Steps

This is a picture of footsteps. 

I think there is a poem of some type, involving footsteps and jesus picking the walker up so his prints don't appear on the beach...etc...

i'm NOT going into all that today; you know my Sunday thoughts.

But...these footprints...are those of a girl walking towards me, wearing only her socks...slip slopping through the wet. 

She looked...mentally ill.

I asked if she was OK, and she said nothing.

I really felt sorry for that girl...abandoned like that. 

Wandering lost.

I know her, of course.  I mean...I understand being that lost.

This photograph...might appear to have nothing to do with this blog; & maybe it doesn't.  BUT...I think they are related. 

At least...I hope they are.

It’s the strangest thing; I got a phone call over the weekend asking if I had sent some photos I took of the birthday/re-union. 

I actually only got the request a few days ago…in fact not just the day of the death of our bird…but almost the very same hour. 

I politely told the person we had suffered a loss, and I would do what I could to send along the very best photos I had in due course. 

& come the weekend…I am already receiving chasers. 

It’s not only strange, the way people seem to lack compassion, for the loss of an animal, the natural grief process, but it is also curious how people seem to think I have nothing else on my plate. 

As if writing is a hobby.  I have talked about this before. 

Some people…MOST people…care only for themselves. 

It’s downright frightening. 

In my case?  I’m lucky.  I guess…between seven and ten percent of my friend list stopped by to offer their condolences upon the death of my bird.  That is a pretty sweet percentage, in my opinion. 

Seven to ten percent of my friends on FB care that I lost an animal, and I was hurting.  That’s pretty impressive.  I think the same percentage read my blog; that’s an honour. 

So, can I extrapolate that figure to make an estimate that seven to ten percent of the broader human race has some measure of compassion?

Maybe so. 

I think maybe we can do even better. 

And it starts with me. 

I realise empathy is a dying art; I get that.

Compassion is a rare commodity, along with loyalty, truth, all that.

I’ve spoken about that.  It’s not so weird to experience complete ambivalence to suffering in our society…we are used to it.  But in indigenous cultures…they take that kind of shit seriously.  Like, for example, the Koori culture, elders have told me that if one of the tribe behaved like that…demanded…I don’t know…that a rock painting be done during a grieving process…then they would be presumed to be mad, possessed by demons, and speared to death. 

That kind of lack of compassion actually frightened them.  It frightens me too.  I think we can do better.  I think that I can do better. 

Feel more.  Care more for my fellow man. 

Maybe it’s about…breaking patterns. 

Of selfishness. 

I would like you to try something for me. 

If you are a friend of mine…& I have missed something of yours…a special event, a celebration of some significance, a source of sadness or grief…if I have missed that…somehow…

then I want you to let me know that you are upset by it. 

Mad.  Sad.  Disappointed.  Many of us…I’m not saying you, specifically…are conditioned to feel we are unworthy of consideration.  So…when we have been slighted, or passed over by someone we thought was our friend…we say nothing about it.

Do nothing. 

If someone hurt a friend of yours…would you not speak up?

If ‘yes’…then why would you not stand up for yourself?

You see…I think we are conditioned to think that speaking out when you have been hurt by someone is a sign of weakness. 

Me?  I think it’s a sign of strength. 

I actually think it is a sign of love. 

If someone cares enough about you to feel hurt by something you have said or done, and feels you are worthy of hearing about it…

That is a very loving thing. 

I think we have gotten some things all wrong. 

Arse about.

If you care about me enough to feel hurt that I missed something of yours, or lacked compassion, or empathy…for you…

& you let me know about it…that’s not a selfish thing.

That’s a loving thing. 

It’s a helpful and generous thing.

In fact…if I have ever done anything to hurt you…I want you to let me know about it.

Because to care enough about who I am and what I do…to care enough about me to feel pain when I have hurt you…& then let me know how much it hurt you…

Is an act of love. 

& if the world needs anything right now…

It is new ways to love. 

Take the Plunge

I was asked by a teenager a few days ago what I felt the key to success was.  (asking me that is like asking the pope for his position on felching, but anyway...I knew the boy- and had done for some time- so wasn't going to blow him off.  so to speak.) 

