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The Cozy Spot

165 posts categorized "personal"

November 25, 2007

Treadmills & Dreams

One may push certain things to the far end of the internal filing cabinet, but certain events, memories and moments surface. They may float, or crawl out of atomic holes, like squirming maggots eager for a feed.

Today is the 25 November. It’s an ordinary day, like any other day. The days prior to this day plodded along, as per usual, but even I - after all these years - still attempt to tame the past, along with its moments.  I can feel the swelling tide. It tosses and turns, and I feel my patience shrivel during the days leading to this day. I tend to assess my presence on this earth, along with my goals and ask myself many questions; I sometimes lay awake during this period, doing absolutely nothing but think empty thoughts, or thoughts that have few logical sequences; they aren’t specific, in the sense of containing linearity.

I remember a dream within the past twelve months. It was hideous, because it reeked of standardized religion or faith. I found myself standing inside a church, and it was totally unlike the Hank/Californication blowjob moment; instead of facing a sexy priest or nun (for that priest or nun to offer me oral relief), I found myself facing a staid woman. She was clothed entirely in black, and I figured it to be a nun or some sort of staff member and I asked her to heal me, only to experience something that lies between the hypnagogic and hypnopompic. I’ll never forget the feeling. It felt as though I had a steady current running through my body, like I was being scanned from head to foot as this woman neared me.  All I remember: I didn’t move one little bit, or tried to remain still, even though I felt like sprinting faster than Carl Lewis to get out of that dream. The following morning, I remembered it all, and returned to the books to find that it didn’t fit into the standard definitions of hypnagogic or hypnopompic as I was asleep for many hours. I slept at midnight, and awoke just before 4am, feeling out of this fucking planet, and relieved (shortly after) to be back in the real world. Not that the real world is filled with roses most of the time, but beggars can’t be choosers I suppose.

This week, I was told that change is a necessary element in life. The person who told me this is, what I’d term, a qualified professional in all matters stress related. No, they’re not my therapist. I’ve never had one, but I was ‘encouraged’ to get certain things out of my system; if one critiques any managerial behavior, then one is viewed a provocateur, even if the questioned behavior is morbidly sadomasochistic. I concede that change is necessary, but I sometimes question this: What sort of change is beneficial? Are some changes more traumatic than others? Are some changes beneficial or do they impede progress? Finally, why do certain things in life have to be a load of fucking hard work: relationships, marriages and the like? Everything is work…? Isn't it sufficient that I toil within a corporate environment? Do I have to fucking toil on a domestic or personal level to please a partner? Fuck this, screw it all. I'd rather not have it.

Work, work and fucking work. Some work is fruitful, and other forms are just like walking an endless treadmill, to arrive at the state of Nowhere. Is Nowhere a perception, state of mind, or is it real?

I’m not entirely certain; today is the 25 November. It’s my mother’s birthday today. I can’t classify it a difficult day, as I don’t like to consider myself to be a person who scratches a scab. I know there are many adults around me who cannot comprehend me when I say that relationships are unimportant, like I did this week when asked (for the millionth time) why I did not put myself out there. A relationship breakup may seem bad at the time, but it pales significantly if I compare it to losing parents at a young age. I have experienced break ups, and magnified my pain; social perceptions about women requiring men to feel complete still seep through mainstream media, and I fear that I have had my relationship fill. This day is not a dark day, in the sense of feeling lost or detached, but my mind will  always rewind to the times I’d see the treadmill, that of my mother hunched over a Singer, working away like a sweatshop laborer before globalisation (NAFTA and all that shit) became fashionable, and millions of people lost their livelihoods. I sometimes wonder what she’d think of the world as it currently stands, or revolves. As stupid as it may sound, I’d sacrifice almost everything (except my son) to have one moment with my mother. And I mean everything related to things that are considered achievements (writing, story publication, relationships, sex, etc).

23 years is an adult lifetime, but even so, it doesn't eradicate that gap or hole from within. It's the gap that, admittedly, I try to fill with writing. I don't write for accolades. I couldn't give a fuck about accolades. Writing is a reptilian processe for me; I shed skin, so I can breathe.

