colour

At dinner, I had been telling you about my dream.

And how I have only ever had black and white dreams.

And how there has always been a violence to my dreams.

One that I can never understand.

You told me that Jung would have a field day.

As I explained this to you.

You nodded as I talked about the blurred shadows, and the noise like a detuned television.

The sickening scramble of images when my eyes snap open to a fully-toned world.

We talked about the self-indulgence of talking about dreams.

And how no one really ever gives a damn.

How they just wait in line, for the chance to talk about their own dreams.

And this somehow makes us feel normal.

'I am glad that I'm not the only one who can't dream in colour', you said to me after the movie.

I wish you had said this sooner.

After I had told you this, I had felt incomplete.

As if I was missing something vital.

Like you would push me away for a real man.

For a whole man.

Someone who's dreams bloomed in technicolour.

All flowers, balloons and baby animals.

'We have seen too much', you said.

'How can we dream in colour, when our lives are black and white'.

'The black is work and the white is home to a colour television and a microwave dinner'.

'After a while it all blends to gray'.

'And there is nothing left to see'.

I slept with you that night.

You asked me to hold you, as we listened to the slow beat of rain on your roof.

It was almost in time with my heartbeat.

The gap at the top of your curtains let in a soft light.

Which cast shadows on your face.

In my dream that night, we held hands on the beach.

Your eyes were green.

Your lips were read.

I woke up, and I was not afraid of the day.

two poems

friday night

GET FUCKED UP
GET FUCKED UP
GET FUCKED UP
GET FUCKED UP
GET FUCKED UP
GET FUCKED UP
GET FUCKED UP
GET FUCKED UP
GET FUCKED UP
GET FUCKED UP
GET FUCKED UP
GET FUCKED UP
GET FUCKED UP

saturday morning

the god of friday night is dead and
saturday morning i'm left alone with the ghosts in my head.

i will hug my pillows.
i will send apologetic text messages.
i will remember stealing drinks and laugh inwardly
cheeseburgers hold too much appeal
i feel like i could go out and order all of them.

i will have dreams that we tidied the house on friday night.
i will wake up disappointed.

i have never known what isotonic means but i will seek it out
in the hope of some modern witch-doctor cure

blue powerade has come to taste like regret.
but every other flavour is no good.
they are offered, i think, to allow us to revel in the illusion of choice.

no one ever thinks of the environmental cost of a hangover.
probably not even greenpeace.
the oil for plastic to make bottled drinks.
the trees felled for our burger wrappers.
the rainforests that are probably cleared for coffee plantations.

i think about this and it makes me depressed.
i think about this and it makes me hungry and thirsty.
i pray to Anything for the courage to leave my bed.
i pray for a vengeful, Old Testament kinda God to
S M I T E
my neighbours kids.
someone, lend me salvation.

the chemistry of common life

Chemistry is just a word we use to describe what occurs when subtle changes in our minds make energy from common lives, I thought. My heart punched my rib cage for what seemed like the three-hundred and sixty-fifth time in an endless minute. We were walking hand in hand and we were all strung nerves and muscle tension.

In the gardens you said to me 'We should sit down', and I said 'Yeah, that would be nice', and so we sat in the ornate benches just staring wide eyed out at the world, as if we were seeing properly for the very first time. Vibrant flowers framed the water cascading from the fountain.

'Sometimes when I come here I like to look at this fountain and think about what it means. Right now I am thinking that it is a stand in for how you make me feel', you said.

We were big on metaphors around this time, like cryptologists making sense from some lost meaning.

'I mean, this fountain is beautiful and alive, and this is how you make me feel'.
'That is a wonderful thing to say. And I feel the same way. About you, I mean. Not about myself. That would be weird. I'm sorry.'
'It's okay. I knew what you mean'.

We were young and the awkward, self conscious anxieties that go along with that still hung over our heads. We were vaguely terrified of absolutely everything except each other, and you had a theory that this was the true definition of love in the modern world. Maybe 'I am not terrified of you' would be printed on Valentines cards in years to come.

We sat hand in hand, watching the water. It was probably cascading, although maybe it was more like gushing, or surging. We couldn't settle on the appropriate verb, so left it at that. We made promises to remember this forever, living in the endless moment, making great heaping piles of seconds in our minds, a pile of sixty to be called a minute and a far bigger pile to be called a memory. The sun was setting directly in front of us, and you asked me to tell you about my ex-girlfriend.

I am five years old and struggling for vision over the dashboard as we drive to the shops, learning the meanings of words like weekends and sunlight and the Bangles are playing on the radio. Suddenly, I am seventeen years old and struggling to see through blurred vision, learning the meaning of things like serendipity and the blues, as we drive home in this taxi, knowing that this is the last and final time this is going to happen, because things have changed. I am eight years old and throwing bark instead of kissing her, and learning the meaning of regret.

This is what I did not say about my ex-girlfriend.

These were my own 3am Tramadol meditations in F# A# (infinity) about her. These were the things I was not yet ready to tell you. I could have laid myself open to you, bearing all. I could have explained all of this, but instead I said 'She got fat. She has a kid, now. You're about 10,000 times better than her, in every possible, conceivable way', and this was, I think, what you wanted to hear anyway.

Sometimes 'romance' and the truth / memories / 3am meditations shouldn't cross paths, I thought. It is usually best this way.

With your arms around me and your eyes on mine, we felt eternal. We felt like were were running head first down steep hills, building so much momentum and energy that we were going to explode.

'Lets go'. You.
'But where to?'. Me.
'I dunno. We can take a walk'. You.
'I'd like that', and we took a walk. You were decisive, and I needed this. It was almost time for the park rangers to lock the sharp-topped gates – we could have been trapped.

Walking past the Art Gallery you told me how you don't like the sculptures above at night. How they seem so grand and looming and important, lurking in the sky. How they remind you of great extinct birds, ready to swoop. How you don't like to feel like the insignificant prey of giant imaginary animals. How you never got these feelings when we were together though. I told you that you were never insignificant, and that besides, I would protect you. You would protect me. Together we would be some sort of unstoppable super-hero duo, overflowing with the relentless energy of youth, running and believing and gasping for air, never stopping, in constant combat with the entire world. Taking on all six billion if we needed to. We both agreed that this, probably, was kind of over the top. Holding hands, we stopped to admire the Gatsby posters pasted to the theatre bollard.

'When I am with you', I said, 'I feel like this town is the ragged edge of the universe. Like we could be rolling champagne bottles down any avenue, under the light of a wanton moon. I feel like I want to give in to the world in all its cliched and romantic glory'. This was back when we were big on metaphors. Back when we were tragic and embarrassing, caught up in waves and tides of feeling, abandoning the Puritan restraint of previous years and lifetimes, as if this time around we'd been born feet first and never bothered trying to put ourselves right, or find out how it was supposed to go.

We walked towards the Square, bright lights surrounding us down Worcester Street. The quantity of streetlights meant we each had four shadows, in varying shades of darkness, and we weren't afraid of a single one of them. We stopped on the Bridge in view of the sell-suited drunks down the Strip, their heads all ethanol and property figures. The caged doors of the Our City gallery reminded me of a prison, and I had to fight the urge to offer you a private performance of Free Bird, grateful you didn't even hear me humming. Insecurities blooming, as we leaned against the same prison gate, pressing lips. Hearts racing, skipping to the same rhythms, without the need for the intoxication of the bars, or the choking commerce of the glass fronted buildings. Feeling drunk off of each other. Feeling like right then and there we needed absolutely nothing but each other, still absolutely terrified of the world, but no longer scared of ourselves. Discovering that maybe this is what love is, and maybe, just maybe, this is the most important thing that will happen to us, breaking free and offering ourselves up to the world, proudly offering our necks to the world, screaming 'come and get us, come and get us, you fuckers' because we are ready, we are ready and we are never looking back.

in this story i ripped off- fucked up, cold world, the great gatsby, every cliche 'love story' ever.

letting go

Thomas Packman sats in his room, making a new list. This was a list which he would pin next to all the others, on the cork board, next to his computer desk. He would (probably) use a red or a blue pin to put the list up – these two seem to be the dominant colours in the most recently purchased pin bag. This new list would probably go under the weeks shopping list, and beside the long unaltered Girls I Have Had Sex With list. Lists mean order, and we need order, thought Thomas, putting the final touches (having decided to turn the -'s into +'s) on his new To Do list. On final inspection, everything seemed to be in order:

+ Buy groceries

+ Pay phone bill

+ Letter of Resignation

+ RSVP

Thomas, with the sense of satisfaction that comes from having truly achieved something for the morning shining in his mind, decided that he could take the rest of the morning off, and get started on the list in the PM. 'Might as well spend the morning jerking off to porno thumbnails on Google Images. Why not. Treat myself. I have earned a break'. Etc.

