Another bar, another beer, and another cry for help offered up to my friends as a conveniently digestible aphorism – the only times one ever feels like a normal person are when one is working or drinking. The rest is scary and confusing. I think most of my drinking buddies like it when I tie things up in neat little packages like that. It makes it seem less like I’m making pleading personal confessions and more like I’m making some insightful commentary on the human condition in general. It’s less confronting. Who likes ‘confronting’?
People are always at their most sincere when being flippant. The truth always comes quickest as it’s at the top of the web of lies. It’s both a defence mechanism and a cathartic necessity. Get it off your chest, then palm it off as being a joke. Ha ha, aren’t I clever and naughty. *dusts off hands* Scott free.
It doesn’t help that cruelty is so entertaining. The truth is so often cruel and, so slightly more often, hilarious. A cheap shot’s a good shot. Perhaps that’s why people get so uncomfortable when you openly offer up your own truth. Why would one do that to oneself? What am I walking into here? What manner of cruelty are they trying to draw out of me? Perhaps that’s why I find it expedient to make my personal misgivings into a complaint of a generation.
The only times people ever feel normal are when they’re working or drinking. Tidy as it may be, it’s also largely true. These are the times when we… fuck it… when I’m sufficiently busied or blinded by the activity at hand that I don’t need or feel or want – I just do. The time spent always passes quickly and is usually unremarkable, but it is quiet and untroubled. I appreciate it.
I would wish it more often, or in other facets of life, if I didn’t fear the whole thing might just pass by in an unremarkable quickness. But isn’t that always the way – he says, drawing yet another leaf from his Mammoth Book of Maxims – when life is busied, passing quickly, we always wish it to slow down, yet when life slows down we wish it to hasten. I’m getting good at these self-reflexive adages – one might say good in the worst possible way.
I like work. And I like drinking. They are genuinely the times I feel most at home these days. Perhaps because those are the times I’m surrounded by friends. Maybe I’m an alcoholic. That’s possible. Maybe I’m a work-a-holic. Yeah, that’s pretty fucking unlikely. I guess I’ll just have to continue my research. Which is lucky – there’s a lot of working and drinking in my immediate future. At least I know I’ll be safe and happy and normal. That’s the truth.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Stars
Every Saturday starts the same way. I lurch from my bed at the sound of my phone’s alarm, vibrating its way across my hardwood floor. Vrrrrtt Vrrrrtt Vrrrrrtt. I bash through the shower, and try not to freeze my nuts off as I chuck on my work clothes. Jeans and a t-shirt – a classic combo as old as whichever item was invented last. Pat-check my pockets. Wallet. Smokes. Keys. Phone. I’m ready to leave the house. I swing the door shut behind me and light a dirty morning cigarette. My eyes squint against the light and my wet hair sticks cold against my head. I start begrudgingly in the direction of Greville Street.
At a particular point about two houses down the street, where I’m feeling at my most apathetic about the day, someone has taken the liberty of a small street-installation artwork. Sprayed-white stencil, on the asphalt: “there are stars beneath your feet”. At first I thought it marked the site of some sort of sacred celebrity burial ground. But no. How facetiously tainted and trained my brain has become. Thankyou, E! News.
The words must have been put there by some tiresome hippy, still brimming with the wonder found in the everyday. I hate those people – more than most. Their Zenless content in nothingness makes me uncomfortable. It’s condescending. But something about this particular phrase captures my imagination. Stars beneath my feet. All the way through the asphalt, through the dirt, the rock, the magma, and the core, the magma, the rock, the dirt, and the asphalt are the stars above the heads of the people on the other side of the world. And for that minute I’m washed with a perspective of my exact place in the universe – the vastness, the 3-dimentionality, the insignificance, the circularity, the minuteness, the importance, the gravity. It never fails to steal a smile across my face. Tired, wet and smoking, I feel like a full and proper person.
It is all shattered when I realise that in that moment, I’m no better than that tiresome, condescending hippy.
At a particular point about two houses down the street, where I’m feeling at my most apathetic about the day, someone has taken the liberty of a small street-installation artwork. Sprayed-white stencil, on the asphalt: “there are stars beneath your feet”. At first I thought it marked the site of some sort of sacred celebrity burial ground. But no. How facetiously tainted and trained my brain has become. Thankyou, E! News.
The words must have been put there by some tiresome hippy, still brimming with the wonder found in the everyday. I hate those people – more than most. Their Zenless content in nothingness makes me uncomfortable. It’s condescending. But something about this particular phrase captures my imagination. Stars beneath my feet. All the way through the asphalt, through the dirt, the rock, the magma, and the core, the magma, the rock, the dirt, and the asphalt are the stars above the heads of the people on the other side of the world. And for that minute I’m washed with a perspective of my exact place in the universe – the vastness, the 3-dimentionality, the insignificance, the circularity, the minuteness, the importance, the gravity. It never fails to steal a smile across my face. Tired, wet and smoking, I feel like a full and proper person.
It is all shattered when I realise that in that moment, I’m no better than that tiresome, condescending hippy.