October 07, 2007

Techno Biatch

If I could sum the weekend, if not the week, I’d say that technology or its finicky systems are hypothetically dripping out of every orifice. I’m over it, and yet I’m not. Getting myself neck deep into it all, diving into new projects, has taken the place of a new lover.

A program fails to work, or operates in an altogether new (and weird) way (to confuse the absolute Christ out of me), may as well take the place of a potential new ‘other’ or lover. I’ve been saying (and achieving) things to web development programs, and whatnot, that could very well be applicable to the new potential lover, or whomever:

I’ll figure you out, you bastard. Where are you going to go?

I’ve never had any luck figuring out the vast galaxy of male thoughts, concepts and behaviors, but fuck me, I’ve figured out File Transfer Protocol!

Life’s ironies. That’s what I call them.

Just the other day, as I was having my regular rest break from, as my son terms it, ‘paper pushing work’ in Hyde Park that my thoughts branched a little. The mind is a weird fucker. All this artificial intelligence has to be programmed, but the human mind? The Skinner approach isn’t guaranteed to work, and as for Milgram and his experiments? They didn’t show humanity what humanity didn’t know: that everyone has the potential to knuckle under a regime, ideology, cult, Fuhrer or any other psycho out there.

A computer program is straightforward. Linear in the way that it processes things step by step. The human brain? You start off thinking about how mundane your work day is - like I did - to select a quick iPod pick, while multitasking (pulling out the cig and lighter, and adjusting your skirt so your undies don’t show), and then the mind wanders off.

I thought about the firsts, and it was somewhat coupled to my terribly evil habits, such as smoking (oh yeah, call me Idi Amin). Then I had an absolute thunderstorm of a thought about bad habits and how, yes, I licked a terrible habit, one that in my mind (in terms of the psychological aspects) is worse than me actually sitting there polluting the free air, while imbibing nicotine, and that is the bad boy or asshole.

Continue reading "Techno Biatch" »

September 07, 2007


Two things I wanted to highlight for today.

The first, is a blog interview thing I did today, that was posted today; time zone differences can be great.

So you can pop into The Blog Interviewer, to check the interview out and toss me a vote (whichever way you’d like to swing, is fine by me).

The second, is something I've noticed over the past month. It appears that the vintage adult great, Behind the Green Door, is a frequently searched subject on Yahoo, Google and other search engines, and my post Behind the Green Door is receiving a few visits, so I've updated it to include places where people can purchase this film, online, as it's always better to see the entire film rather than waste time hunting for potential 10 second clips on the Internet. It's a standout adult film, the classic for all adult film coinnosseurs.

August 20, 2007

Missing Pieces: Brave New World

“Take a look around you at the world we've come to know
Does it seem to be much more than a crazy circus show
But maybe from the madness something beautiful will grow

In a brave new world.”

~Brave New World, David Essex (War of the Worlds, lyrics: Garry Osborne, novel adaptation Doreen Wayne, arrangement: Jeff Wayne).

I had this small insight as I was on the way to the radiologist this afternoon, for a mammogram, which is not what this post is about. My ears were reverberating, in a pleasurable way, the way that can only be described as decibel heaven, something that will probably lead to late onset deafness; I can’t help myself where music is concerned, and I do admit a certain envy. If I had a personal genie, one that could rewind me back in time, I’d travel the musical path. I envy vocalists that can reach into the soul and emote many issues with their larynx and individual personalities, just as I envy composers who write scores that will be forever unique.

Throughout this week, my son has become fixated on War of the Worlds, and it’s mostly my fault. It all began with the DVD rental of the Wembley Arena concert, and I have to say that I got a little emotionally choked up when I listened to it, as it took me back to my own childhood; the musical was one of my escapes as a child. My son began asking questions, about the original story, so we went out and bought it (as well as the CD, which we have transferred to our iPods and listened to, countless times to date). For me, H G Well’s War of the World’s was a borrowed library book (when I was in school), and so my son’s begun reading it, and asking more questions, and today as I returned from the clinic, with my mini reprieve (I have to have an ultrasound as a formality), I thought of all the things that I have never been able to achieve as an adult, and those things relate to tapping into the mature relationship side of things, where I’ve never been able - for whatever reason, most likely my own subconscious crap selection of partners whose tastes differed (sometimes opposites don’t attract or make for longevity) - to marry my own interests with a lover, boyfriend or partner. Today I thought that this may never come to pass, and I was okay with that, realizing that certain things work in certain circumstances.

