Wednesday, May 11, 2011

16) The Siren Song of Pan.

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. 


In the middle of the turmoil at the Hospital of Doom Arthur had made only one friend on the staff, a patronizing older male nurse, Keith Banebridge, who soaked up all of Arthur’s little confidences, stroked his ego and encouraged him to realize his creativity by joining a modern dance troupe at La Trobe University where he could discover the “Nijinsky” in himself. Keith, with his worldly wisdom and big-brotherly concern, gained some influence over Arthur’s exuberant personality and inquisitive mind. Arthur related some of his sexual misadventures and his fear of being a deviant and Keith was a doting listener.
“You’re in deep psychic shit, possibly a schizoid personality disorder, you definitely need professional help,” espoused Keith, the frustrated psychiatrist. “You should read Gurdjieff’s ‘Meetings with Remarkable Men’, your soul might find some direction. It’s in your karma. After all, you’ve met me!”
“I’m reading Kafka’s “Metamorphosis” at the moment, and I feel more like a human bug in need of resuscitation,” stammered Arthur.
Keith finally brought out his grand solution for Arthur’s existential woe. “I was once gay and now I’m cured, happily married to a wonderful nurse and we’ve just had a beautiful baby son. And it’s all thanks to psychoanalysis with an incredible Jungian doctor. He gave me ten sessions of LSD therapy, my mind expanded and my soul was cleansed of all those nasty sexual cobwebs. That’s how I got wise, you should try it too.”
Almost twenty, Arthur was emerging from a nihilist limbo, dressed in black and reading depressing existentialist novels; he wanted to be imbued with some color and couldn’t help but be attracted to the ‘back to nature’ philosophy of the Hippie cult with its flowers and beads, free love and expensive peace on a Commune eating health foods and meditating till one transcended the drudgery of daily life. He had curled his long hair to resemble Cat Stevens and wore John Lennon glasses even though his eyesight was perfect.
He’d heard of the fantastic wonders of LSD and wanted very much to join in with the “In-crowd” and rush off to Paradise with Lucy in the sky with diamonds, take the “Cool-aid Acid Test” with Ken Kesey and his Merry Pranksters and experience the Politics of Ecstasy with Timothy Leary. But in Melbourne, in those days, not even Marihuana was available for the likes of Arthur.
A lumpen proletarian, uneducated and naive, he didn’t know what psychotropic drugs could do to twist a naive mind, and he rushed into the jungle of Pan’s labyrinth like a foolish, innocent child. He couldn’t fathom that Keith’s interest in him from the very beginning was a frustrated sexual obsession and attempt to fuck with his mind. To prove he was asexually stalwart Keith invited Arthur to spend a weekend rendezvous at his bush retreat and, parking him in a huge bed, left him alone and quaking in fear the whole night, as Arthur didn’t fancy him at all, terrified he’d show up and attempt a seduction. But stoic Keith roamed the wilderness clutching his crotch in denial, returning in the morning with breakfast and thus he won Arthur’s complete trust. It was all a ruse to weaken his resistance to form of brainwash but the truth of this psycho-business only unfolded years later.

(If your curiosity is piqued please go to the WEB address above and buy the book to read further.)

Newhaven Clinic, Kew, Melbourne.

Anne-Hamilton Byrne.
Children of the Family.

Anne Hamilton-Byrne.

The Family.