I thought...do I mumble something about Nietzsche and staring into abysses?  Quote Blade Runner, lights burning brightly but briefly, & so on?  

& then this came out.  It just...fell out.  Just like my little willie used to, fall out of my summer jammies as a little kid...you know the ones with the opening in front?

I said,

'You are young.  Full of piss and vinegar.  You gotta' get out there and do it.  Hunt it down like a wild pig. 

ALL that is true. 

But there is one other thing; once you start... there's no turning back.  It's like the fish hook thing...you get a hook in your finger?  You have to keep pushing it through the skin and out the other side, then cut the barb off; you can never pull back.  

you pull out hallway in, yr sunk. 

You've got to ram & keep ramming until you break through that hymen of self actualisation.'

I may have gone too far with the end thing.  I don't have a handbreak; I never got married.  

Anyway...it wasn't all that pretty, but it felt true to me.  And he nodded, like he knew what I was talking about. 

I forgot to talk down to him...tidy it up for general consumption.

I probably turned him into some kind of rapist.

But I may have also saved his arse.

You can never know with kids, can you??  

The Umpire Strikes Back

To those kind souls who are waiting on the book to be finished...some of you have even said you 'can't wait to read it'... well, you honour me.  The thing is...it just keeps growing.  & I can't call it my 'book' anymore...I am pretty sure it is at least THREE books and rising.  At the rate I'm going...it's looking like another... three books on top of the original three.  I mean...I have enough material for a fourth book.  And beyond.

Now...I'm not a Star Wars fan...I mean, I liked the first three when I was a kid, but one grows out of them.  Or at least...some of us do.  I don't mean to put shit on them...but...Jar Jar?  Really? 

Anyway, my point is...I think Lucas' sense of structure was interesting.  I think there were nine of them in the initial series, and now there are more.  I believe he had that notion right from the starting hooter. 

I also think the general feeling is that he stretched the concept beyond it's limits.  

I would hate to do that...but atm?

My shit is looking like some kind of fucked up epic.

I'm not writing the book as much as it is writing itself.  All I can do is stand back and watch it unfurl.

I would love to take a break...truly I would...I am buggered beyond belief at this point...& if it wasn't for this blog...I would have no idea what my name was. 

But I can't really stop.  

When you tap in...you owe it to yourself to keep going. 

thanks again for your kindness and support.  I can't tell you how much it means to me... 

Love your life.  I quite like mine...
       

xo

Hard Yakka

Now...if you are one of those people who complains of being lonely, yearns for human contact...but then wants to be left alone? 

You are going to be in for some hard times, my friend...

‘The Armour of Dog’

It’s a curious thing when you arrive at a place where you are pursuing your life work…doing precisely what it is you were put here to do… 

& you also realise, suddenly, you have become immune to criticism. 

It’s like…all the barbs, and insults of the petty minded, which at one time seemed to sting so badly…all of a sudden seem to slide off the armour of your endeavour like snot down a bannister.

When you find what it is you were put on the planet to do…finally…

after decades of searching…you develop an immunity to the insults and petty sniping of inferior people.  

You realise for the first time the pain and suffering that comes with true creativity, and it toughens you up.  

You become oblivious to the bitchy catty remarks designed to wound…& make you feel guilty or ashamed for pursuing the path of the artist, rather than the destroyer…

& you become the destroyer of the weak and insipid. 

These snide remarks suddenly seem to fall from your armour like the little Lilliputian arrows that rebound from Gulliver’s arse…

& lie on the ground where they belong, for you to walk over.  

You have worked like a dog to get to this place.  Revel in your age. 

These are your dog days…& they are VERY good. 

After months and maybe even years of wrestling with, deconstructing and debunking a variety of existential and theological conflicts & constructs…it is good to talk a little bit of shit with the boys.

Thanks men.

& if you see Buddha on the road…run him over with your bike.      

The Lathe of Ignorance

For my friend Mark...who never gave up. 


Funny how, when someone who polishes a lathe down at the factory tells you they are working…everyone has to genuflect.  