Me, for example, discuss a novel with a boyfriend or lover? It’s never been the case, and it’s not so much about the academic aspects of a novel, screw those, but more along the lines of what a writer observes and their interpretation of the world they are living in, using a blend of symbolism and themes; much like a conductor, and not a reductionist. So when my son started discussing War of the Worlds, it made me feel a sense of achievement to discuss the elements of the novel and what Wells was saying through his story; it’s not simply a sci-fi story narrating a Martian invasion, it’s also a comment on Victorian society, religious dogma, class divides and human egotism and/or arrogance, among other things. I almost sounded like a teacher, discussing the symbol of the naval ironclad Thunder Child in the novel, dipping into the histories, because my son lives in the now, the world dominated by the US military machine; even he’s sick and tired of watching George W Bush on television (and he's thirteen; what can I say, I'm 36 and have seen many political heads sell their game plan over the years. Jaded is one word I can think of, and so, over it), and I’m quite peeved that Sir Bush has chosen to arrive two days early for the APEC summit (because it throws all state plans out of whack, and we’ve already been told to add an extra hour to the work commute; with all technology, one would think that they could have a virtual conference; we can't afford to maintain Rail network, but we can afford a billion to host an APEC summit. Go figure). The HMS Thunder Child, I began (to my son), represents the might of the British Empire (as well as hope), continuing on to illustrate the significance of the British navy during that era of time, so the Thunder Child's arduous fight (a futile fight against a massive Martian, that may as well be a nuclear bomb) in War of the Worlds more or less confirms that the Empire is fragile, but beyond this, especially when the novel is related to its specific era, it adds more horrific undertones to the story; the British navy of then, was the foremost navy in the entire world. Its failure (In War of the Worlds), is not only a military failure, but is a bad omen for humankind (in the novel). A reader in the 21st Century, can appreciate the elements of horror in this story, regardless of the passage of time. As for Hollywood film? I won't even go there, except to say that a lot of Hollywood film studios have difficulty appreciating a fine English novel (with impeccable imagery, symbolism and narrative), like War of the Worlds, and are crap at adapting it. The recent film version is the example; the Thunder Child doesn't make any appearance, there goes the symbolism right there, and it becomes this other typical tale featuring dysfunctional families as a theme. Like you'd have time to argue with your teenage child with a de-atomizing weapon on your ass!

Although H G Wells’s novel focuses on British society, his theme is universal; no empire is immune from attack, but the other, more poignant point that he makes, I said to my son, is that humanity is also fragile; it takes bacteria to destroy the invading Martians, something that man-made devices could not accomplish and in our world today (offering plenty of examples), we have many virulent diseases such as HIV, and sure, they may be borne of viruses, but on a size scale, a virus is smaller than a bacterium, which makes it all the more remarkable or astounding; we cannot conquer the smallest non biological quantity (a virus is made up of either RNA or DNA, it doesn’t resemble a living cell, it needs a host to survive) like HIV, which may as well be a Martian for the success humanity has had eradicating it, and it’s not limited to HIV, but many forms of cancer as well as other mysterious illnesses that triumph over medical intervention. I’ll never forget what my former biology professor (a wonderful mind and teacher) said about human extinction, and how the insects would remain triumphant, during one packed out biology lecture. Add bacteria and viruses to that, so what Well’s noted, in the late 19th century is not only astounding but forward in thought. In some parts of the world, during Well’s time, people were yet to link unwashed hands to disease.

