So why do I care?

Why?  What else is there?

Same as I keep posting on FB.

I’m a junkie. For one more truth.

About life, the universe, human beings…

About me.

I’m an obsessive personality, & I have a yen for just one more truth.

One more realisation.

A little closer to understanding.

So I’m on that for a while, that’s going on in the background.      

All part of the same deal…my on-going crusade against the lies and deceit of the world against me, fought on more fronts than I can keep track of.

THEN…I start going through my friends.  Which of them is actually my enemy??

Because…let’s face it…

I CAN’T be my enemy; I’m ME!!!

Why would I attack me????

WTF???

HAH!!

Before you know it, I’m ranting and raving & down on myself for being a worthless piece of shit cunt dog mother handler poodle molester shit fuck piss bugger bum root etc…

As if it is someone else I am talking to.

As if the bastard inside me is some bastard outside me.

Then…while I’m out there…

I’m back in FB world…

Throw in a couple of FB defriendings for good measure…(I had to weed out some MF’s I never been too sure about…)

Then I find out in my travels my best FB mate Ronnit has had TWO aneurysms…

& one brain op…

& I FUCKING LOVE HER…& I think…

OH FUCK??? 

What if I get one of those?

(Made it about me. Right?  The system under attack??  Everything rallies around to defend the home turf?  9/11 style?  The way they got those jets in the air to blow the hijackers out of the sky before they hit the towers? Right?  The way it is supposed to work?? )

Then while I’m still posting and trying to figure out who is my most immediate threat, what to do about it, who to fire on first…

The soup comes to the boil.

In the end…all there is left inside me is to shut down everything else…

& focus on one threat.

The imposter has come to a head; not who I thought she was- or rather…one of two correct people, but NOT using the alias I expected...

& while that is winding down…

I am exhausted.

Pulse rate returns.

A couple of friends tell me to snap out of it…

& I manage to do it without defriending and blocking them.

And I look back over the days work…

& I realise…

This was a panic attack.

And I captured it.

Recorded it.

I promised to do that…right from the start.

All those years ago.

Record it all.

The good the bad and the ugly.

So I was able to see the worst…

& why…

Like I give a shit.

About who I am…& how my existence impacts on others.

Like it matters.

Reel it in. Keep an eye on myself…

Pull it back into line.

Straighten up and fly right.

And know enough about it- when the wheels fall off…

to look out for it in future.

That is called self awareness.

Responsibility.

Accountability.

Because it matters.

Those things matter.

Self awareness is frowned upon- some people get it confused with self indulgent…

But I think it helps you.

I have never had a blow out or a hissy fit here and not learned something.

Never happened.

My worst one was Friday…& I learned six things of value.

Well, medical science is no use.

The mental health profession knows sweet fuck all about what to do about a panic attack.

So we learn from ourselves.

Take notes.

What happened?

How did it unfold?

Why?

What could be done to lessen the impact/effects of the attack?

Can anyone else benefit from this?

You use FB your way…I’ll continue to use it mine.

You have your good things…

And I have mine.

    

  

        

   

 

Last Big Push for the Bush...

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

In the grasp of a severe fever.

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

It has made me very sick trying to deny it.

Keeping it in.

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

& failed.

Miserably.

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

He has made a complete hash of it.

Nothing is salvageable.

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

The illusion not of lofty aspirations toward restorative art…

But smoke and mirrors.

Fiction and fancy.

Sound and fury…

signifying nothing.

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

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

I…HAVE…FAILED.  

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

So sure I would be the exception…

I am the rule.

The ruler of the rule.

That which I set out to do…remains undone.

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

But of the dreamer.

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

What AM I to do now?

What AM I?  To do…

Anything??? 

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

As an artist? As writer…as film maker?

Keep on going? 

How?

With what?

There is nothing left.

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

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

So what is there left to do?

Kill myself? 

Please!! 

We all know that is not an option.

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

But it is not now a long term solution.

Not MY long term solution, anyway.

I would never kill myself.

Too much of a coward, you see…

So?  What else can I do?  

What everyone else does when they have failed…spectacularly.

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

Start again.

Again.

I could work in McDonalds.

They are hiring; I could do that.

I could flip a burger.

Want fries with that?

Upsize?

I could do it.

Anon.

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

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

One more dream before the dream is over.

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

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

And head North…on a Northern Safari.

North of Cairns.

The Daintree Rainforest.

This place…

To wander the jungle of my heart and mind…

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

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

I want to drop acid in the jungle.

Up North.

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

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

Or artistic ability.

A ghost.

To see if there is indeed anything beneath the failure.

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

The zombie horde.

The faithful worshippers of Big Brother & X Factor.

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

A new direction.

Just a spark of original thought or inclination…

To reinvent myself, according to this new realisation.

