Art Intimidating Life: The Ruins of My Mental Empire - Part Twenty-Six

pain melts - self inflicted pain sparkles upwards - a man on the street - so many strangers in this strange, strange world - our home town, tonight - some thunder and lightening, and a rain that drenches everything into a deep, rich green - we lie on the couch and think about the birds and ducks and possums we've seen before in the parklands by the lake - i think about how they are managing in the relentless rain - i imagine their silhouettes stamped proudly and unafraid as the lightening strikes again - i imagine their wide open night time eyes dart sharply as the thunder take over everything - we've eaten dinner and under blankets we drift in and out of an ever-tempting sleep - a sinking sleep that allows us to let go of everything this body and mind put us through - a sleep to remind and teach us further, that death is not something to be feared, but is something beautiful and rewarding - we all work so hard and put up with so much in this life, surely death is the ultimate reward - the sleep to begin an eternal rest where our bodies are soon forgotten and our minds lead us through the infinite possibilities - dreams are limited by time and alarm clocks and routine, but soon, in death, we'll be able to comprehend infinity - we will be infinity

but now i am sitting on my couch, drinking a beer, thinking about the things i did, said, and thought today - im thinking about jelly-beans, i'm thinking about the stasi book i'm reading, im thinking of the younger version of myself i walked passed on the street - im thinking of the people i spoke to on the phone, and the people i said hello to - im thinking about what i should do with myself, and how to show those select few that they really have no idea and shouldn't be so self-centred - no-one is that important - i write here, but rarely draw anyone into it's realms on my own accord - i take photos of myself and make videos of myself, but that is simply because i have a vision - i don't take myself too seriously, despite being quietly convinced i am the true sole chosen one, only because i am in fact me, and know no-other way, and therefore, no-one else does - one day, within a great depression, or an endless, endless energetic bliss, my story will be told and the world will never be the same again and it will be the one true direct avenue to god and existence - however, there is a good chance i was find it alone, and therefore take it alone

two nights ago i was sitting in a luxury apartment in the city, alone - the windows were massive and the view of the buildings and lake and bay and people and yachts and sky were instantly impressive,especially as they were being viewed from such a comfort - after sharing a couple or few bottles of red wine with a loved one, i stayed up all night drinking beers after beers in my underpants and a flannel shirt - i sat by the window and rested my legs on the window sill - sad music played like the late night sad-man who'd come to accept his misery and heartbreak in the arms of an ignorant and confused loved-one - it was beautiful and the lights were off inside my luxurious state of being because the city lights painted his picture for me, and i couldn't take my eyes off it - if the stars are god's, then the cities at night belong to the sad-man

the sun has set, and now it is time for me to walk amongst the trees and grass - i have nothing to take with me except this beautiful mind-set i've found myself in this evening - a deep, rich green, a need for nothing, but an appreciation for all thing available in this strange, strange, lucky little life.

Art Intimidating Life - The Ruins of My Mental Empire: Part Twenty-Five

upon arrival the jazz band played - with no introduction, as a jazz band should - they played the celebratory section of the cerebellum, igniting the mind and tantalising itself into a warm and slow haze - it drifted as swayed along with the movements of the sweaty bodies that drifted and swayed along with the movements of the music - if jazz be music, that is - a man younger than myself finds himself next to me and puts his hand on my shoulder - his head has sunk with drunkenness, yet he still finds the ability to nod and shake his head in appreciation to the jazz that plays - i rest a hand on his cheek like his father never did and it makes sense of the jazz now and he's back at the bar before i know it - im alone - we all stand and watch the cats blow, but i don't notice a thing - inside my mind is sifting these notes and taking notes like a neurotic art-man - i don't see what everyone else sees - fame is a teenage wet dream and best left sleeping - art is sex when you never want to sleep - i appreciate art - and you don't need eyes, ears, taste, touch, or lobes to understand it - just a heartbeat that keeps the universe alive - if the universe existed, and life on earth wasn't around to see it, would it really exist? - if we stood here right now, and no jazz-man gave us his soul, would we be confused? - i head to the toilet man, and walk and stride like im being watched by a million ex-girlfriends - i piss nice'n'easy and my hair looks good as i wash my hands - a drunk man says something funny and the rest of us laugh, but we all eventually head-on back out head-on into the jazz sounds and stand with our friends and loved ones - eventually it's time to go and we're all a little sleepy - someone wants another drink and we tolerate them for a few more minutes - by the time we've found a ride home there are more drinks being bored and we're back ridin' - somehow the dude in the back-seat is your new best friend and you never want to stop or getout of this ride - you joke about keep on ridin' man, but everyone gets it - by the time youre home you're simply tired - sleep is easy but sometimes you dream of nightmares and wake in the sweats and you can't explain any of it - things so traumatising demand an explanation but as you lie awake listening to the heavy breathing of the girl next to you and looking at the gray-fuzz that is the ceiling and it's fan, you cannot explain the terror-dreams that your mind just put you through - where did that come from? - so much death, in such a fashion, and why did those particular loved ones deserve to be a part of such a horrific scenario - i gag myself awake again, think of new ways to apologise to my loved ones, and scan my cd collection for some music to drown out the trauma