I can’t really attribute all of the above to myself, the journey to this view arrived via the scenic route, it all began when I was eleven, thanks to one supreme composer who composed an amazing musical, one that my son and I are counting down days to see here in Sydney, that grabbed my interest, and it wasn’t literary to begin with, but it became that way or was directed toward the literary path, to perhaps, one of the best English novelists H G Wells; his work goes deeper than marriage selection and feminine wiles. His work can be labeled sci-fi, but it goes beyond the neat label of space-age. Thus my realization; my brain has never ticked in relationships, it’s always been about pleasing another on a non intellectual level most times, focusing on whether they were pleased, and today I felt comfortable with being through with that.

This passing week felt like I located a missing piece of myself, and this piece is not something that sex (in its entirety) or any lover can give me, or has given in the last two decades. When does it stop being about the sexual appeal, libido, date etiquette and sexual dalliances? I don’t know; it’s kind of crept up on me in a piecemeal fashion. It's about my place in the world and that of my son's world, and not a man's life; this comes second. In and amongst my own perceptions as a parental failure (financially, career-wise, etc), today I felt triumphant; everything else - I thought - could go and screw itself edgewise.

The War of the Worlds musical condenses the novel for musical purposes, but the essence of the story, Well’s vision, is there (thanks to Doreen Wayne, Gerry Wayne’s wife - it is what can be called a marriage made in all kinds of heaven, musical being one of those heavens), alive in each note and lyric.

The song below is one of the songs in the musical (Brave New World), expressing many things, one may be the delirium resulting from the sense of overwhelming loss/shock at the prospect of the end of humankind. (nb: it’s a longish song)

August 15, 2007

As the Crow Flies

I was shopping last week, and in the course of that I came across a few books with popular generic (unoriginal) titles, and I have to say that they reflect a few of the television shows that are cropping up here in Australia; things to do before you die. There are books listing 1001 books or albums to listen to before you die, and so on. On television we have a travel show listing all the things to do before you die, and the only problem I have with that is the Channel Nine’s Getaway crew never travels on a budget; unrealistic to the max.

Death is one of life’s great mysteries, and for many, the mystery is relates to the concept of an afterlife or the near death experience (NDE), which has never been proven on a scientific basis. This lack of proof is something that removes all assurances. Back when I was doing my biological psychology elective at uni, the mid term paper had to be something numbering a few thousand words. We were given a list of options, and I chose the NDE. I can’t recall all the research papers I read at the time, all the names and whatnot, but the overall conclusion (an unromantic conclusion) proffered by researchers, was that the NDE was as unremarkable as a personal computer shutting down; the brain, made up of various sectors, shuts down gradually and one sector may alter perception. Another interesting phenomenon, one that has been written into the folklore of time, is that of the Doppelgänger, and how seeing the mirror image of oneself or another, was an omen of impending death; the Doppelgänger phenomenon has been reproduced in laboratory settings as recent as 2006, by electronic stimulation of the left tempoparietal junction of the brain (The Out-of-Body Experience: Disturbed Self Processing at the Tempo-parietal Junction – Olaf Blanke and Shahar Arzy).

Thus, with the above type of conclusions or assessments, the idea of doing x many things before one dies, may be logical considering that the final destination may be about as exciting as watching a PC fizzling out. However, the other factor in life’s equation, sitting between life and death or orbiting around it, is time or happenstance. Whatever it is, it’s like a hand that grips every string before that final firm tug, like the Moirae (Greek mythology) or Parcae (Roman mythology). Taking the former, Atropos (or Mors in Roman mythology) governed death; she cut the string of life. She chose the manner of a person’s death and that was that; the person on the other side was none the wiser. A person can plan to the very last detail; there are those who even plan their death down to the funeral procession, who buy their plot early in life (the cheapest bit of real estate ever, huh? Irony right there.) I overheard a conversation about this very thing.

“You haven’t bought a plot? I’ve bought mine.’ The person saying that is younger than me. I can’t say that I thought, ‘oh no, that’s one thing I haven’t considered!’ My view is that it’s not like I’m taking the bod with me, so what the fuck do I care? The way I see it, I won't be thinking about the size of my ass. Furthermore, no one else will be (if it's tight enough, adequate or whatever).

