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

i made a strange self-indulged-soundtrack for myself - to remind myself of who i am, was, will be, and want to be, after i found myself allowing something like DARK to affect my out-look and view of the winter-clouds during the 3pm dusk – i hated myself for it, even if lasted for a short while – im listening to it now - it really helped – i have my apathetic shrug back, that cloaks me against the rest of the world and all the things people make so important – i don’t know why, but whenever im wearing my apathetic cloak, people keep patting me on the back – saying things like, good job – you’re so weird – does anything bother you? – you’re so laidback – they like me better when i don’t give a shit – anyway, another world (live) by antony and the johnsons is track two, after a barely audible sigur ros piano tinkering at track onXXXX, when I was living in northcote - sitting in my strange large and empty kitchen, with a spring sunset glowing slow through the window – i was listening to i am a bird now on repeat, as it had finally gelled with me – i must have listened to it five times in a row - i was drinking long-necks of melbourne bitter all afternoon, and i was writing to you – i remember wearing a black singlet, looking at my clock regularly, knowing that lady-elle was on her way to hang out with me soon – anyway, that beautiful scenario will never escape my day dreams whenever i listen to that album – and that’s the connection to what I am doing right now




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

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

the boozey haze breathed from him like a warm fog - now beyond fatigue, he felt high - the lamp that sat on the other side of the dark room, pulsed and throbbed a dull orange glow - the rain poured outside like red wine, as he sunk back deeper into his black coat - warm from a night of wine, he hadn't left the room in three days - he closed his eyes, and heard music grow like rich green vines clawing it's way to a glimpse of sunlight - there was a funeral in heaven - the angels are dead - he'd open his eyes unaware of how much time had passed - somehow, the wine never seemed to run out - there was always more - there were deep green empty bottles scattered around the room - a couple by the window - a couple by the door - one smashed at the foot of the coffee-table - and several standing on guard at his feet, like loyal soldiers, willing to kill and die for their great-master of the soul-lands - loaded, and wasted, he drifted deeper into varying states consciousness and unconsciousness

when the rain finally stopped, he leaned forward and poured himself another glass of red-wine - his hair hung  long and greasy, in strains over his dulled eyes - the glass was sticky and smudged, and sipped deeply at the wine like spiced-blood - the room, one big shadow - the air begun to move, a hug-goodbye and never to be seen again - a sweet musky scent - blinking his eyes, stretching them wide, a vision of the girl parted the haze - her long blonde hair floated, moving like syrup - everything was fluid - her white dress could belong to no-one but her, and her body - her face with a quiet smile - she knew everything - the music returned, and she begun to move to it's sound - a distant choir of sad voices recalling the death of the everyday-saints - a sloppy piano played - sad and drunk - defeated and over - she spun and smiled in slow motion before him - his heart beat deeply, watching her he knew she was happy - she had no say in it, but she was happy - each time she spun her smile passed his mesmorised-gaze - her smile, deep within herself - her blonde hair in a slow celebration - her dance, a tantalisation

the birds sung sadly as the sun slowly rose - dew grew like poison as a new day begun - he woke up, his mouth open wide - running his thin fingers through his hair, he yawned the cold morning air into his clouded lungs - half a glass of wine sat cold on the table in front of him - he threw it down his throat, and stared blankly into the void in front of him

***

im the arrogant prick at the footy
drinking beers, proud of myself for it
heading on home after a few more
listening to deeply dark and serious music
music with intention
i read fucking tolstoy on the train home
surrounded by the sedated fools
i walk the wide industrial streets
of my suburban home town
looking to the stars with an endless and philosophical mind
im the knock out
the down and out
the timeless one and the last one
im the 4am bowed down bar-room boozer
alone - training for a marathon
im the married man fancy-pants
the ladies-man, one on one
i flirt with them all
im responsible for all the unspoken understandings
the only laws i respect are the unspoken ones
and the universal truths of the soul
the 5am lava lamp and party lights
the red wine and the rain comes down hard all night
my head in a haze
a comfortable, manageable sadness
alone, no questions, no answers


***

i spend the day alone
indulging in a world
of victimless crimes

go jaywalker, go
you and i know
you have nowhere to be

the writing is on the wall
my head is in my hands
i should know better
but all i know
are god's grand plans

alone and drunk
the streets are dark
and i am free
when i wake up
to the policewoman
talking at me

my memories
are wasted
in heaven

the constant struggle between
the good life, success
and the truth

the sadness of the elderly gardener
raking leaves
in the strong cold wind
the happiness knowing
someone is paying him to do it

only the lonesome are in control
the rest of us rely on others

the stillness
of this empty room
i dance in

i walk with my head down
my eyes down
hiding myself from the billboards

the sign says "free lemons"
i take one -
my first lemon!