Bookstores
Bookstores are great places. You look seem like a better person just for walking in the door. People think you're a smarter, more sensitive person just for being there. You can’t help but play up to that. I like to make sure I'm catching the eye of the cute girls - 'yeah, that's right, baby. I'm in the philosophy section. No sci-fi for me. I'm a real man. I don't even wear glasses or anything. I'm not even a virgin... technically.'
The best part about bookstores is they're like libraries - except they're well stocked, adequately staffed and don't smell of children and old people. You can saunter in, read a bunch of blurbs and leave with a whole canon of fodder (see what I did there?) for dinner parties. Who am I kidding? My friends don't have dinner parties. They have souvlakis at three in the morning in an attempt to cork the inevitable geyser of frothy, yeasty vomit fermenting below. There are, of course, many opportunities for sterling intellectual repartee before the great greasy lamb-damming, but the satisfaction of passing-off someone else's great idea as your own lacks a little lustre when no one can remember your brilliance the next day. More's the pity.
One such great concept I recently flogged came from a book about habit, ritual and addiction. I think it was called "Habit, Ritual & Addiction" - these academics bore the shit out of people for a living, the title is nothing if not fitting. The work riffed on this idea of 'mythicised participation' which particularly tickled my nuts. It was a critique on how modern man, stripped of religion and his affinity with the land, has no ritual in his life. Listless and without community, he turns to the drink. The only solace left to seek is that in this "mythical" perception that when he drinks, he is actually part of something - a socially acceptable pastime. A way of life.
There's no activity so ambivalently righteous and wretched as drinking. A night slamming cans can make or break a man. Make or break. Sometimes the difference is only a pint in either direction. I've seen it. I've been it. But, for the most part, we drinking men who are neither great nor garish live comfortably cushioned in the ether of the inbetween. Our boozy buffer from the world of 'real human moments' is only ever as alienating as the particular stool we choose at that evening's bar. Thankfully now we have the endearing exile of outdoor smoking to draw us closer together - the mythical is practically tangible.
Bars are great places. You seem like a better person just for walking in the door. People think you're a cooler, more interesting person just for being there. You can't help but play up to that. I like to make sure I'm catching the ey of the cute girls - 'yeah, that's right baby. I'm having casual conversation with the bartender. He totally knows me. And look at the size of the beer I'm drinking! It's like a fucking fish bowl! Oh, yeah I'm a real man. If I could see you across the room without closing one eye, I might even try to talk to you. Maybe I need glasses... maybe then I wouldn't be a virgin... technically.'
The best part about bookstores is they're like libraries - except they're well stocked, adequately staffed and don't smell of children and old people. You can saunter in, read a bunch of blurbs and leave with a whole canon of fodder (see what I did there?) for dinner parties. Who am I kidding? My friends don't have dinner parties. They have souvlakis at three in the morning in an attempt to cork the inevitable geyser of frothy, yeasty vomit fermenting below. There are, of course, many opportunities for sterling intellectual repartee before the great greasy lamb-damming, but the satisfaction of passing-off someone else's great idea as your own lacks a little lustre when no one can remember your brilliance the next day. More's the pity.
One such great concept I recently flogged came from a book about habit, ritual and addiction. I think it was called "Habit, Ritual & Addiction" - these academics bore the shit out of people for a living, the title is nothing if not fitting. The work riffed on this idea of 'mythicised participation' which particularly tickled my nuts. It was a critique on how modern man, stripped of religion and his affinity with the land, has no ritual in his life. Listless and without community, he turns to the drink. The only solace left to seek is that in this "mythical" perception that when he drinks, he is actually part of something - a socially acceptable pastime. A way of life.
There's no activity so ambivalently righteous and wretched as drinking. A night slamming cans can make or break a man. Make or break. Sometimes the difference is only a pint in either direction. I've seen it. I've been it. But, for the most part, we drinking men who are neither great nor garish live comfortably cushioned in the ether of the inbetween. Our boozy buffer from the world of 'real human moments' is only ever as alienating as the particular stool we choose at that evening's bar. Thankfully now we have the endearing exile of outdoor smoking to draw us closer together - the mythical is practically tangible.
Bars are great places. You seem like a better person just for walking in the door. People think you're a cooler, more interesting person just for being there. You can't help but play up to that. I like to make sure I'm catching the ey of the cute girls - 'yeah, that's right baby. I'm having casual conversation with the bartender. He totally knows me. And look at the size of the beer I'm drinking! It's like a fucking fish bowl! Oh, yeah I'm a real man. If I could see you across the room without closing one eye, I might even try to talk to you. Maybe I need glasses... maybe then I wouldn't be a virgin... technically.'
Friday, June 22, 2007
Solstice
I was writing to a friend last night...
"There’s one thing that everyone seems to forget about the shortest day of the year – it directly precedes the longest night. It is the last nail in the coffin of my dark, lonely, listless winter depression. Each minute is a painstakingly long reminder of the pointlessness and disorganisation of my life. I’d drink it away, but my hands are still shaking from last night’s efforts. I’d smoke cigarettes but they just make me feel sicker – though they do offer a slender solace, reminding you that each sweet stick is bringing the end just that little bit closer.