As 1pm rolled around, Thomas is feeling increasingly nauseous. Could be the result of three hours over-stimulous and relentless self-abuse, but is more likely a side effect of the new sleeping pills his doctor has him on. Big, obnoxious looking red pills, but christ, they lay out out flat. The entire ordeal would be better titled temporary coma, rather than 'sleep'. Closing his eyes, fluorescent colours swam like spilled oil in rainwater.

“Those fuckers” he thought.

“Oh Christ” he thought.

“I should go to the store” he thought.

Walking to the supermarket, he feltnothing but anger towards everyone he saw. Fucking kids in their weird baggy clothes. Old people and their sense of entitlement, their free bus rides. Middle aged mid-day drunks picking up cigarette butts out of the gutter to re-roll. Obese teen mums sweating over their children.

“There is something wrong with me. We should love our neighbours, or something”.

Bearded women. Handicapped me choking themselves at bus stops and screaming 'let me out'.

Thomas can at least empathise with the last group.

The supermarket was crowded, but seemed like a bastion of calm civility compared to the manic, overpowering streets surrounding, where humanity overflowed.

There are rules to supermarket shopping, and rules mean order. You line up, and you're polite. Because otherwise, the whole god damn thing falls apart, and everyone has to go back to hunting our own potato chips and juice boxes. This is the kind of regression we need rules to avoid, thinks Thomas, standing in line.

The checkout girl smiled at Thomas. She was kind of cute, and Thomas smiled back, wondering if smiling was in their contracts, as some sort of explanation, before realising that even if it is, who cares.

“Have a nice day”

“You too!”

Walking home, Thomas ignored almost everything, staring fixedly at the pavement. Even the broken glass and asphalt cracks provided minimal distraction, as he went about mentally composing his letter of resignation. By the time he was kicking his stuck front door, the letter had arrived at its final form.

Dear Sir / Madam,

Please take this letter as notice of my intention to cease employment, effective two weeks from the date of this letter. I thank you for the employment opportunity you have provided, and feel that things have gone well. It has been a pleasure working for your company. This is an “it's not you, it's me” kind of resignation. By way of explanation – I am simply no longer in need of employment. I would appreciate it if my accrued holiday pay could be included in my next pay cheque, if this is possible.

Regards,

Thomas Packman.

'This is a good letter', he thought.

'Maybe my best effort yet. Saves me having to talk to them, too, which is a bonus'.

Carefully reaching over the humming computer, Thomas unpinned his to-do list and black lines through two of the items. Letter and shopping. Done. Five minutes later, another black line. The phone line would stay connected for the next month, at least.

Thomas stared for a few minutes at the list's final item. Just four letters – R.S.V.P. These four letters had made it through the last three Saturday's to do lists. His head hurt just thinking about it, but he knew what was required. He had to get it in the post tomorrow, or it would be too late. He could feel his brain pounding at his skill as he pulled the invitation from the desk's drawer. The familiar crest at the top meant more headache.

“These cowards”, thought Thomas.

Class of '99. Ten year reunion!

His vision narrowed as he tore the perforated bottom off the letter. His glasses slid down his nose as he ticked the form's “Attending” box.

It is important that you R.S.V.P BY WEDNESDAY 16 MAY to ensure we can book for the correct numbers.

For weeks, the invitation had been pinned to the cork board. Sitting right under the “List of People Who Fucked Me Over”. This was the longest list, amongst a large collection. It was a list dominated by high school class mates, and so this this seemed like the natural place for this sort of invitation.

“These cowards”, thought Thomas. He had, after two weeks, put the invitation away in the drawer. It had become painful to look at, especially right next to the List. A single glance its way could meant being hit with memories which felt like a sack of hammers, falling from a great height.

“These fucking cowards. As if the ever present sour-milk taste from expired milk enjoyed across the table from this week's New Dad wasn't enough. As if being legally fucking blind wasn't enough. The petrol-drunk mind fuck weekends trying to escape it all had been in vain. The electro-radiance of flashing screens and 10c space invaders to get away from it all really didn't mean shit when Monday mornings kick in the teeth rolled around. There was no escape. No escape, and no sleep”.

Thomas knew he would go, and he would set things right. Looking at the completed R.S.V.P form, he wanted to scream at it.

“My blood is thick now! My eyes are clear! I will prove you wrong. You bastards. I could break all the glass in the world with these eyes now, and I will break their windows. They will shatter”.

There was two weeks left at work until the reunion, and the days passed like clockwork. Thomas was methodical in his job – processes were established, and followed to the letter. He found the cleaning work relaxing, and enjoyed the fact it meant avoiding ever having to talk to the public.

Later, his boss would describe him as a 'conscientious worker', who 'kept mostly to himself'.

Thomas had worked nights before the sleeping pills. They let him go in whenever, as long as it was after 6pm. Might as well work later, rather than thrash around in bed at home, fighting the hallucinations and restless ghosts that circled in his bedroom. Might as well go mop some floors and watch the walls melt, listing to his own brain sing sing singing out in deserted office blocks. This had been his logic for night work, but after the pills, he started going in earlier. The walls now blurred, rather than melted. His brain hummed, rather than sang. It was a reduction of all things, and he felt Better. Still not good, but Better.

Every night after coming home from work, Thomas would take the small grey shoebox out from under his bed, lifting the lid off.

“You're the only one I ever loved”, Thomas would say to the box. This wasn't necessarily true – he thought he loved his mother, too. He knew he would have cried, had she died before him. It was just that Thomas liked to dwell in the affect of his shining, heartfelt love for the box. To explore the tragic fate they now shared, and cherish it.

On the Thursday before the Saturday of the Big Event, Thomas found his bank account flush, with five weeks worth of holiday pay. $2,000.00.

“This is my life, in totality”.

On the Saturday, the day of the Big Event, Thomas walked to the shopping centre. Today, there was no need to write a lift – two weeks of mental planning had etched the day's progress all over his brain. He was focus and purpose, for the first time in countless years.

1. Buy a suit for the evening - $1,189.00.

2. Buy new shoes - $109,99.

3. Get a haircut - $30.00

4. Post a letter to Mum in Auckland – 50c.
   

He didn't care about the money. He spent freely, cherishing the experience. Wanting to look his very best. Tonight is a special occasion, after all! Hours wound past, and his nerves built up. At home he was in a pacing, shivering kind of mood. The internet bored him. The television was a disappointment, like usual, and in his time killing mood his hatred towards it was only affirmed.

“God damn Dr. Phil telling people how to live their lives. Fucking movies about girls and their horses. Stupid music videos. Endless loops of soldiers with legs blown off. I don't need you, television. Goodbye, television”, Thomas shouted at no one in particular. He felt like punching the wall, just for something to do. He checked, and re-checked the box, and finally decided to take a walk around the block, fists clenching and unclenching as he walked.

“Houses”, he thought.

“Trees”, he thought.

“People”, he thought.

“Animals”, he thought.

