These stories, that have been available on
Blogspot for 10 years for free, will now only be available on Amazon at the
address above. They are contained in “Vagabon Freak”, the 1st volume
of a trilogy titled “The 7 Lives of the Punk Poofy Cats”. I have been the
archetypal starving artist in his garret, painting, drawing and writing,
writing, writing as if I were some waif crying out in the wilderness. Now I
need you, dear reader, to hear my cries and go to Amazon and buy a copy of my
book and keep me alive. There you will find my complete tale, from beginning to
end, in one place, for you to hold in your hot little hands. When you read it
straight through, I assure you, it will blow your mind.
Below are introductory paragraphs and some
pictures that I still retain to illustrate this story, hopefully to give you a
come-on to get my book. Thanks for giving me a go, TZ.
Sample:
The taxi drove through the suburb of Heidelberg on its
way to the citadel of “psycho-dehumanism” and, from his window, Arthur
contemplated the open fields dotted with billabongs and gum trees that had yet
to be encroached upon by the city sprawl. He knew a famous school of painters
had lived, loved and worked there in the 1940s and he wistfully compared their
quixotic existence to his own that had no hope of romance or artistic glory.
Too soon the taxi zoomed through the daunting gates of
Mort Park Mental Hospital and he caught his first glimpse of the Victorian
Gothic stronghold last seen in his innocent childhood. He couldn’t help but
shudder; the buildings exuded a deranged, evil atmosphere reminiscent of
castles in vampire movies.
Arthur moved post-haste into the creaky nursing-quarters,
a derelict block of cubicles down the back of the lunatic asylum that easily
could have harbored the Amityville Horror. Most of the nursing staff had been
there for fifty years and had mulched down to garbage in their stodgy rooms,
like “Swamp Things”. They peeked through the crack of their doors every time he
came home, watching for any misdemeanor, creeping him out from day one. For six
weeks he had to attend a nursing school where he imbibed the basics of anatomy,
physiology, psychology and basic nursing techniques, most of which involved
keeping an objective distance from his patients while categorizing their
lunacy, and then he was thrown into the deep end.
To test his mettle, the eighteen year old student nurse
was placed in the chronic schizophrenic ward, locked into the day-room with
seventy deranged, berserker men and told to swim for it. Surrounded by
deviants, suicides, self-mutilators and murderous psychopaths, he forgot his
fear as there was too much going on and, because of all the city’s night-haunts
he’d already survived, he was in his element. He was just coming out of his Mod
phase, still with long hair and fancy clothes, thus suspect in the staff’s
institutionalized eyes.
He was full of ideals like nurturing and brightening dull
lives, activating them back into the wonders of a caring society. He preferred
to talk with the madmen in their recreation rooms rather than be
pseudo-psychoanalyzed by the reactionary male-nurses within the sanctuary of
their glass surveillance box and, as the months dragged by, their enmity
increased. This was not just the omnipresent “Social Club for Normals” of the
outside world from which he was eternally excluded, it was the ultimate site of
human validation, sane versus freak; if they judged you defect in the Psyche
Ward, you were doomed.
(If your curiosity is piqued please go to the WEB
address above and buy the book to read further.)
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| Mort Park Mental Hospital. |
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