Art Intimidating Life - The Ruins of my Mental Empire: Part Twenty-Four

bring it to me wrong - i want to see smiles on my face when i think of what human flesh tastes like while stuck in saturday afternoon's traffic - a bland type of beef - why is it so frowned upon? - i see myself as a beast at feast-time as i gnawr on the chicken bones during lunch - i imagine the confused chicken wondering why we springled it's carcass with herbs, spices and sauce - why we cherish the smell of his cooking flesh - m.gira screams jesus christ as the airconditioner only serves to remind me how hot and humid it is outside the car - outside a fat man with no shirt on pushes a trolley carrying four slabs of cheap beer - taking it back to his hot and run down house that doesn't have any locks or windows or doors that work properly - i watch him walk and see the sweat glistening off his tight skin, struggling to contain the pertruding lard underneath - i picture myself slapping a small log against the back of his head - i imagine his initial look of confusion, and the anger in his eyes as he attacks me and i realise i've bitten off more than i can chew - but that's okay, since he's a fat-fuck anyway

sometimes i laugh and smile for no reason - i laugh and smile to myself and it's because i think about the absurdity and my role within this mundane existence - the car is full of groceries and beer and wine and there are cds scattered around on the seats and the floor - my comfort level is at an eight, as a man in a white car cuts in font of us, only just - the traffic is crawling, and so i laugh to myself - i imagine the man in the white car commiting some horrid crime and can see him crying silently in his cell throughout the first night of the rest of his life in prison - there is dust and dirt on the concrete floor and the flurencent light above gives the cell a sort of scout-hall feel to it - quite fitting actually, as it was a scout hall where his crime was committed

i scatter my hands through the glove compartment looking for some sort of relief - a bo diddly complilation looks good but the cd case is empty, and i wonder where that cd is - the knowledge that this cd case is incomplete irritates me and i run my fingers over the air-conditioner vents - i turn my head see a cute young girl sitting in the car next to ours - she's wearing a singlet top and her brown hair is in a pony-tail - her car is scattered with playboy bunnies - i wind down my window and genster with my hands, pretending to take her photo - after a moment or two of pretending not to see me, she looks at me through the corner of her eyes and soon her head follows - she laughs but i only nod my head slowly, thankful im wearing black sunglasses

over time, the traffic begins to movea little faster - i lean back in my seat and try to fall asleep - i welcome the dream-lands of twisted tales and familiar faces - i succumb to my exhaustion and try to ease my mind - the sun still beams and we still have a while to go - moving slowly, we eventually see what has been holding up the traffic all this time - two cars have ying and yanged, and somewhere around there was supposed to be a motorcycle - the ambulances and police cars protect the area and their lights flash silently - a police officer wipes his brow - and we continue on our way alone the open road to nowhere special

Art Intimidating Life: The Ruins of My Mental Empire - Part Twenty-Three

the ritual

for j

it sits in the corner like a staving and caged beast-child - snarling and hissing hell and it's demons at my feet each time i move, or walk about my room - i can smell it - it's as though somehow it has the ability to control it's own reek and uses it to taunt me - it's stench taints my thoughts and my memories, completely consuming everything i can come up with to distract me - it's pink eyes scream like the girl-child, sharing their eternal torment relentlessly - it's rags and shaggs are continually finding new and more putrid ways to stain themselves - fluids often seeping from the skin and oraphises in a death-breath slow motion - it sleeps at times, but never for long - and when it wakes it's in a sudden rage of thrashing convulsions, somersaulting itself in every direction until it realises it's places again, or simply runs out of energy - the cage, rusted sharp cuts and gashes the beast with each move it makes, and it shows no sign of pain - it shows no sign of pain, because it itself is pain - and then we just stare at each other, tempting one another to make a move - to strip and skin our souls, if there be any soul left to bare - though i win out – the beast couldn't help the itching - gagging in ecstatic relief as it clawd itself, peeling away it's soft rotten flesh-meat - soon there won't be anything left of my beast-child, but i know i'll be gone sooner still - i know