under the thumb of a drunk-god
i return
to the scene of the crime

the cool air on my face
makes me realise
i haven't been outside in four days

we're going to need
a bigger war-memorial

a silly sadness
can't be ignored
- i have no reason to be happy

i act dignified
in front of the elderly
in the hope
they feel it was all worth it

day and night
this lonely planet
just floats in space

the clouds move like smoke
on my birthday
celebrating the dark, lonesome writer

another split beer
one more memory
everytime i put on this jacket

a misty red-wine
this dim-lit lounge
i sit on your warm spot on the couch

this red-wine
tastes like...
...dim the lights, light some candles

sunset city
your clouds
could cure god's hangover

cheap sad haiku
you're not worth the beer coaster
you're written on

i wrote the story of my life
on the back of a beer coaster
and ordered another wine

i saw the story of my life
float slowly by
in the clouds at dusk

the self portrait of the artist as a thirty-one year old man...

Returning - Black Rebel Motorcycle Club from ArielDeJ. Morales on Vimeo.


i see myself, lying in bed, having woken up half an hour ago - my mind, returning home, after another 6 or 7 hours wondering the cosmos, testing the waters - preparing my inevitable spiritualism - i guess i just have a few more days to wonder through, to think myself through like a daily conundrum - each day is one step closer to the realisation, and the truth that lies behind our day to day life, our self-importance, and our consciousness

frustrated and saddened, really - each day i can clearly see that i truly wasn't made for these times - like something has gone wrong - im an alien living in an alienated society, but something's not right - all that i love changes and all that i love about those things are destroyed to make things simpler - technology is king, and forces everything from history, quality and logic to step aside - and im weird, crazy, and an outsider because i choose to shun and i crack the whip screaming "get behind!"

it's the beautiful and cheerful sadness that keeps me going - some people call it love-sickness, i call it life - the tiny acts of good, friendship, kindness and humility that mean nothing, and rarely go noticed, but it's those things that keep the whole shit-house standing - that keeps the dirt-farm muddy - that allows us to sleep soundly - that keeps the wolves inside each and everyone of us, warm, fed and cosy

The National- Heavenfaced from Jess S on Vimeo.

my wolves are mellow - well trained - hard drinkers too - when confronted with the frustrations and absurdity of daily life, they take notes - they keep their distance and watch from the corner - watch from the rooftops as storm clouds intermingle above - they refuse to associate and they keep their patience - this is the situation, and here i am lost within it - so what?

running has become one of my great loves in life - a solo pursuit, with nothing and no one to praise or blame but myself - it's me against the world, and i take on the physical and goddamn mental challenges that running long distances throw, pound, and whip you with, and i never give up  - i run by the daisy-chains of expensive cars stuck in traffic jams or getting themselves into accidents and anger - i run by people sitting at bus and tram stops, with their heads bowed to their phones doing things i couldn't care less about - they have time to waste, so they text their friends - i run by the houses cooking indian food and i laugh to the indian gods for taunting me in such a cool, fun and friendly way - i run by the houses who have a woodfire burning, as it's dark and cold outside, and run hard fuelled by the thoughts of gas-fire-places and how they take precedence these days - i run through the parks at night, watched by the nocturnal animals who never scutter away, but sit curiously- they're not afraid, and it seems they know exactly what it is they're witnessing - a man taking on the limits of the world around him, fuelled by a world so self sure, poisoned by popularity, and blinded by the screens in front of them

sad music shares my burden - true, sad music, and sadness isn't depression - sadness is something beautiful, and truthful - some call them happy-tears - i feel a sense of love when i hear a true sad song - that unspeakable truth, that connects you - some call it duende - and it is the true fuel for my life so far, and it keeps me here each and every day i have left to wander, meander and think my way through this strange life on this beautiful and absurd planet

and then when night time comes, it's just me and the stars, and i go to bed real late - im left tired and sore, having run as far and fast as i can, mellow and thoughtful - i play my sad music and let it soup over me like warm jelly - it feels like im not alone, but i am - the best of both worlds - loved, hated, forgotten,  i have it all - i think about my spot, sitting there in my chair - the lights dimmed, a blanket to keep me warm - there i am, sitting in a chair, in a lounge room, in a small house, in the eastern suburbs of one city, in one country, in one small corner of this tiny marble-eye floating in an endless black void - all those stars mean something, you know - they are actually out there shining, burning in a universe so vast, the human mind will never be able to full comprehend it's magnitude - and that suits me just fine - it keeps me patient, inspired, and it helps put things into perspective - and that perspective puts a smile on my face as i lie down to go to sleep, deeply, returning home

