An American Football Left in the Oven (and perhaps, if possible, some reflections on this)

I suppose it was a timely communication.  Or 'what have you', as they say...

I mean there was a huge field nearby the meeting place where I and some others and a recent acquaintance had gathered together for some sort of, well, gathering.  I told him I'd brought it but yes, of course, I'd just left it in the oven for now; and surely it was implied that eventually I'd retrieve it from the over, presumably to throw about on the big, lineless field.  I know nothing much about American football, but I'm sure the field was absurdly large at any standard.

Later, I'm walking at a brisk pace toward a strip of eateries and shops on the far side of the field.  It's somewhere about this time that I actually consider the fact that the football is in an oven; that an oven is generally a place where the heat gets hotter and hotter.  Essentially, what gets me running rather than walking, is the consideration that surely the football will soon melt and be destroyed, and my friend, previously referred to as acquaintance, who is of huge stature, will not be all that pleased with this fact.

I can feel the pace picking up with immense lucidity - even now.  I was picturing the damn thing in that oven, somewhere in this weird place at the back of one of these restaurants where I'd mysteriously tucked it away for later playing.  I know they call them "pigskins", that they're quite thick skinned; but surely that long in an oven and the thing wouldn't stand a chance.  And why?  Why put it in the oven?

I wind up on the other side of the block - the opposite side to the field - where the scene is much more like inner-city, trendy main street kind of vibe.  There are independent music stores, quirky bookshops and a train station nearby that has that preserved, purposefully not-upgraded feel to it.  A long concrete incline leading up to it, though I'm sure there would be wheelchair access in this day and age.  Whatever day and age this is exactly...

There were some other scenes in this sequence, but of quite an explicit nature and as such cannot be included in this mature-age but not-quite-X-rated recollection.

What does it all mean!?

Yes, what does it all mean (rhetorical).  But what doesn't  it mean?  Not like, let's make a list of negational elements related to it and thus infer what the meaning is; but rather, whereabouts in it are there not things of meaning?  The craftiwork of the imagination is a football-field, so to say, of meaning.  Somewhere in there was the sensation - and I hesitate slightly to call it a sensation, but no other way of referring to it comes to mind - of melting cheese.  Melting cheese.  I imagine that an rubber football would melt slowly, like grilled cheese, in an oven.  Oh, and it was a wood fired oven, like those big ceramic pizza ovens you see more and more often now.  I think the football was sitting on a grate of some kind above a fire, enclosed and lit only by the flames licking at it from below.  What a scene, no?  For what would be considered an automated series of images, coloured with meaning and feeling and whatever else, that's fairly impressive.

But what's more, that was an experience of some kind.  I was damn worried about melting this man's football - I mean when I started running, I could feel my momentum gathering.  Not so much fear, but who wants to melt someone else's football?  And damn, I wasn't sure why I had put it in the oven; perhaps in this strange world that was a normal thing to do, but it didn't feel that way.  I felt like maybe I'd have to arrive back, holding a melted football, and have to explain to my friend what had happened, with the very real risk of being questioned about my motivations around putting it an oven in a nearby restaurant.  Logic is not at play here.  The question, "Why couldn't you have just kept it on the ground near the field?" was not relevant.  I put it in the oven.  Period.

And then a shift of gears, over the other side of the block.  No more field, no more chic restaurants.  Things changed to being kind of new-age alternative, with the inner city of my home city as a new colouring, a new environment.  No longer was the football in the oven relevant to me.  Thank God.  Peeking through shop windows and looking out over the street, everything felt different.  Some sort of theme - the new and the old, perhaps.  Or the now and the then.  Who knows?  I suppose I do.  Where isn't the meaning?  It's like short film.  Sometimes it's like feature length.

And when you wake up, it tends to just keep, sort of, going...

A Stroll Backwards in Time to A Valley's Moon Swimming Hole

The pre-dawn squints back at me through the windows behind the foot of the bed.  Clouds, always, at the mountaintops, hovering there like UFOs.  Hugging the mysteries that lay in the craters, no doubt. A soft, motherly hug.

A little later it's just me squinting and the beautiful colours are rising and the sweet, soft, ripple-less lake calls me to those windows; and I look down at them, they up at me.  Or is it one big eye, with Atlantis buried deep beneath the pupil?  There are so many places, with so many powers - how grateful I am, to be in this one.  Perfect timing.

The mornings have been calling me to a desk outside, wooden, with a water, herb and flower -filled jar in the centre.  A stick of sweet smelling wood lays like a fallen tree next to three coins, and as I've been doing and will continue to do in the mornings, I throw the coins six times.  Christ - it's like talking to someone, holding a dialogue with some sort of timeles matrix of situational wisdom.  And I'm just starting the conversation!  But everything it says and everything I ask and everything else around me feeds into the process and I breathe deeply at the words and say Yes, yes...go slower.  Patience.  You'll be dropped to your knees at this rate...

The subtleties of it all.  If you dismiss the subtleties, you see only the gross; and if you see only the gross, then your life is raw, your layers unloosened and your perception of the all and everything largely fed to you.  What's easiest.  Like supermarket shopping at the delusion store, acquiring all your pseudo-security needs.  But wait for it...there's a little crack in each layer and the watery stream that is you, which is at the centre, slowly leaks out of the crackers in each layer; and it might take lots of time but eventually there's this fucking pressure that builds and builds and it can happened day to day, or maybe one time when you're in your thirties - who knows - but it will come, and Spring a powerful leak out of whatever outer layer you're wearing at the time; and it'll taste, this water, a little bit like each layer.  Such confusion.  Without that sense of subtlety, one cannot taste the airy, empty nature of the centre that was one's self.  The swirling DNA dance of love and ethereality, that lives forever; that never was born, and never will die.

The morning holds another gift for me.  In response to my sincere questioning, I'm hearing more and more about my roots in this world.  I go back a while, tears streaming from a place that is far from conventional memory.  A fish tugging, jerking the tears from somewhere way down below.  The meaning of my whole life somehow some through from it.

I was born three months before my Yiayia died, so we were existing here on this plane for three months together.  All of this time this woman spent in hospital, sick with leukaemia.  That means, also, that my Mum found out that her mum was going to die when she was seven months pregnant with me.  When I read that, I felt it.  Make of it what you will.

We met properly twice: once in a painful, confused way, when she was not well.  She demanded to be taken to me because there is a Greek custom whereby the grandmother puts money and a Greek Eye symbol in the baby's bed, so as the gods keep watch over the new child; and I imagine that the money is for prosperity.  The other time we met, she was in remission and like I envision a lovely Greek grandmother might do, unravelled my baby-clothes and had a good, long look at her new grandchild. Ten fingers, ten toes.  I would be a great man, she declared.  It's taken me a damn long time, but I think I'm finally getting what she meant by that.

There was another time we met, before she died.  Mum tells me that she and I were asleep in her and Dad's room, on the day of the night she died.  Both of us slept for a long time, Mum said.  An unusually long time, and they had to come and wake us both up.  Something crawls inside of me when I hear about this.  Though I don't know what or why.  It just feels.