"It’s wrong to will this away. These have been good days, filled with friends baring broad honest smiles. I should be pleased and proud, but I’ve told the stories of the last six months so many times now they’ve lost all meaning. I’m not sure if what I’m saying is what I actually believe/what actually happened, or if it’s just ‘what I say’ when people ask that kind of question. I’m not a person anymore. I’m just a fleshy container that carries around anecdotes about distant places and far away concepts. I feel hollow and disengaged.
"I’ve figured it out. The key to happiness is your capacity to generate anecdotes. If you don’t have any stories to tell about what you’ve been doing, your life has essentially stopped. The last few weeks have been dead air - a blank slate. A completely fresh life in an all too familiar town. I’ve tricked myself into believing that the city itself created my life’s stories – not true. Melbourne is just a bunch of buildings and roads and thirsty lawns. If I want a story to tell, I’ve gotta go out there and make it myself.
"Let’s let this one be the first. Next week is looking better already"
"There’s one thing that everyone seems to forget about the shortest day of the year – it directly precedes the longest night. It is the last nail in the coffin of my dark, lonely, listless winter depression. Each minute is a painstakingly long reminder of the pointlessness and disorganisation of my life. I’d drink it away, but my hands are still shaking from last night’s efforts. I’d smoke cigarettes but they just make me feel sicker – though they do offer a slender solace, reminding you that each sweet stick is bringing the end just that little bit closer.
"It’s wrong to will this away. These have been good days, filled with friends baring broad honest smiles. I should be pleased and proud, but I’ve told the stories of the last six months so many times now they’ve lost all meaning. I’m not sure if what I’m saying is what I actually believe/what actually happened, or if it’s just ‘what I say’ when people ask that kind of question. I’m not a person anymore. I’m just a fleshy container that carries around anecdotes about distant places and far away concepts. I feel hollow and disengaged.
"I’ve figured it out. The key to happiness is your capacity to generate anecdotes. If you don’t have any stories to tell about what you’ve been doing, your life has essentially stopped. The last few weeks have been dead air - a blank slate. A completely fresh life in an all too familiar town. I’ve tricked myself into believing that the city itself created my life’s stories – not true. Melbourne is just a bunch of buildings and roads and thirsty lawns. If I want a story to tell, I’ve gotta go out there and make it myself.
"Let’s let this one be the first. Next week is looking better already"
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Buoyed
Today could have been a fucking disaster but the Gods are smiling on me. That’s a nice change. Last I’d heard they were running a sweep, trying to guess the exact adjective that would describe the way I’d fuck my life up. Thor had his money on ‘monumentally’ while Ganesh had his hopes pinned on ‘irreparably’. If I had any money I would have sunk the wad on ‘inevitably’. Safe as houses… in Gaza.
I managed to put off filming to the very last minute. What, with a hole in my face I could hardly face my public all bloodied and swollen. I’d look like a common street hood. AlTHOugh, street hood chic is making a comeback. I could ride the wave as if it were like a swell or surge of fluid or someshit. I’d do good hood.
Plus, chicks dig jerks. I’m living proof. I’m so damn amiable that no bitch will come near me. Perhaps I should stop calling them bitches... from across the street. Yeah-nah, that could be a dangerous move. If I start treating women with respect they’ll start wanting more, like rights and self esteem and a union. “Liberate yourselves girls. Burn your make-up. No, not that stuff - the stuff on your face.”
Things seem to be back to normal. Actually, better than normal. All of the depression that comes with getting your face smashed up has faded away to reveal quite a high spirited version of myself. Who’da thunk he was under there all that time? If I’da known I’d’ve bathed more often. I’ve hit my stride. I think it comes with being busy at work – even though I’m relegated to menial paperpushing. Nonetheless, stimulation is stimulation. It’s fun for a week – I couldn’t do it for a living. I’d slit wrists… not mine… someone else’s… as like a protest.
Indeed, it feels like everyone in the community is looking at life here afresh. Still, I’m a little cynical about my own sunny disposition. I booked a flight home the other day and I’ll admit, it does feel good to have an end date. A little surety and some security. But it can’t really just be that, going home doesn’t exactly overwhelm me with joy. I have no idea what I’ll do for cash when I get back there. I’ll have enough savings for a couple of months of cocaine and hookers – but what am I going to do for fun? Not knowing where your next paycheck is hiding can be a real pain in the arse… no wonder I’m going bald… in my pants.
Still, I gather that my last few weeks here will be quite an enjoyable time. I’m going to miss the people here, and the work – if you can call it that. I’ll miss the romance of the adventure – and there really still is some. But if there’s one thing that community life has taught me, it’s that I have my own culture, my own mob, and my own responsibilities. And while the culture may not be at risk of dying out, the people in it still need support getting through their lives. I’m better suited to helping them. I’m one of them. That used to make me feel guilty. Now, at least for this moment, it has me buoyed.
I managed to put off filming to the very last minute. What, with a hole in my face I could hardly face my public all bloodied and swollen. I’d look like a common street hood. AlTHOugh, street hood chic is making a comeback. I could ride the wave as if it were like a swell or surge of fluid or someshit. I’d do good hood.
