2) The Battered Baby.

www.amazon.com/author/tobyzoates

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 1^st 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 those stories, hopefully to give you a come-on to get my book. Thanks for giving me a go, TZ.

While his parents continued bickering over their beers and cigarettes in the kitchen, Arthur slouched demoralized upon the vinyl couch in the living room and contemplated the bric-a-brac lying atop the cheap furniture. His disconcerted mind focused upon two framed photographs from the Nineteen-Forties, one of a young Elaine in her white frothy wedding dress, as beautiful as Maureen O’Hara, the other of a young Frank in his sailor’s uniform, looking like Popeye with his chin thrust out and one eye closed in a cynical wink. And Arthur wondered who these two young people were.

He later came to know that his parents, Elaine and Frank Farthing, were opposites of mythic proportions, she being of Irish Catholic stock and he of Irish Protestant. They came from two of Melbourne’s most competitive inner-city neighborhoods, Collingwood and Richmond, whose respective Aussie Rules football teams, the Magpies and the Tigers, were bone breaking nasty in their rivalry. Elaine was vivacious and flirty, she liked a good time, singing and dancing at parties; Frank was dour, shy, macho, going bald and he couldn’t dance in a fit.

Elaine didn’t love Frank Farthing when she married him, she only liked him, thought he was half OK. Apart from her stint with the WAAFS during World War II, she had led a sheltered life, dumb and gullible after a sadistic education in a Catholic convent school during the 1930’s where the nuns caned her viciously for the slightest of transgressions. She was itching to break out but her stern Irish-Australian father kept her on a tight leash, shocked when she wanted to go jitterbugging with all the handsome American soldiers, forbidding her to go out at weekends, even movie houses were suspect dens of decadence.

A housepainter, lapsed Catholic and rabid Communist, her father was one of the original Melbourne Larrikins, dressed in garish three-piece silk-suits and running a two-up gambling school to stay on top of hard times during the Great Depression. He was a domineering, obdurate man, locking her in the house, refusing visits and playtime with friends, whipping her if she disobeyed; she thereby remained naive and infantile, living in her daydreams of a glamorous movie-star’s life.

Her own mother had abandoned her in early childhood and an unsympathetic step-mother contributed to the beatings, belittling her worth as a woman, making her do all the housework, scrubbing the floors till her hands were raw. No wonder Elaine had “mothering” difficulties, domestic violence had long beaten her spirit down, she showed Arthur only what she’d known, an unemotional aloofness.

(This just a sample of the story, if you want to read the rest please go to the WEB address above and buy "Vagabond Freak".)

In the Freakzone.

I've had a breakthrough with my creative writing, something I've been working on for at least 21 years, my magnum opus as it were, a novel about my formative years with the working title of "In the Freakzone." I actually do have the final title but I'm not revealing it yet as everything I've ever done in my creative life has been stolen from me and as I think my secret title is HOT I'm not letting go of it so easily.

My breakthrough is that I could never finish the dam thing, forever rewriting it, like a labour of Sisyphus, just as I get to the summit it rolls back down the hill and I start all over again, 2100 times. Now I've decided to post it chapter by chapter on the WEB, plagiarists be damned, where I can feel it will get gradually finalised, once posted there's no going back, and if I die tomorrow at least this wild story will be out there. I've already had published two short versions of the story, "Welcome to the Men's" in 1983 in an anthology edited by Gary Dunne, "Edge City on Two Different Plans". Then in 1985 "Alec Farthing" in the anthology "Being Different" edited by Garry Witherspoon. In both short stories I used the third person impersonal "he" instead of "I" and I called him Alec Farthing but since then I've noticed an amazing number of characters in literature named "Alec" so in my big novel of the complete picaresque adventures I've changed his name to Arthur which is a much closer fit to my personality.

I created the character and refer to him as "he" instead of writing "me, me, me" and "I" as if the novel is a diary because my memories, knowledge and attitudes about my early life are suspect, filtered through my fears, dislikes, desires, fixations, delusions, lies, mistakes, dreams, obfuscations etc, it's hard to tell real history, and much can be deciphered from my imaginings anyway. Writing about "Arthur" from a distance gives me a kind of freedom, I can fantasise more and add creative flair, making the narrative more fun, than if I was seriously trying to tell it how it is/was.