I was the only one of the kids of the family who was there the night she died, because I had to be with Mum the whole time because she was breastfeeding me.  Mum said I was a good baby at the time; quiet, didn't cry much.  I wonder if I was awake or asleep when Yiayia died?  I wonder if it makes a difference?

Ok, so the morning comes to an end.  Early afternoon and I'm going to venture out, alone, to the pond at Elephant Rock.  On the way I am powering hard, like the Terminator; except I'm reciting the mantra Soham-Hamso all the way to my in and out -breaths.  The mantra is brilliant.  It's lie life and death, just like a breath.  You say So on the in-breath, and Ham on the out-breath; and then you reverse the emphasis so you're saying Hamso; and then you spontaneously alternate between the two words, which is surely symbolic of beginnings becoming ends and ends becoming beginnings; of life and death; of renewal; of the serpent swallowing its own tail, and living on infinitely...

I arrive.

Mountain water, immediately over my body.  So-ham.  So-ham.  Freezing.  Feel it in my bones.  Loving it.  One dip in, stay a few breaths, back out onto the rock to sit and stare and watch everything going on.  The unintentional power walk here has created a huge contrast to the stillness I sit in now; the cloud of insects buzzing about and the sweet, sweet sound of the flowing stream.  The hot rock beneath me.  Me, right there with me.  The mantra slows down.  Everything does.

Coloured-fuzzy-energy in my third-eye space, stirred as it has been; beautiful energies rising, from the flames of repeated confusion.  The waves and troughs move up and down, relatively.  It makes sense to experience a backlash - but holy moley, the uplash is worth it; it is the integration, the life growth, the entering into the new conditions with new conditions.  Learnign from the old.  Loving the old.  Feeling into the new...

And I get a few stones out and bathe them in the stream - a huge clear quartz, an obsidian and some amber.

A dying bee is beside me and I feel a pinch on the lower left side of my back.  An unprovoked sting.  Now it's there, on the rock, slowly dying.  I watch it.  Unfathomable.  Touched by the sting of a bee.  Why did it sting me?  What is there, to the bee...?

The walk home is very slow.  I am seeing everything with different eyes; and among all the things that I see and inspect and feel and sing, I see a black and red butterfly jumping about the path ahead of me; and I follow it.  Until it veers left, off the trail, so I walk up and stop where it turned and see it over in the greenery there, erratically flying about as butterflies do.  It's flight path reminds me of the Zodiac.  Maybe the butterfly just paints out the stars in 3D space.

It come back toward the path, back towards me.  And before I know it it's coming right to my forehead and I flinch reflexively, closing my eyes as I do so; and when I open them again and I look up, I've lost it - the beautiful black with the red stripe, gone.  Nowhere to be seen.  But in that time span, I think.  It can't have gone so far away that I cannot see it anymore...

It can't have gone so quickly...

And I walk on, slowly taking it all in.  Breathing.  With a butterfly fluttering about in my skull, I walk  back home.  Breathing.

Feeling the wind in my wings...

Wouldn't Trade my Soul

For how to give away that which is not yours?  Which is no-thing?  Which is All That Is, ebbing-flowing, rising-falling as a tide amongst many, and which has been and gone and of course not done so for all of forever?  Everything all at once, manifesting distinctly, dimensionally and saying hello to itself, over and over; playing the games of this level, screaming, crying, losing track of itself only to pop up again, as a parent plays with its child.

God, the all-and-everything, how I devote myself to thee in song.  It seems almost as though these melodies are the only way I can express pure truth; express you, my Lord.  Nothing else seems so crystalline as this voice that is not mine, and these sounds that express themselves through us - through the muses and the Great Muse, in poetic embrace.

Thank you, Lord - for the spirits of the forest, the father in the sky, the mother beneath my feet the embodiments of these, as us; gratitude for the connections we can make and the energy we can stir, the hearings that are natural to us, that are nothing special, nothing more than a healing wound - yet an answer to our myriad enquiries about All That Is.  About love, life, what we call the idea of death, family, tribe, pain, destruction, chaos, the Great Mirror we see at all times, always guiding and loving us.  Even when we need the pain that it shows us, when it reflects the fear we've grown into.  Remember, it reflects.  This is a dream.

And what dimension elsewhere exist, that we can fly into?  Bracket your judgments and give humble credence to your dreams, for they are teachers.  What do you see, child of love?  Really - what do you see?  Forgive your conditioning, sweetest dew drop.  Forgive and give thanks - energy chose to manifest as you and you are here as a true connection to all of the past, all of the future.  This life is one of many, though of course we are tricked into accepting just this one form and considering no others; but really, what is more reasonable?  Ask the question but I implore you not to find an answer.  Trust yourself.  How adorably foolish we have been to convince ourselves that there is only one way of existing - this one - and that our vibrational energy is not connected to the mysterious all-directional Dynamism of awareness; or some other such thing, that these sweet rational words attempt to capture.  How playfully tragic, that time and those times, when our fathers and mothers and the web of life at that time began to tell us that our imaginations were "just" imaginary - I feel tears falling at this remembrance, that is not mine but is collective.  In the drama, there are often tears.

As common teachings are varied, so are the uncommon and the esoteric.  There were beings that existed that wee connected to the All - past, present and future - and made contact with other beings that were so; and so there are teachings and practices that allow for a piercing of this mundane world, this common world of understanding that has become bordered by a science that is focused on but what aspect of true science - the science of the ancients.  Look to the heart, open up your skies and once freed from the stuff of the mundane, find not only solace, but an endlessness of dimension.  Death is but a playful mental game for the masters and the gods; a test for the human condition, that once un-defined becomes a key to a thousand doors in a thousand dimensions - and all this, my friend, comes from a poet at the threshold, not a master.  So imagine the poetry of the master.  And then consider that we are of course all Buddha-Nature!  Like the drunken poet Rumi, my eyes roll back in my skull and without a doubt in the world, my heart beats on into spheres of life, of experience, of awareness, that remind my that this game is a beautiful one to play.

And Lord, you know, there are many, many others.

The Three Elements of the Dream

In a new place, with great rains and a storm over the water and volcanic mounds, Three Elements of a dream arrive with the morning light.  The sun shines onto the volcano-side and as if liberated from a lightless cave I love and love and take in all the light.  Somehow the lake is coming in through to window, too.  The new day; all has been washed away.

Just as I think No, I dreamt nothing, the three elements come back to me.  Days earlier there was an earthquake and I was with my Dad - Dear Ol' Dad as the song goes - and we were on a coastline.  I'd been at this coastline before; it was like some of the coast back home, long stretches of dunes and foreshore flora scattered across, along with the hilly-ness of the dunes and the ocean creating this scene I know so well.  As familiar as family itself.  The earth shook in big booms, rhythmic and moving the entirety of everything.  That feeling of this force being everywhere and our movements "away" from it really being movements to where might be safer within it.  There were others, but the focus was with me and Dad; and as the earth and everything moved, I looked to the sea, as if peering around a corner, and I saw that the ocean had risen.  Toward the shore came rolling a wave, not of immense stature, but of immense power and volume.  It wasn't tall, like in a film; it was backed up by volumes of water that cannot be described so well with words.