Plus, chicks dig jerks. I’m living proof. I’m so damn amiable that no bitch will come near me. Perhaps I should stop calling them bitches... from across the street. Yeah-nah, that could be a dangerous move. If I start treating women with respect they’ll start wanting more, like rights and self esteem and a union. “Liberate yourselves girls. Burn your make-up. No, not that stuff - the stuff on your face.”
Things seem to be back to normal. Actually, better than normal. All of the depression that comes with getting your face smashed up has faded away to reveal quite a high spirited version of myself. Who’da thunk he was under there all that time? If I’da known I’d’ve bathed more often. I’ve hit my stride. I think it comes with being busy at work – even though I’m relegated to menial paperpushing. Nonetheless, stimulation is stimulation. It’s fun for a week – I couldn’t do it for a living. I’d slit wrists… not mine… someone else’s… as like a protest.
Indeed, it feels like everyone in the community is looking at life here afresh. Still, I’m a little cynical about my own sunny disposition. I booked a flight home the other day and I’ll admit, it does feel good to have an end date. A little surety and some security. But it can’t really just be that, going home doesn’t exactly overwhelm me with joy. I have no idea what I’ll do for cash when I get back there. I’ll have enough savings for a couple of months of cocaine and hookers – but what am I going to do for fun? Not knowing where your next paycheck is hiding can be a real pain in the arse… no wonder I’m going bald… in my pants.
Still, I gather that my last few weeks here will be quite an enjoyable time. I’m going to miss the people here, and the work – if you can call it that. I’ll miss the romance of the adventure – and there really still is some. But if there’s one thing that community life has taught me, it’s that I have my own culture, my own mob, and my own responsibilities. And while the culture may not be at risk of dying out, the people in it still need support getting through their lives. I’m better suited to helping them. I’m one of them. That used to make me feel guilty. Now, at least for this moment, it has me buoyed.
Torment
I am going to vomit my own sick until I puke if I ever – EVER - hear one more Aboriginal person scream. I am completely fucking jack of it. If I said that to any of my friends in Melbourne they’d probably choke to death on their own indignation. “What?!? You can’t say THAT! It’s racist! Besides, under what circumstances would you ever vomit someone else’s sick?!” Well, walk on over and take a big old bite, because I’m standing by it. I’m at my wits end. I not blaming Aboriginals. It’s just that the incessant screaming, yelling and crying in this community that happens to come from Aboriginal people.
Sometimes it’s just the irritating wailing of children in the office or the screeching discipline of a helpless parent. During the day it is questions and instructions barked at one another across the way – nobody bothers crossing a street to entertain conversation. Why would you? Having a screamed conversation in public is the low-tech equivalent of laying your social-life bare on a MySpace message board.
But the torture doesn’t alight with the fall of the night. The black of evening is lashed with a cacophony of catcalls and wolfwhistles. The distressed wailing of jilted lovers. The vicious threats of violent and angry drunks. All topped off with an unabating undercurrent of hateful, territorial dogs bickering and barking. The yelps of the losers ringing out into the ether like bitter bells. The sickening symphony is an exercise in pure torment. It eats away at you from the inside. It is a form of psychological warfare. It’s enough to make you sick with helplessness. And I am. Pity is pointless… but what else do I have to offer?
Sometimes it’s just the irritating wailing of children in the office or the screeching discipline of a helpless parent. During the day it is questions and instructions barked at one another across the way – nobody bothers crossing a street to entertain conversation. Why would you? Having a screamed conversation in public is the low-tech equivalent of laying your social-life bare on a MySpace message board.
But the torture doesn’t alight with the fall of the night. The black of evening is lashed with a cacophony of catcalls and wolfwhistles. The distressed wailing of jilted lovers. The vicious threats of violent and angry drunks. All topped off with an unabating undercurrent of hateful, territorial dogs bickering and barking. The yelps of the losers ringing out into the ether like bitter bells. The sickening symphony is an exercise in pure torment. It eats away at you from the inside. It is a form of psychological warfare. It’s enough to make you sick with helplessness. And I am. Pity is pointless… but what else do I have to offer?
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Stitches
I am now the proud owner of seven new stitches in my face.
I wish I had a cool heroic story to go with the stiches. I got it when I saved a baby from a falling piano by stopping it with my face. I was attacked by the Mexican pissfish on an expedition in Greenland. I was running a marathon with scissors, just to prove a point, only to be choked and tripped by the ribbon at the finish line.
Here are two
Finnish lines.
Truth is me and a mate got drunk and bored, and smacked our skulls together while we were wrestling in the backyard. Sheer stupidity. It was kinda funny at first until it became fairly evident that I’d need a few stitches to close it up. I did seem to be bleeding a bit. Luckily there’s a hospital in town, but I had to wait until morning to get it fixed. The only doctor in town just happened to be the other pissed idiot that I’d been wrestling with when we smacked heads. So we had to wait until he was sober enough to stitch me up again. He did a great job. I just hope not so good that I doesn’t leave me a really cool scar.