“Fences”, he thought.

“Shops”, he thought.

“Insects”, he thought.

“Cars”, he thought, the meditative rhythm of simple thought dulling the jagged edge he felt he'd spent the last ten years walking on. The sun was setting behind an abandoned house.

“Goodbye, sun”.

At 6.34pm, Thomas ordered a taxi. The invitation had said 7.00pm, but he hadn't wanted to be early. There's usually no rush, at these things. No point in seeming desperate, and all that.

When he heard the taxi's tyres at the start of the long gravel driveway, Thomas opened the box, glancing towards the Glock 17 which lay on inside on a bed of folded napkins.

“You're all I've got” he whispered, before slipping the pistol into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. It felt right, there. When he had purchased the pistol, years earlier, Thomas had been made to swear a declaration to only use it for sport, or in self defense. He found himself still smiling at the absurdity of this as he got into the front seat of the taxi.

The taxi ride was pleasant. The driver, a Samoan man with a wide smile, talked religion with Thomas.

“There is something for all of us after we die, you know, this is what the bible says. We find salvation, then. We are with God.”

“I don't know about religion. All I know is that no priest ever did shit to help me out, excuse the language. But maybe you're right. That's a god thing, though, and maybe a soul thing. Right now, we're stuck on people things. I'm stuck on people things, anyway”.

This was the final exchange, as the taxi pulled into the hotel's fore-court.

“$26.80. We'll call it $25.00 though, eh?” smiled the taxi driver.

“I have around $800.00 here. I don't need it any more. I want you to have it. Please, take it. I promise you, I don't need it. So take it! I am just going to leave it here. You'll never see me again, probably. Just do me one favour. Don't let it touch the hands of a priest. Spend it on yourself, or your family. Do something nice. Live life, or something”.

And Thomas was unburdened. No more job. No more money, just him, a heavy pocket and a high school reunion.

This is people stuff.

Inside, Thomas took his seat at the assigned table. The pleasantries were already in full swing.

“St Pauls High School – Class of '89 – The Best Time of Our Lives!” hung on a banner, in the school colours. Thomas felt sick again. Saw the oily colours floating again. The conversations circling around him were all “You look fantastic” and “Haven't you done well for yourself!”. He was himself subjected to the same set of questions and declarations. Oh, they were all so nice to him now. So damned polite and grown-up, everyone looking their best. Any failure was made invisible, at things like this. These cowards, acting like nothing had happened. Flashing their teeth at him like it wasn't these same mouths that had meant ten years sleepless and fucking terrified and alone. Thomas felt his heart thump against the gun's cold metal, and knew what was necessary.

As he reached into his pocket, Ashely King appeared by his side.

“Hi, Tom! It's been a while, huh?”

“It sure has. Being here... it really takes you back.”

“It does. And that's why I wanted to talk to you. Look, I know I was an asshole to you Back Then. We all were. And to be honest, I sometimes still feel bad for it. I wanted to apologise. I know it doesn't mean much now, but anyway”.

This was unexpected. They were meant to deserve what was coming, not be fucking apologising to him. Ashley was never the worst of it, though. Relatively, he was a fucking saint. It was those other bastards. Chris Jordan. Kyle Smith, those types of guys. Ash didn't need to be here for this. Just the rest of them.

“It's okay, man. I try not to think about it, to be honest”. This was the truth.

“Do you think you could do me a favour, though? I left my camera in the car. My leg's still kinda busted. Don't walk so good. Maybe you could go and grab it, for me? I'm so sorry to even ask, but y'know”. This was untrue.

“Of course, no problem. Promise to send me the photos, thought?”

“It's a deal. Mine's the red Toyota, off to the left. The valet should have the keys. Camera should be under the seat, up front”. More untruth. Thomas had no idea if such a car existed.

Ashley King walked at pace out of the main room. Thomas, watching him depart, realised that he had limited time until Ashley would return.

“We could have been friends, maybe”, he thought.

Thomas checked his watch, as he climbed steadily up the stairs to the stage. 7.46pm. “Goodbye, time”. From the stage, he had a better view of the crowd of suited men, and women in bright dresses. There were no speeches planned until later, and Thomas felt conspicuous up on the stage. Usually, he hated people looking at him. Hated being the centre of attention. Right now, though, it was necessary. He screamed, at the top of his lungs.

“St Paul's High School fucking rules!”. He was met with cheers, and applause. Conversations came to a halt, with expectation. Slowly, Thomas reached into the pocket of his brand new jacket. He removed the pistol. It's smooth grip was reassuring in his hand. It gave him a new confidence. The women in the crowd screamed. The men shouted. People dove under tables, ducked behind doorways.

“These fucking cowards”, thought Thomas.

7.47pm

“This ones for all of you. Sleep well, you fuckers”

Thomas felt the cool metallic weight of the pistol pressed against his temple. He blinked twice, and tasted the static in the air, one last time. And finally, he let go.

3am tramadol meditations in f# a# (infinity)

This was, I think, around four months after we started smoking. It all started off naturally enough – explosions of teenage vigor in experimentation, lungs and cones made from empty $1.50 Coca Cola cans down by the creek after school, holes punched with Mum's kitchen knives. Ignoring the aluminium threat of Alzheimers before an afternoon of bad television or knife-cheating on foreign Soldier of Fortune servers. Just dead Ramones, just living for the soft static kick of electric feedback and brain-buzzed loudnights. Everything was so straight forward. At school you pretended to listen, and six hours shot by five times til freedom. We were invincible and the weather was blessed and an almost holy holy ghost obsession was dripping from our pores. It was, I think, summer '05 and we were kicking down fences and running running running. We were young. We took the endless sucker punches to brain cells which were at that point in time far too abstract, far too infinite. They existed in the same sense that gravity exists – invisible but, presumably, always there. Hour long bus rides to far off lands, to crawl over the same well-trampled grass to the same state-looking houses open to the public, fifties and foils only, trying not to pay with change, too scared to cause offense or fuck with what seemed like our connection to this wonderful wide ol' world, so big so big and oh so fucking majestic. Our fear of the keepers of our habit, their almost aposematic ways of dressing and talking. Their aversion for anything resembling customer service in the parts of town where we never knew anyone, has never before had occasion to hit out into. And we would talk shit on the bus, just to catch the time. White noise to fill the stale emptiness, a distraction from the way you could see the dust particles in the shafts of light, and just how terribly impermanent it all made you feel. And we would talk about anything, composing what we were sure were symphonies of dialogue, knives to time.

“Dudes who catch the second bus when there are two leaving at the same time are making a statement. They are the laconic, time-less coyboys of our age. They simply do not and can not give a fuck. This is their identity, and they cling to it, damn the consequences”.

“And lonely, overweight people should get dogs. They will have to walk them, and lose weight. They will feel loved. They will love. They will meet other people at the park. This is flawless. This is what you would call killing two birds with one stone or getting two birds stoned with one joint, depending I guess on how old you are and your relative subcultural capital”.

Days seem to melt, from this kind of psychic distance. There are devils in the detail. We were running backwards down hills to feel our hair in our faces, and we were leaning with intent to fall. There was a girl we knew, and she'd never got high before, and so we said, but we must! She was older and in her lap lay promised lands, and we were all sweat and breath and muscle tension around her. She was wonderful, and we were secret contest scheming to claim her, pink-laced skate shoes and all. She was not scared. She lay herself open, overflowing, bubbling from the attention. Not realising her future as little more than the epaulets on some shitty kid's jumper. Little more than a story told on slower bus rides. She wanted to get wasted. Get cut. As far as all other nights go, this was infinity. This was just like any other night, at her shitty top story flat down a gravel and weeds driveway east of Central. We came prepared with junk food and indoor, diabetes clearly the least of our worries. We sat down on rugged couches, and watched bad music videos. We passed around the anodized purple and silver cone. We said things like “it's cut” and “out of it, man”.