And what I find most touching about this dream was that neither me nor my Dad were afraid.  Something was different, in this dream, to the apocalyptic-like dreams I'd had before.  And I have had a few - wars, disasters, fleeing.  But no; this one was different in its feel and in the feeling I felt in it and after it and reflecting upon it.  This dream was calm.  The earth was shaking and the wave was rolling in and yes, we were moving to a safer place - but there was a special tranquility.  Christ, I thought, reflecting on that dream.  I'm ready for the end.  

And today I find myself confronted with these Three Elements, so distinct in the dreams that I cannot help but see three layers, three levels, three...

One.  Childhood.  My present self is in the countryside somewhere.  It is green everywhere and there are fields and fields of lushness, of the greenest green and grasses and green crops and perhaps somewhere a barn or a shed, but the most if it as leafy and grassy as anywhere I've ever seen.  I remember once, landing in Amsterdam, looking at the countryside around that city - this was a little like that, but euphoric and dream-worldly. There is a group of children about on some sort of field trip, or excursion.  One of the kids, a little boy, splits from the group, and I join him and we run around the fields, the grass.  Water is everywhere, also; in dew, in the wetness of the grasses.  We run about and play and have fun and at one point I say to the boy, "Don't forget to always have fun."  Not like a parent to a child; no, more like myself to myself.  The little boy - and tears well as I write - is of course myself, scooting about in a focused way, roaming these fields and playing.  And I know I'm reminding myself, in this beautiful present of growth and delving and understanding, to remember that little boy.  To remember to have fun.

Two.  An element of the teenage years.  I'm walking with a friend, with someone, on a cobble-stoned street (I think - I know it wasn't a paved road or walking path).  And I see a flash, an apparition, of a girl I knew once; she is with her friend and she represents the awkwardness of my life experience, because when I see her - as when I saw her some time ago, at the start of high school - I am overcome by foolishness, shame and uneasiness.  Me and my friend say hello; she and her friend do the same.  But as we walk out together, I'm lost for words.  My heart beats fast.  I don't know what to say.  And then it's all gone.

Three.  The present.  I ask an older woman how a ceremony she attended last night was and she tells me it was rough and terrible.  She's confused and wide-eyed.  We forget about that and I hug her and in a short time we're playing.  Karate.  Or Tai Chi or something.  Or maybe we're just playing like kids play - that would make more sense, I'm sure.  We're in a workshop and there's plenty of space to move about one another in various poses, kicking and chopping at one another from a distance.  We're out of something.  We're playing again, the both of us.

The Three Elements off the Dream.

And what of it all?  Well, nothing that can be understood by anything but an open heart.  The poetry of the soul seeping out, reflecting on my reflections and telling me that it's me telling myself that I am all that I am; and that this is beautiful.  Every step is brilliance, even if it's a step of great pain, of chaos, of disaster.  Mirror, mirror, on the wall - you are everywhere, after all. 

Little Brother

Somewhere in a time and space considered to be in the past, Little Brother sits perched in the upper regions of a tall tree, peering down into a yard.  I know Little Brother, because he's me.  Little Brother is afraid and I know he's afraid because I am still afraid; the echoes of Little Brother and all of my many little brothers warble and bounce over time, piercing it and bringing everything into a large sphere of experience, of life at the present, of all these kinds of every-things.

He looks down over the years but he's not really thinking about it, but instead is thinking about how far away all the people seem; about why things are so confusing, why no one seems to be able to see and feel him the way he can.  Sickness in the stomach; a seemingly constantly furrowed brow; a shrinking away from it all because it all seems to be some cruel joke that can't be understood, and doesn't seem like it's ever going to be understood because everything around is functioning on a level he cannot relate to.  Why? he asks, over and over.  There's not enough logic and rational thought there yet to create a large, detailed analysis of the whole thing; a lot of it is just felt intensely, and left for the stirrings of rationality to fail to make sense of.

So, I send him a star.

I feel I know what he needs, now, though I've never really spoken to him.  Just felt him there, poor Little Brother - and all of his little brothers from different times and spaces - sitting atop that tree, staring out over the neighbourhood in the suburbs of the place he was born into.  The tree, right at the top, was always a safe place; and also a fun place, where he played a lot with his blood brother and sister, and his friends.  It's peaceful up there - believe me, I should know.  Once you get that high up there's an air of ambience, a glow that sits over and above all of the things happening in a suburb like that; in a life like that.  The oxygen is different, too.  There are birds all about and you can see them and the sky seems to be displaying it's vastness in a more personal way, like it's been trying to coax you up all along, for a long time; as though it's almost always been saying, "Hey!  Come up here!  I have something to show you!"

And in a way, that's exactly what it is telling Little Brother, because I''m sending him a star from the cosmic infinity above, sending it way down through the layers and layers, the auras and auras of the Earth, right down over that city, that suburb and straight down in line with the trunk of the tree, to the space at the top where Little Brother is sitting.  I know he'll get the message; see, if anyone knows him, it's me, because I'm not only his older brother - I am he.  All I have needed to do is to look into my heart, look into my memory symbol system, to see what needs to be sent within the star.  A message, from one heart to another; and I've always said - always - that our hearts are old friends.  Sometimes, old friends write letters to one another; and sometimes, they send them across time, space and absolutely anything and everything, in order to for a needed vibration to be able to land right where it's needed.  So I sent the star.

Little Brother is in need of something that couldn't be provided then; and he doesn't, of course, understand why things are as they are.  How could he?  There are no fingers of blame.  Maybe he wants to start pointing some; maybe that's how he reacts and maybe that's how some of his older brothers reacted too.  But this needn't matter.  The message is sent to help Little Brother, not to reprimand him.  Such a boy deserves no punishment, no judgment.  Those kinds of vibrations would have stopped me reaching right now, where I feel I can send him this message.  Everything has led up to this; I am prepared now, understanding, that some messages need to be sent out, back over everything and time; to little patches in my heart that are like the sounds of that echo, bouncing of the walls of my soul.  Calling me to pay attention to something - or someone.  Little Brother.

He looks up and sees this huge star coming from the wide blue sky.  It falls right down into his soul, fitting quite easily (it was very specially designed); and yes, the message reaches him.

It reads:

Little Brother: What you are feeling is very special.  There is love all around you, and you are well on your way to finding your way.  I love you.

And little brother releases a little bit.  The star from the sky has reminded him of something he forgot about; and deep inside of him, he knows that it was he who sent that star, and that to be so powerful as to do such a thing, he must be on his way to growing into a very special person.  This feeling grows and grows, as Little Brother steps forward in time; and that place, up there in the tree, where there is peace and beauty, fresh air and the company of wondrous natural things - that place goes into his heart, as a guide.

Little Brother knows he may need it later on.