This unfortunate series of events seemed like as good an opportunity as any to talk about alcohol and boredom. It’s pretty safe to say that they are the two greatest causes of problems in the community. Maningrida is basically small town anywhere Australia, and I’m not just talking about Aboriginal communities. We have the same problems with drug and alcohol abuse, mental illness and suicide as any country town, but if anything the troubles are far more transparent here because everybody lives at such close quarters, not scattered out on farms. The average house here has about 15 people in it. I live alone – that makes me feel incredibly guilty - but my guilt is another film entirely. Think about the impact one alcoholic can have on a house of 15. Or on a house of one, for that matter.
You can’t buy grog here. You get a permit, like a license I guess, and you can get 2 slabs shipped in on the barge from Darwin once a fortnight. Doesn’t sound like much, but it with 30 can blocks its breaks down to about 5 cans a night. Any doctor will tell you that that is classified as full-blown alcoholism. Yet, everyone who has a permit – black or white - will knock over their allotment without flinching – usually in the first week. The grog is handed out by the police every second Saturday at what is patronizingly referred to by Balandas as ‘Grog Ceremony’.
A huge part of Aboriginal culture is a notion of give and take. If I ask for something you’ve got, you give it to me – pretty much no questions asked. And vice versa. It probably goes back to tribal times when stuff like that might have meant the survival of the group. Now, more often than not, it just means that people who have had their alcohol permits revoked can usually still get pissed after a grog shipment. Sadly that also means that these same men might start fights in the community or go home and beat their wives. It’s a time-honored tradition brought to Australia by the Irish around the time of the gold rush. I’m being flippant. Sometimes the whole situation here gets a bit overwhelming. That’s my way of dealing with it.
The fact is that the vast majority of the community is unemployed. Alcohol and boredom keep self-esteem way down and depression way up in a group of people that have already been massively marginalized. Nobody can honestly say they are surprised to find out there are issues” here.
But what are you going to do about it? You can’t take the grog away from them. Aboriginals aren’t children, they have to be able to make their own choices. But what can we really expect them to do? I can’t even take a drink without smacking my face into something. Maningrida is not a special place. It’s not particularly dangerous or violent. It’s desperate, but no more desperate than any big city in the world I’ve ever visited. Drugs – be they alcohol, heroin or television – are eating way at every single community in the world. And what do we do about it? …what do we do?
I wish I had a cool heroic story to go with the stiches. I got it when I saved a baby from a falling piano by stopping it with my face. I was attacked by the Mexican pissfish on an expedition in Greenland. I was running a marathon with scissors, just to prove a point, only to be choked and tripped by the ribbon at the finish line.
Here are two
Finnish lines.
Truth is me and a mate got drunk and bored, and smacked our skulls together while we were wrestling in the backyard. Sheer stupidity. It was kinda funny at first until it became fairly evident that I’d need a few stitches to close it up. I did seem to be bleeding a bit. Luckily there’s a hospital in town, but I had to wait until morning to get it fixed. The only doctor in town just happened to be the other pissed idiot that I’d been wrestling with when we smacked heads. So we had to wait until he was sober enough to stitch me up again. He did a great job. I just hope not so good that I doesn’t leave me a really cool scar.
This unfortunate series of events seemed like as good an opportunity as any to talk about alcohol and boredom. It’s pretty safe to say that they are the two greatest causes of problems in the community. Maningrida is basically small town anywhere Australia, and I’m not just talking about Aboriginal communities. We have the same problems with drug and alcohol abuse, mental illness and suicide as any country town, but if anything the troubles are far more transparent here because everybody lives at such close quarters, not scattered out on farms. The average house here has about 15 people in it. I live alone – that makes me feel incredibly guilty - but my guilt is another film entirely. Think about the impact one alcoholic can have on a house of 15. Or on a house of one, for that matter.
You can’t buy grog here. You get a permit, like a license I guess, and you can get 2 slabs shipped in on the barge from Darwin once a fortnight. Doesn’t sound like much, but it with 30 can blocks its breaks down to about 5 cans a night. Any doctor will tell you that that is classified as full-blown alcoholism. Yet, everyone who has a permit – black or white - will knock over their allotment without flinching – usually in the first week. The grog is handed out by the police every second Saturday at what is patronizingly referred to by Balandas as ‘Grog Ceremony’.
A huge part of Aboriginal culture is a notion of give and take. If I ask for something you’ve got, you give it to me – pretty much no questions asked. And vice versa. It probably goes back to tribal times when stuff like that might have meant the survival of the group. Now, more often than not, it just means that people who have had their alcohol permits revoked can usually still get pissed after a grog shipment. Sadly that also means that these same men might start fights in the community or go home and beat their wives. It’s a time-honored tradition brought to Australia by the Irish around the time of the gold rush. I’m being flippant. Sometimes the whole situation here gets a bit overwhelming. That’s my way of dealing with it.
The fact is that the vast majority of the community is unemployed. Alcohol and boredom keep self-esteem way down and depression way up in a group of people that have already been massively marginalized. Nobody can honestly say they are surprised to find out there are issues” here.
