Pole Position...

OK...I think it is now time to make Pole Dancing an Olympic Sport. 

Let's get it out of the sleazy bars & the minds of short sighted rednecks, and on the world athletic stage where it belongs. 

Dammit- if this art/sport 'aint simple garden variety GYMNASTICS...

then I swear, I dunno' what else is.  

Who's in charge??

Sweating the BIG stuff...

 

 

The guy who said 'don't sweat the small stuff- it's all small stuff' was full of shit. 

I'll bet he never lost a child.

I don't have any children, so I haven't lost any. 

But I'll bet the grief of a child dying echoes for all eternity. 

Today, I'm thinking of all the little ones taken far too early...

& those they left behind- cursed with a long life. 

Peace, love...

& never forgetting the 'big' stuff. 

 

A Taste of Heart...

By

John Warwick Arden

FIRST DRAFT

April 30, 2013

© John Warwick Arden

9 King George Parade,

Portland Vic 3305

wishcatching@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

It starts with a miracle.

The heart.

Most people don’t even think about the heart- until it gives up on them.

And then they PANIC, rather than think.

‘OMG. I almost died.’

And it usually only gives up on us…

if we have given up on it.

Or not noticed it to a sufficient degree.

A heart attack is the heart’s way of saying ‘pay attention’.

‘I need you to notice me’.

I notice it- every day, and every moment of the day.

What a miracle.

How did I come to notice the heart with such appreciation?

Did I have a heart attack?

No. I have never had a heart attack.

My heart NEVER took umbrage with me.

If anything…I took umbrage with it.

But that’s another story.

For now…I appreciate my heart.

With every fibre of my being.

It is indeed a miracle.

In every sense and definition of the word.

Think about it; this thing pumps away cheerfully-

or not so cheerfully, depending upon how well you treat it- as if by magic.

How does it pump?

What causes it to keep going, day in, day out?

What started it?

What was the key to the ignition of the heart?

I have no idea.

That’s the mystery, the magic and the miracle.

It seems strange to me now, that I spent so much of my life scarcely noticing what I had beating away inside my chest…until…

Well, suffice it to say we don’t know what we’ve got until it’s gone.

Although even that is arguable- because I can only assume that once we are gone-

we no longer notice ANYTHING.

Because we are dead.

Because the heart has stopped beating.

Wow. What a concept.

What a fragile concept.

What a slender tether we have that keeps us attached (or not) to our existence.

And the more one thinks about this concept- the more miraculous it seems.

For some reason, most people don’t think about this until they get older, more aware of their mortality, the fragility of life, closer to death…

Generally speaking, it’s not a young man’s game.

In youth, we assume we will live forever.

This makes the security and certainty of our existence somewhat mundane.

We are almost too cool to notice the miracle…

Or maybe even too distracted by this seemingly endless, bountiful supply of life…

We cannot possibly grasp that it would ever cease to be there for us.

It is only later in life…or when one has suffered a wakeup call unreasonably early…like an unexpected early start rubs our nose in the reality…

That we are forced to think about it.

Some people go their entire life without contemplating the miracle.

Not even once.

Some are anaesthetised to it forever.

They are cursed- or blessed- without the gift of realisation.

They will NEVER know what we know.

There are those who advise against thinking too much about this.

If you are not careful, you can be paralysed by the miracle, and never do anything.

Gripped by fear.

Or wonder.

You can be so enamoured, so enraptured- you can forget to live.

Most people advise that it is best to simply live with the miracle, and get on with life.

It’s too late for me; I noticed the gift of life.

And now I find it hard to think about anything else.

I had to find a way to reconcile myself with the miracle.

So enamoured of it was I…

Like a man in love with a beautiful woman…

so in love…

He ceases to be able to function.

He thinks of nothing else but the beauty of that woman.

I think of the miracle of my life, and find it hard to act any other way but to honour that miracle.

My life now is a sacrament to the beauty and wonder of the gift of existence.

It’s about gratitude.

Not everyone knows how to be grateful.

It’s a challenge certainly.

I understand that.

There have been times in my life where I have been ungrateful.

It has been all about what I DON’T have, rather than what I DO.

And the way people have HURT me, rather than all the things they have DONE for me.

This is coming from a place of profound scarcity.

When nothing is ever good enough, and one is trapped in a prison of desperation.

Always striving, seeking, and yearning for something better.

Something just over the horizon.

And it can drive you insane.

This perpetual quest for something indefinable-

that probably doesn’t even exist.

Not really.

Because it is not about what you don’t have, exactly…

but that vague indefinable sense of ‘absence’.

Something being missing.

Something that cannot be explained, or filled or fulfilled by…

ANYTHING.

And for many people, this yen can never be satiated.

Until & unless somehow, you are able to reach a state of grace, and appreciate what a wonderful miracle the heart is.

What a miracle LIFE is.

Easier said than done. I know.

Sadly, sometimes it takes A CRISIS to come into this state; and even then, not everybody can be awakened to the reality of gratitude and simple wealth.

Such a deep sleep are we in- such zombies are we, trained to live a certain way, slaves to an ideal largely imposed upon us by government and social systems…even our peers…

That the only true wealth is MONEY. POSSESSIONS. POWER. FAME.

I know now that these are not as important as I imagined them to be.

