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 to the story
and some pictures that I still retain to illustrate those stories, hopefully to
give you a come-on to get my book. Thanks for giving me a go, TZ.
In 1957, when Arthur was seven years old, he had what the beatniks of the time called a mini-satori, a flash about the kind of world he’d been born into and his place in it. He was lying on the concrete roof of the communal laundry out back of his Housing Commission apartment in the Olympic Village, West Heidelberg, Melbourne, staring into space, sunk within the deep blue of the sky as glowing white clouds slowly drifted past.
He imagined he saw in the cloud-formations mind-boggling
structures, alluring and fearsome. At first the shape of a penis towered above
him, exciting him mysteriously, then it
morphed into a foreboding mushroom cloud, dark, ugly, it seemed to crash down
upon him.
Much later in life he would find that others had also had
ominous cloud-gazing day dreams, as if his story was universal. John Rechy,
famed sexual outlaw, publishing his autobiography in 1962, “City of Night”,
discovered a vague self-awareness while getting spaced out cloud-gazing as a
boy. And in Richard Linklaters’ movie, “Boyhood”, the twelve-year journey of
growing up starts with the seven year old boy flat on his back watching clouds.
For Arthur it was no artistic cliché, it actually happened, his blue eyes had
expanded with comprehension.
As the threatening cloud broke up and drifted away,
Arthur became aware that he was aware, and his consciousness was vast, Mind and
sky had become one for timeless moments. The clouds drifted through him, he
felt a languid ecstasy expand his sense of being and a quiet resolve to survive
this harried world settled deep within him.
He was alive, a miraculous, glorious, awesome fact, and
he knew it! He felt he could chase the life he dreamed of, no matter the
obstacles, cruelties and sorrows. He would experience all that the world
offered: a life jam-packed with adventure, achievement, knowledge and love,
regardless of his low station among the poor and powerless. He flew like an
angel, golden and warm of heart, smart, confident, compassionate, sweet and
strong, a warrior if he had to be, a rebel if that’s what it took to be true to
himself. Somehow he would stay alive and fulfill his dreams.
Then he fell out of the sky, brought back to reality by
the realization that he still had a chore to complete, or there would be hell
to pay. He leaped to the ground and ran up the path behind the block of flats,
up the stairs to his family’s unit and into the kitchen where his father,
Frank, was blathering on about his political obsessions to his glum-faced
mother, Elaine, both of them swigging constantly from glasses of beer.
