I went up to the Piccolo Rar for some respite, was quietly reading a newpaper when Barry the retard sits by me and demands some human contact. I excuse myself curtly and he flips, he grimaces like a rampaging ape, calling me a "poof" and asking to punch my face in, trying to get me out the front for a fight. I'm too old for it tho I was furious at his moronic rage and ready to smash him in the face with a sugar dispenser if he tried a swing at me. How extremely boring! Why can I never get away from violence, as if I have a neon light above my head that reads "Hit Me!"
When I got back to Northcott Ghetto I found water was pouring in a flood from Eric's front door and from under the building's foundations. For the 1000th time he'd left all his taps running and gone out to forage in the dumpsters. The water wells up thru my bedroom floor like sewerage, the room is mouldy and I haven't lived in it for years, I've had it with this freak, he'll bring the whole building down upon us. I call the Housing dept for rescue, they need to send out an emergency team immediately, single-handedly Eric is going thru Sydney's entire water supply. Eventually a plumber arrives but he is superfluous, other drastic action had been taken.
Over on the other side of his flat Old Dolly comes home and nearly has a heart attack at the sight of the noxious water lapping at her door and, weeping, she relates to me the sordid tale how of late he's putting pornographic photos under her door. Apparently he's found a hoard of porno mags in the dumpster and has been seen masturbating to them while sitting out the front of his flat. He's also been seen handing torn-out pages from these mags to strangers outside Central Railway Station.
Dolly can bear the flood no longer and calls the police. I smoked a strong joint and tried to put the last flourishes to my painting as outside Dolly cried, the gay guys from the end of the verandha cursed and sirens wailed. I heard a lot of yammering and when I went outside got cornered by an old dessicated police seargent and his sidekick S.A.S stormtrooper. They'd climbed thru Eric's window and turned the water off, then were trying to placate the crowd of us sqwarking horror and pleading succour. I was so stoned I couldn't focus and the old cop was laying on the soothing platitudes, telling me all would be taken care of, I was not to worry, I should write a letter to the front office. I laughed hysterically and went back to my painting, just the fleuro flourishes above my central character's head to indicate he was tripping and it was all a dream, and I was finished.
I was in such a daze when I took the painting to the gallery that I lost my expensive mobile in the cab, as if the Grand Whore "ART" demanded one last sacrifice in her honour. Eric got shot up with Modicate by community nurses and I heard one telling him thru his window that he was off to the doctor's next week for an examination, Eric laughing like a demented hyena in reply. The sun is shining, I can kick back and relax till the Kings Cross Arts Festival competition this Thursday night when I'll get feedback on my maniacal creative effort, and Northcott is again sleeping peaceful at night, for awhile, till the next psychic storm breaks. I feel like screaming, "Life, I'm over it!" But I chant my mantra, "AUM" instead, and the Universe evens out blissfully.