They are hardly any kind of wealth for the soul.

They can enslave us, rather than liberate us.

Such things can make it HARDER to let go…

And the soul will never be liberated.

They cause more suffering than joy…sooner or later.

I appreciate simple wealth.

Simple things.

The best things in life are indeed free of charge- if one can only see it.

When the perception is cleansed.

We can see that nature, people, family, friends, simple pleasures, health & welfare…

These are the only things of true lasting value.

I appreciate this now.

I truly understand the value of my own life.

If I lost EVERYTHING I own, all the people in my life that I value…

I know that if I still had my HEART…

I would still be in with a fighting chance.

I would still have LIFE- and contrary to popular belief…

LIFE IS EVERYTHING.

Contrary to the beliefs and ideology of the government, the corporations and their handmaidens the military…

LIFE IS A GIFT.

Everything else of value (& even that whose value is dubious) is drawn toward us purely by virtue of the fact that we are alive. Breathing. Our heart BEATING.

And one can either be GRATEFUL for this…miracle…

Or churlish.

I am reminded of the tale of the two children at Christmas time, both given identical gifts.

One is grateful and appreciative, and the other wilful and thankless.

The moral being, which one are you more likely to give additional gifts to??

I’m not going to get into an examination of whether gratitude begets personal gain, or attracts more wealth or not…

I certainly cannot prove it, one way or the other.

& in any event, this presupposes an EXPECTATION of reward in exchange for gratitude- & this is very much missing the point.

When in fact gratitude is its OWN REWARD.

GRATITUDE is the gift.

I see people around me in a state of constant yearning.

They never have enough, or are working too hard, or…

They wish they were dead.

I understand this; I have been there.

Wishing for death is the ultimate ingratitude.

I think it is even more obvious in others BECAUSE I have been there.

It seems more pronounced in them.

In fact, my gratitude seems all the more valuable to me in the light of their misery.

Even and especially when they become angry at me.

Like I have something they want, and it is not fair that I have it and they don’t.

As if somehow, I was given a special gift.

In a way, of course, I have been given a special gift.

And the heart of that gift is the ability to SEE the gift.

THAT is the difference.

In the darkness- they simply cannot see it.

The fallacy is that THEY cannot have that gift.

Of course they can; anyone can.

And only someone like me- someone who has been lost in the caverns, the labyrinthine tunnels of the darkness of perpetual loss and COME OUT- can see this.

In the dark forest- it is difficult to see. And yet now I am out of that dark forest- it is my MEMORY of that darkness that lights my way.

For if we did not have those dark moments…

How on earth can we possibly see the light???

For those fortunate enough to recover…

the light seems so obvious to me.

I wonder how others cannot see it.

I sometimes allow myself the indulgence of wondering how it was so hard for me to see; why I had to suffer to such an enormous degree to finally GET IT.

But that’s the deal; the suffering then is part of the joy now.

Just as Anthony Hopkins said in ‘Shadowlands’, ‘the suffering now is part of the joy then.

That’s the deal’.

It can go both ways.

I am reminded of the dark forest, from time to time.

I walk through a forest near my home every other day.

I walk, because it helps me untangle my thoughts. I am able to deal with the petty squabbles and insecurities of others I happen upon throughout my day.

People are so cruel to one another- and ESPECIALLY to themselves.

And even though I live in a place of gratitude- this does not mean one divorces oneself from the human race ENTIRELY.

And a person of compassion cannot help but be affected by the battles other people do with themselves and others.

I find the accumulation of the negativity of others cannot help but play out on my head; and the act of physical exertion helps me release it.

For, if I am not careful, out of sheer habit, I can be tempted to become a party to the human psychodrama once again.

People in the eye of the storm of that drama WANT to involve others- to draw them in.

Misery loves company.

So I walk, and as I walk, I let the bad energy bubble to the surface and the sheer physical exertion drives that energy out of me. Don’t ask me how it works.

Like the heart. It just does.

So I come home feeling clean again.

And ready and able to start again.

With a strong heart.

A heart that WANTS to live. Each and every day.

I am lucky, & blessed to have such a strong heart, that has endured so much.

& I mean this metaphorically AND literally.

It is no wonder the symbol of the heart links the two concepts so inextricably.

My heart has proven itself strong enough to endure a great deal of pain- AND it is strong when it comes to pure physical endurance.

When I have finished my walk, I truly notice my heart.

I cannot walk a level piece of path- I must have inclines. I need steep hills to walk up, to give me that aerobic work I need- my HEART needs- to get a good pump.

As I rid myself of the toxins in my body through this exertion, I also rid myself of the bad energy working away in my consciousness.

And at the end of my walk, I note my heart rate.

It’s not bad- it is usually around 175 beats per minutes, sustained for around 70 minutes, which is vigorous enough for a man my age.

And my resting heart rate is 60 beats per minute.

This is pretty good.

I am blessed with a very good heart.

And this fact alone would be enough- but to KNOW this, and to be grateful for it-

Is the true MIRACLE.

BLOCKAGE

Would that this feeling stayed with me…

This sense of the miraculous; but sadly…

It doesn’t.

..................................................................................................

©John Warwick Arden

2013

Coming Soon...

 

 

a book by John Warwick Arden... 

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.