But what are you going to do about it? You can’t take the grog away from them. Aboriginals aren’t children, they have to be able to make their own choices. But what can we really expect them to do? I can’t even take a drink without smacking my face into something. Maningrida is not a special place. It’s not particularly dangerous or violent. It’s desperate, but no more desperate than any big city in the world I’ve ever visited. Drugs – be they alcohol, heroin or television – are eating way at every single community in the world. And what do we do about it? …what do we do?
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Cigar
Slinky modal Miles
Almond smoke, curl and caress
Man and moment – one
The comfortable cool of an afternoon. My senses are slowed as if slightly stoned. My head bobs involuntarily to the slow meandering groove of a muted trumpet. A soft brown cigar warms my fingers. My mouth is warm and tingly with activity– tongue toying with the trickling flavors. Roasted nuts. Chocolate. Fruit leather. Caramel. Softly spiced with the just slightest sweetness.
I imagine swirling a Speyside single malt in my free hand and the picture is complete. Maningrida is transformed into my own plush and private cigar lounge. Not even my haiku captures the satiated simplicity of the scene. Bliss. It has been far too long since I’ve used that word.
My loving relationship with cigars started some time ago - long before I ever tried a cigarette. The thing that all these anti-smoking lobbyists forget is that smoking – really, engagingly smoking – is one of the greatest pleasures available to man.
Cigarettes have long since sucked the ritual and enjoyment out of it. They have brought with them nasty words like habit and addiction. Cigarettes are evil – a slow suicide for a cataleptic public. But smoking a quality tobacco in a clear and contemplative environment is otherworldly.
It’s not for everyone, surely. Like anything else - wine, beer, scotch, coffee, caviar, cat ownership – each to his own. Even then, there is a time and a place for everything. Smoking a cigar is like masturbation – seductive, sensual and deeply satisfying yet, when done in public, obnoxious and offensive to others. It is, like every indulgence, unashamedly selfish and should be undertaken accordingly.
I have not been as content as I am now for some time. This is no special day. All it took was a moment of clarity to see that there are no things so self-serving as worry, angst and depression. A simple cigar showed me that this afternoon. Maybe others might have stopped to smell a rose or something. That’s fine, if they want to poison their bodies like that. Let them.
Almond smoke, curl and caress
Man and moment – one
The comfortable cool of an afternoon. My senses are slowed as if slightly stoned. My head bobs involuntarily to the slow meandering groove of a muted trumpet. A soft brown cigar warms my fingers. My mouth is warm and tingly with activity– tongue toying with the trickling flavors. Roasted nuts. Chocolate. Fruit leather. Caramel. Softly spiced with the just slightest sweetness.
I imagine swirling a Speyside single malt in my free hand and the picture is complete. Maningrida is transformed into my own plush and private cigar lounge. Not even my haiku captures the satiated simplicity of the scene. Bliss. It has been far too long since I’ve used that word.
My loving relationship with cigars started some time ago - long before I ever tried a cigarette. The thing that all these anti-smoking lobbyists forget is that smoking – really, engagingly smoking – is one of the greatest pleasures available to man.
Cigarettes have long since sucked the ritual and enjoyment out of it. They have brought with them nasty words like habit and addiction. Cigarettes are evil – a slow suicide for a cataleptic public. But smoking a quality tobacco in a clear and contemplative environment is otherworldly.
It’s not for everyone, surely. Like anything else - wine, beer, scotch, coffee, caviar, cat ownership – each to his own. Even then, there is a time and a place for everything. Smoking a cigar is like masturbation – seductive, sensual and deeply satisfying yet, when done in public, obnoxious and offensive to others. It is, like every indulgence, unashamedly selfish and should be undertaken accordingly.
I have not been as content as I am now for some time. This is no special day. All it took was a moment of clarity to see that there are no things so self-serving as worry, angst and depression. A simple cigar showed me that this afternoon. Maybe others might have stopped to smell a rose or something. That’s fine, if they want to poison their bodies like that. Let them.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Savior
The US Government reports to have a man, one Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, who claims to be the mastermind of nearly 30 high-profile terrorist attacks including failed assassination attempts on then President Bill Clinton, the 2002 Bali bombing and the infamous attacks on the World Trade Centre towers.
That sounds pretty fucking unbelievable to me. That’s a fairly fanciful session for Lex fucking Luther. Don’t try to convince me that a single sand-eater is responsible for the complete works of 21st century terror. I’ll buy that right after I buy a cold turd salad off the McDonalds New Choice Menu.
What does that mean for the world? What does that mean for the War on Terror? Is it over? Can we call off the dogs? Is Osama (who is and always was a free, wealthy and oddly charismatic chap) now an UN-wanted man? FBI’s Most Wanted original poster-boy free to invest in Texan oil again. He’ll be on a couch with Oprah before the end of the fucking week.
“So, Osama. Where have you been all this time, girlfriend?”
‘Well, I spent most of my time in this delightful café down in the West End working on my memoirs. They have the most amazing double choc cookies there!’
“And you know what!? We’ve got cookies for everyone in our audience! COOOKIEEES!”
*crowd goes fucking nuts*
*white lady in pastel knit can’t find her cookie*
*she suspects that the black lady next to her stole it, but is reluctant to speak up*
*cries tears of joy anyway*
“That was Osama. His book is in stores now. It changed my life. I’m not just saying that. Thank you for being here.”