My heart pounded.

My heart pounded.

My heart pounded.

My head screamed.

Pins and needles sung from the very back of my brain, and thoughts rushed like a cracked damn. I felt sick. I felt everything. I looked in the mirror and saw myself as an eight year old boy. I felt sick. I felt so, so sick. I thought about life, and I thought about thinking. I was smoke haze and panic. The room spun, but everyone else was still. They smiled and laughed and threw food at themselves and complained about dry, dry mouths. I panicked about every single thing that had ever and would ever happen to me. My brain spat at me.

Everything hated me.

I was collapsing inwards. It was not like, ‘do you every like, think about thinking man’, it was like ‘oh shit oh shit I never thought about life ////////// my own consciousness ///////// the universe //////// I am a voice inside my own head head spinning in circles, I cannot fucking handle this kind of thing right now shit shit. I am me’.

God, I thought, must hate me. I am lost and so fucking alone. This is maybe divine intervention, assuming there is a God and he is one vengeful spiteful kinda Old Testament mother fucker who just wants to fuck us up for being pathetic humans, I thought. Life weighs too much, I thought. Don't panic don't panic don't panic I thought, for three hours.

And I panicked. I didn't sleep. I was, mentally, out in a desert – as if every single second of my life up until this point, this fucking goddamn whatever you call it, that fell down on me in this shitty fucking cursed room in this bastard town, had been severed from me. I had no memories of anything before this.

“Pass the cone bro”

“Aw, shit is cut. Yous got any left?”

“Nah, bol. I'm pretty wasted though, eh”.

Nothing. I remembered faces, pin numbers, email addresses, but nothing that had actually happened. This is to say, I was fucked. Comprehensively. And, still the next day. I was trapped. I had no idea what to do with my mind for 18 hours a day, now that I was aware of it's presence. I forgot, in totality, whatever it was that I had used this foreign, screaming internal voice for in the preceding years of my life. Like I said, I was fucked. This was an unanswerable question, the sort that flings confusion like tar in all possible directions. Every time I thought about this, I was sick. I thought about the days that stretched out ahead of me. A constant nausea washed over me. I had no escape and besides, no idea where I was (metaphysically speaking). I looked around my room and saw everything far too clearly, like it was over-bright and hostile. I couldn't explain everything. I did not think this was the sort of “self discovery” that anyone had in mind. I saw days stretching endlessly, forever. I could not escape my own life, and it terrified me. I was constant panic and sweat and nervous piss and no sleep and night tremblings and mental connections gone horribly fucking wrong. I was floating way way above everyone, when all you really want is two feet stuck firmly to the ground, and you hope and you pray, you even goddamned pray, with no success. I was internal screams and I realised that '05, it was not such a great year, any. Externally, maybe, I was the same. I couldn't tell anyone. They would lock me up somewhere, shit, this was all far too giant and looming for me or for anyone. I had no idea what anxiety disorder or panic attacks were, and everything was through a screen of surreality. Memories of dinner with parents at a Mexican restaurant still feels like tacks on my brain, the same with days at school. 6 hours is bigger than space when you're taking it each second at a time, making piles and stacks of saved up seconds to call a minute, an hour, lunch time, home time. Endless days stretching out forever. I quit.

I quit smoking anything. I quit going out. It all meant nothing, is what I thought. I discovered, somehow, that drinking was pretty much the best thing I could do. Alcohol to kill the brain / pain. I spent far too much time drunk. I learned not to think. Not to feel. I was anhedonia and I was coping. I read about anxiety and I identified. I read books and forgive myself. Wilbur Smith saved me when I was fifteen. The words harden the fuck up took on a post-ironic, First XV Rugby Team-Free meaning, and I suppressed. I was floating and alone but I was rational and drunk and with these bags of sand I saw that all that remains is to get used to life in the low oxygen disconnect. To know about neurochemistry, and hit out. To tell know one. To evolve. To realise that life goes on, and soon enough you slip back to being just another face. Things will always get better, that kind of positive shit that always seemed so cliché seems to hold true. Maybe, I thought, I have grown as a person. Maybe, I think, 2005 was an okay year.

Infinite

I have been reading Infinite Jest lately. David Foster Wallace is (was? shit) a fucking genius. RIP. My second attempt at this book, I guess. This part struck me:

'Well, love, but you know the idiom “not yourself” - “He's not himself today”, for example' crooking and uncrooking fingers to form quotes on either side of what she says, which Mario adores. 'There are, apparently, persons who are deeply afraid of their own emotions, particularly the painful ones. Grief, regret, sadness. Sadness, especially, perhaps. Dolores describes these people as afraid of obliteration, emotional engulfment. As if something truly and thoroughly felt would have no end or bottom. Would become infinite and engulf them.

'Engulf means obliterate'

'My point here is that certain types of persons are terrified even to poke a big toe into genuinely felt regret or sadness, or to get angry. This means they are afraid to live. They are imprisoned in something, I think. Frozen inside, emotionally. Why is this. No one knows, love-o. It's sometimes called “suppression,” ' with the fingers out the the side again. 'Dolores believes it derives from childhood trauma, but I suspect not always. There may be persons who are born imprisoned. The irony, of course, being that the very imprisonment that prohibits sadness's expression must itself feel intensely sad and painful. For the hypothetical person in question.'

**

Kind of think I am afraid to live, maybe. Not really sure right now. Going on a tropical holiday, anyways. Back in 8 days - might write some shit and read a bunch and swim lots and drink from pieces of fruit. Hopefully!

dialogue

“Imagine if we were in a movie. Like, some Truman Show sort of thing. Would you want to know?”

“Would I rather the ED TV or Truman Show scenario, is essentially what you're asking?”

“Essentially.”

“I don't think I'd want to know. It would become too much pressure. It would change me. Performance anxiety. I would wonder if people 'liked my character'. You would change.”

“I wouldn't do most of the stuff I do if I thought people were watching. My balls would remain stuck to my thighs forever if I thought people were watching.”

“I know what you mean. It would be lame. Paranoia and self consciousness could ruin you. Hell, it already halfway does in front of like, ten people. Multiply that by 100,000 and you get exploding heads.”

“I would prefer not to know. I don't think our lives are TV shows though. Descartes can suck my balls too. This is real life, I think. I couldn't sleep if it wasn't.”

“Even if it isn't, its easier to pretend.”

“Suspension of disbelief I guess is what we're getting at. Necessary in real life too.”

“Exactly. I choose what I wanna believe, and stick to it. Choose arbitrarily, but whatever, Makes life easier. Don't worry, be happy. Whistle that shit all day long. Suspension of disbelief. Have you seen the Transformers yet?”

“Nah dude. It looks ridiculous. Worse reviews than the Hannah Montana movie. Michael Bay, holy shit.”

“On a purely explosion per dollar / Megan Fox screen time per dollar basis, it is totally worth it. Summer blockbuster, man. Anyone expecting something 'good' is a fucking chump. Just wanna see fire and tits. Not at the same time though. Well, maybe. I dunno. The point is you get to forget yourself for a few hours. It works.”

“I might go and see it on a Tuesday. Maximise the explosion per dollar ratio.”

“That is a plan. Hell, I'd probably go again. If my life was a movie I wouldn't want it to be like Transformers. Shit would be way too stressful. Imagine having saving the world on your back? I'd want my life to be the sort of movie that achieves poor ticket sales because it lacks drama and suspense and explosions. A generic romantic comedy, maybe. I do some 'dumb / zany shit' and end up with my hot best friend after she decides not to marry her sports-car driving gelled hair boyfriend, who cheats with waitresses.”

“You want to be a real life Matthew McConaughey character? And I think I am your best friend. Are you suggesting I be your Meg Ryan? Are you coming on to me in some fucked up and elaborate way?”

“I always thought of you as more of a Kate Hudson. And, nah. Besides, you wouldn't date a guy with gelled hair. I hope.”