But when a writer is working & can’t be interrupted?  All of a sudden…he is ‘anti-social’, or 'up himself.

I also love it when someone wants you to write something for them…for free; as if it’s some kind of fuckin’ hobby we do, like stamp collecting or panty sniffing.    

We’re not playing here, people.  This is life or death.  

What do you think we eat?  Words?

We are NOT better than you...but we aren't worse either.  

This shit 'aint no joke. 

We are building things that have never been built before, things designed to encourage mankind to take another, harder look at itself. 

We are the Shamen, who delve into the dark places to bring back the light of insight to the village, so you don’t have to. 

You, the critics…

YOU are the hollow men; you are the stuffed men.

We are Prometheus. 

We are the alchemists, who grind & polish the lathe of ignorance, that we might uncover the gold of wisdom, and understanding. 

The light of Transcendence. 

Forgive us if we can’t do it on command like a magic trick…to eulogise your dead grandpappy…

Or to adorn your wedding invitation.  For free. 

You want the words…you pay for them. 

You ask yourself how important that anniversary really is;

if you won’t pay for a tailor made invocation…

then you need to question your love.

See if you can find a plumber who will repair your shitter for a kiss on the cheek or a BJ.  If you can find a plumber.

We writers are not dancing monkeys. 

& if you think this stuff is some kind of joke...then you are the grinders of only one organ I can think of. 

We choose this life. 

If we don't like it?  We can leave it alone. 

But we don't deserve to be insulted or disenfranchised for our choice.

We are NOT in our garret to piss anyone off.  

Because we have chosen a tough racket to be heard in...

We have to work harder than most.  Put in more hours. 

At strange times of the day. 

While you are out in the sun playing footy with the kids...

We are madmen in a dark room, sweating the word.  

Until we can get it to work. 

We don’t stop for Easter. 

We are the warriors of the word, charged with dismantling such imaginary constructs…to get to what is ‘real’.

So…if you don’t get it…kindly go back to polishing or maintaining something someone else built decades ago, designed to poison the atmosphere or dump filth into the waterways or manufacture dubious foodstuffs that give little children DNA altering allergies. 

Go and polish your lie.

While we try to understand, and offer solutions to correct the infrastructure that allows such degradation and destruction. 

Yes, writing is real work.  Requiring very real concentration.

We are not better than you...just different 

So next time you hear us in the next room tapping away...we are only anti-social so that the next time we see you...

We can look you in the face through the eyes of a man justified...

Self satisfied with the value of his work. 

His contribution to the betterment of mankind.


Good day to you.  

‘Shrinking Violence.’

This tooth got knocked out in a fight one Saturday Night, quite a few years back now. 

A mate of mine (he’s here on FB) and I went out for a night on the drink, & we saw this guy kicking the shit out of his missus. 

So…we stepped in.  Or rather, I jumped in- and started punching the guy.  (to be fair, I didn’t give my mate much room to hop in…frankly, I was pretty wild in those days, I would likely have hit him too.  He had my back, and that was just fine with me.)

It was a flurry of fists, I was hammering away, & the guy ducked his head down to avoid getting hit in the face, & I punched him on the top of his head.  “OW!!”  Fuck!  Did that hurt! 

I broke one of my knuckles & a finger.  So…I stopped a moment, and while I was shaking that out…the guy swung up and landed a good one in my face.  I was temporarily dazed, but I was also angry, so I spat the blood out and recommenced hammering even harder, until the guy gave up and ran away, wailing and cursing…got into his car, (which was in the middle of the road!) and sped off leaving his woman behind.  So, we got her fixed up, I got my hand bandaged, & it was then I realised I had lost a tooth in the process. 

I decided not to get it fixed.  I still haven’t gotten it done.  I just left it. 

There is still bit of the stump in there; you get used to it. 

It’s a reminder…of …

OK.  I’ve been a bit of a shit to other human beings in the past.  For a variety of reasons, possibly to do with a violent upbringing etc etc…I was always drawn toward disharmony and discord. 

Just the way I was programmed, I guess. 