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

 i wrote an haiku / or if you're a wanker / a three line poem for every song on one of my all time favourite albums...

whats makes a god-complex?
what makes a God complex?

four days under four nights
the same four stars
the same four nights

forever -
just smile
just don't both me

i want to sleep forever,
but dreams dont last -
so i set my alarm clock for 10pm

you shine like moon-shine
- i think of you
like storm clouds

what do i know?
the sun rises and sets,
and god help me

will i live to the day
i'll no longer need
to look to the stars for answers?

my pilgrimage
- to prove my life
with my death -

what a beautiful beach
and a perfect storm
to match it

jungle fuck
curry maker
stop your business!

i shouldn't have fall asleep
with my ipod on -
i dreamt i had sex with a prostitute

no friends to drink with anymore
- i guess i'll take up astronomy
and bushwalking

you woke up at 2pm
it's ok - it's a beautiful day
spend it with us with juice

strange goodbyes
and yet
we never said hello

you need to sleep
but if you don't
it's a gloriously colourful night in your head!

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

i check into a cheap mexican hotel made of wood - the fat man behind the desk goes through the motions without a word - he gives me a key and points to the stairs - the small fan he has spinning at his desk somehow finds a way to make the sweat on my forehead feel even hotter

a large room - a double bed - a desk and a chair - all made of rotting wood -  a small bathroom with a toilet, sink, shower and bath - i check it out, and contemplate taking a bath for the first time in probably ten years - i throw my bag on the bed and check out the tv - world news in black and white, but it has the sports channel, if i stand in a certain position - the 2006 world cup - i'd just left a group of people who called each other friends - a couple of french guys, an american girl or two looking for nice guys to protect them from the seedy streets of mexico they'd read about online in the suburbs of daddy's-little-girl-america - i had to get away - lonesome again, alone once more - i took a nap for maybe fifteen sweet warm minutes before waking up again thirsty for a beer - i walked over to the window which looked out into a courtyard all the other hotel-rooms looked out to and saw a couple of guys smoking cigarettes - they saw me, and so i gave them a nod - they saluted me and i padded my pockets for my wallet and key and headed for the door in search of a drink in this goddamn hot and dusty town

there was a barber shop that had far-out-dated posters of cool-dos - strange mustaches and styles to make you smile - next door a shop that sold mexican cowboy gear - i looked over my shoulder, and kept walking - i stopped at a corner stall and bought some chewing-gum for something to do - i scoped the scene and it melted me - beer was easy to come by so i bought some cans  - large fucking cans of mexican beer - i stood on the corner with my cans in a plastic bag for a moment or two - old mexican cars that still ran drove passed me and the coca-cola sign behind me - a couple of mexican cowboys walked by incidentally blowing cigarette smoke in my face - i made the decision to drink these cans back in my hotel room, watch the fucking world cup, and then head out to a bar somewhere and kill this night off

the desk now covered in cans - i'd done a couple more beer runs by half time - my wooden room throbing with a mexican afternoon sun - i sat in my chair and watched the game - in the room to the left, a baby cried - in the room to the right a couple continued to have pretty wild afternoon sex - i just sat in the middle of them, drinking my warm beers as i watched the 2006 world cup through the cheap mexican hotel room static

later that night i went to sleep for the first time in three days i guess - i really didn't get along with those french guys, but the american girls were cool - i caught a glimpse of myself in the window and noticed how gaunt i'd become - i was the worst version of myself there could possibly be - it fascinated me, so i posed for myself in the reflection of the window - am i dying? will i die here? alone? in this cheap mexican wooden hotel room? will i die an anonymous man surrounded by empty beer cans and a shitty tv showing static with the volume down? - just as i always imagined it - i killed my image and opened the window and leaned out over the sill and took some warm air in my lungs - the stars shone over the chihuahuas that night, i tell you  - as i do, i looked to the stars and thought about them and thought about myself - standing there, leaning out a window, surrounded by an orchestra of sex noises from the all couples in all the rooms that surrounded mine - was i all alone? - i listened to them all have sex - was i all alone? i said - i looked up to the mexican stars - was i all alone?