The one thing that I know more than anything else, more than my chances of picking up/scoring, working against deadlines, or operating an ATM, is that death is a fine gatecrasher; I've seen, smelled and touched it. There is no other surprise than death. Even in cases where illness determines a terminal outcome, it’s still a shock and its impact is heightened in our modern society, one that has advanced in all streams, one that works to optimize life and minimize death at any cost, one that is focused on maintaining youth on many levels. Ranging from whacko nutrition to plastic surgery. I don’t understand the concept of drinking Yakult (additional bacteria in liquid yoghurt form) when you have billions of bacteria inside you, and no, no one knows the balance of ‘good and bad’, not unless you're ill (and even then you receive positive or negative results, never a percentage of good versus bad microbes) and you have a medical test. I don’t comprehend things like the Liver Cleansing Diet, when the liver functions to cleanse the body, the exceptions being genetic malfunction or more commonly, drinking oneself to oblivion over a long period of time (cirrhosis) and contracting Hepatitis (another reason to use condoms, and not use another person’s razor or toothbrush).

Now I don’t get the number but 1001 has a certain appeal, which probably stems from Sheherazade’s tales in the One Thousand and One Nights. One thousand and one sounds great as a title, but to achieve those 1001 things before one dies when you have little idea of when is baffling.

The purchase of a burial plot is the last on my list, and I don’t have a definitive list; I don’t want one and have been like this for some time. At one stage I did have a list of things, and over time I discovered how lists could be foolhardy things or concepts; the simplest list of things, one that can be career related or workday related could all go to shit at a moment’s notice. You only need one small thing, or an incompetent git to really fuck your list (or your day, if you let it), and then it’s either back to the usual list, or getting rid of the concept altogether. The external factors are often unpredictable and unseen. To prepare for potential disaster is to live under a dull gray cloud of pessimism and negativity. A respectful distance may be wise; then again life is nothing but a monotonous carousel without the occasional disaster or mishap. Purpose, motivation, meaning and inspiration wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for the mishaps.

I don’t plan like a military strategist, and I find militaristic planning to be…


What does one say?

“I’ve already got my burial plot.”

-“You have no life, and are planning for the end of what you call a life: As the Crow Flies?”

It’s the dialogue that thrashes around in my brain.

If it takes place at the daily grind, I think 'whatever,' and that's the good thing about the daily grind; you can always bury your head into work, and demolish the conversation at the bud.

If it unfolded on a date, I’d think my date morosely methodical (and an uncreative conversationalist).

No one in my family, namely my mother’s side (because my dad’s side is dispersed), has pre-bought a burial plot. I’m not sure if it’s a culture-superstition thing; to pre-buy is to pre-empt. All I know is, regardless of the upheaval, upset and tears, those details are sorted at the time of death. We’ve crossed that bridge when we’ve come across that bridge, and not before. I don't understand the modern mindset where the advanced burial plots are concerned (advanced in terms of possible decades). It's like buying a Gucci bag and saying, "I'm ready for an eon in Hades."

It may be difficult to write a definitive list, or tick off those 1001 things. It may be unrealistic (Channel Nine’s Getaway is unrealistic for 80 percent of the working population that can’t afford a luxurious suite at the Burj al Arab: I’d be satisfied if I saw it from the seashore.), but life is the now not the possible or hypothetical thereafter.

July 16, 2007

Life's Little Sexual Introspections

I thought I was a step ahead, two actually, but he was far more advanced than me and this realization dawned later, and it came to mind as I really forced my ass down this weekend to continue with one large project, and two erotic short stories. I think the erotic stories kicked it off, because I had to travel to The Place in order to create the sexual ambience.

One of his first affirmations, once we shifted our communiqué away from the PC, astounded me. I wasn’t sure if it was a joke, or an arrogant aside. It jolted me because no one I’d come across made such an admission.