it's dusk, i can tell as i can hear the peak hour traffic choking the freeway outside my window - the car fumes slowly ghost their way into my room, and make a fine combination with the cheap watery beer i drain down my throat - the beast-child is rubbing it's anus against the rusty cage slowly, in some kind of ritualistic mutilation - i watch it from my chair, stroking my beard and breathing in the fumes up my nose nice and deep, balancing the head-spins with my cheap beer till it feels like my head is tightly wrapped in electrical-tape and my mind pulses like a lustful black-heart

after sometime, beyond dimention, the traffic outside eases and my pulsing head returns to drunk and madness – beast-child is feeding on some old spaghetti i puked in it's direction a few days ago - and it's shitting at the same time - a glistening lime-green ooze that makes no sound, but spasms the beast’s legs and torso that almost looks as though it were making love, if such a thing were possible from such a being - mid-shit there is a knock at the door and i only notice because of the beast-child's reaction - it being of liquid-shit and harks and hisses and summersaults all within the thrashing of a deathtime - it's black blood splats blue against the corner wall - the door knocks again and i blink my eyes trying to make sense of my surroundings - a bad-dream rusty sunday zoo-ground, sun-beaten and neglected by the grown-ups who have left us to commit painful sex-acts somewhere behind their laughter - i finish my beer and as i heave myself to stand up, i throw my bottle at the cage - it shatters and pieces of beer-glass prick and stick the beast as it squeals in a girlish-giggle - stumbling, i make my way to the door, but find the energy and ability to kick the cage with the side of my bare foot - if the beast drew blood, it would've been over one of the many other scratches and scabs and infestations - so i don't mind or care or notice

i respond by opening the door - there is a young man and girl-child standing outside my doorway - the sun and sunshine are unbearable, and with squinted invisible eyes and bared-teeth i greet them - they speak something and i wipe the sour sweat from my brow - they are the beautiful and my breathing blankets the sound of the beast-child's breathing and pulsations merely a meter behind me - they regret this, as the man hands me some kind of beer and introduces himself - the beer is cold in my hands and i laugh a little, ignoring the words he'd just spoken to me - silence looms a while before i rip one of the beers from the package and open it and douse it down my throat, dropping the rest of the beers as i guzzle - the beast-child hanks and honks in it's cage at the sound of the beers crashing at my feet - but i keep pulling back that one beer as the couple notice that something is not quite right, and turn and move back down the path, to their house next-door

and i return to my beast-child

Art Intimidating Life: The Ruins of my Mental Empire - Part Twenty Two

he took the short-cut home
past the dodgy japanese take-away
across the street his old friends used to live in before they died
past the bank
before taking a turn down the alley-way
where that old shack festers still in the humidity of everyday
outside the bank stood a man in a dark blue suit
with slicked black hair
and slicked black sunglasses
he held a black leather folder against his hip
unable to see his eyes, he was sure the man was watching him walk by
you see, he wore sunglasses also, and so both men assumed
comfortable in their paranoia and suspicions
he caught a glimpse of himself in the tinted windows of the bank behind the man
his jeans looked good
his black tshirt looked cool and tight
his hair moved in the wind of each step
his sunglasses were darker
and with his beard he was unstoppable
he curled his lip the moment he walked past the folder-man
just slightly
just a touch
just enough to confirm his lifestyle against his

arriving home his room was cold and empty
brown dusty carpet - rarely seen sunlight
removing his sunglasses he replaced them with his perscription specs
in the lounge room his noticed a man in a dark blue suit sitting in the corner chair
with slicked black hair
and stylish black-rimmed glasses
he held a black leather folder in his lap
ignoring the folder man, he turned on some music
and pulled himself a beer
with a sigh he savoured his first sip
and lay back on the couch and stared at the ceiling
the music played
and eventually he finished his beer
until he got up and pull himself another one
soon the music finishes
the man in the suit remained silent but took some notes from time to time
upon noticing this, he picked up his own notebook
and begun to writing nonsense words
and nonsense poetry
and smoked them
blowing smoke towards the corner chair