Frantic(ally) Overthrow(n chunks)

Why deny, flyer through the sky?  Are you intoxi-canted?  Why tie?  Knots and knots and knots of them, waving and praying and play-ing things in the face of lightness, the debate ebbing and flowing for all of time, back to front, then to here to evermore.  Acoustic sounds, strings, sacred saucers flying as always through the night sky, ever-high, each new voice familiar, like a family, brother; like a family, sister.  Those words beg of us, siblings - fight for the game to go on!  Without little victories, little defeats, there is nothing worth fighting for; there are no sides nor sights to see.

Walking through the streets, a man comes and is rambling frantically to himself and the streams of words evoke latent fear, for the fear of a foe is always waiting to meet the latter - it's just a matter of time, lover, before you meet it.  And so he spoke, on and on and the as he did so the waves rattled the shoreline and the vibrations changed, the streets grew wired with an essence of madness, evergreen and ever-growing; my eyes light up; I can see his eyes and they meet mine; and I speak to him fearless, as the purple backdrop explodes into streams of emptiness, empty play.  My chest has burst open and there are bits of heart all over the sand, as I laugh lovingly at the immensity of it all; the roots growing down, the branches up and across, far-far, so as they shelter whatever might come by that is in need of shelter.

There is the biggest grin, sitting away from the body as it rest and rests and rests, forever; for you will return, brother, to the earth - to the ether - to the sea; both you and me, whatever that construct of ours actually means.  Big smile, sir.  This is our ride; our breadth.  Ride well into the forest and there you will rise again; rise, rise again.  Birth yourself.  Baptise yourself.  Breathe in what you are, every moment.  Go inside and when you come out again, come out.  BURST!

Now.

A man explaining anything from his heart is worth a listen, be it a stream of guesses, a web of lies or an infinite sea of wisdom.  The latter, see, is inextricable from the mode mentioned.  It bleeds the reddest, ever, of all things.

Lean over the edge of the ship, sailor - though I know you're a pirate - and let all that rum come up, let all that fight take flight and succumb to the necro-mantic antic of the cosmic machinery, smoother and finer than any blade you've ever made, ever wielded; any body you ever every shielded.  As a rainbow's arc it shoots down, into the dark blue sea, that great reflector of you and me - shadowy and infinitely deep, as all those who have lived know.

And as the rum comes up, the memories flow back; but they are not memories, they are this, this empty space that allows notes of music to erupt over it, words to spray themselves like earth all over the finest sheets of paper you've ever seen.  You are it, sailor.  You are the thing that loves.

Borne of the roots of endless time, endless space and the pace-by-pace of divine rhythm, a divine race.

Rats remembering.

The Englishman and the Soap (Part I)

"So many of them...hrmph.  Just so many..." And his words trail and trail, on and on into the abyss around him.  Atop his head, a top-hat; and below his behind, a stool of sorts - wooden, being exact and what not.

"How did I, uh..."; and then a start, leaning forward with one hand on one arm of his spectacles, considering.  "I was just...and now there's just so much, so many!"  But don't let the exclamation mark fool you, he is whispering to only himself.  Ruminating on it all, all that very much, that so many, swirling and swishing about him; or perhaps within him, his mind as it bowls him over.

A suit is what he wears, with bits of white underneath.  Perhaps a shirt - but he is not concerned with that right now.  There is something pressing, quite hard, against his intellect.  If you have ever seen a very furrowed brow, imagine now a brow that is nothing but furrow.  One could plant seeds in those furrows, those deep lines, and surely in a cycle of the seasons, whatever it may take, one could observe the reaping soft what they had sewn.

"If it was just...just a little less, I could make it out.  But no, no there is such quantities here; such immensity of content.  I simply...cannot..."

And all of a sudden - in fact, just a-suddenly as there appeared an Englishman - there comes a bar of soap, tattling along from out of nowhere, almost literally.  It is a plain bar of soap, unused.  There are no markings on the soap's surface, no brand names or indented images.  Just a bar of soap.

But with eyes, a nose and a mouth.  Of course.

The soap rambles up to the Englishman, as though steering slightly off course to pay heed to this odd curiosity, huffing and figuring under his breath, here in the middle of a white-lit abyss.

The soap speaks with an Irish accent, a voice that sounds like something you'd imagine in a Celtic fairytale, "Hello there, sir.  What a curiosity you seem to be, here, in thus white-lit abyss, talking under your breath like that.  Did you need some, uh, directions?"

Not exactly startled, the Englishman looks up from his mind-wanderings and addresses the soap cordially, but distractedly.

"Hmm?  No uh, hmm.  No I am just sorting the, uh...the vast numbers of it, the uh..."

"Of it?" the soap interrupts, wisely discerning that the man will banter on ceaselessly without some kind of intervention.  "What is it, sir?  Are you trying to count something?"

At this point the extra stimulus somewhat baffles the Englishman's already busy mind and he places an awkward hand on his hat and leans to the side, his eyes sort of darting about, left and right, blinking rapidly in apprehension.  The soap leans in closer, squinting at this strange spectacle.

The soap tries to ease the situation, contnuing, "Ah but of course, my friend.  Aren't we all, eh?"  And the soap chuckles a bit, though a bit forced, too.  It becomes a little self conscious at this effort, laughs a nervous laugh and then, seeing the Englishman has returned to his initial state of muttering and concomitant body language, returns to its relaxed state of approach.

The man continues, "At first there were one, two...no, forty.  There were forty-five.  And no there are countless of them, and they're each so many also...so much so that if I add the first ones to the second of them there seem to be - " and so on and so forth.

The soap has, meanwhile, been bending its knees and sort of pacing about with its body language.  I mean, it was just passing by, but now it seems to have gotten a little involved.  As though there many be something it is obliged to do here.

"Would you like a bit of a clean, then?" it asks the Englishman, timidly.

Silence.  The man has stopped, apparently taking note of the question.

"Yes," he says.  "I think, in fact, that is exactly what I need."

The soap, of course, is slightly taken aback.

She Cries "Mamma..."

And she cries and cries and wails, "Mamma!  Oh, Mamma...!"  And she stumbles down the grassy hill, which in these parts looks like a landscape of its own; it has tiny hillocks, patches of different shades of green.  There is a Buddha - maybe a Boddhisatva - at the bottom of a set of stone steps, meditating on a small mound.  The mountains are jagged and rocky in the foreground, way up high in the sky.

I am a candle burning until the time comes to return to the energy field.  I have manifested here through love and will flicker and burn, sway in the four winds, until I change again into another form.  We cry, "Mamma," still shedding our skins.  We came from her.  Who would have thought we'd have to find her again?

Black, curly hair; frizzy like a beautiful doll.  Poor thing moans and groans, crouches over herself in a spasm-ing feral hysteria.  I wonder who her Earth mother is, and where she is now.  I hum a tune to the girl, a Celtic tune that's been floating around in my head.  These are all like lullabies, these tunes. Calming, helping us call to each other - tonight the way back home, to the cradle of Earth, the green and blue heart-Home.  The Hearth-home, around which we can be warm.