“You're probably right. But the life of a Matthew McConaughey character. Are you sure?”

“It could be worse. Just seems pretty chill, y'know,”

“It would be interesting to see the 'AFTER' in a romantic comedy though. 'They had three kids and lived happily ever after.'”

“'They slowly grew apart and had awkward sex on the first Thursday of every month, to keep up the illusion. He 'had his golf', and she went to book club. They both still had dreams about how things were.'”

“Like I said, happily ever after. Even what you described sounds okay. Kind of like happiness, these days.”

“Is it the same 'being contented'? I'm not sure sure. At least there is something resembling a family.”

“The 'AFTER' could be that he skips to Australia to work the mines, leaving her with nothing but the DPB and a bunch of Legal Aid bills to try get some money out of him.”

“She will catch the bus alone with a pram and people will judge her. Slowly she will absorb the identity of the single mother. Maybe start smoking at her baby, expressing secret loathing and regret. Adopting the dress code one item at a time. Trying to replace him.”

“There is no single mother dress code. You're being judgmental. Do you realise how much like a talk back radio caller you sound like right now?”

“Okay. So if I said to you – white girl in pink and white skate shoes, boot cut polyester pants, one of those white singlets which is kinda long and then a shorter black one over the top, a Playboy bunny necklace, hoop earrings and way too much foundation, you wouldn't think 'oh, there totally is a single mum dress code'?”

“I would just think 'skank', to be honest.”

“I think there is a lot of cross over. It leads to my confusion, maybe."

“Would you watch a reality show about skanks? If it was like Cops but just followed a bunch of skanks round instead. Sucking dick for bus fare, missing the bus and spending the money on cheeseburgers. Smoking weed through aluminum cans. Riding in cars with “crack a Woody” stickers on the back. It would rate well. I am on to a winner.”

“How do you get a TV show? I think your idea will die.”

“Its one of those things which you talk about happening but know never will”

“Like starting a rap crew.”

“Or dealing meth.”

“Did those guys just throw a bottle at us?”

“I think so. It was way off.”

“Its probably hard to hit stuff when you're throwing from a moving car.”

“It seems like it would probably involve physics. Maths, at least – factoring in the speed you're moving in the opposite direction, making allowances for it. Beyond the average bottle thrower no doubt.”

“Guys like that throwing bottles. I dunno. Kind of seems like they're shooting themselves in the foot. I mean, the broken glass is just gonna pop the tyres on the bikes they have to ride when they lose their license for trying to do one too many 'fukken sweet driftiez bro'"

“Yeah. Lacking in maths, and foresight. A blind generation with dead tyres and too much fucking anger at nothing. Why throw bottles.”

“It is pretty anarchy! Pretty chaos! My job sucks so I break stuff!”

“'Life means nothing so we steal bikes'”

“Huh?”

“I am paraphrasing Cioran, I think. Like, it doesn't matter what you do because life is so meaningless – no objective morals. Life means nothing so we steal bikes is how I sum it up. Like I said, I'm paraphrasing.”

“Life is meaningless, so we litter!”

“Except I guess throwing bottles isn't littering. Not in the city, anyway. You can't litter on concrete and steel. That shit is already litter. Fucking entire civilisation of litter. All of us. We are litter and getting bottled is a part of that.”

“Oh man, you're getting depressing. Lets not start this.”

“I'm not starting. Just sayin'. It doesn't matter.”

“I think I'm gonna rap about how cars look when you're walking.”

“What?”

“My eyes are cut to ribbons by the bright lights

walking down dark roads on hot nights”

“It sounds cool.”

“That's all I've got so far. It kinda sucks.”

“You got any more beers? I'm out.”

honesty is another word for neurosis

Decided one day that I don't really like myself sober. Awkward and over-active-brain-hindered. Wanted an escape. Decided three days later that I don't really like myself drunk. Loud and liver-fucked in the mornings. Can't stop caring what other people think. I am a bad drunk. Or my conscience needs to quit. Or my memory needs to give up. Shit. I am floating. I am tragic and I will one day pitch a TV show where I interview everyday people about their lives. Just like the worst parts of game shows. “Gail is a hairdresser from Christchurch!”. It will have limited market appeal. It will get cancelled. I cannot concentrate on anything ever. Television and the internet stole my attention span, and every time I do lines of ritalin off the tops of rubbish bins down alleyways I secretly pray that rather than the chatterbox-energy-rush, I will feel calm and centred and ready to 'get myself together'. That way I would have some clear idea of what is actually going on. I'm not coming to terms with anything. Being older doesn't make sense. Should I own stocks? Maybe I should buy stocks. Or bonds. Whatever they are. Maybe I need both. Have been thinking about “becoming a capitalist”. Not quite sure what this involves but it might make me “a man” or something. I would feel happy and mature. If I lived in a systematised world I would know where I stand. Could just move to Japan, I think they have rules for everything there. What to think about at certain times of day, that sort of thing. Feel kind of racist now. Have been thinking about putting everything I write into 'scare quotes' maybe. Seems 'kind of popular' right now. I could pretend to 'be detatched' and just write about things ironically. I went to a 'totally cool' party last night. That kind of thing. I could just grow a beard instead. It would be easier but probably achieve the same results. Every time I walk through town I feel like I have been doing the same thing for the last six years and I start to choke. Every show I go to with the same faces and the same bands, I want to stab myself in the heart, or get out of this city. I feel like telling people I think their band sucks. That they should give up. Just for a change, something different to the same old local-music-circle-jerk-no-objective-opinion-because-you're-down-with-the-band fuckfest I dive headfirst into. Yeah, we get by. Yeah, 'the scene' is a joke. Yeah, honesty is looked down upon. People would rather drink in carparks than watch the bands. I would rather do this too. I want to throw hammers at the crowd, and use razor blades instead of stamps at the door. This should be ugly. This should be blood-on-guitar discomfort. Bad vibes, bad vibes, bad vibes – take me away. I will never act on my opinion. I am too scared. Fucking terrified of everything. Cars that go past in the dark. Groups of people outside houses waiting to fuck me up / stab me / bottle me / rob me. Life. Death. Almost everything in between. Feel like I'm floating 90% of the time and crushed the other 10%, and can't figure out which I prefer. The funniest thing I ever saw was a bible in the toilet at church. It made perfect sense at the time. Almost everything that “is true” makes me feel like shit. Objectively, I'm gonna have 2.2 kids and live until I'm 80. Objectively I am one of 6 billion of a specific class of mammals. Objectively, my life is pointless, meaningless and worthless. Good vibes, good vibes, good vibes. Bring on the escapism of blockbuster movies, Big Macs, internet porn and $16 dozens. Its all I've got left, anyway.

EVERYTHING I DO IN LIFE I DO TO AVOID ONE DAY HAVING TO HAVE SEX WITH SOMETHING IN THE LIKENESS OF A PERSON MADE OUT OF PLASTIC BECAUSE I AM ALONE.

gotta get a job.
gotta get a job.
gotta get a job.
gotta get a job.
gotta get a job.
gotta get a job.
gotta get a job.
gotta get a job.
gotta get a job.
gotta get a job.
gotta get a job.
gotta get a job.
gotta get a job.

soap

Bill was, by most accounts, a reasonable man. Bill watched his kids play rugby on cold winter mornings, and Bill paid his taxes. He didn't like paying his taxes, but he did it anyway. Bill was a straight up kinda guy like that. A straight up kinda guy in every sense of the word, even – the sort to call a spade a spade, and the sort to have a few DB's down the pub on Fridays, after work knocked off early. Bill knew the guys down the pub, and they knew him. They talked about work, and family, and sport, and cars. Mainly about sport and cars. Sometimes there was crossover. Motor sports were a popular topic. Bill was a “lifting equipment salesman”. He thought he liked his job, and it paid the bills. Kept the missus happy. Mouths to feed. That sort of thing.

