Daily Log Update

Tack is in hospital for the next few weeks. Please follow twitter (@tack_black) or facebook (www.facebook.com/thedisneybook) for updates. Logs will start again the second Tack is able. 

Daily Log

I woke up at midnight last night to deliver Best Friend his birthday present. It was required that he get it the moment he turned 21. I had made sure to get his mother into the 'day he was born' story months ago. The exact time was 01:06. His alarm at me standing outside the window of a second floor bedroom was outstanding. The scream could have gotten me a third round of questioning for the week. 

I don't really know what to write about yesterday. What happened is still a mess in my head. 

The party is tonight, I am sure Elliot will be there. With his girlfriend. I hate parties. I only ever want to talk with one person at once. Parties just complicate things.

Mitchell, who will be forever immortalised by me as the gun-weilding-glass-head, is fine. The bar tender called the police as I walked out. Another patron took the gun away. Somehow the glass I threw at him didn't leave a scratch. Apparently, in his bag was a letter; explaining his mission to rid the world of a few fags; himself included. In some insane bout of reasoning, he had come to the conclusion that he would be rewarded for suicide and murder, instead of being punished for his gayness. How he got the gun is still baffling the police.

Instead of talking about the night, the councillor I got at the station ending up laying the story of her last boyfriend on me. Before I left she hugged me and agreed that she would say no when she wanted; from now on. The two officers questioning me ended up confessing their undying love for each other within the first hour. They left, blissfully grinning, only to be replaced by a senior officer with a gay son.  Again instead of questioning me about the incident, he went into a  soliloquy about his understanding of gays. Without a word from me, he talked himself through a rather complicated sequence of reasoning. He admitted to being curious as a boy. Then decided to 'ease up' on his boy.

I got a phone call at four o'clock asking me to come back to the station. My interviews had answered none of the required questions. But none had been asked. I suggested it be conducted over the phone. Ten minutes in, the more-senior officer was in tears about not speaking with her sister for years. I muted the phone. When I came back to check it, after an hour, she was still sobbing and mumbling about their adventures as kids.

If this whole week could be explained by astrology, the only thing I would accept is that retrograde Mercury had collided with retrograde Venus. 

I am on a journey to accept who I am. Again.

The gay journey was just a dress rehearsal. In my current series of unfortunate stories, I elicit life affirmation and acceptance with whomever I encounter. I can fight like a monkey-maddness warrior. And guns misfire at me. I always feel like it is time to wake up. But if I wake up, I won't be alive anymore.

Daily Log

Answers seem to flow like ice cold steal; they don't. I went to my parents' late in the day yesterday. The morning was filled with television reruns. I usually don't watch TV. But at the point I am at, I will probably try anything that might get me to normal again.

My parents had nothing useful for me: 'You are fighting it' they both said from one house to the next. For the first time in a long time, I really wanted to be alone. God and I have a covenant that we won't talk if I'm drunk. Mum and dad sensed it. I lied just to get away as fast as possible. What I said was; I am not going out to get drunk, I just want to think today through. What I meant was; I am not going out to think, I just want to drink today through. 

In all fairness, if I have some secret to discover that they know about, they have been lying to me for years. Three drinks in - I had paid for them and they had each found a way to be destroyed before a sip - I was ready to leave. The funniest was an air hockey puck smashing the glass just before I lifted it. I gave in.

I slammed the exit door outwards, smashing both glass windows around it. After also paying for the windows, I tried to leave again. 

Outside the door - for the second time - I could smell a funky odour. My mind said it was fear. As I turned to walk, the choked breath of crying caught my ear. I turned to the other direction and saw a shoe attached to a foot sticking out of an alcove. No longer afraid of alleyways, I headed over. 

A teenaged guy was sitting in the doorway - his head on his knees - he didn't see me coming. Hello, I said, didn't I see you inside earlier? He responded with some quick scathing spit about my dumb pick-up line. I replied equally scathing, perhaps a little too harsh; he choked in as I describe his mousey stance. As he finally looked me in the eye, his face changed. No longer was there a little boy sitting on the ground, but a young man, at full attention.

He stood and pointed to the bar. I hate that that is the only life I have to hope for, he said. I replied that it wasn't. That was the first time I had been to any gay venue of any kind, and I found it equally disappointing. But that any place is shit if that is how you feel. 

We went back inside for a drink. This time none smashed, but the bar tender kept a extra close watch on me. 