The writing is relentlessly tough, maybe overstating the violence and perversion because I want to drive home the horror of child abuse, children beaten to death mentioned in the News too frequently, the subject needing to be dealt with in our modern times, in Art as well as sociology, not hidden away as unmentionable. And battered children can grow into certain lifestyles and behaviours that some might condemn them for, but they were made that way, they shouldn't be tortured any further, every one is equal in their humanity. The other theme that is relentlessly addressed, homophobia, might turn off so called straight heterosexuals and only appeal to a "Gay" readership but I'm hoping I've got a universal story, of the human condition, nature and nurture participating in the formation of sexuality, whatever variety it turns out to be. And yet my story is different, unique, wild, adventurous, a rollicking good yarn and something like a roller-coaster ride through a theme park on Sex and the Spirit.

Even now in 2011, in many works of art, movies, pop music, novels and magazine stories or simple quotidian conversations, anti-gay terms are constantly bandied about as put-downs, dislikes, antipathies, insults: faggot, fairy, poofter, diesel dyke, lezzo, homo, sissy, on and on and on, in spite of "gay liberation" and the right of all people to the pursuit of happiness. Forgive me if I go on and on about growing up a homosexual, a story that's been told so many times, as I'm hoping to explain, describe, tell what it's like and hope to get some sympathy, respect and dignity.

So from here on in there will be about 49 stories telling of the freaky adventures of a character named Arthur Farthing, who grew up a freak on the edge of society, surfing the chaos of the gutter hoping to be a cutting artist, all of it to be differentiated from my Blogs about my contemporary life by being written in the third person. I'm compelled to tell these stories, not just mine but all the beautiful, sorry, flawed, amazing people I've met along the way who cannot tell of theirs, it's up to me. I think the tales are fascinating, scary, informative and fun, but I'll leave it up to you, the reader, to find a way through the maze, if you want.

www.amazon.com/author/tobyzoates

If you enjoyed this story please go to the WEB address above and consider buying my book of tales about growing up anarcho-queer, rock and roll punter and mystic adventurer in Australia and India of the 1950s, ‘60s and ‘70s.

Escape from the Subcontinent But Not the Subconscious.

As I was sitting by a cable-bridge across the Ganges River in Shangri-la I watched a full-grown Langur monkey begging for food from the passing pilgrims/tourists, most of whom were scared of him and ran if he approached them; a few tentatively held out peanuts and squealed when he plucked the nuts from their trembling hands.

I was relishing the warm sunlight upon my face, somewhat at peace, thinking of nothing, desiring little, feeling free. At most I was intoning the universal mantra Aum with my incoming and outgoing breath, as I try to do much of my life no matter what action I’m involved in, often failing but always coming back to it, it centers and soothes me. Suddenly the Langur bounded up beside me and lent upon my shoulder, like an old friend, while he perused the crowd for more tit-bits. I didn’t panic, jump or tremble, I was too cool, it felt good, natural, liked we were two of a kind.

He moved off after about 21 seconds and I went to fetch some bananas for him, I held them above my head and again he leaned on me while he tried to snatch at the goodies, stronger than a World Wide Wrestler, I knew he could tear me to pieces but I wasn’t afraid, his intentions were as benign as mine. I’m happiest when in nature, observing the beauty of animals, forgetting the stupidity of my fellow humans. It always surprises me that dogs ever single me out, to follow me, sit at my feet, touch me. For all that I’m a fuck-up, get in foul moods and fight with everyone, I try to project love from my heart chakra, when my whirling thoughts can be stilled, and maybe dogs can recognize this.

Maybe people recognize it too, especially Indians, for wherever I travel in India I’m greeted by sincere smiles and requests for engagement. En masse, like mobs of Israelis, Russians, Brits or Aussies, Indians can be impossible to deal with: importunate, cruel, rude, venal, ignorant, and I lose my patience, scream, curse and push them out of the way. But when I meet them individually, face to face, most can be so sweet, considerate, friendly, open, I see them for what they are, mere humans, working hard and honestly, hoping the best for their families, willing to do their best by you, and I forgive them their foibles, forget that they’re always asking for money, they simply have to make a living.