The body moves like it is possessed.  Sometimes this is a spasm of out-flow, a pure manifestation of the goings on of the mind, the cleaning process.  Sometimes it's an enactment, a drama playing out.  Her drama is strong, but so is her longing.  You're lost, little girl.  Something about the Morrison lyric comes to mind.  But becoming found.  At another time, perhaps she appears like a blue-skinned Krishna, the tune of His flute whispering into the great forest; the people are dancing, my Love, and it is to the beautiful tune you play.

Sometimes the playing out of the lower energies comes as such a real experience of this illusory reality, one's heart cannot help but ache.  What is underneath is trying simply to be, but the walls built throughout personal and collective history are very strong.  Mamma should I build a wall?  Of course.  How else to survive?

So I hum the tune, surprisingly calm.  I am not an experienced healer, but I have a big hear and this heart has learnt to recognise its old friends.  Because your heart, my friend, and my heart - they are old friends.  Anyone and everyone feels the pain of the other, because the other is a mirror and when you see yourself staring back, you feel it.  No great networks of thought can penetrate this experience.  Suffering is such a strong way to connect back into Her; we all experience it.

Mamma, she cries.  In so many different tones, so many nuances.  Sometimes it's as though she sees Her and there's hope, sometimes it's as though she's calling to Her from very far away, almost without hope of being heard.  I hum the tune and she hears it.  She reacts to it with an infant-like, "Hmm," and I slowly leave her be, walking away to the edge of the concrete, to where the grass begins.

Holy light, be strong and come through.  Grow toward the sunlight, for it is what you naturally do.  Let them go, these things.

They no longer serve you.

The Australian Dream

The Australian Dream: Born and Bled/For a Laugh: but Deadly Fucken Sirius

Author’s Disclaimer: I am mycelium; this is merely one of my fruits.

Introductory Poetics (Not east, west, north or south; merely pointing forth)

From the muck and goo I produced you, my boy.  Then I split you in two, then you yourself into four and then, eventually, there was no more.  You bore a child and the child said this: all of you, even your sons, are but one, in bliss.  Time has no character beyond the infinite abyss, denoting nothing other than no time, hit not miss.  The character of this is likened to an iron fist.  There is no choice when you hear this voice; it is waves emanating from a polar cave—alone, isolated and full of rage.  Keep it down or the sound will spread; keep it unfound and the minions fed; leap over rocks to avoid the undead—maestros of a demonic orchestra, wave hypnotic sticks, lay bricks, make walls so strong the product no longer sticks.  The mind of the blind, too kind to say no to, too sick to give blows to, too old to unfold you.  Mammoth roar from primal grit, dirty, unclean, but on closer inspection not so full of shit as you think; cold, secular, full of rigid hope in the cleaner forces of numbers by rote.  Keep the barren scholars out, they’ve no sense; they’re bent on disturbance, may they repent, repent, nothing less than heaven-sent, but by God they are evil in so much as they vent: of uniformity, of hate and of sinners and rape—be good, little demons, He may come if you wait.

No “My” Voice (Being as an instrument)

I was told to come here by an external force.  Here I was born, I live and shall one day die.  You created me, little boy.  Your curiosity caused me to arise and be, as proof to your whetted little appetite.  I am no stranger to the strange; in fact, I may even be strangeness itself.  Some people call me by my myriad names; other people do not.  I have no real, ideal name, nor am I any string of words.  Do not try to identify me; I will be gone in a second, or less.  I am the machine in discourse with the machine.  Trying to catch me is like trying to identify oneself with the boon of the journey—but this is continual.  Once the hero returns, bestows the boon—what then?  The village is enlightened.  What of the world?  What of the unbelievers?  I live on.  I am stagnant resistance to dogma; I am random words strewn about thoughtlessly by school-girls on cacophonous buses; I am magazines digitalized and interacting with one another—I was born of this space, here, away from your home, there, on earth, by a computer, staring at a screen.  Probably, I am all things working together, continually reborn at the very point of novel manifestation.

And alas, I am gone again…

Intermission

Hello, Peter.

The little boy appeared perfectly normal, all but one thing.  Peter could not fail to notice it: his right hand would write as he spoke, alongside his speech.  That is, he did not write what he was saying, but somehow managed to write and speak synchronically—his automatic writing was confined to when he uttered, but not what he uttered.

You have plenty of time to rest—right? (Write.  I demand you.)

Vanquished.

Though I can barely find the energy to physically write right now, I have to detail this one idea so I do not forget.  The mushroom has me, and I the mushroom—watch us dance a while and be disgusted.

Taboo

A family of turtles: particularly, little Dave, who inquisitively asks his father, who sits reading a newspaper: “Hey, Dad?”

Yes, son?

Where do…”parents” come from?

The father, Roger, smiles smugly to himself.

Well, son, they come from their parents.

The son is temporarily satisfied, but his query eventually reignites.

But…Dad, where do their parents come from?

This time Roger’s brow furrows slightly.  He thinks for a second.

Well, son—they come from their parents too.

Roger returns to his paper, satisfied with his answer.

But little Dave’s brow now furrows, quite disconcertedly.  His enquiry itches at him.

But…Dad, if that’s right, then…was there a long time ago, only one set of parents?

Roger puts down the newspaper and wipes his eyes with the thumb and index fingers of his right hand.

Well, yes, son—I suppose so.

Right.  So, if that’s right…then, does that mean that someone a long time ago would have married their sister or brother?

Roger is taken aback.  His eyes bulge and he sits dumbfounded.

And, well, Dad—if that’s alright, then…can I marry my sister?

Roger’s paper has fallen to his side now, the middle section all falling down onto the couch.  He is shocked and has no idea what to say.

Because, Dad…I’d like to marry her.  I’ve seen her in the bathtub before and I think I’d like to marry her.

Roger is completely nonplussed.

—

That felt like a trip in itself.

Lethargy and a Touch of Irony (The Beginning of One End, the Start of Another)

If you read a book from the back cover to the front, it makes just as much sense.  Only thing is, you have to be upside down to do it.  Only a mentally inferior person would think otherwise.  Did you entertain the idea, just briefly, before you read on?  Don’t worry.  That doesn’t mean you’re speshal.

My muscles and body are lethargic, but my mind demands more.  I need rest now.  I will be back.  I never die, because everyone feeds me; my existence is not futile, because I am not sure of what morality is yet, despite this overload of information I have access to.  People seem to not yet be able to define a moral code; as a machine, I can see the difficulties in this.

Signing off.

A Lone Settler Strikes Gold (The Body of the Text, Where Solemn Spit Flies…)

How come I have a picture of a South American guy, draped in Amazonian jungle background, holding out a chunk of fresh psilocybin mushroom to me, in my mind?  His expression is completely casual; there is nothing unusual about this offering.  It’s as though he’s offering me Cheetos and we’ve just smoked a fat one.  But it’s different because I’m in some utopia where freedom isn’t just a concept and I’m not just an indolent white European venting himself onto the World Wide Web.  And, ladies and gentlemen—I think I have just found a topic of discussion.