But over the years…I settled down. 

Sure, I have done a bit of harm…but I’ve done some good as well. 

I’ve even saved a few lives. 

When I first joined the force, I stopped a guy from stabbing his wife. 

I’m not the best man on the planet…I’m not the worst.  I’m somewhere, there, in that big bit in the middle. 

So what?  What’s the point of the story?

All I’m saying is…I never got that tooth fixed, to remind myself…I would NEVER hit a woman.  & I would never allow a woman to be hit.  I would have died to save that woman back then…

I’d die to save any woman from being hurt or harmed.   

It’s not particularly heroic for me to say that…& I’m not necessarily an advocate of fighting in the street; it’s sleazy and it vulgar, but real life doesn’t work like films.  Sometimes bad shit just breaks out in front of you…guys get drunk, they lose their temper and decide to take their anger and impotence out on their woman.

It might not look very attractive of civilized, but you have to step in.  & in terms of laying down my life…being a cop, you know you may have to do that every day you clock on.  So that’s no big deal either. 

PLUS…it’s no secret I’m not exactly a huge fan of life.  I think it is unnecessarily tough and violent, I think too many innocent people get hurt for no good reason, and if it is part of some big fuckin’ grand plan at the pleasure of some being in the sky…then I want no part of it.  I’m told we are being tested; me?  I don’t see the point.  I’d much rather see people left alone to enjoy a happy life without being tortured for the amusement of some sadistic god. 

In my opinion, life is a dog root from beginning to end; but we make the best of it.  We have what we have, I guess. 

Try and have some fun along the way. 

Sure…I think life is mostly a bad joke where people get hurt & killed and tortured maimed & raped for no good reason.  BUT…there might be someone out there in trouble…who needs help…& they might be someone who is having a wonderful life; they might be one of those ones you hear about who not only enjoys things the way they are, has a nice family, contributes something to society, etc…

THOSE people are worth fighting for.  If I can do anything to preserve that person’s way of life…you know I will.  It doesn’t matter how crappy I think this deal called ‘life’ is…that’s not the point.  Someone else might be really enjoying theirs. 

So helping someone else who is making something out of it…that makes it an especially good thing to do.

It’s the right thing to do. 

Next time you’re out & about…keep your eyes peeled for the shit.

I remember one night shift, years ago, we were only a few minutes from the station & about to clock off, when we saw something odd in a laneway; some weird and suspicious movement.  As we drove in, we saw this guy on top of this woman…& he was lunging away. 

We jumped out of the car, pushed him off, gave him a tap and cuffed him and it turned out…he was this guy just out of prison, and he was raping the woman after the nightclub had closed. 

He had followed her home, and accosted her for his sick pleasure. 

But listen to this; it turns out…we were just in time to stop that bastards cock from going inside her. 

I never forgot that.

(All this is easily checked and verified.  It happened.  Most of what I write about is available under FOI & public domain.)

In a big city, shit like that and worse happens all the time, while god sits back and watches, laughing. 

Every once in a while…you win one.

Every so often…you get the chance to really help someone out. 

Every day above ground…

is an opportunity to get a win under your belt. 

No matter how many failures you have in your life…no matter how badly you think you fucked things up…

Every new day is a chance to turn it all around.  To do an unselfish act.  To lay it on the line for another human being. 

To stop someone else from getting raped, beaten, or even killed. 

Today might be the day…

You save a life. 

THAT is the point of the story. 

Don’t murder yourself…take all that energy, and put it into something good.  If you don’t give a good shit about your own life…

Then that’s perfect!  Lay it on the line to save someone else’s!!

That’s keeping one back from a hateful god! 

Flipping the god of horror the bird!

Tell him, ‘fuck you’!  I don’t have to play your cowardly game!

Show that bully in the sky what real power is. 

Most people see the shit come down, and they hang back. 

Don’t let that be you; life’s too short for shrinking violence. 

Today…this day…right now…might be your chance to shine for all eternity…to have the honour, and the everlasting privilege, of serving a fellow human being. 

I’ve seen it happen.  First hand. 

It happens, I tell you, when you least expect it. 