“I’m not the type of person who dates on the Internet,” but he just happened to do it, stumbled across the new wave and thought he’d give it a whirl. Is there a specific type, I wonder? Sometimes I think there is, particularly when a person is a serial online dater. I can appreciate people with children using this medium, but I’ve had difficulty understanding why a single unit or a person with no kids or big arsed responsibilities (such as children) uses the Internet to date and the thought is due to the single person always having more time to date (compared to one who has to juggle a job, children and domestic responsibilities, who also has to make arrangements prior to leaving the house). So no, I’m no sympathy mama when single units (male or female) whine about the difficulty of it all. I just think they’re plain lazy, insecure and expect everything to be delivered to them like an Amazon package. I often feel like telling the person who goes on and on about the difficult of actually meeting a potential lover, partner and so on, ‘it’s not like you have to arrange a sitter in advance, thereby nullify spontaneity, so shut your cake hole.’

Continue reading "Life's Little Sexual Introspections" »

July 14, 2007

Sexual Selections & Other Songs

The University of California has an interesting short page on Sexual Selection. Sexual selection, as a choice, is slightly more complex in the human sphere.

Male peacocks may maintain elaborate tails that they display in season, and male tomcats can sniff out a female cat at distance humans find perplexing. Human sexual selection takes on different forms, and when the vast sexual spectrum is entertained, can take on many forms or be based on various aspects; kink, sexual orientation, and socio-economic status.

One area that has always intrigued me is sexual selection based on culture and/or genetics (only because I think ‘racial’ is a stupid term that has gone beyond its use by date with our knowledge of DNA). These differences can be termed ethnic, but on closer inspection they’re genetic. A group of people adapt to an environment, over centuries and develop physical characteristics that is, on some level, reflective of the locale. David Suzuki, in one of his essays, used his eyes as an example to illustrate the fact that there are higher fat deposits behind his eyelids , which reflect a need for the body to adapt to extreme temperatures, ie cold. I remember reading an article in a fashionable women’s magazine years ago that illustrated the variations of female beauty from one society to the next and in certain tribes, beauty standards are salient, if not confronting, which is why the mainstream end of the sea is quite calm in comparison. Female beauty, on the western scale, can be viewed as being moderate but at the same time, it’s generic.

Open up a copy of Vogue (French, US, Australian, UK, etc) and you’ll see the same products being advertised, and you’ll see similar palettes being used to decorate a woman’s face. With the exception of seasonal apparel variation, everything else falls into a steady current of convention. One could be fooled into thinking that beauty is ‘standard’ or sexual selection is standardized in some way, but there’s the other, the type of sexual selection that also includes the genetic aspect, or the type that considers cultural origin. Using the smallest example I can find, but one that is a frequent example or salient enough to sit global bookshelves, the common romance (erotic, or otherwise) that always ensures that two people originate from the same (or similar) genetic phylum (for want of another term); it’s always a case of characters having the same complexion. You can have a scene incorporating bondage, golden showers or reaming, but the two consenting adults are always white (for some reason) within a city (Paris, London, New York) that features significant cultural variance. Nine out of 10 erotic stories are like this. In fact, most Black Lace (one example of a publishing imprint) erotic novels are like this and I doubt that all the readers are Anglo. I sometimes call it the homogenous aspect of sex, and despite all the different preferences that are out there, many stories gravitate toward the same thing; black on black, or white on white, but it’s almost always a case of white dominating. I read my fair share of romantic fiction while growing up, and I dabbled a little as I got older, and I can’t remember ever seeing any variation. The Sixties, Seventies and to some extent, Eighties, saw a lot of migrations across the world. The Sixties heralded sexual change, however the mainstream continued to maintain a generic stance where relationships, sexual or otherwise, were concerned, and to some extent it still does. For example, there are never any articles in magazines that discuss the impact of cultural or religious differences on the relationship front. Maybe it’s considered controversial, or politically incorrect, but it’s something that thousands of people confront at one point or another; on a large or small scale.