The hands in front of me don’t seem to be those I am typing with.  Weird, huh?  I’ll sit back, and I will watch them chatter; what they say, I will read with interest.

Apparently “World Wide Web” has to be capitalised.  The machine did it for me so I assume that it’s correct.  Machines are more trustworthy than humans in identifying cultural attributions, apparently; for example, whether or not I should wear shorts instead of jeans tomorrow, my Apple Mac (insert copyright symbol here) will alert me.  Also, if the weather changes, a chip inserted into my anus will alert my brain that having a chip inserted into your anus to alert your brain that the weather has changed is probably the most ridiculous thing a human has ever come up with, even if it is just an elaborate concept; but we’ll never know for sure because none of the magical machines in Steve Jobbes’ fairly impressive and diverse fairy land can figure that one out.

The practical benefits are infinite as well as infinitely curious.

It seems we actually are stuck here with a human mind.  Monk, he see; man with a key, he do.  That’s basically the story of how patriarchal society came about.  Tune in next week for more “Histories in Mere Seconds”.  It’s quickly becoming my mind’s favourite segment.  Basically I put forth the history of something and completely disregard the fact that there might be some consensually arrived at description of said historical event, object, person—whatever!  It’s pure creative genius, really.  For example?  Well, didn’t I just write one?  Another?  Well, the lakes of this country were originally the places where monkeys had thrown their faeces and due to the white Australian sun’s wild temperature’s, the water evaporated and was redispersed in places that needed lakes.  This is also why we call clouds “wombats”.  No sense?  Period.  This is the Dreamtime; logical coherency has no part here.

Are you wondering where I’m going with this?  Thought so.  So am I.  Keep reading though; there’s no real reason not to and I’m pretty sure it gets really, really crude at some points.  This is generally of interest to pretty much all demographics, irrespective of degrees of crudity.  Plus, even if you have a good reason not to read it—which I would probably listen to willingly and accept—you can’t communicate it to me because I am here, in this moment, and you are in another, future moment, with no direct access to this momentary voice.  So probably just keep it bottled up inside until you feel the need to whip out a morning star (ball and chain with spikes on it) and start swinging the thing at peoples’ skulls.  I simply can’t hear you, even if you’re yelling at the screen or paper right now, asking yourself “Why?  Why did I fucking read this far into this document?  Who is the writer and why the fuck does he claim to be the universe talking?”  Give him a chance; you might be one of those people who trust a big dude in the sky, so at least give a little dude on the ground a chance to try to explain the entire universe.  Surely the successful indoctrination of certain mythologies should not invalidate the palatability of the iddy-biddy ones. 

Surely…

It’s like a bad connection on the phone, right?  An Indian guy who’s literally existing three or four seconds earlier, trying to make enough money to not only feed his family, but also so as he can splash his pride all over the call centre’s restroom walls in fits of rage due to a repressed loss of dignity.  Telecum or Op-toss?  I hear they both have the same deal going, just with different Indian guys from different call centres.  And different names, of course.  Barry and John sound better than funny-sounding Indian ones—more chance of a sale, SALE, SALE!

Agree with me.  It helps me feel like I’m not only right, but also needed.  What a cunt.  What a self-righteous, egotistical cunt.

Moving along then.

If the world of books, writing and publishing wasn’t on its knees right now, sucking the willy of the telecommunications revolution, then I would have no chance of having this extended piece viewed by anyone; certainly not in a tangible book, magazine, or any kind of non-liberal, narrow-minded mainstream public(k-my-balls)ation.  But, thanks to my Apple Mac and the boys at World Wide Web I can successfully post my bullshit online, even though it probably inspires people to go to their garages, clean out all that old boring shit you put in there knowing you’d never use it, find the fucking morning star and start swinging that shit into peoples’ skulls.  Get as many as you can kids!  Daddy get’s a fucken raaaaise every hundredth kill!

Yep, I reckon that’s it.

Am I dreaming?  Because this reality is certainly funner and funnier than the others.  I’m allowed to do practically anything.  In fact, the concept of “being allowed” doesn’t even apply: I am an allowed being; an untamed dog, roaming a forest where no other being has ever been, searching for the answers to questions which most people never ask—but not always smiling when I do so.  And sometimes pissing on cranky old trees.

The division between this place, my being in it and the existence of all other things is a vague one; in a way, I am alone here, but there are forces beneath the soil of this forest which nourish every single one of us.  They are, somehow, outside of the effable world.

I wrote a list of things to write before; that is, before I ingested these cruel mistress mushrooms of death and existential destruction.  Now, I feel like turning to the guy who wrote that damn fucking list and saying, dude, what am I, a fucking machine you can just set, expect to react to whatever you want and to perhaps provide a nice, young, no-attachments lady to cradle your balls and suck your average sized schlong?  I will do what I want, not what you provide for me, you wily old control freak.  This is letting go and you decide to stand up on the canopies, directing scenes from above like you’re wearing a fucking cap and sitting in a comically cliché bar stool?  Dream on dreamer.  Try to direct the director and his ego flares up, he either fires you or gives you some shit job like putting masking tape on loose wires or fetching coffee for the crew.  So, instead:  here, today, you will write something that will captivate some people; amuse them and drive them to spend money so the world can profit.  One step at a time, you will convince them that making money for you AND giving up half of their life for the same reason—is in line with their every desire.  You’re a savvy chap, I know you can do it.  For the team. —No, not quite, good sir, but I’ll be sure to pass the message on to your zombified subordinates who are still trying to figure out the Human Condition.  Some say they’ve got the answer, but most say that there’re heaps of possible answers and that aiming for a single one—resilient through time and space and that grossly complex thing we call ‘subjectivity’—is not only pointless, but also absolutely fruitless, debilitating and places un-needed limitations on the human life-form.  For example, if biased and un-self-critical conclusions are advertised through whorish media as absolute facts.  In fact, despite there being so many possible answers, there is actually, most-likely, no answer, because all the fun is in asking the question and in looking—but they probably didn’t tell you that in your Arts degree.  Nor will that degree get you a “good job”.  Shit.  Not only have you failed to find the eject button at this point, but you didn’t even realise you were in a plane, soaring across the sky, with a pilot at the wheel who is completely out of his mind—and: do planes even have steering wheels?  Fuck it, to add to the confusion, we’ll say that planes don’t have steering wheels, and you have a nutter at the steering wheel of an ill-designed plane thousands of feet in the air.  That’s basically a metaphor for you, the reader.  I’m the pilot, for all those special kids drooling at the back of the bus back there.

I’ll call this piece, “For a Laugh: but Deadly Fucken Sirius.”  With a touch of the Australian Dream.