Every time I get on the plane…I’m ready.  To take some mental case with wild ideas down.  I’m always ready to get it on at a moments notice.  

Look inside your heart…& tell me that the prospect of saving the day doesn’t excite some little part of you. 

That feeling? 

Make friends with it. 

That’s a thing inside you woven into your DNA. 

Something older even than our species. 

It’s a thing they used to call ‘courage’. 

Tooth…and claw.  Or missing tooth.

Every time I see this ugly snaggletooth head in the mirror…I know who I am.  I know what I’m prepared to do, if need be. 

Life is short…& it’s a wild mess.  You don’t have to win all your battles…in fact you will probably lose most of them; most of us will. 

But if you can get a few licks in…do a bit of good here and there…

then I don’t see how anyone can ask any more of you. 

One or two good deeds along the way…

& that’s one or two things not even god can do.

Get in…& help out. 

One or two things along the way to help another human being or two…& as far as I’m concerned? 

You ARE god. 

Hot Cross Bunny.

So easily, we forget the true meaning of Easter. At this time of year...please spare a thought for the Easter Bunny, who was crucified on the cross for our sins. I'm not sure where chocolate comes into the picture...but have some chocolate in his memory. Everyone loves chocolate.

Big Beautiful Lightbulb Moment...

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Bag Lady

So, I was in Woolworths, or Safeway, or whatever...in Portland tonight...& I was accosted by this woman and asked to present my bag for searching. 

I was taken aback...this hasn't happened to me in this town...ever...

or anywhere else, for a while, so I said, "what is the reason?"

& she said "Store policy!  I have a right to search your bag!"

So...I took her word for it...it's been a while since I checked the legislation...& I gave her the bag. 

I think the deal is...you go into a shop...they can pretty much do what they like.  That's a condition of entrance.  It's quite legal for her to do this...but it's also legal for me to say how it made me feel.

Now...I was co-operative.  I pick my fights carefully these days, and this was not the time for righteous indignation.  I wouldn't say I'm an innocent man, exactly...but I can say I was innocent of theft.  I haven't stolen something since I was...a kid, I think.  I wouldn't even do it in the Police Force...even when everyone around me was doing it.  It's no big deal to me...if cops need goods and chattels that badly...they are gonna' do it anyway...& those motherfuckers have guns and a blurred sense of right and wrong. 

You back away from these brutes; I know the deal. 

I'm not judging...I'm hardly the picture of all things good and righteous.  To me?  It's a matter of taste. 

Theft is just not my thing. 

I love to write...to read...to watch movies...& fiddle about on the computer.  I ride time to time.  Occasionally I fly. 

I don't get myself into hot enough water to try anything as desperate as breaking the law. 

So...having my bag searched...was a bit of a foreign notion. 


Actually...it was a bit more than that.  As I was sitting there, while this strange woman went through my private work, papers, documents, mostly stuff to do with writing and film making...

a bit of legal stuff...


You know what?  I felt a bit...like I was being raped again.

I got that same feeling...

That EXACT same feeling...I had when the priests took me down to the dungeon & did their thing.   

You know that hot feeling?  In your chest, your neck...down your back...like a tingling pain?

And the humiliation? 

At someone going through your personal stuff?

No idea what the hell will happen next?

It was like...being transported in time instantly. 

Back there...to that dungeon.


Strange, that.  I was back there...in my mind...back in the dungeon...being made to pull my pants down and bend over the big tea chest.  It's weird how some things stay with you...


& how easily they can be retrieved. 


If this has happened to you...you have my sympathy. 

When I was a cop...I searched crooks bags without a second thought.  Now...I know how it feels. 

You live long enough...you learn all sorts of things, don't you? 


And you'll be delighted to know...

I hadn't stolen anything. 

But this woman certainly got something from me.

It's cool...some people dig that fascist trip; & if you can get away with it lawfully...why not? 


Game set and match. 

Nonce Ensical.

I was working away in the library, and I looked up to see this little girl...probably three-ish...waving at me through the glass partition. Naturally, I looked away immediately...kept working...tried to ignore her...but she kept doing it.