Bill got broken one day. It was, ultimately, the oatmeal soap which broke Bill. Cause and effect, determinism, modern life and all that played its necessary part too. It is easier to say that the oatmeal soap broke Bill, though.

The soap at Bill's work had been the same for as long as he could remember. White. Non-descript in almost every way – yeah, it cleaned your hands alright. There was a new manager at this office, a young bloke, had his degree and everything. Got on fine with Bill, but y'know, a boss is a boss and all that. He was making changes alright, but nothing major. The coffee in the break room changed. The timesheets were electronic now – you needed to log in each morning. And the bathroom soap had changed too. Bill didn't notice the soap change, until some of the other guys were talking about it.

“Yeah, the boss was saying. Oatmeal and honey soap. Gentler on your hands, or some limp-dick shit like that”.

And Bill laughed. Fucking soap. The day progressed. Pneumatic hoists were sold.

Two days later, Bill drove to work like usual. The traffic was heavy down Blenheim Road. The weather was messing with the radio reception – Hauraki was cracked and edged with static. Bill punched his code into the computer ten minutes late. “Another day, yeah, another dollar”. Make a coffee, drum out of time on a free desk pad with margins of printed advertising, yeah waiting for something to happen. Check your emails, read the news. Maybe do some work, if the boss is in.

Bill went to the bathroom around 10 o'clock that day. Good to take a walk, at least, get the blood flowing. And Bill used the oatmeal soap for the first time. Bill wondered about the soap. Why is our soap made out of food? Are people somewhere eating soap? Life was confusing. Bill wondered about the endless days in which the old soap had featured. How many more times in his life would he look at a different-but-the-same bar of oatmeal and honey soap, in this same bathroom stall? Synapses fired blankly. Cum to infertile eggs. Resulting in no life. “This is not life” though Bill, as the procession of old--soap days, all constumed in the same drab grey cloth, danced through his mind. “Yeah, this is nothing”.

Bill left the bathroom, and left work entirely. He didn't bother with his jacket. He never even clocked out on his work computer. Bill was shaken. It wasn't that he couldn't face the soap. It was that he couldn't face the days that would be punctuated by soap. A daily reference to the crushing boredom. The soap would become a symbol. From the first thoughts about soap, everything fucked with Bill. He didn't know why, but it did. The pace at which people in malls would walk. The way his teenage daughter would blank eye stare at the sixteenth birthday parties of spoiled Americans. Before, this was just “life”. Things that just happened. A good look at the daily soap had opened Bill's eyes, replacing squinting acceptance with a wide-eyed view of caustic banality. Bill was fucked.

leaves

I wake up in the rain and it doesn't sound like stopping. It sounds like its gonna keep going for three days straight. I feel like staying in bed for three days, too. A contest of patience with the rain. My boss calls. I am already late for work. The rain will win, this time. "You've won this time, asshole" I tell the rain. Outside, there is an involuntary moat around my house. The autumn leaves have choked the drains. A rain-lake is trying to make me loss my job. Shouldn't have called it an asshole, crosses my mind. But I won't let it win. I will be like Carl Lewis and I will jump clear over you, rain puddle! How silly you'll look then. I run and jump, with perfect technique, planting my front foot only millimetres from the water's edge. I am flying and then I am landing. With a splash. "You win again, asshole!". My shoes and socks are soaked through. I am late for work. I can't go back and change, because I'll just have to jump again. My whole day will be coloured and damp and off from this. I will have to work late. The blockage is only going to get worse throughout the day. I'll have to jump harder and further when I get home. Some days, it feels like even the leaves hate you.

smokes

Life would be a lot easier if I smoked cigarettes, thought Mary, as she sat in the gutter waiting for her bus. She was more sitting on the edge of the footpath, with her feet in the gutter – this is more accurate. Mary thought that the people in cars driving by must wonder – what is that girl doing sitting in the gutter like that? If she had a cigarette though, people would just think “Oh, there's a girl smoking, how perfectly normal!”. Mary sat not-quite-in-the-gutter because the bus stop had no seat. A steel sign strapped to a wooden telephone pole was the extent of it. Sitting is easier then standing, or leaning against the telephone pole.

I should start smoking, thought Mary.

I could stand outside at popular social events, awkward and alone and no one would know. They would just think “Oh, there's a girl smoking. That makes sense”. I would not have to talk to anyone, because I would look busy and occupied. I could smoke so intently that people would know I was unable to focus on anything else at the time. I would ask a cute boy for a lighter even if I had one in my back pocket. Our small talk about progress to meaningful conversation about things with the prefix post-. He would become my boyfriend. He would seem awkward and self absorbed at first. I would change him. O would teach him to love. We would lie smoking and talking after sex. He wouldn't just roll over and sleep, leaving me with nothing but messy sheets, low self esteem and serious questions about my appearance / life / taste in men. We would sit outside at cafes drinking black coffee and eating bagels. He would know every second person walking past, and introduce me to them.

Yeah, thought Mary. Life would be easier if I smoked.

crucial unit

here are some more exciting lyrics, to provide a counterpoint to the stark and serious tone of the previous offering. we are working with opposites here in an attempt to stumble upon bold new flavours. crucial unit:

zines killing trees, littering our scene, nothing is unique so they better be free! let's wig out at kinkos! GO! photos of the cool bands for this season. political advice on how to commmit treason. regurgitated bullshit xeroxed for the masses. these rags would be better for wiping asses. do something new and make it real funny. otherwise, don't ask me for my money.

**

i'm throwing a sleepover this next friday night. just like any sleepover i'm going to invite one kid that we all hate just so we can fuck with him. i'm going to invite that lousy snot nose God. sure he'll eat all the munchies. sure he'll talk through the movie. sure he'll fuck up truth or dare. but it will be worth it once he falls fast alseep. SO WE CAN teabag God!

**

don't burn down the churches. because they are still useful buildings. that could be used for show spaces or skateparks.

**

riding my bike and i saw such a mess. hundreds of white people in protest. i rode a bit closer to see why they were pissed. thought they were buying barry manilow tickets. they weren't coming from playing tennis, but they had a picture of a giant fetus. i knew it was time to round up the kids so we could lock arms and fucking resist. wall of death the chain of fucking life.

**

tape goes in, kids go nuts. we're not here for kickin butts. we don't need a band with an amp. just don't break the goddamn lamp. moshing with the d-boiz - won them on the air, stage dive off of steev's reclineable chair. living room mosh pit! coffee table GO!

**

thrashin' is our business...and business is mediocre at best. go!

RIP.

dystopia

i spent an hour after coming home listening to dystopia and shuffling paper in my room. this is not a metaphor. the most gut wrenching / fucked up / make you want to get back on the fluoxitine you stopped taking / h8 u life / oh duuuude lyrics ever.

i dont have no one
i dont want no one
and i show no love
to anyone on the other side of the gun
what have i become
a threat to me and the ones i love
stare at the mirror and spit on my reflection
tears stain my bed
i write a letter to my mom and dad
telling them their son has failed them once again
gun in my mouth
i pull he trigger
the same story
a dead son
a fathers gun

-------------

lying bastards
decieving fuckers
you are a curse
violation
kicked in the head
when i hurt the worse
my body boils with
both anger and confusion
thorazine is such
a bitch to endure
i wanna rip your
fucking head off
you desecrate
all that is pure
stab me in the back
enemy
and to think
i fucking trusted you
you never cared
like a fucking doormat
you wiped your feet
on my dignity
so what
you caught me
when i was down
i must have been blind
to think your actions
constituted any love
liar
apologise till your
throat is sore
youre not sorry
cover your tracks
like you did before
no not any more
the drugs im taking
dont calm me anymore
i sit in angry depression
im worse off
than i was before
you fucking pig
i dont forgive
i dont forget
my minds set
i hope youre proud of
what youve done to me
you never fucking cared
backstabber
are to me in many forms
my best friend
hitler. jesus
christ. the law
fuck all you cunts
you shat on me
i hope it happens to you
maybe youll understand
how fucked it
really feels.