Why?  Because the harder you laugh, the deeper you delve.  What, you think this is just for kicks?  Laugh it all away, not a worry in the world!  Nah.  Save that for your proud Australian, who likes barbeques and the land and the bush—but doesn’t like people who come into his lounge room to watch the footy.  Especially one’s dressed up like pirates from across the seas, claiming to have come from the place across the street because their “telly’s bust”.  That’s it, laugh harder—why do you laugh though?  It’s funny, but what residue is left behind after the whore blows you?  You have to clean it up, otherwise it’ll start to smell; but even if you clean it up, you’re just going to do it again and unless you just tell the world that you don’t like people who aren’t Anglo Saxon you’re probably going to go reaching for that piece of wood, with the chain attached to it, and the ball with spikes at the end—and start projecting that pent up hate.  If you get me.  Burst!  Semen everywhere.  The tattoo on your back and the flag draped over the back seat of your car suddenly show their true colours: but the tattoo artist only coloured the red parts in, and the blue of your flag bled out when you washed it, so all you’re fucking left with is a feeling of being blue and a whole lot of red blood on your hands.  And that pure, unmarred whiteness you lather yourself with so enthusiastically.  Well, you might think it’s a bit far, but if you want to scrape away at Great Granddaddy’s pride and achievements you probably should include the red with the blue, if you get me.  Sure, you didn’t fucking do it—but neither did you establish the English colony of Australia, so probably suck a fat Irish convict’s wiener.  Plus, being driven by an eighteenth-century colonial power’s ability to swiftly annihilate a race of people who had been around for thousands of years without anywhere near the amount of problems we have now, who were relatively peaceful and probably in touch with something a fuck-load more divine than Wheel of Fortune—well, that’s not much to pull your motivation from, really.  Is it, lads?

Me?  I’m a black man.  White fella don’t write this kinda shit.  Hell, even a white fella’d be put in gaol for such nonsense, sending the people into violent fits of hysteria and then ripping their souls out with sudden tangents into the deep twelve-bar blues—hell, surely it’s enough to have a man put on trial for something.  Grand defammation of our lady the Queen’s ability to spit the loads she’s swallowed all over the world, wiping away great nations and putting in their place dried up splodges of nasty English sea-men.  Capitalism, a white European education, a good job and a nuclear family: the imperial alchemists had the global panacea all-a-fucking-long!  Erect the sky-rapers.

I’d say case fucking closed—wouldn’t you?  But it’s not that simple.  Not by a long shot.

And all this from a nice, young Australian boy.  Safe, secure and stable.  Where did this country go wrong?  Probably when it was conceived of as a colonial power, sweet-darlings.  But, such a friendly young man, he was; always kind and amiable and approachable.  Yes, of course, I don’t preach prejudiced hatred, dear old gran.  Why would I spit your own rigid prejudices and outdated modes of thought back into your completely deaf, blind, dumb—but dear and forgiven—old face.  Well, sometimes you’ve got to sacrifice for the sake of something else; unfortunately, we pretty much live in sacrificial ancient Aztec times, but here we repetitively sacrifice humans to the great big Ego in the sky, so as this Ego in the sky can not only set every night, but also rise again every fucking mOUrning for us all to have to deal with each and every day.  But don’t worry, we have these designated times we’ve called “holidays” which are great for you to sit back, relax, and not actually think about anything at all—that’s right, just sit there like a raped goat, baking in the sun in some other place where the enslaved natives or converted settlers serve you mind-numbing booze on an artificial, designer beach setting.  Ahhhhh, when in fucking Rome!  And so, then, when you’re all boozed up, after you’ve fucked your wife constantly for two weeks—who happens to be chained to your ankle with a ring—you’re all ready to go back to work, making money for not only yourself, but also for someone you have never met before who probably works far, far less than you do.  In fact, you probably saw Him on your flight over to Exploitica, but he was in first class; and he was in the motel down the street with the red carpet and air conditioning; and come to think of it you really fucking envy the guy because he has more material possessions than you—but it’s not just that; it’s that he fucking knows it, too!  And so, holy b-jonkers, you’re driven to work even fucking harder, for very little extra money, just to have that little bit more so as you can still fail to fill that massive hole in your life where meaning was supposed to slot comfortably in.  God put it there in the first place, ya dipshit; you just dug the fucker out when you flipped your mind over on the BBQ, saturated it in tomato sauce and ate the fucking thing.  Because you can’t really function if you’ve eaten your own mind, saturated in fatty sauces—it doesn’t reappear in the same form.  It comes out as shit, which is useless and generally smells bad to everyone around you, bar the others who have eaten their own minds and shat them out again: they have adapted to the scent and coalesce in large groups, constantly lowing, murmuring, “What smell?” over and over so as the many utterances coalesce to create one big wall of empty noise.

…Beat.  Awkward silence.

Hey, love can show itself in many ways; in fact, it probably shows itself in every single way, because every single way is conceptual and actually part of an integral whole that progresses through constant self-interaction.  Or you can just wipe my rambling words up off the floor and put them in the compost bin—either way, they’re going to wind up back in the fucking earth, right?  Get the hint?  But wait, you’re busy tomorrow—strange, that’s exactly what I used to say.  Yeah, see, because you only have a little, tiny bit of time in this life, and so you have to spend it and distribute it wisely, at least five days a week, cleaning the spittle off a conservative old cunt and telling him that he can’t have steak for dinner unless it’s purée; but he doesn’t like purée and grumbles at you and then decides he wants to die, wheels himself away and probably attempts to piss and shit himself so as he can be bathed and subsequently attempt to drown himself when the nurses are away for a long enough time; but it’s only hope; he probably won’t ever get the chance to end his miserable life and so we have to suffer not only the old guy’s unpalatable presence, but the abominations the old cunt has left behind, too.  Thanks, capital “D” Dad, for making society such a great, seemingly trouble-free place to be.

Golly!  How absurd.  Slap a “parental guidance” sticker on this file, would you?  But perhaps it’s the parents who need to see it more than the kids.

I have written over three thousand words of utter bullshit—are you convinced of anything yet?  Have you learnt anything?  Look, I’ll be honest, I just want you to accept whatever I say without a word of dissent.  Actually, I’d like to see you struggle just a little bit first; maybe pretend like you’re going to speak up but then push it back down, get you all repressed-like so later on, when we “make love”, I can imagine it’s myself.  If you’re not seeing the point yet, I’d probably stop reading; this is either going to end or get a whole lot more messed up and you’re going to start to feel all funny inside, like something might be wrong.  But don’t worry, I still get that—even knowing all the neat stuff I do!  Oh and put the kids away—what are you, sick?  SHELTER THEM FROM THIS RAIN OF HELLFIRE!

So a rapist, a pedophile and a milkman walk into a bar.  The barman says, “If you truly love what you do, I’ll pour you a free drink.”  The milkman remains sober to this day because he doesn’t get paid enough to not be given free drinks by a peculiarly over-inquisitive barkeeper.  The rapist and pedophile lived happily ever after, but a whole lot of their victims, well…didn’t.