at his thirtieth birthday party there were many people
the park was green and the sky was blue
the air was cool and moved a little
it was this birthday in which he first noticed
a considerable increase in the amount of children running around
his mother welcomed more people than he knew she knew
his father sat drinking with some people he'd never met before
at the picnic table behind the monkey bars
and see-saws
and the slide
sat a man wearing a dark blue suit
with slick black hair
and slick black sunglasses
he held a black leather folder in his lap
he ignored a ball that bounced out of the grasp of his niece
and continued to stare and study the birthday subject
soon it was cake time
and at this time they brought the cake out for him
they sung a song
and stodd around and smiled at him
hoping their presents were good enough for him
as be smiled back and bent down to blow out the candles
he cocked an eyebrow
and looked towards the man in the suit
and blew out his thirty candles
as his family and friend
clapped and cheered

at the football his son tapped him on the leg
and asked him who number eleven was
his leaned back in his seat and took a sip of his beer
his team was five points down with little time left
but he'd seen it all before
and felt at ease with the world
and the screaming crowd around him
well, they lost their shit
and his team won
his son jumped up and down and screamed with the crowd around him
engulfing him
knowing all well he would never be this happy again
he stood up
applauded and took his son to the bar to celebrate
standing at the bar was a man in a dark blue suit
with slicked black hair
and slicked black sunglasses
and rested a black leather folder on the bar
walking to the bar, he signalled for some attention
when he got it he ordered a double scotch on the rocks
and an apple juice for his son
because his son was sick of orange juice
both father and son slammed back their drinks and toasted their victorious team
though father, more experienced, slammed down his empty glass
slammed it down hard
and slammed it down so that it shattered
and shattered in hundreds of tiny pieces all over the bar and floor
without even looking at the man in the suit
both father and son walked out of the bar
and made their way home
to drink some warm homemade soup

at his funeral he lay in his coffin
inside he was smiling, happy and proud of his life
proud of his dark sense of humour
proud of his loved ones and how he treated them
proud of his life and how he used it
at the funeral his friends and family gathered all around him
and laughed and cried and played music and thought about him
both of which he could feel and enjoy from within death
his son gave a wonderful reading and everyone was so proud of him
standing in the doorway stood a strange figure
a man in a dark blue suit
with slicked black hair
and slicked black sunglasses
holding a black leather folder by his side
at the end of the reading the son looked up
looked up with an anger in his eyes that went past the gathered family and friends
and he saw the man in the suit
and his eyes pushed hard
and he silently made a pact
and keep this pact silent
clicking his pen shut
and sliding it into his suit pocket
the suited man turned and left the funeral
and he drifted towards a wonderful
blissful
fulfilling death

Art Intimidating Life: The Ruins of my Mental Empire - Part Twenty One

he taught us well, and given some time, one could even learn to love him and his methods - unsound as they may be, as unusual as they seem, given time one could learn to understand and appreciate the man and his work - despite being of average build for a man of his age, he looked like dwarf - his eyes were uneven and his forehead seemed to be weighed down by the things he saw, and the things he'd seen in his life time - i don't know for sure, but i had the feeling he'd seen some things in his time - it was not only written in the wrinkles and permanent frown on his face, in the way his eyes would calmly stare through yours, and torment something deep and unknown within you - he taught us with torture, and he taught us well

mental torture that became physical torture upon it's own accord - like a bad dream or nightmare where nothing really that bad or weird or disgusting takes place, but you wake up terrified nevertheless - that was his discipline - a look and a weird grimace would send you into a searing bout of mental convulsions that ensured you never made the same mistake again - it was also painful to see others in the class get taught their lessons - they were my friends and they gagged themselves stiff in agony whenever he found them to be doing wrong, or incorrect.

he taught outside - i remember quite often the sky to be a pinkish grey and we were on top of a hill or small mountain - we would sit at tables of two and i sat next to a young artist girl who later became my friend - he would walk amongst us and maze himself through the tables - talking and teaching his wisdom - he wore a wizards hat, that one could assume once belonged to a wizard friend of his - and he'd poured mayonnaise over his hat and head the same way an academic would point their fingers or move their hands as they spoke - he emphasised his whole being with mayonnaise - mayonnaise that seemed to bounce off him like hail stones - my young artist girl friend and i never once questioned the use of mayonnaise - we had seen the repercussions of doing so.

he was present at my birth, or so i've been told - i often wondered if that was why he tormented me more than the others - he was my teacher, but he may have also felt as though he had a fatherly role to play in my life - he'd grab my shoulder at times, from behind and send hellish demon shrieks straight down one side of my body - one side only, so that the other side could watch and experience the unknown-terrors of hell - like a child witnessing a rape, however he found a way to use this type of torment, terror and abuse to educate and empower the individual - it's clear to say this wasn't an easy process as a student - however over time, those seeds begin to sprout, and you begin to realise, and you learn to love

the last time i saw him he was walking out of a church - it was the day before my last assessment and of this he was well aware - we spoke shortly of the weather and the woman he'd had sex with inside the church - he wished me luck and told me to say hello to my mother - tipped his hat to me and assured me that i would do well and that i was also a good student to him - before saying a final farewell, he placed his hand on my shoulder - the agony and putrid pain still remained, however at the end i felt a slight tingling of ecstasy throughout my whole body - continuing on my way, i thought about the beautiful meaninglessness of all people everywhere