Feeling posi about life though. Everything is relative.

45 rpm

Too fast cars drive by, and smoke from the house on the corner of Hope Street flavours the air. The midnight streetlights are my only company, but I try writing letters to ghosts in the mist of my breath. Before reaching home I am swallowed by the warmth of fire and friends. We watch trailers for bad movies and drink cheap beers. I soon leave, returning home to refresh Facebook and listen to slow records on 45.

sometimes

sometimes when i'm typing stuff on the internet i make typos and spell 'yeah' like 'yeha',
and then i pretend like what i actually meant to say was 'YEHAW'.
just so i can start talking about something that i am more interested in.

Dan says:

yeha

Dan says:

**yeehaw! just saw some lions and some crocodiles fighting over a wounded antelope.

But, by god that Lift would have been refreshing!

Just want to tell people that I need to look extra hot tonight, because my personality's gonna suck.

And then text them in the morning saying that I don't remember anything but I'm an asshole so probably said something horrible and i'm sorry.

Then I want to walk to the dairy and buy a can of Lift.

And try to remember what I did last night.

Then I want to get declined buying Lift because I have no money,

further adding to the mystery and making me think I probably had more fun than I actually did.

THINGS I LEARNT WAITING FOR THE BUS AT EASTGATE

• That Sonny is going to smash that cunt for talking shit man

• That he said he was gonna fight him but then dropped nuts

• That a real obese woman is going out with a real lanky guy with ape-arms

• That his favourite sub is Teriyaki Chicken, and hers is Meatball.

• That they like kissing.

• That one of them smells bad.

• That it is probably the woman.

• That some girl only wears trackpants when she is around kids

• That when she saw some other girl wearing trackpants she was like what the fuck

• That the other girl wore glassses half the size of her face and it was like oh my god, I know!

• That the answer to every question is 42

• That it's off that movie, y'know?

• That if a teacher asks you something you don't know in class you should just say 42

• That most teachers have seen that movie

• That all teachers in Germany have seen that movie

• That they will laugh if you say 42 is the answer.

• That you should never wait for the Orbiter at Eastgate.

I wish Michael Jackson's auction wasn't cancelled because...

What we talk about when we're avoiding talking about that time we got drunk on wine and had sex on your parent's bed.

"I never really understood the difference between a river and a stream. I mean do they have some definite standard of flow and width and depth that makes the difference, or do people just take a look and go like 'oh hey yeah that is definately a river?'"

"I'm not really sure to be honest, this isn't something I've actually thought about before. We should look it up on wikipedia though for peace of mind".

-A stream is a body of water less than 60 feet wide with a current, confined within a bed and stream banks.

"What about like braided rivers though? They're just like streams that criss-cross and blend together and stuff? I think I need more clarity on this.

- Sometimes a river is said to be larger than a creek,^[1] but this is not always the case, due to vagueness in the language.^[2]

"It is a tough question. I think on the face of it though I'd rather hang out next to a stream though, it seems like it'd be more peaceful. Like maybe streams have been romanticised by popular literature or something, but serious, they seem like a better place to hang out. Rivers seem violent for some reason but I don't really know why."

"Rivers are filled with dead hookers."

"That's another thing about them. Pretty much fuck rivers."

"Do you remember that time..."

"Which time?"

"Oh sorry, I mean that time we hung out by the river eating those ice-creams and for some reason there was all those piles of hair all over the grass in front of the bench?"

"That was way weird. Sometimes I still think about that and wonder what was going on. Like I would probably pay money to gain some context on that situation. I think maybe it was an installation art piece."

"And then the homeless guy that came along and started throwing hair round and stuffing it in his pockets? Do you think he was a part of the art installation? There wasn't really anyone else around. Maybe like life is art though and in that case the homeless guy is kind of on par with Duchamp or something, because I couldn't stop thinking about that for weeks I guess."

"I thought you were gonna ask if I remembered something else..."

"What'd you think I was gonna ask though?"

"Oh nah, don't worry, nothin'! Lets talk about deserts instead of streams, though"

stayin' rad

dropping outta law school, just gonna ride my bike all day, "take art pictures on a holga camera and try mythologize myself". direct community action.

i have nothing else to say YET so here is a conversation i had with Ian today on "the facebook":

-----

10:29pmIan

only a few hours left at gay work

hour and a half, actually

then back to my house with 8 foreigners

10:29pmDan

FUCKPILE

10:31pmIan

well, theres 1 guy from Canada, 0.5 girls from Norway, 1.5 girls from Sweden (one of the girls is half-Swedish, half Norwegian), 3 girls from Germany, a girl from Holland and a girl from Switzerland

so it's not inconceivable

10:32pmDan

just get your dick out

----

I was in a weird mood.

Boats

John sits on the side of the boat, legs over the edge, dangling. Attempting to study the almost blinding light of the sun's reflection on (or in) the water. His heart is racing, but his head is clear. Not even a thought to the delicate processes involved in a racing heart pumping atrium to ventricle to lungs and in/out/around again. Just like how people catching balls don't need to think about the parabolic and trajectory calculus required to accurately plot the flightpath of ball to hand. These things just seem to happen and the why is superfluous in almost all instances. It's strange, John thinks. He can't remember the last time he was able to tear himself from the jumbleheadedness that kicked in about a week after he stopped sleeping. After he realised one night that he had forgotten how to fall asleep, and from that point was rendered incapable. John didn't know whether this was like “insomnia” or not, but did know that it somehow made for an overactive mind at the best of times jumping from thing to thing to thing. An ex-girlfriend had once left him a breakup letter that read “Today you missed the bus because it went by as you were bent over reading the timetable, and I feel like this is generally symptomatic of the way you tend to be more interested in the way things should be rather than the way they actually are. We can't be together any more, obviously, because of the way I've come to realise this”. John wonders if this is in any way connected with the whole forgetting how to go to sleep thing but is never quite sure, and he's damned if he's gonna let some overpriced professional asshole explain the whole deal.

None of this he has mentioned to Mary, the current cause of his racing heart, because at this point Mary is a stranger. Mary is a stranger lying face down on the deck of John's boat, at this point. John had only talked briefly with Mary when they had first set out into the clear blue day.

“Usually when we get these charters it's a group going out, y'know”

“I can imagine”

“A lot of parties too, y'know, with bosses who insist on wearing my hat and spinning the wheel. Plus the nouveau-riche big noters with their gold watches and cases of Bollinger I have to sack barrow on board”.

“...”

“But it's just you today?”

“Today, it's just me; that's not a problem is it?”

“No problem at all, ma'am”. They liked him to call the women ma'am on the boat, just like they liked him to wear the hat.

And so Mary is the cause of John's racing heart, and makes this true through the position occupied on the ship's deck, lying face down in only bikini only inches from the slim shadow the overhead sun/sail combination creates. As the sun wanes in the sky she will be engulfed by the shadow, John thinks. It is not the overt display of toned and bronzed skin on this upper deck of this yacht under John's charge that is behind the slamming ribs. Post-pubescent blues, he thinks, he got over that sort of reaction to half naked and beautiful women – oh Plato! Reason must rule! and all that. Instead it is the (nominal) gift of predictability and foresight which has John's heart skipping double dutch.

John is never embarrased to call himself a seaman. He has noticed recently that some of his younger colleagues seem almost afraid of the title. Shy away from it. John is a proud seaman, and likes to think of himself as the type that's not afraid of anything, except:

a) fear itself, and

b) never sleeping again.

John the seaman of beating heart and blessed foresight still sits looking out to sea, trying to trace the horizon's slight bend with his finger. This is something else they like him to do, even though it serves absolutely no purpose. Mary the passenger of perfumed hair and overpriced undergarments lies still. John considers briefly telling her some crock of shit story about the 'healing properties' of the fresh sea air surrounding. This is usually reserved for tourists.