Four long-island-iced-teas down, Mitchell, was monologuing about his day. The word suicide toppled out as he gulped into his fifth drink. He buttoned the point by revealing the butt of a hand gun from his bag. A gleam came over his eyes like none I have ever seen. 

He let the bag drop. 

Still holding the gun, he raised it at me. I stepped backward. The remaining five in the bar went suddenly silent. 

Without another word, he squeezed the trigger.

The gun sputtered. 

The whole bar stood waiting. 

Mitchell pointed the gun down and squeezed again. Two shots exploded into the wooden floor. 

He raised the gun at me again and squeezed the trigger.

The gun sputtered a second time. 

Realising I held a water glass in my hand, I pitched it at Mitchell's head. He went down like a sack of potatoes.

Staring around at the stunned crowd, I could see that not a soul even appeared to be breathing. I grabbed my wallet and walked out:

God was waiting outside to talk to me.

Daily Log

Where do I start? Do I start at the very beginning, or do I start where it all gets nuts? Two questions are still mocking my mind. Besides the first two at the beginning of this paragraph. And I think these two are quite obvious to be asked:

What is going on?

How do I stop it?

I am posing them to my log because, in some far out way, at least they are out of me. I suppose I should start at the beginning of the day.

Waking up I was set on answers. I made appointments with two doctors; my third time this week. I worked as much as I could, and I left for the surgery. This week I have been poked and prodded and scanned. And today, the MRI machine whooped up, only to make a whirring noise as I approached and then emit the smell of a burned out toy motor; the kind that comes when a children's milkshake machine explodes. 

Afterwards, mildly deflated, I walked back through the alley to my car. I was not paying particular attention to anything other than my blackberry. I texted best friend, and statused my update. Then the path was blocked. I looked up to find two men in my way. I didn't need to check behind me to know the entrance was now occupied; I could hear the asthmatic wheezing of someone close behind me. He smelled like cooked eggplant.

It didn't take a genius to figure out what they were doing. The one in front of me stuck out his hand.

As the hand of the eggplant eater grabbed my upper arm, the other two stepped inward. Everything seemed to jar. I was watching, from the inside, an event not unlike the Jason-Bourne-carrying-the-red-bin-bag-in-the-consulate scene. With a movement my body has never been capable of, I arched around and pulled the extended hand towards me. Wrenching into an arched back, I pulled the front man over me and sent him hurtling into the eggplant. 

The man next to him looked at me in surprise, and lunged. On both hands, I launched my legs around his waist. Somehow twisting, I recoiled and flipped, tossing the man over me in an arch. He flew head first into the back of the eggplant. 

I stood.

The original man who stuck out his hand, jumped over his fumbling gang pile towards me. I grabbed under his arms while he was in mid-air. My torso twisted without my legs moving. With his momentum I threw him towards the wall. But instead of letting go, as he passed, I jumped with him. The two of us went flying into the brick fence. As we hit, my weight came second and crushed him into the wall even harder than it would have without me. I seemed to be buffered by his rotund gut.

As I stood again, I looked behind me. Eggplant was fumbling to stand under the weight of number two. Original man was unconscious. In the distance I could hear the scuffle of feet. 

Two blue shirts appeared at the entrance to the alley and ran towards me. They had bats. As I searched around for a place to run, I noticed the badges on their tops. They were cops. 

I don't think my hands have flown up faster; like an overachiever answering a question in school. "They're trying to mug me" I yelled. Eggplant then chimed in, "We were walking quietly and this cracker came out of nowhere."

I was handcuffed and walked into a cop car. My attackers were carefully placed on ambulance beds. I was grilled about martial arts training and whether I knew how to fight from any form of training. 

Five hours, my dad and two lawyers later, questioning had ended. My dad chimed in at one point to announce that I had the coordination of a hurdy-gurdy. Fortunately the alley-way had a camera installed at the entrance. Apparently the surgery was robbed the week before and they had upgraded to video surveillance. It showed me walking and Eggplant stepping in behind me. It even had sound so the guard could hear the scuffle around the corner. He had called the police, who conveniently were getting coffee next door.  

I was released, pending further investigation. My body looks like nothing happened. 

My brain is screaming for answers. It looks in the mirror and sees a stranger. I've never hurt anybody on purpose in my life; besides pulling the hair of a girl in second grade. I still wake up to nightmares about that. But last night I slept like a baby.

