I saw the movie "The Social Network" last night and in it they mention the vacuous and bitchy past-time of "Blogging", how one can say anything and everything without thinking too much. And it is true that it's a great way to get a hair out of one's arse without too many people taking much notice, for in these post 2010 days, nobody cares too much about the vapidness of cyberspace, at least I hope they don't because I sure say a lot of stupid things.
For me cyberspace is like the old notion of the Akashic Records, a repository of "truths" so that for all my travails and tribulations someone somewhere might know "what really happened", again, not that anybody really cares, but it's better than nothing. The main gist of my eternal ramblings in these Blogs is to tell the life of "an artist", specifically an Aussie queer libertarian pagan artist, and all the shit and glory I have to wade through. There's millions of stories and types struggling to be heard in this big 21st century world and I'm just one of them, no big hero but enjoying singing my song regardless.
I sure cop shit though. While I got cool feedback from my friends lauding my show at the Newtown Library I also got a poison-pen letter from an arsehole I had the bad fortune to meet at the Knuckle Sandwich Cafe, (the Piccolo). This unfortunate character has a face like a dog's anus, we call him Trolly Dolly as he was once a steward for Ansett Airlines and is possibly the cause for the airline's collapse, the poor creature has no life except for minding everyone's business on Kings Cross and is egregiously jealous that I have achieved good friendships and creative accomplishments in my hard-won life. He told me my show was shit, I'm a bastard and was a rat in my last lifetime. I wanted to punch his teeth in and told him to his face but he's just waiting to put the cops onto me for something so I wouldn't waste my karma bothering with such a brain-dead bag of shit. He's turned up before with black eyes so others have got to him anyway. This is what happens when one comes out into society and hangs at a cafe of saints and sinners like the Piccolo, the dickheads one runs into, fucking flawed humanity!
All this is to reinforce my moaning how tough is the life of an artist who, after a life-time of creativity, still tries to surf the turbulence of the gutter. Take where I live for instance, Northcott Housing Ghetto. Cursula has come back with her new horror of a boyfriend, having caused trouble up in the suicide tower, they've fled back to her flat next door to me and make bad noise 24/7. Apparently they're into heroin and ICE, they've been drug running and are hunted by some dealer who they owe money to, I wish he'd find them and fry their dirty arses. I yelled at them to shut up the other night and the ugly boyfriend went into an ICE rage, trying to kick my door in, throwing rocks at my window, screaming he'll get an army of zombies to kill me. I sat chilled in my lounge-room waiting for the tirade to stop, we woke up the whole of Northcott with the racket, people screamed from their balconies, one nutter threw his furniture out the window to add to the melee.
I'm now 61, too old for this shit, a broken-arsed artist surrounded by his unwanted paintings, it's worse than Gully Jimpson from Joyce Carey's "The Horse's Mouth" and I won't even have the satisfaction of ending up hanging on the walls of the National Gallery, more like hanging from the nearest lamp-post. Thank nogod I'm running away soon to the wild wild East for some peace from the white trash convict desperation of underground Auz. Is bullshit Art worth all this nonsense?
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anarcho-queer, rock and roll punter and mystic adventurer in Australia and India
of the 1950s, ‘60s and ‘70s.