‘Death to infidels.’
“Of course, death to infidels.”
Can you even do that? Can you just tell prosecutors anything? Have they asked for any evidence? Corroborating witnesses? This all sounds a little like the boy who cried ‘I killed Jean-Benet’ to me. Fuck. Only in Guantanamo. Any other prison in the world and it’d get you a free ticket to some low-security nuthouse.
Why don’t they just ship these ‘suspected’ terrorists to Area 51 and treat them like the aliens they believe them to be. Have a nationally broadcast autopsy. Find the Terrorist gene and a cure for beardlessness.
By claiming to be responsible for everything good that the terrorists ever did, is effectively trying to absolve the crime and guilt (dare I say sin?) of all terrorist-kind. I’m no Qur’anic scholar but surely there has to be some modesty in martyrdom. This dude is giving Jesus a run for his money.
I can see it now. In centuries to come the books written about him by pseudo-political analysts and cash-hungry pop-academics will be collated to form the newer testament – a version true to Islam.
A great following will rise. Praise be to Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, who died in the chair for all our sins. People will send great sums of money of preachers of his teachings with little silver electric chairs around their necks – arguing long into the night on talkback community radio about how the miracle of 9/11 WAS that half of the 19 hi-jackers were found to have never been on the plane in the first place (resurrected) NOT THAT two unskilled pilots could hit a single building with a jumbo at 700kms an hour. Mercy on your children.
The first casualty of war is reason. The second is apparently irrelevant.
*somewhere in middle-America a black lady gives her daughter a cookie that she brought her from the Oprah show*
That sounds pretty fucking unbelievable to me. That’s a fairly fanciful session for Lex fucking Luther. Don’t try to convince me that a single sand-eater is responsible for the complete works of 21st century terror. I’ll buy that right after I buy a cold turd salad off the McDonalds New Choice Menu.
What does that mean for the world? What does that mean for the War on Terror? Is it over? Can we call off the dogs? Is Osama (who is and always was a free, wealthy and oddly charismatic chap) now an UN-wanted man? FBI’s Most Wanted original poster-boy free to invest in Texan oil again. He’ll be on a couch with Oprah before the end of the fucking week.
“So, Osama. Where have you been all this time, girlfriend?”
‘Well, I spent most of my time in this delightful café down in the West End working on my memoirs. They have the most amazing double choc cookies there!’
“And you know what!? We’ve got cookies for everyone in our audience! COOOKIEEES!”
*crowd goes fucking nuts*
*white lady in pastel knit can’t find her cookie*
*she suspects that the black lady next to her stole it, but is reluctant to speak up*
*cries tears of joy anyway*
“That was Osama. His book is in stores now. It changed my life. I’m not just saying that. Thank you for being here.”
‘Death to infidels.’
“Of course, death to infidels.”
Can you even do that? Can you just tell prosecutors anything? Have they asked for any evidence? Corroborating witnesses? This all sounds a little like the boy who cried ‘I killed Jean-Benet’ to me. Fuck. Only in Guantanamo. Any other prison in the world and it’d get you a free ticket to some low-security nuthouse.
Why don’t they just ship these ‘suspected’ terrorists to Area 51 and treat them like the aliens they believe them to be. Have a nationally broadcast autopsy. Find the Terrorist gene and a cure for beardlessness.
By claiming to be responsible for everything good that the terrorists ever did, is effectively trying to absolve the crime and guilt (dare I say sin?) of all terrorist-kind. I’m no Qur’anic scholar but surely there has to be some modesty in martyrdom. This dude is giving Jesus a run for his money.
I can see it now. In centuries to come the books written about him by pseudo-political analysts and cash-hungry pop-academics will be collated to form the newer testament – a version true to Islam.
A great following will rise. Praise be to Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, who died in the chair for all our sins. People will send great sums of money of preachers of his teachings with little silver electric chairs around their necks – arguing long into the night on talkback community radio about how the miracle of 9/11 WAS that half of the 19 hi-jackers were found to have never been on the plane in the first place (resurrected) NOT THAT two unskilled pilots could hit a single building with a jumbo at 700kms an hour. Mercy on your children.
The first casualty of war is reason. The second is apparently irrelevant.
*somewhere in middle-America a black lady gives her daughter a cookie that she brought her from the Oprah show*
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Boredom and Curiosity
Yesterday I shaved off all my pubic hair. Not like with a razor or anything, if that makes it any less weird. It just happened. I was lying in bed naked and the hair clippers were charging on the bedside table. Fate? I ask you.
Heaps of guys do it – I know at least three. It’s supposed to make your junk look bigger. Here’s where I make a joke about not needing to make it look bigger… but... well… I was curious. Men like me climbed Everest. Men like me claimed sovereignty to land they “discovered.” Men like me mowed their man-muff. Why? Because it was there… and fuck it, I wasn’t doing anything else that morning.
I would never usually consider giving my balls a buzz-cut. I reckon it looks freaky. The fact is, I’m right - something that big should have hair on it. Male or female. I seriously worry about people who are attracted to hairlessness. If that’s your ‘bag’, go fuck a manatee or admit you’re a paedophile. Your choice.