To reiterate, I love it best when in nature, the wild jungles, the high Himalayan Mountains, the seaside coconut groves, the hinterland hilltop reserves and desert oasis. What a pity one has to go thru the cities and towns to get there, almost impossible to survive the crowds, traffic, pollution, noise, garbage, rip-off merchants and insistent beggars, pushy hawkers and deformed freaks, with nowhere to sit and relax, always an eager beaver pops up to interrogate you, a thief to put his/her hand in your pocket or a sweeper to throw dirt in your face. How can people live this way? Even the elite must find it difficult to make it thru the sooty logjam of traffic to get to their cut-off gated compounds and high aeries. Perhaps it suits their accumulation of wealth to have a huge population but for the majority of Indians, the poor, it’s downright horrendous.

And I get targeted and hassled, for my supposed riches, my freakiness and my suspect sexuality. I’m questioned, insulted, ravished and a few-times semi-raped, and as an educated guy I’ve got to laugh it all off, or be diplomatic, throw money at my interlocutors and quickly make my escape. I run away from Auz to get over my failures, my frustrations, my boredom, my illnesses and the injustices done me, but of course I carry my fuck-ups with me, they just get writ more large in a maelstrom like India. My depression creeps back in, I throw just as many temper tantrums, confusion arises and I lose my way.

In the end I was so happy to escape the methodical madness that is India. I had many great adventures it’s true, which I’ve written about in the previous Blogs, motor-biking to the Temple to Nature at the top of the Himalayas, going on wildlife safaris into the jungle, dancing ecstatically in the nightclubs of Mumbai and Goa, meeting beautiful friends new and old and watching endless movies with them, and reading informative science books, Stephen Hawking and Richard Dawkins, who give me more profound philosophy than the thousands of spiritual treatises I’ve read before.

But I had more disappointments this time round, not just the violence against my friend Prem in Goa and the humiliation at the hands of my non-friend Balu in Shangri-la, but another of my supposed good friends of 13 years, who I’d helped so much, snuck into my room in Goa and stole from me, out of sheer greed, not necessity. Then there was the death of my good friend Amiria, the news of which didn’t fully allow me to enjoy much.

And my best friend of all, Mohammed, my companion/minder/go-for, who for 7 years had been a sheer pleasure to travel with, had devolved into a drunk, much of the time leaving me to fend for myself while he went and got pissed then returning sullen and ugly, telling me the same boring shit over and over a thousand times till I screamed for him to shut-up. I don’t drink, to me it tastes like petrol mixed with piss, I grew up with alcoholic parents and drunks irk me more than any other substance abuser.

Thus I was brought-down, bottomed out, reduced to a quivering curmudgeon, on my last day in India taking refuge at Delhi Zoo and letting the animals becalm me, the rhinoceroses, the leopards, the majestic white tiger and the contemplative hornbill reminding me that in reality we’re all animals, it’s just our human consciousness that separates us.

So I returned to Sydney, relieved to be back home at the oasis called Auz, for all the heat, floods and bushfires, superficial connections and rat-race careerism, I felt safe, relieved to have survived the continuous upside-down roller-coaster-ride with no safety rails that is India. At the Piccolo café on the Cross Vitto was all agog and atwitter because Geoffrey Rush, the grand maestro of theatre and film, had visited him three times and he’d been able to ear-bash him about the Golden years of Hollywood and how they don’t make stars like that anymore.

Nogod, I don’t know how to pacify my restlessness and tortured human condition, except to relax in my comfy apartment at Northcott Housing Ghetto, to study, write and paint, and somehow find compassion for the tumultuous, burning world outside. Next door, Cursula’s drug addict boyfriend has smashed all her windows in a fit of jealous fury but hopefully I’ll ignore all their racket for it sure feels good to be home.

www.amazon.com/author/tobyzoates

If you enjoyed this story please go to the WEB address above and consider buying my book of tales about growing up anarcho-queer, rock and roll punter and mystic adventurer in Australia and India of the 1950s, ‘60s and ‘70s.