As recently as yesterday, my cultural origin was queried, by a frisky waiter who turns it on for every female that comes his way (I’m no special case), or passes by the brasserie (as I’ve witnessed over the months), and I wasn’t sure what to make of it, whether to link it to the global attitude on a select culture or religion. As is obvious, I’m not blue eyed and I don’t have a lily-white complexion. In the pre 911 world that was, cab drivers would often begin conversations in Arabic, thinking I could follow for me to interrupt them and politely inform them that I had no clue what they were talking about, to which they’d exclaim ‘but aren’t you (insert any culture)?’ So in the post 911 world, and everything that’s flowered since, it’s become an interesting social experience for me, like yesterday. He needed a verbal confirmation, and posed his verbal hypothesis as I paid for my lunch, as in ‘you’re nationality X aren’t you?’

No, I'm not, I replied.

‘Oh,’ and then his attitude did a three sixty, for me to think ‘what a dickhead,’ for the tete a tete to transform into a one sided come on from his end. He’d returned from Rome, as did his attitude, coloured with the view that it was perfectly okay to cast verbal bait to every woman in passing, like an expert angler; cast the bait, and see how many fish bite.

Continue reading "Sexual Selections & Other Songs" »

June 28, 2007

The Wheelbarrow of Existential Shite

The low follows the high; the see-saw of life is a never ending mind bending wheelbarrow of existential shit that can astound.

“Some men today, can be so fucking rude,” I first thought, and this followed an incident that perplexed me; there was no need for rudeness. The first thought was closely followed by the second:

“You’re an animal,” except I didn’t express this sentiment aloud. It’s not due to any submission on my behalf, but it’s difficult to throttle an asshole outside of your work building. I kept it in. I'm not so sure what it is, whether my emotional innards are influenced by some Freudian whatever, but I find that I can be incredibly wounded in such circumstances; abusive men repel and wound. Whether that's all tied up in my view of masculinity, or today's version of it, is any one's guess. All I know is that it takes me a while to digest male aggression (verbal, body language, etc) toward women. It doesn't matter what form it is, it's perplexing in any form.

It all unfolded earlier in the day, a day that descended into a shit-pile; piecemeal.

One needs to have a license to fart in this nouveau politically-polite correct world. A world that is being shaped to accommodate the ‘sensitive.’

“You’re committing a violation!” the asshole yelled, followed by a few other rude words that made me see blood crimson. Of course I did something wrong; I happened to stand out in the OPEN AIR, and have a cigarette on a work break. It’s such a crime.

Why not just hand out a license for me to fart, and be done with it. This incident reminds me of the time my step sister in law’s friend whined about having asthma, in the open air, and of ‘people smoking’ affecting her - in the open air. Not a closed environment. Open air. Then they tell you you’re living in a god damned democracy and you should be thankful! A really great example of political correctness gone abso-fucking-lutely insane is when a child can't play dress ups without seeking approval from the 'sensitive' people, the 'meek', and if you don't believe me, then read about Rosie O'Donnell receiving flak for her daughter dressing up as a soldier.

Democracy my butt.

It’s not a democracy when every psychotic asshole feels the need to stalk, yes stalk, because he was watching me throughout my break, and lash out; yeah I’m really sympathetic to your cause mate, why don’t you go and play on the Sydney City Rail Railway tracks!

It could only get better; it’s always nice when you put in 90% effort (the run-around) and receive little credit. Not even a thank you, which added up to the remaining four hours of my day.

It was a real ‘male centric’ day, where I thought ‘oh my god, I’m happy to remain single for-fucking-ever,’ and I meant it, anything but to get too close to that type of shite. Then I arrived home, sat down, requested not to be spoken to simply to mentally unwind, lit one up, to wait for the silent glares, and shot a thought back as I drew in a gale of unhealthy, disgusting, noxious, (add whatever turns you on) smoke:

Don’t talk to me.

That’s what I thought.

I don’t even want to know the probability of death, and all that. I don't live my life based on mathematical theories.

I stepped back into time; six months ago.

Six months ago I lost someone, and that someone - it’s so ironic now that I think of it - was continuously lectured (at the pre-party) by his mother:

‘I hope you don’t smoke,’ she said, to him.

He teased her, and eyed me.

‘Hey man, don’t look at me. I’m not giving you a smoke.’