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

That the world has changed…

Art has changed…

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

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

To rely on myself…& my own resourcefulness.

& never to rely on others again.

Self sufficient.  

A more sustainable artistic life…

A more sustainable life full stop.

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

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

Peace with you…   

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

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

My mind does a stocktake.

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

I am awake at 4.30 am…

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

Like a child with shitty nappies…

I show it off.

My ‘truth’.  Proud as punch.

So what??

It is truth. There is no denying that.

But the question occurs to me louder than ever before…

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

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

Is when I write.

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

But when I’m not filming…I write.

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

That’s fine.  Like keeping score.

Moral inventory.

'The unexamined life', and all that.

Fine. OK.

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

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

My truth is hideous enough for me.

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

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

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

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

“My truth is the most hideous of ungainly ugliness.

It frightens small children and adults alike.”

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

Not truthful enough.

Somehow…too trivial, ephemeral.

Even pompous.

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

 “My truth is the most hideous of ugliness.

It frightens small children and adults alike.”

Spot on, really.

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

It has some cache with the public.

Why?

Why would I assume this?

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

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

Consumable?  A commodity?

My quest for truth has been disastrous enough.

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

I real terms, and in real time.

Real emotions, real hurt, real people.

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

I am honest to a flaw.

And the average relationship cannot last 5 minutes without lies.

And it was this I wanted to capture on film. 

But why??

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

"Where is this famous film?" 

It hurt, certainly- but truth often does.

For I was asking the self same thing.

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

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

I am not.

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

When the real truth is…

There is no film.

And it is unlikely there will ever be one.

Because the truth is just too bloody difficult to capture.

On film, video, a box brownie or otherwise. 

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

Truth is just too tough.

It does not make for a good story.

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

And I have to show for it…

What?

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

The truth has cost me dearly.

The truth is…

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

There is actually nothing left.

I tell people I am a film maker.

Bullshit.

I have not made a film at all.

I have lost almost everything in this quest.

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

A turnpike into nowhere.

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

Spent a lot of time…

Captured a lot of footage…

But there is no 'film'.

I doubt I will ever live to see any film.

I am not a 'film maker'.

Lie of lies.

I thought I was…but I am not.

Why?

Because of my dogged perserverance to find the elusive truth.

Like capturing time in a bottle.

If i found any kind of truth... 

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

& would have made a MUCH better film.

So what am I doing here?

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

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

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

"The truth will set you free…"

Bullshit.

I flew like an eagle on the wings of bullshit.

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

And leave you...

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

So what conclusion do I arrive at, here??

I have done all sorts of jobs.

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

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

Until my so called job became ‘truth hunter’.

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

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

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

And what is left?

Something I knew all along.

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

And the truth?

Under all the bullshit…

There is nothing here.

Except an overgrown child…

Still showing people the contents of his shitty nappy.

That has never paid off.

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

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

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

Nothingness.

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

THE 'SNAG' TERMINATOR.

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

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

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

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

An emotional blackout.

Or a schizophrenic episode.

But I cannot distance myself from my words. 

They were...ARE...me.

As unattractive as they may seem…

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

When the defences are down.

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

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

Something so truthful?

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

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

Spreading rumours about me.

But no...it was not someone else.

I cannot distance myself from these words.

They were mine.

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

You bared your soul for all to see?

Are you fuckin' nuts?

But then, is that me talking?

Or the authority figure in my head?

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

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

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

And his denial of self eventually drove him mad.)

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

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

Rather than hiding behind a façade.

But it is not easy.

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

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

Myself.

But I am not alone in this animosity.

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

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

And going on the record with what we find.

As if holding myself accountable to others in the process.

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

Being…

As if I am being watched.

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

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

Why on earth hide who you really are?

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

Did you really exist?

Who knew about it?

Who knew you???

Have you actually allowed anyone to see you??

Really SEE you??

I have always had the nagging suspicion this is important.

Nay…CRUCIAL.

Despite its patent unpopularity.

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

As if I were plotting a child abduction.

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

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

But actually don’t.

Why am I doing this?

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

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

My prime directive.

Inexorable, unrelenting…

like some kind of Sensitive New Age Terminator.

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

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

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

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

& what I really think, and feel.

I thought last night’s post was about funerals.

It actually turned out to be about no weddings.

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

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

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

Eventually… we HAVE to meet ourselves…

Ultimately…we have no choice.

I could stop at any time…

but I don’t.

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

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

But about me.

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

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

It seems to be imperative.

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

Warts and all.

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

what of that??

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

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

He thought...'what will I do?' 

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

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

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

Take pride in it.

Keep on marching on this, my blurred crusade.

And who knows? 

Maybe God made someone who likes me this way!

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

:)