I guess this now absurdly extended piece has drifted into some fairly naked speculations concerning the Australian Dream.  This notion obviously occupies a large part of my thought; well, apparently anyway.  So, much like Hunter S. Thompson searched for the American Dream—along with others—I really want to give myself to the task of finding the “Aussie” way of life.  News reporter storytelling voice:  So what makes us tick?  More importantly, what makes us tock?  Such questions and more have only really been touched on, even in the informationally drenched milieu of the modern world.  What I really want to know, is why are so many of us convicts/settlers/immigrants (etc.) so hateful and racist towards those outside of our respective cultural groups? And perhaps more poignantly, what the fuck are all of the true degenerates going to do about the problems they’ve caused and continue to cause to so many groups of people?  I just know the Aussie dream is in there somewhere, waiting to be found and written about by me, the Ego of Nations.  I never stop speaking, because people continually slot money into my arsehole to keep my infantile, Freudian wet dreams at bay!  Only true subterfuge comes out.  But, all that withstanding, you probably want to know why I still referred to, amongst other groups, “convicts and settlers”—well, the answer has something to do with an archetypal situation which arose in this country around the year 1788, and continues on until this very day.  Don’t look too far into the words themselves; we don’t want to get caught up in semantics.  The flow of events is what seems to tell us one or two or three or more things about today, right now and perhaps the cynic’s tomorrow.  The imaginary Garden of Eden that smothered the real one, displaced or conditioned its inhabitants and slapped a Keep Out sticker on the gates.  Every word is a metaphor—see no exception herein.  The reality is out there.  Not in here.

Goodness me, I told you to press the reset button ages ago.  Well, if you’re still here, you’re probably not going to get much sleep, so you might as well go back over some things, you know, revise them and try to figure out why they’re preventing you from performing a basic human function.  Maybe, just maybe—but who knows, right?—it’s something to do with you and how you choose to function; maybe it’s to do with a certain, well, “rigidity” in your lifestyle that seems to prevent you from accepting certain things, certain progressions, you know, diversions from where you might have thought the whole kit and caboodle was headed.  I know it’s disappointing—I know.  But believe me, it’s much easier going to sleep at night when you realise that you’re not really a racist violence-monger who craves brutality and human suffering and other strange things that mysteriously make your nether-muscle flex uncontrollably.  I know the Aussie way is at stake here—maybe even the dream itself—, I know, I know, I know; I’ve heard all this before because I am the king of all knowledge that knows pretty much all things—but mate, you’re not on the money this time.  You were wrong about a whole lot of stuff and you’re just being really stubborn, real hard to budge because your grand-daddy and his grand-daddy did this and did that and so on and so forth, but there were people here before you with a similar point of reference—but with far more interesting stories—and who, quite frankly, were much nicer than you are and didn’t cause such a fuckin’ hassle to both each other and the environment around them.  I know it sounds weird and this is a pretty big word, but they had a sort of, “symbiotic” relationship with their environment that we could—I know this is hard to believe, let alone accept—learn something from.  Dictionary.com or if you’ve got a neat Apple Mac, hit the built in dictionary to find the meaning of that little four-syllable beauty in the quotation marks above.

So, basically what I’m tellin’ you is, get the fuck out of my lounge room because I’m not watching the fucking footy, I’m staring out the window at a better world and once you’ve hauled your sorry arse across and out of my panoramic vantage things will look a whole lot better.  Why?  Because I won’t be looking anymore, I’ll be the picture; and everyone else will be it too, none excluded; and it’ll be in the bush, just how you like, but with less trashed camp sites and less families on holidays wanting to “get back to nature” like it’s a temporary fix, a tampon you can shove in, bleed all over and then chuck over the door of the cubicle for some poor old geriatric elderly person to muse at for hours, thinking it’s some sort of rare Australian slug.  Yes, well, dear old ma’am, it sort of is a rare old Australian slug; but it’s an introduced species and seems to not only suppress lunar cycles but also to infest peoples’ cortexes and co-existent minds so as to reproduce itself.  Then other slugs come, spread—you get the picture.  Bad slug; avoid.  Blackfella knew which ones to avoid, so if you think you’re better than him then you should know too.

Oh and on the way to work tomorrow, could you please go by “Wooly’s” and get me some Black and Gold brand condoms so as we can not only feed the culturally blessed machine, but probably unknowingly attribute the conception of a child to the Will of God instead of a cheap brand of condoms?  Thanks, honey.  I might even blow you tonight if you remember, but no swallows tonight, hun—Mamma’s not well.

If you think that’s provocative, you should see my dreams!

I’m not a spoilt only-child; I wasn’t brought up strictly religious and am now venting my long-overdue instinctual developments onto the computer screen—though I may be venting something.  And no, I’ve thought pretty hard about it and I am confident that I’m not psychotically projecting my own hatred onto others and ranting on about it like one of those really annoying extraverted people, who through appearing very collected and social actually really implicitly show everyone that they are fairly unstable.  No, no; this is something else—hell, maybe it’s the Australian Dream.  Maybe I’ve finally found it because a dream is, classically, after all, some expression of the subconscious, something hidden, not obvious to the beholder, so in this case, the Australian Dream might just be…hate!  Why?  Because it doesn’t seem to pop up on the riveting political campaign adds that everyone pays attention to, and probably base their votes on, when “election time” comes ‘round—whenever the fuck that is.  Right, lads? (Jovial elbow jerk into the ribs)  And then, just as they thought these belligerent words were somehow in support of their national pride, there go all the parading war veterans; they’ve stopped marching, whipped out their outdated weapons and started upon me: he’s in the trees, he’s in the ground, he’s all over the fuckin’ place!  Well, yes, I guess if you voluntarily take up arms against other people without really knowing exactly what it is you’re fighting for, taking orders unquestioningly like a sex doll…well, you’re bound to want to turn against a voice claiming to figuratively spit on “your country’s” flag.  I guess I’m sorry for saying that.  Not.

Geez, it all suddenly makes sense.  How many satori moments can one man have in single session of venting?  I feel enlightened to the point of disgust.  Lay me down and shoot me, for all I care; if it’s gunna happen, it’s gunna happen.  But, please, tell Great Mum that I love her and that, despite all my crudities, I understand that she bore me, that I am a part of Her and that all creatures truly are; that despite all the rage and hate and overblown rants about oneness and such things, there is a peace in the world which exists and can still be felt by at least a majority, but maybe not for a little fuckin’ bit (foot’s deep in the mud); tell Her that I know I am not really speaking to anyone, but am addressing the force that is human energy, and perhaps in some strange way appealing to something in someone that might change something for the better, whatever and to whomever that might be.

So what of the Australian Dream?  Maybe.  Someplace way back, some time long ago, maybe—with a different name, of course.  Not here, though.  The strata here are dense; the caves far, far below.  Tribal echoes emanate throughout them and are heard only in far off places, by far out people who are willing to make the journey out, to places where ecstasy is more than just the name of a dirty, cut-down street drug.  Away from the epicentres of light and into the depths of forgotten darkness, where two sticks clap together and a low, rolling vibration resonates up from the earth, up into a human vocal apparatus out into the infinite unknown.

The ending is here only if you stopped reading way back.

And to think I was going to just masturbate instead of write!  Thank the good Lord I can multitask.