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

 

 

look up from your screen and see I’m surrounded by real estate agents - comparing numbers, photos, someone elses sense of humour – the he-said/she-said world of strangers –the advice of strangers will surely disappoint more often than not, unless the hype of a popular-cool tantalises, entices, and robs your soul for the chance of feeling as though you were actually a part of something important – how did all of this food become anything worthwhile in the first place?

 

and i see my friends dying beside me – I try and imagine the words I can conjure up that will give me the most amount of sympathy from a world of anonymous cowards and a world of endless opportunity – how can I use this awful experience to paint myself in a cool, hip, blood? – in-touch and exclusive, and i see a room full of people out for personal gain – are you useful to me? – who are you? – nice pants – can you help me reach my distorted, materialistic, soulless view of success? – yes? – great here are my details, contact me sometime – no? – ok, how are you going and nice to meet you – I see a competition of arseholes – I see a race run by heartless people sending text messages to their friends – carrying flowers for no reason – carrying flowers to their partners despite the fact they haven’t yet stopped to smell the roses… motherfucker – I see a world in trouble – but I see a world of problems that can all be solved instantly by looking at your phone for guidance – want to go to a restaurant? want to find a bar? want to go to the movies? want to find your way around? – want to take all the life and joy out of this city by narrowing it down to an electronic replica you follow like a god and stash in your pocket with the rest of your loose change and shit? by filtering this city through a what’s hot / what’s not list? – do you know about the fantastic joys of getting lost and finding something new, and digging it because you found it alone - yourself - not because an anonymous stranger said it was cool – I see the wasted minds of my generation taking the advice of anyone willing to give it to them - i see the wasted minds of my generation taking the advice of soulless-arseholes, and paying them for it - I see a demand for organic, healthy food and fun, but a complacency with synthetic, soulless, electronic relationships– I see a demand for enlarged studio quality headphones, but a complacency with synthetic, soulless, marketed music –I see the ignored graffiti and street artists and i envy the unemployed – I see the authorities watching, taking notes, finding ways to make my life safer – finding ways to expose artists and bring them to the unprepared masses – I see a dumb and happy world where everything is made to be easy – where someone’s making money out of making a fool out of you

 

***

the night had split somewhere between love and saturation – we both started to calm down, right about the same time as the rain – she sat on the couch, with a blanket over her legs reading the track-listing on the back of a mazzy star album – I poured her another glass of red and nursed the bottle in my lap

 

-good album, huh?

-I thought this was the one with still cold on it

-yeah…. nah… it’s not

 

I took a deep swig of the bottle, and watched the warmth of the candles awaken the dark paintings that hung on the walls – the wind and rain lashed in bouts outside, while the candles flickered delicately inside – the room floated as though we were dangling from an antique hot-air balloon, high above a strange and mythical medieval land – despite this, she rose to her feet in a beautiful mellow motion, the blanket falling off her slowly – she moved down to turn the music up, and we both drifted further into our soft, careless, shared dreams

 

***

 

one large empty house - one tiny little soul, trying his/her best to become even smaller, even more insignificant - it always seems so much smaller on a monday night - the soul that is - the house, well, it feels all so much more bigger on a monday night - it's so dark outside - it's so dark inside too - it's time to put out the washing - three pairs of denim jeans - nothing else - nothing else has been worn in this house for the last six weeks - no shirts - no jackets - no socks - no underwear - no bras - no hats - no gloves - no shoes - full service - just pants - you can see them swinging in the night's breese from the old kitchen window - outside, the possums crawl around on fences and in branches - they mind their own business, like good little souls of the night - pegging the jeans on the line doesn't take a very long time, but if you spend some time look at the suburban stars, it can take an eternity - look at them just hang there, like peeking children playing hide-and-seek - back inside, it is cold and dark, and only one chair to sit in - here, he/she sits, and thinks about their life so far, their life right now, and their beautiful inevitiable death - they look at their bodies in the reflection of the glass from the paintings on the wall - they are in good shape, eating only garden vegeables and scotch-whiskey - the monday night echos like no other night - it's hollow and empty, like a beautiful suburban industrial street corner - the echos of the factory machinery drift away - drifting off to the stars, like fathers returning home from work - the head lights of a singular passing car light up the lounge room wall in one gentle moving sweep - and this is the last thing the tiny little gentle soul sees, before he/she falls asleeps in the chair - one slow nod, and they're gone

