(This is something I wrote in October as therapy to help me stay sober but, things went awry and I was very un-sober for a while, so I re-wrote it in mid November. Hope it doesn’t inspire you, because i’m sick of giving advice and coughing up motivation.)
Nah, you never know what’s gonna happen when you let yourself have too much fun. Think about two already obese people fighting in bloated Sumo suits; they bush at each other with the rage of bulls and fall like corrupt governments. There are faces in the background, flared in the sun, spitting brown goop and clutching $1 lemonades. Kids yell, older kids smoke, even older kids care for their own. There’s no point to this image, but hopefully your imagination worked, pulled its own against a pretty insipid vista. Mia Culpa, I’m writing to distract myself, and yet I have no idea what you I or want to hear. This year’s been a long one and I’m writing myself out of the resin; quitting smoking * in October after months of being on my arse and loping around town waiting to be either arrested or saved. Far too N-N-N-Notorious, this year, with all its prophecies of doom and my thoughts spilling onto the net with a characteristic abandon.
After all this time has anything really changed? Gillard’s still Prime Minister; the sky is overcast as of autumn; our little black staffy will never comply when you call it and I’m still afraid of the future. That’s probably why I put myself through the looking glass, this year, to hide from it all- the martinets and doomsters and naysayers. But it’s not all negativity; the imagination is powerful and I think of a 16 year old wasting thousand of litres from a fire hose at 3am and my eyes sultry with the acid, just to get through.
The Beatles are on the radio telling me it’s gonna be alright, but there’s wind in the willows and humidity in my eyes. Where from here? Why can’t you just sit in your room, on an unmade bed moated by dirty clothes, and have life find you? Despite that spring’s been in the flowers for over a month I’m still enduring the frigid walk to McDonalds every night for food, chilling myself to the bone-dry inside and feeling that great cavity. Succeeding in something positive- that which will move your life to a better place- is only interesting when you’re already wretched and no-one expects anything from you. What more could there be to life than eating peps*with the boys after punching cones. You can live out of someone’s house for a while, but never out of their mind.
And now my revolution has come, and a great iron curtain has lifted from my eyes. Televangically, it’s as if I can See! I know I can’t be idle anymore- complaining about my problems won’t have the cosmos echo them back in laurels and lithe girls. The happiness I want has to be hunted, like the fabled beasts of the lands, or like the un-sucked corner of a lollipop when the mouth tastes like the underside of a Monk’s sandal. But it can be done.
So we’ll dance, and we’ll pour sweat, and our head’s will spin, but eventually we’ll all end up under the disco ball. Goodnight.
*and everything else