So...I gave a weak ass wave...& she giggled her ass off. Her mum was nearby smiling...so I guess it was ok...

But it struck me...funny how i have been conditioned to keep well away from kids I don't know...even when they are being...well kids. Fun loving and friendly.

I don't remember a time when that wasn't the case. Does anyone else? I guess...actually, it seems to be OK if it's a female doing it...but a male? Any kind of contact with a child you don't know? Uh-uh. No way Jose.

That's the world as we know it.

Sometimes I wish it wasn't...but it is.


Thanks for that, you nonces...

Hypocrisy Now...

Another one bites the dust. 

If you don't like my fuckin' language...don't school me about it. 

Just walk away. 

I am too old to be lectured about something as innocuous as words.  I have zero tolerance for censorship...the slightest hint...the merest whiff of an infringement on my free speech...

& you are gone. 

Zero Tolerance. 

If FB is happy with the way I use my free speech...then why should anyone else have any objection? 

They are, after all...the final word here... 

No one else.  


You don't like my slighty skewed ideas on sexuality?  Blame the Catholic Church and their army of child molesters. 

Don't like my language??  Talk to the popular culture, PEPPERED with obscenties...much of which I was exposed to as a child. 

I am as I was programmed.  Mostly. 

I make some adjustments when my conduct risks hurting others... BUT...I don't adjust my language. 

Like it...or leave.  Delete me. 

Or block me. 

DO NOT censor me. 

I draw the line at the 'N' word...but everything else is up for grabs. 

Kindly don't chastise me for my 'dick' words when there are countries being assaulted with some very dick shaped weapons of murder.  

Don't do it. 

You just make yourself look like a dickhead. 


Remember Kurtz in Apocalypse Now?  "their commanders won't allow them to write "fuck" on their airplanes because it's obscene!"

Try directing your righteous indignation to the REAL enemy...

If you are bothered by words...

then you need to live in a place where they are not permitted. 


Try...North Korea. 

Old Schooled.

I bumped into this old friend from school the other day...

I hadn’t seen her in…jesus.  Twenty years? 

I won’t mention her name, but it was good to see her.  

You know…those kids in school who…I mean you are aware of them…you see them around…but they are mostly pretty quiet, and you don’t have much to do with them?

Well, I was hardly a social butterfly…I didn’t have much to do with anyone.  School was…well, Hell.  But school is supposed to be.  How else can they prepare you for life but trundle you off to Hell?  

And that’s what Catholic School was…basically a portal to Hell.

So anyway…I said to this old friend…

well, actually, we both said it at exactly the same time…

“Were you raped by the priests too?!”

we both laughed.  SNAP!  

Well, you have to, don’t you?  I mean…how else do you get your head around something like that? 

‘For god so loved his children…he sent his armies of pedophile priests in to rape them.  And it was good.’

I couldn’t invent something as obscene as that.

I think you have to laugh. 

My old friend said to me with a cheeky smile… ‘at least my priest was straight...you guys were FORCED to be gay!’

& I did my best Seinfeld in reply, 

‘not that there’s anything wrong with being gay!’

For children who were raped...this is what passes for humour.  

Making the best of a bad situation. 

But…it alleviates the horror of what happened. 

Laughter IS the best medicine.  What was that formula for comedy? 

‘Tragedy plus Time?’  There’s something in that.

Might as well laugh. 

No one wants to hear you bitch about it.  You do that…one day you wake up…there’ll be no motherfucker around. 

Then…the terrorists win. 

Most people would rather not hear about it.  

Talk about it.  

Hell I’d rather not have to think about it.  But I have no choice.

So…I laugh about it. 

In the end…it’s about what interests people.

Most people are interested in stories of recovery; healing, growing, giving…loving.  So...this…what I am doing now…is how I teach the child in me who never got a chance for a de-brief...

to heal, grow, give…& love. 

Not to mention LAUGH.

This friend from school?  She said to me before we parted, ‘We should 
count ourselves lucky.  Some kids got NO attention at school.’

I smiled as she walked away. 

Bless her.

We’re going to be OK.