We all laughed about it. He’d recovered from a non related infection he contracted at this hospital he worked, and they took every single precaution, except that the next day he dropped. Collapsed, and died - without touching a noxious smoke.

So fuck it all.

The reaper will come to claim you, regardless of the trendy measures (new age, and whatever else, colonic irrigation inclusive) taken to elongate life.

Dear ‘Violation Man’

I realise my cigarette offended you, but the last time I looked I lived within a democracy and am, therefore, part of the Demos. Ergo, I have choices, as do you. In future, don’t approach someone like me (you fucking masochist) as I’m inhaling noxious smoke. You have the option of taking any direction imaginable, but like others, prefer to whine and carry on. After all we live in a large city, you imbecilic politically correct automaton walking cadaver.

Yours truly,

The filthy smoker biatch near Hyde Park.

June 22, 2007


I’m not so sure if I did it intentionally, but it happened. Fifteen minutes passed before I realized that my voice descended into the temperate valley of enticing pleasure, or thoughts thereof. It can be an automatic response; making the grand exit, in a pornified manner wasn’t on the schedule but it happened.

It’s my bedroom voice, one that is slightly inappropriate in a standardized setting and I couldn’t be arsed stopping myself. Heavy breathing? Moi? It sure happened. I needed to inhale. I’m sure he didn’t have the time to sit there having a chin wag, but I stretched it…

I try to do that at almost every opportunity, because his voice is like honey; naturally refined, and oh so sweet. I’m sure I have a goofy look on my face every time I pick up; I’m hoping no one’s noticed this, then again I doubt that any one has. I face one particular direction, and its not as though any one stops to observe. I bet they’d notice the slight gradation of my pupils, as they dilate and as for my respiration?

I think of every intimate permutation and combination imaginable. I feel like saying that I’m unable to help, because I’m unable to concentrate one hundred percent on the task at hand; his voice lulls every neuron in my head. A lot like chocolate, and I’m a chocoholic.

I’m not sure what my voice is saying, not in an exact manner. I could be in the thick of discussion, and he’ll toss a few questions my way, and they’re conventional questions, bearing no relation to leisurely pursuits, hobbies or the latest film, but my response or my vocal tone loosens its grip.

I’ll respond, using standard sentences that are required of me, but each note dances.

My voice, or tone, is actually saying:

‘I’m thinking of flesh, your flesh. Although you’re talking to me, your oral cavity, from lip to tongue, is painting my thoughts right this instant. I’m entertaining your oral potential, undressing you with my mind, and transplanting you to another location; a hot running shower, bed, and bath (steam inclusive). It could be al fresco; our stripped bodies moving until we’re al dente.’

My mouth may be releasing conventional information, but the uncensored thought above twirls inside my head throughout the duration, caressing every endorphin.

June 21, 2007


I’ve never played matchmaker; never in my entire life. I don’t plan on starting. I think it’s a gross invasion, and this thought is related to being on the receiving end of ‘good intentions’. The reason behind the inverted commas relates to the skepticism behind this supposed kind act. Really, when people pair their friends or associates off, or assume that their friend will ‘look great’ or ‘be good’ with a person they see or know, what is actually going on in their minds? Do they play God? Is it about something else entirely? Moreover, how can one be certain of their friend or acquaintance being a good match for another? If only I could be compensated for all the times people in my life have played matchmaker against my will, or behind my back.

Is there a behind the scenes interrogation going on? To be on the receiving end of such intent can be viewed in many different ways. It can depend on one’s mood, life circumstance, anything really.

I tend to view it as an insult, but that’s just me. I’m a cantankerous biatch in such circumstances, and often see it as a gross invasion, that’s never requested from my end. I’d hate it if one pictured me as a perfect match for another unwitting person, and then tried to manipulate situations based on one’s ‘view’ or assessment; like they’re an authority on all things that flick my personal switch.

I’d like to say that I can handle it well at this point in my life, but I don’t handle it well. More often, it’s a case of things occurring regardless of my input, and of it resulting in me standing knee deep in so much shit that I care for.

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