So Much Rubbish.

I wonder if I can take back all these millions of words, and throw 'em in the trashcan as rubbish, verbal diarrhea, trickster hoodwinks, bitch raves, post-modern confessions, opinionated essays, all of it shouting into the Void to reassure myself of my existence, excuse myself to anyone who bothers to read me, that I was just mucking around, playing with them and myself? When I read thru it all I feel a kind of vertigo, what a fuckwit I am. Hmmmm... maybe it's where I truly join the human race?

Who gives a shit? Recently in a hip cafe in Shangri-la, at the foothills of the Himalayas, I eavesdropped on some loud-mouthed Americans telling each other about the books they were writing, "My Interesting Life as my CONTRIBUTION to society." They made out they were some kind of super-star world trekkers but were maybe around thirty-five years old so I wondered what they could've achieved, done, realized by that relatively young age. They did remind me about that 20th/21st century narcissism most spoiled westerners are suckered into, that each of us is the romantic lead actor in a shlockbuster movie of our own imagination, the center of the universe, desperate to leave our mark on the world, like tigers pissing on the borders of their territory, because  we don't want to mean "Nothing." My Blog must be the same pathetic squalling into the night, an alley cat shrieking at the full moon, yet it's not just to make a noise, he's totally enjoying himself, it's fucking fun to really let go with the yowling.

I got back from India to find Northcott Housing Ghetto being torn apart by Big Brother, who is not telling us chattel a thing about what's going on, possible secret nefarious plans are afoot, Paranoia rules = Lend Lease, the huge construction firm, is gradually renovating the apartments to sell them off to rich private buyers, millionaire Chinese and Indian businessmen perhaps, while we plebs get thrown out into the wilderness? It's hell in my apartment, jackhammers, buzz-saws, bricks being ripped out of the walls, workmen shouting, scaffolding imprisoning and wire-fencing suffocating, but somehow it's still safer, more comfy than India, so I can only thank my lucky stars to have survived that 'Chaos from Order' world, that "functioning anarchy" called India

Northcott

I've crash-landed and seem to be burning up on the side of a Sydney runway: after my high of motorbiking amid the snow-caps of the Himalayas and zooming across the entire length of the sub-continent on packed-to-the-rafters trains the city of Sydney is somewhat pedestrian in comparison. When I rang around my last seven shining friends to find out how everyone was going I was told by a tearful Sylvia that her ICE-addicted boyfriend, Dan, who I have written much about, (see "A Numb Bum in Nimbin."), had finally done the dirty deed and committed suicide, he cut his throat from ear to ear and stabbed himself repeatedly through the heart after a manic binge on ICE. 

He was distraught on never beating his drug habit, on disappointing his family, on Sylvia going overseas without him, on losing his job because he was just too manic, rushing about like the road-runner on meth, jabbering humorous nonsense. He was a wild card, I had long been afraid he'd take Sylvia with him when he went, he drove like Batman chasing the Joker. But I feel bad for him, it's a bad story. Humanity trashed.

Sylvia and Dan.

He shouts into my heart, it's all finite, temporary, a balancing act, a mystery, a wonder, to be alive, to stay alive. And to write about it is a privilege, so I shouldn't beat myself up too much that it's all egotistical bullshit, I get my endorphin flowing when I write, not just the poetic joy of putting words together like bricks to build a cryptic labyrinth of adventures one can get lost in, but also writing gives me an artist's sense of achievement, ever finishing a satisfying work.

I notice Google are going to ban all pornographic imagery from THEIR Blog-sites. I was actually stunned to find that porn-headz post such stuff on Blogs considering the zillions of porn sites on the WWW anyway. I have to put an ADULT CONTENT warning on my writing to safeguard it from kiddies and sensitive souls, and when I delved further and Googled my name, sometimes a warning comes up that "This Site May Contain Material Harmful to Children". (A good way to ban somebody's discourse.) None of my art or photos are salacious as that is not my aim in creating art, but I suppose all my tales, of being abused as a child, physically and sexually, then in my teens and later on in the gutters of the world, could be considered by jaundiced eyes as a form of pornography.

Mine are real sad stories of what actually happened to me, to simply get my story out is what I stay alive for, and  get people to think of the consequences of harming children, that they can grow up to lead ruined, lonely, chip-on-the-shoulder rebellious lives. Hopefully, with  a little help from their friends, eventually they can get over their debilitating anxieties, (but not stop rebelling, as that's where the frisson gets drummed up.) Only lately is "Domestic Violence" getting Society's compassionate attention, up to now we've all had to shut up about it as nobody else's business.

In a pluralist democracy, there is supposed to be free speech, especially on the Internet, to get a space to tell one's story, even tho no one maybe listening, even tho it's a real bad, sad story. I'm not trying to turn on any deviants' bent fantasies, or boo hoo to social worker types to get a hand-out, I'm writing neo-realist/post-modern literature, it's a diary, travelogue, confessional, life-history, sci-fi adventure, Gothic non-romance, a many faceted rough-cut diamond that all together maybe paints a portrait of this crazy character, Toby the Punk Poofy Cat. Repeat, it gets me fucking high to do it, so too bad if it's a monologue bore. I'm like those millions of other bloggers, getting off verbally wanking.

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