 

 

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

i ease back – the faint cool air from the coach air-conditioning gives a surprising amount of relief from the warm summer night, and the warm sun-soaked beers I’d been drinking all evening – with my bag on the seat next to me, I put on my headphones and listened to some cool and smooth jazz music.

the market was a pleasant enough way to pass the three hour wait for the next coach down the highway – a gold coin donation in the form of three fifty cent coins – food stalls circling me like the frozen dead plastic horses on that merry-go-round – the sun was setting and shadows stretched and glittered over everything and everyone – the lines to the food stalls were all long, and the people waiting in them were short and fat – the food looked good though, but I was never going to submit myself to that sort of treatment – around the corner there was a tent selling beer on ice, so I took myself there – how long before the food lines die down? I ask the girl serving me a beer – oh, I dunno, coupla hours I guess – damn... I was hungry

I stroll slowly around the market – stopping here and there to touch some fabrics, browse some t-shirts, toss some hacky-sacks – there was a blues man playing blues on a small stage, and I leaned against a tree and sipped my beer listening to him – strange little children with helium balloons danced out of time to his music – he was alright – he gave out cds of his music for free after his show, and his friends and family hugged and kissed him – after a couple of more beers, I realised there was no use waiting for the lines for food to die down – still adamant I wouldn’t stand in line like that, I approached the polish dumpling tent as it had the smallest line – in fact, it didn’t seem to have a line at all, just a few young couples waiting for their food – I was cool with this – I’d been to Poland and dug their food, a lot – I ordered the lot to go with the three or five beers I’d already drunk and sat down to put some food in my stomach – it was expensive food, but the dumplings were good and I was happy – I sat back on the grass soaked up the scene, watching people walk around looking for an empty table to eat their food at - they're all together, i thought - can they see me?

I got my bag out of the locker at the bus-station – two bags – one with some clothes and books, the other full of booze – beer and scotch – I slid into the mens toilets and holed up in one of the cubicals – lid and seat down, I sat down and carefully poured a good portion of scotch into a half empty bottle of coke – using the toilet window sill as a bar – I wondered if this should be me at an all time low – I don’t know – it felt empowering, badarse, rebellious, and like I was part-taking in an age old tradition laid down by people like me – I took a piss then walked out to the bus-stop

the jazz played slow and cool in my ears – the dusk outside, the tall straw grass waving goodnight to the coast-side setting sun – I eased back in my seat and took long smooth sips of my scotch, synchranisng my mind and my thoughts with the jazz that flowed like syrup in my ears – I felt cool – I melted into an endless sense of relaxation, and watch the world in nature glide by my perfection

the next day I woke early after going to bed late – you see, the night was moon-less, and out there on the coast, sleeping in a house in the trees, the stars were in their millions – together as one, as though it were one beautiful and majestic solid piece of god hanging over me – like a work of art – the meaning and purpose of all art, right there above me – infinite time and space and inspiration – from it, I decided to wake up early and walk to the beach for an early morning swim – morning air, cool and moving - the sand seemingly untouched for billions of star lit nights – a morning haze of fog and salt water filtered the rising sun – the couple of black dots behind the loud waves were surfers, who sat on their boards and bobbed over the forming deep waves – I throw off my tshirt and tuck my glasses and wedding rings into my leather boots – I run into the ocean – each level of wave hits me harder and higher and before I know it, im submerged in the ocean and im awake – the gush as I dive under the crashing waves – streaming as I push myself through the unbroken swells – im a head in the ocean – im a small body floating in the ocean – behind me, land – before me, the rest of the dangerous water world in constant motion - a liquified world smothering the planet with life and lemon jelly - ...tangy

blood moved it's way through my body like my father's red-wine - the trees smelt like dusk, and the birds sang a song to anyone who was listening - i tuned in - my boots kicked the dust - my flannel shirt and the cool sea breeze filtered through the green leafy trees - i took it slow, and climbed up a small mountain - a ridge line - once atop, an endless vision of tree-soaked ranges spread gold - i was alone and high on red-wine and potent beauty of natural-earth - as it should be - as it once was - a floating marble planet (one of the most beautiful i've ever seen) covered in trees standing in a forest, with no-one around to hear them grow tall, or fall with grace from the most natural of deaths - i listened to some psychedelic music as the sun set over the mountain ranges and the beach down below - i was alone, high and holy - a tiny atom in black jeans, kicking against the endless cosmos