I don’t get my dick out in public nearly often as I used to. Still, I was worried that someone might get a look at my newly-nudes and assume that that floated my bloated. Just thinking about it makes me shudder. I can’t imagine anything more embarrassing than getting to that point with a lady – her hand sliding down the front of your pants and getting a handful of pink and pricklies.
“What is that? A baby echidna?”
‘…um, yeah… that’s what it is…’
“It really should be in a sanctuary for orphaned wildlife.”
*long pause*
‘…I guess there’s no chance of me convincing you to eat it now!?’
How-eh-vah, the gods of fate and fortune dangled a now-or-never-moment in front of my ever adventurous eyes. I’m in a remote community, quite safe in the knowledge that here is no fucking chance that I’ll have a girl’s hand in my pants for months. Bless this sexlessness. If I ever wanted to see myself pubeless, this was a genuine opportunity with no risk of embarrassment. A change is a good as a holiday – I bought my dick a pair of sunglasses and off it came.
There are so few decisions in life that you can IMMEDIATELY REGRET. This was one. My balls were cut to shit, everything itched, and that little creature from the Alien films was winking up at me – smug little prick. It’s official; my woolly mammoth needs his afro. Now, when I peer into my pants, I don’t know whether to piss or scratch it under the chin and feed it milk from a bottle.
The most difficult bits were the man-scaping decisions. Hair runs an unbroken line from my neck to my toes. I basically carved a clearing, like a pair of tiny pink budgie-smugglers, only with the parrot on the outside. I look fucking ridiculous. My penis now has no attractive qualities whatsoever. It just looks like some fleshy extendable tube used for depositing semen into dark places. Get thee to a fig leaf. Thankyou, wise serpent.
The only thing vaguely sexy about it is when I inch my hand down the front of my own pants it reminds me of the short and spikies of girls I’ve known before… that is, until I hit dick. Then it reminds me of that time in Thailand.
*starts singing and dancing to Karma Chameleon*
So the question remains – does it look any bigger? Well… yeah, I guess… a bit… but when you think about it, I was always this big whether I looked it or not. Besides, if you’ve been invited to take it out that battle is already won. It looks like a dick. It’s not about to win ‘best in show’ at Westminster.
Heaps of guys do it – I know at least three. It’s supposed to make your junk look bigger. Here’s where I make a joke about not needing to make it look bigger… but... well… I was curious. Men like me climbed Everest. Men like me claimed sovereignty to land they “discovered.” Men like me mowed their man-muff. Why? Because it was there… and fuck it, I wasn’t doing anything else that morning.
I would never usually consider giving my balls a buzz-cut. I reckon it looks freaky. The fact is, I’m right - something that big should have hair on it. Male or female. I seriously worry about people who are attracted to hairlessness. If that’s your ‘bag’, go fuck a manatee or admit you’re a paedophile. Your choice.
I don’t get my dick out in public nearly often as I used to. Still, I was worried that someone might get a look at my newly-nudes and assume that that floated my bloated. Just thinking about it makes me shudder. I can’t imagine anything more embarrassing than getting to that point with a lady – her hand sliding down the front of your pants and getting a handful of pink and pricklies.
“What is that? A baby echidna?”
‘…um, yeah… that’s what it is…’
“It really should be in a sanctuary for orphaned wildlife.”
*long pause*
‘…I guess there’s no chance of me convincing you to eat it now!?’
How-eh-vah, the gods of fate and fortune dangled a now-or-never-moment in front of my ever adventurous eyes. I’m in a remote community, quite safe in the knowledge that here is no fucking chance that I’ll have a girl’s hand in my pants for months. Bless this sexlessness. If I ever wanted to see myself pubeless, this was a genuine opportunity with no risk of embarrassment. A change is a good as a holiday – I bought my dick a pair of sunglasses and off it came.
There are so few decisions in life that you can IMMEDIATELY REGRET. This was one. My balls were cut to shit, everything itched, and that little creature from the Alien films was winking up at me – smug little prick. It’s official; my woolly mammoth needs his afro. Now, when I peer into my pants, I don’t know whether to piss or scratch it under the chin and feed it milk from a bottle.
The most difficult bits were the man-scaping decisions. Hair runs an unbroken line from my neck to my toes. I basically carved a clearing, like a pair of tiny pink budgie-smugglers, only with the parrot on the outside. I look fucking ridiculous. My penis now has no attractive qualities whatsoever. It just looks like some fleshy extendable tube used for depositing semen into dark places. Get thee to a fig leaf. Thankyou, wise serpent.
The only thing vaguely sexy about it is when I inch my hand down the front of my own pants it reminds me of the short and spikies of girls I’ve known before… that is, until I hit dick. Then it reminds me of that time in Thailand.
*starts singing and dancing to Karma Chameleon*
So the question remains – does it look any bigger? Well… yeah, I guess… a bit… but when you think about it, I was always this big whether I looked it or not. Besides, if you’ve been invited to take it out that battle is already won. It looks like a dick. It’s not about to win ‘best in show’ at Westminster.
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