ive been alone and ive been flocked – i have no issue with being either, as long as i have the choice – i was running a 30km run through the bush out the back where my family have a house along the coast – i was 10km inland and completely alone, with no way of contacting anyone other than the warm breeze - i had gotten to that place on earth on my own two feet and nothing else – around me flew singing birds – it may have been me disturbing their day that make them “sing”, or it may have been the sun - the first time it broke through warm in months – tree, after tree, after tree – i turned green corners and reached the top of a small quiet mountains to see the trees and mountains continued onwards to where the sun’s glow shone brightest – i was high and holy, alone and in pain, and completely in control of my life at it’s bare and complete minimum – eventually, i came across a group of three trail-bike riders who were resting at the top of a small hill – they watched me struggle as i ran up the hill towards them – at the top, one of them said “you’re fucking keen, aren’t ya?!” – i asked if any of them had a beer, knowing this would make them laugh - which it did – i kept running, deeper into the pain i control and tame so well
i am reading a controversial book at the moment, though it’s topic of controversy isn’t really that shocking any more – there is something almost common about a teacher/student relationships these days – they’ll be encouraged in five years time, with waiting lists – this one is about a female teacher, and a fourteen year old male student – im reading it because several bookshops have refused to sell it, and that’s enough for me – and it’s not bad to be honest – interesting reading when im eating my dumplings for lunch, or the decent yet expensive falafel salad I’ve recently discovered – i thrive on reading controversial books on the train, and in highly populated public areas – the death of bunny munro, while not so controversial, had a fucking awesome front cover that definitely woke up some of my sleepy eastern suburban train-family – charles manson’s book, in his own words, also got a lot of attention – or perhaps it was my laughter – anyway, i feel differently with this book – i think it’s because im often surrounded by high-school students on the train, and i know if i was a male high school student, i definitely would’ve heard about this book, and read it a couple of times, and demanded my friends and certain teachers read it also – anyway, necessary or not, it was making me uncomfortable – i got the idea of seeing if i had any books that were the same size, and had a dust jacket I could remove, and use over the top of this one – i knew it was a long shot – most of my books are old and torn and forty year old paperbacks – though every now and again i’ll buy a book online and it would arrive as a hardcover – the secret diary of laura palmer was one of those books, and the dust jacket fit perfectly – it was a work of genius – i felt like a member of a some sort of rebel group within the berlin wall who had just fallen softly in the sweet spot between luck and coincidence – i could now read about the manipulative celeste price and her endeavours and accomplishments against the young jack patrick, all the while people around me would be under the impression that i was actually reading the secret diary of a cocaine addicted sixteen-year-old school girl, who uses sex to comfort her life, while attempting to tame the embodiment of pure evil as it’s grasp upon her soul draws closer and closer
how many forgotten suburban wisdoms, like an hot-ex-girlfriend, striding in slow motion through a party you didnt think would involve her, or that you;d be invited to - you turn to the appitisers, and smile warmly to the caterer girl - she is sweet - a nice smile working an innocent job - her family will ask how it went - she'll wake up tomorrow morning, warm with the curtains open - her friends will be hungover, hiding from their silly parents - next door, a hard drinking intellectual will be listening to patti smith albums really really loud - the screen door swings open with a violence only seen in poetry - bang! it means something! - he swings deep, patti's voice echos into the suburban night - how many sensible mothers does he wake up? how many weak fathers dread him and empty-holiness? - walking home, he stops and back-tracks - is that a twenty-cent piece, or a spot of bird-shit? - it's bird-shit - and if so, where does he find his holiness? - good friends make him so lucky - the secret world of music, a gift - the love of another, unspeakable - his spirit, a soul, open to every night that screams dark over the world and makes a safer place for the outsiders making street corners a place to drink, smoke, hang, read, meditate and get laid - the alleyways, once belonged to the outsiders, now sap the hip of what's on offer - and so it's there, in the empty suburban car-park, trying not to scary to the last cute girl to leave the twenty-four-hour-gym, trying not to allow my mind to overcome itself by the simple sight of venus rising in the sky above us - the moon, the stars, the dark sky and the sound of the suburban-football-team training for some bullshit final they're going to lose - or win, but no-one will care in no time - i listen to a song that captures what i think me and my friends are about - but i dont fool myself, as my friends continually fool me - surprising mostly, inspiring a lot - a lot more than i let on - yes - without my friends i would be cunt - they inspire me to be open, and allow me the freedom to be wrong - it's a wrong, a feeling i feel my heartbreak to when i hear - everything's fucked - by the dirty three - i listen to that song, and i think of my time walking the streets, the real streets, seeing the stars, the only stars, and wondering about what all the people i know are doing at that very moment - image that - a strange, hairy, boozey man in denim and leather, laughing at the stars - hugging himself warm - learing at your sister - pissing in your front yard and at one with the universe - reading himself humble - there is no need to be angry, he thinks to himself - there is no need to be jealous, he thinks to himself - there is no need to always be happy, he thinks to himself - there is no need to be alive, he dreams and talks in his sleep - his warmth escapes into the cold glass of the window, open curtain - is that stubble on his face? - are they underpants? - focus inspires another day of music - wonder around like you rent the place - light a fire - cross your legs - and with one big deep breath, your mind is open - and we're lost.... i dont want to be found - i have echos that wave into the corner of my-void, right now - but from here, i have no promises - i just try my best - another distant echo, reminding me of the shy butterflies that split as i cruise.
– i remember writing to you
