Sunday, September 30, 2007

Retail Sludgepile

Left foot. Right foot. Punish Concrete with the strength of my stride. Suck air, push, no force it out, its only getting in the way of epiphany.
Inhale your smoke, suck in that stomach, look masculine without looking overtly manly. Notice the faces, the expressions. Be the zen master and notice the signs, but see everything as everything is tangible and real and here and now and in front of you. Notice the insignificant. It belies meaning you will never understand, nor need to have a proper grasp on.
Ask a question. Give money to a stranger in exchange for something of an equal value depending on the mood they are in. Do not engage them in conversation. Without you they are nothing. They do not require your words to brighten up an otherwise mediocre day.
They only do this to pay rent. Your attempt at conversation will only remind them of the station in life in which they only occupy a few hours a day a few hours a week. This is not really them. Right now they are an actor on your stage and they require no applause from you. You will not enhance or detract from their day. Don't react to that.
Its just another futile observation....

The representation of birds

Its said that the dove is the bird of peace, because of its beauty, innocence and its obvious charming disposition.
Well after sitting, chain smoking on Aucklands Queen of streets I had a sort of revelation on another bird.
That of the often maligned and frowned upon pidgeon.
It is a filthy creature, ignored and sometimes even villified by some, called the 'flying rat' by others.
And yet it has several characteristics and similarities with other occupants of the streets and crevasses in the city. This creature is the homeless person.
The pidgeon hovers around to scrounge for food, eat scraps of refuse, and generally be unseeable to most of us, unless we are directly confrontedby them or if we are curious small children being told 'don't touch' or 'dont stare'.
This vile, disgusting and seemingly outcast creature and its human counterpart seem so closely linked.
Living on the streets in packs, starving, trying to score whatever is needed to survive, and still being ignored or looked down upon, and yet never really appearing to give a shit.
Brothers in arms, man and bird, existing on the crossroads of existance.
Present while being ignored yet banal once noticed. Ready to humilliate themselves and their species in the sad life that they parade.
Living to be invisible.....
But, is that living?

Gave up the vitamin P

Just recently I ran out of prozac.
For a few fleeting moments I was wondering if I should be calling my doctor and ask for more, or if the time we had spent together was over, and it was time to move on...
They did get me through a patch of this year when I was pehaps to aware of my unhappiness with and within the world.
The helped propell the engine I am around some emotionally tight corners, and, to not collide along the way.
In short they numbed me. To the world, to others, to myself, so I was able to get through some things without having to concern myself of what was happening, and to loosen my instincts enough so that I was able to cope with my overtly intense feelings of alienation within this world and within myself.
Think of this as novocaine for the soul with me being played by William Seymour Hoffman if you like.
The past week has been a revellation of sorts for me..
I have been gripped with a new-found reason to be creating again.
This has been a long time in the throes of rebirth and is now coming to fruition.
The need to create, fulfils the desire, which in turn makes me crave to create more.
To write again, to paint and to draw again.
To not be afraid to share thoughts and ideas no matter how obtuse, fecal or pedantic in nature they may be.
And now as the dregs of these drugs slide out of my body and into the ocean, I feel good, alive.
Now however I feel under the influence of a new drug, this one is made in the body from the spider-webs which connect heart to mind.
Is is love?
Is it intense feelings of like I feel?
This I do know, but its not yet time to advertise it to the entire world.
Not yet...
I am treading these waters gently as to leave no footprints...
You thought I was dead, But I sailed away on a wave of mutilation.....

Saturday, September 29, 2007

The tale of Madness

Myself, Raggles and Jords went to the Kings Arms last thursday to get our hardcore on.
As with shows of this ilk The turn out was of course painfully late as everyone wanted to avoid the opening band (us included) so we found ourselves sitting outside, me chain smoking and the three of us bullshitting away as dudes do about sexual conquests, bands that kicked ass, and other things that men like us who dont give a fuck about sports teams or business talk about in such situations.
After the conversation had strayed to and away from pro wrestling and a debate on what a Chris Benoit action figure could be worth, a man walked past us.
He was what Billy Connelly would look like without fame or dental care, and a prediliction for alcoholism and heroin may well turn out becoming.
All three of us had a bit of a snigger at this poor cunts unfortunate appearance, and so I mumbled a howdy partner at him.Well, what came out of this mans voice box over the next 20 or so minutes was FANTASTIC.
His name was Harris and he had been an alcoholic for about 22 years and for the past 3 had also been back on the needle. He seemed awful proud of this and I did respect his candor.He told us how he lived above a factory just across the car park from the Kings Arms and the large concrete wall that had been built there was built for him so that he could sleep better.
He went on to tell us how he had spent years growing and selling huge quantities of pot and that he had spent time inside because of this. He mentioned one time how he got into a helicopter chase with police and only just made it away because his pilot was a vietnam vet, and that the police chopper would have run out of gas somewhere over King Country.
Then he continued to tell us of how he had since become a glazier and how he had developed a plyable glass that could be bent or curved with little hassle, and because of this the Americans wanted to kill him as it would surely ruin the automative industry, and that the Chinese had offered him millions so that they could cripple the American economy using his technology.
He claimed he was an Australian by birth but felt no loyalty to them and was going to give the technology to New Zealand for a cheaper price as he loved it here even if we had put him in prison once or twice...He also mentioned that Auckland was a city of disease and filth and how he thought we should be encased in a giant plyable glass dome.
Such a fascinating man.
Crazy people have such inventive and incurable stories.
However, I do hope he does not see the simpsons movie, otherwise he will be convinced the Americans stole his glass bubble idea...