It is strange, thinks John, how many women there are in the world just like this one. But there are no others, he thinks, on the boat right now. John has resigned himself, “blessed foresight”, to the fact that he shall be defeated by this woman. She will initiate, and dick led, mentally a 14 yr old again, he will oblige.

And how she will celebrate! Overjoyed with her catch, readily mentally composing the brunch-story for her circle of friends. “He was a real man! A gentleman! Sea strong arms and a dark tan! Weathered face! Yes honey, just like Robert Redford!”. At this point she is Hemingway's Santiago, John thinks, and he a big fucking marlin. Except without the struggle.

But, thinks John, he is also the spoiler of the catch. He is the circling sharks. Mary's brunch fishermen friends will celebrate the catch, but will not appreciate the trials of the return. And Mary will be left with the skeletal remains of her once proud catch, but will put on a brave face about a situation! Oh yes, she will say, it was wonderful!Because, after the inevitable happens, Mary is no longer a stranger to John.

John the seaman of pumping heart, blessed foresight, a week of sleepless nights and undiagnosed OCD, is ready to even the scales by halving himself. It will be, he thinks, as if the old man's marlin was taken out not by sharks, but eaten from the inside out.

She will have regrets. “Yes honey, I swear he was just like Brad Pitt!” She will tell her friends. She will not tell them that by this she means just like Brad Pitt in fucking Fight Club, that bizarre damaged ranting sea captain son of a bitch, 3 hours of banalities he subjected me to, damaged damaged damaged.

She will be, thinks John, one of that particular breed of fishermen in it more for the stories and the competition than for the experience. John's heart stays pump pump pumping.

“Excuse me?”

“Yes ma'am?”

“Oh, you wouldn't mind putting some sunscreen on my back, would you?”

“Of course not, ma'am”

in the future (tomorrow) i wrote a poem

Today i realized that i am old and
today it is/was my birthday and
today i realized that i'd rather
suck on ice than get old and
today i sucked on ice and
i was still old.

Park

today, i went to the park.
and there was a guy reading under a tree, and playing with his dog!
and i thought, oh! modern life! how glad I am that you afford such pleasantries!
and then i got closer. and it wasn't a book, but a portable dvd player.
and it wasn't a dog, but his penis!
and i thought, oh! modern life! sometimes, you're not so rad.

electric lights

NOTE: sorry I can only write about riding buses and people getting punched in the face maybe it is all I know but maybe I am also just really lazy. "Themes" and all that.

I am electric. I am alive with the static kick of feedback buzzing on my brain as I walk home through the sodium lit city streets back home. My mind awash with a night of cheap guitar tracks and cheaper wine on the wrong side of town. A night of conversation as thick as tar, and just as transparent – meaningless. The vaulted sky seems higher than normal, and the dry nor-west wind adds to this. A snapshot of invincible summer¹, when “songs will sing themselves”². We walk down the City Mall and back towards Colombo, spirits high. The streets of daytime commerce are alive with the sound of big-exhaust cars, people and humming neon signs. I walk with Dave and Chris, thoughts elsewhere.

“Hey you fucking faggots” yells a guy in a polo shirt that is (by statistical probability, rather than memory) striped salmon pink, interrupting. I wish Dave wasn't here. Then we might be able to avoid a fight. Stupid violent bastards.

There are five of them. We're going to get Fucked Up. I've never even seen Chris fight before. Dave, many times. Oh fuck. The urge to run is overwhelming but I don't. Could never live that shit down.

“Yeah, you fucking faggot. Why don't you get a haircut?” another of Salmon Shirt's companions.

“Fucking metros, you're all pussies anyway. Why don't you fucking come here and say that” spits Dave. This was avoidable, but now, necessary.

“Look at those gay fucking faggots” yells another guy (maybe the same as before). This is an insult that has me puzzled. Does “gay faggot” create a double negative? Fuck it.

“Honestly, you guys are fucking pussies. Come say that over here or fuck off back to your ugly two-bit whores”. Dave again. He can't let it go.

The group approaches, menacing. Original Salmon Shirt Guy pushes Dave, who pushes him back. They're all big guys, but are just standing back while the two of them go at it. And Salmon looks pretty drunk. A messy fight, like twelve year olds at intermediate – more time spent wrestling on the ground then actually connecting with any solid blows. His friends and us standing round, not really knowing what to do. Should we be fighting too? Is that how these things are meant to go? You can tell Dave's getting fucked off with this, and he's pretty sober. And so he gets up off the ground, quick, and kicks the fucker in the head. We all see it, and see he's still wearing his work boots. That'll fuck a guy up.

'”Holy shit” says one of the Salmon Crew.

“Fucking run man” yells Dave, and we take off down the alleyway from High Street onto Lichfield.

And keep on going past the new bars on His Lordships, almost overwhelmed by people wearing clothes worth more than my rent for two months. I look back and no one's chasing, but still I can't slow my heart and still I feel fucking sick for the whole situation.

“Man, that was FUCKED”.

“Nah man, he deserved that. Fucking metro's. I hate this town.”

“I don't mean what you did was fucked. Just the whole situation. I mean what the fuck, aren't those sorts of guys meant to be the ones we don't worry about? Don't we worry about the ones in the baggy jeans and polyester shirts? The ones with bandanas under their caps and shit?”

“Dude, what? That's like the second time we've been hassled in a few weeks by polo-shirt assholes.”

“I guess I'm struggling to adjust. I mean, do I need to be scared of everyone when I'm walking home now?”

“Nah. You need to be ready for everyone though.”

“What? Where did you get that man? Sounds like some cliché shit”

“I guess dude”.

“But seriously. That's never happened to me before. Not once. In my whole life, that's the closest thing to a fight I've ever been in. What about you?”

“I've been hassled in town before, but never like that. Mostly I just ignore them and nothing happens.”

“I just can't ignore that shit. Fucking metros. Fucking gangsters.”

“Dave, you need to chill the fuck out.”

“I can't man. Something just happens when people talk shit and I can't let it go”.

There is a violence inside all of us, and this is the sort that ruins any night out. I decide to head home alone in a taxi. Paranoia.

Walking up the driveway, the traffic noise subsides. This is my house. This is where I come back to every day after my 9 hour shift at the video store, plus whatever else I've been doing. I don't usually do a whole bunch – I'd say I'm kinda socially retarded, especially sober. So I don't leave the house much. But if these walls could talk... if these walls could talk they'd probably tell me to shut the fuck up and stop talking to myself. They'd tell me to get a real job, and stop jerking off so god-damn much. I forgot to mention – my dad built these walls. I'm 23 years old, and in none of those years have I owned a television to do that weird thing where the wall behind gets discoloured. I can watch all the movies I want at work, and everyone knows that network television is for chumps. But tonight, instead of going for the easy distraction of reading, I think about the day ahead.

Tomorrow, I will serve fake smiles and b-grade movies to the drooling and infantile sycophants who seem to infest the Mall my work is attached to. A whole room full of Godard and the most popular hire is 2 Fast 2 Furious or Wrestlemania XVI. From the ivory tower of my checkout counter, my unjustified sense of superiority will rage. After the days work I will walk to the supermarket, buy some easy food and catch the bus home, the whole time avoiding eye contact with anyone lest, they take offence and stab me. It's that kind of neighbourhood – paranoia abounds. On the bus home I will listen to music which is totally original and cool, and I would start namedropping right now if you were a pretty girl and there was a chance you would sleep with me. 4/4 timing and distortion pedals have come to define my personality – it's an easy fit. At some stage I'll probably call my mother, just to talk. It's nice to catch up some times. I know this is how my day will likely turn out because it's how most other weekdays of my life turn out.

________________________

1 Albert Camus - “In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer. “

2William Carlos Williams - “In summer, the song sings itself. “