Art Intimidating Life: The Ruins of my Mental Empire - Part Twenty

i dont wear those jeans anymore, but they're on the clothes line and a bird took a shit on them - they're left out there now and none of us know what to do with them - run hail and shine all in the last week, and now they're getting shat on - i can see them from my kitchen window, hanging in dusk's spring air as i do the dishes before dinner - later i go outside and fill up the bird feeder with seed - pretending to ignore my old jeans with bird-shit on them

monday night - lets call it champange night - forget bowling and mrs jenkins knitting class - every monday night for the rest of my life i want to pop the cork on a bottle of chilly chilled champagne and drink with loved ones and succumb to the bubbles, pop and fizz of meaningless celebration - everyday is a funeral - everyday is sleep's tool - what can i do to make sure i'll be tired tonight? - and so now champagne is in my life i'll sip it slowly and think and speak without any thought of my artistic destinations - beer is the tool of art, and that's something i stand by, and something that i want and allow to interact with and influence my art - i don't want my loves and loathes and problems and probes to have anything to do with my course - i want to be universal, and understand the existance of myself on a universal level - this, i swear, is something i ponder for the majority of my waking life - some say taking photos of yourself, or making vidoes of yourself, or writing about yourself within yourself, is conceited - arrogant and up oneself - i look at those young men styled out like idiots singing songs - on a stage - in front of a crowd - expecting the world to give a shit about how they feel about some girl, or how heartbroken they are - or how that they've somehow found something worth telling me/singing to me for $15 and two hours of my time - i may write about myself and my unique situation here but you're reading this at your own free will - i don't promote - this is written and thought about behind backs and in alley ways and in the corners of the bars and pubs that they're now too cool to go into - nothing, unless it's secret

im on the wrong side of the week right now, and i always learn from the neverland - i've learnt what people want and what they want to hear - all type of people walking this earth, and im pretty sure i know what they want - and so i give it to them - a small price to pay for my quiet and mystical times alone - like just last saturday, i knew lady-elle had things she needed to do, and so i let her be and walked outside - we were in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by trees and untouched australian bush-land - i walked through the trees and shrubs and spooked the kangaroos and discovered creeks and perfeft little spots to rest and lie down, and logs to rest my head on and drift into easy thought - sometimes it would rain and so i wore my big jacket tight and found a tree or bush to shelter underneath - soon again id be on my way to find a spot by the creek to lie down and think about how amazing my life is, and how amazing and - crazy - trees are - i pick up and small stick and study the particulars of it, and think about how things within nature were the cause of all the little imperfections and unique divits and grooves and bends and twigs - if every twig and stick if as different as the one i found, then surely something as complex as human beings should be to - sadly, we're not - thanks to each other, and the safety and security we find and depend upon in each other - thus, my teasured time alone

where was i? what was i saying? the word of god? of course, as always...

i spent maybe an 45 minutes to an hour of my time looking for a copy of m.gira's the consumer but could only rarely find it anything below one hundred dollars - eighty five if you can read german - i even looked and tried to find someone who had it up for some kind of illegal legal download - not much luck - i had a tattered photocopy of three of m.gira's short stories in my leather jacket pocket that j had sent me some time earlier - stories i loved, and envied at first read - i'd often pull out those tattered and tarted short stories from my leather jacket and read them to remind myself who i truly am and where i should be pushing myself and my mind in times of doubt - like on the train - in line at the supermarket - weddings - and so i couldn't find a copy that would be mine - i found a couple of other books i wanted- w.vlautin's new one, and stasiland - and last week i wrote of conicidences and sent it to j and someone else on i don't really know on the train - and so really, i should've known that at that very moment, while i was looking for a copy of m.gira's the consumer, my friend and brother and partner in grit - j - was mailing a copy of m.gira's the consumer to my home address - i should've known - i feel the word and hand of god now as i hold the book in my hands - i plan on must sending it back tp j knowing all well it must be rare, even in our relationship - though before i do, i'm going to obsorb, read, study and open myself to the consumer - on the train, in line at the supermarket - weddings