Vehicular Dissonance

I feel I experience the city more truthfully when it is moving under my feet and it's lies and lights floating past my line of vision.
After all, TV turns us into morons and reduces conversations to such topics as, 'what was the name of that korn song on friends last night', or 'wasn't the new guy in Boston Legal in that movie with Ben Affleck when Ben played that culturally alienated Spanish priest, struggling to come to terms with his homosexuality'?Yeah, he sure was.
Banality should not be used to fill up a conversation.
Conversations are where we communicate ideas, thoughts reflections and feelings, not re-living a pedantic anecdote written by some hack only so that you could be sold the best and newest type of pasta sauce.
Everytime I go on a walk in the city I see a beautiful stranger and fall in love with her utterly for 10 seconds.Its just enough time to make eye contact, contort my face into something resembling a smile and walk past each other.It seems a pity then when neither of us can overcome the shyness to attempt a hello, or a do you have a light?
I notice the traffic migration and wish that cars, well traffic itself was an actual living species, just so that we could demolition derby it into extinction and Michael Moore could make a documentary about it for moronic people.Battle of the titans style.
Then we could all ride horses again.I'm Sitting on Queen St, inhaling a diet coke and a cigarette with ferocity, this friends, is food to watch people to and thats for damn sure.That of course may not sound like a delightful meal for you, but its better than pre-cooked sausages and a heated tin of tomatoes.And I have lived off that culinary abortion before.
i call that period of life childhood.Stop thinking now, move your legs, feel the vibration of the city hitting my legs and the scent of wet streets and furrowed brows, and dispondant sweat as i move through this vehicular dissonance.
Become alive through my movements...

The Swim to Work..

Walking to work tonight was an adventure. It was painfully cold and windy, and my umbrella disentergrated itself within 5 minutes of the walk.
If I was a feather I surely now would be an illegal immigrant in some small island nation.It was feirce and beautiful.Yeah it was cold as all hell, and yes I got drenched, but there was some kind of indefinable kind of serenity to it all, I'm trying to figure it out, but mystery is all good in my hood.
My ipod was getting wet, so I managed to catch a plastic bag that blew towards me and I wrapped it up and tucked it into another pocket, yay for the universe not letting it die just yet, and yay me for being a hunter gatherer...
Watching the rain dance to the tune of the wind was fascinating to see on the way.Little baby sized tornados swirling around my feet was so cool, it made me feel reasonably insignificant, but nonetheless I was enthralled by the sheer spectacle of the patterns forming and dissappating at what seemed random.
Listening to Soundgarden on the way seemed to be so very apt, so I did, and as I did, the combination of the wind, the water and the music made it seem like an adventure rather than just another walk to work.
I'm actually pretty content right now.

The Date

On monday night I had a date.It was with someone I love very much, yet at times hate with a venomous passion, who I see a lot of, but rarely hang out with enough.
We ate chocolate, fish and chips and watched a BEAUTIFUL movie called Amores Perros together and fell for its brutal and honest depictions of love in extremes.
After enjoying many cigarettes, inscence, and Leonard Cohens dulcit tones we had a good laugh by watching cheap 80's porn together and having a laugh at pubes and bad hair and how in some scenes, the people looked pink and sunburnt.
The house pets were home, and didnt seem to notice the fake orgasms which made it even funnier, and the noise seemed to have this weird serene feel to it.
We ratted on about French philosophy and on why green tea is so nice. We analysed the lyrics to Leonard Cohen over and over, nearly to the point where one listens to a song that much the true and honest reasoning of the song it stripped away just leaving a linguistic shell and semiotic buzzwords.
We spent the night lying on the bed, hunched over the heater, enjoying the chocolate for what it was, and the velvet voices from the stereo for the images and conflicts they ignighted.
It was almost a pefect night in a lot of ways.Sometimes a night on your own with your thoughts can be so rewarding.I'm starting to understand this