Daily Log

I think writing something down might help me understand what is going on. Or it will make things worse. 

Now that I really think about it, to see yesterday on paper (on screen really, paper would be even worse; my hand would be sore) is going to show me just how crazy I am. 

I have always believed that with a lot of faith, you can see your way through anything. 

I saw my sister just after lunch. I had tried a fresh juice, with kale in it; an unpleasant experience. I had a bitter taste in my mouth to start our conversation. The problem is I still am not sure if I am awake or asleep. 

All she would say is that I am on the right track. I am getting the wizard of oz feeling again; find it out for yourself. Her exact words are still sitting on the tip of my brain. 

"When you were a little boy, at the far end, maybe three-years-old, something happened. I wasn't around to stop it. You were badly hurt, to the point of dying. I can't and won't let that happen again. So yes. I watch you when the universe feels off. I stay around to make sure it doesn't happen again.

"You're thinking that I am crazier than you. But the point of where you are now is to choose: look beyond the tendency to judge and accept what comes, or, run; leave behind all of it, find a doctor that will zap the living fuck out of your brain. I am sorry I can't make it easier. Catastrophe does a job well. Righting it would not be possible, for anybody less than you."

She left me alone, sitting on a plaid blanket in her back yard. Two days in a row I have sat on the grass and been told something ludicrous. 

One wants me to go into a coma to solve it, one thinks I can choose my way out. 

When you are going through hell, keep going (Winston Churchill).

The problem is that choices are strange. Often they are a simple state of mind. Like coming out. For a lot of gays it is a choice to come out. Gayness can be hidden, because it is not a condition. It is a state of being. One that is external to behaviour or appearance. The choice to hide or not is then just a case of weighing physical need gratification over ability to pretend. But anyone presented with the choice knows that I tears you; right down to your very soul. And even through your soul, if you leave it too long.  

What you find at the end of the choice is unknown: a bully with a bat; a lover; a prison cell; a death sentence; a life. And even if the consequences are known, and are evil; we still choose to come out.

I don't know if I can choose to be what I see as crazy. But again, gayness was seen as crazy once. It still is. I cannot imagine what life must be in a family where gayness is equated with suicide or murder. Or maybe this is what that would feel like. Right now I might call my insurance just to speak with somebody; their ad says a human always answers. 

God holds my hand. So why would any loving anything make anybody think their own death could be more righteous than love. God does not respond to rhetoric. God will hold my hand through the whole thing; big ol' gay me. But won't tell the answer to a question when the answer is already known.

I can deal with this. I just have to choose to be nuts. How do I be white and continue being purple?

Daily Log

The first of Marcus' suggestions was to find some way to let go. In an active attempt at this idea, I went to the Ekka; a yearly ten day fair that brings the country to the city. My parents made this magic for us as children. Sugar, rides, animals, cowboys, wood-cutters, crowds and fireworks. Part of the work was obviously done for them, but the thought counts. We would save money for months to buy our show bags and souvenirs. 

One ill fated day I was even allowed to try a mini-motorbike. The poor attendant. His hay-bales and years of experience had nothing on my heavy thumb and determined grip. I smashed apart the makeshift rink, and chased the man through half of Sideshow alley. My family of course were rolling around on the ground laughing while their three-year-old traumatised defenceless carnival workers. I screamed the whole time but would not let go for the life in me. I cannot remember how the ordeal ended. I know I am here typing a log; I know nothing of the attendant. 

Hijinks aside, the Ekka is still magical to me. I went with a famileind of near thirty years. I regressed. Goats chased me in petting arenas. Babies stared at me on the train. I bothered shop attendants about the dairy content of a dagwood dog… There was none.  Hallelujah. 

We left feeling like well wrung clothes. The day was everything it was cracked up to be. But, sadly, gave me nothing to help with my mind. I did not really believe one day of fun could help me find my marbles again. It at least made me relax and use my energy on something other than work.

The whole thing again brought my sister to my attention. For the briefest second in my memory, as I sat on the mini-bike, I saw my father hold her back. As I was first hearing how to depress the accelerator and squeeze the brake, I vividly remember mum stepping up and taking her other shoulder. They stood there like a portrait. Two flanking and one in the middle showing a hand on each shoulder.

I am sure she would not lie to me if I asked her something outright. Seeming insane with what I ask does not bother me either. But I don't know what to ask: 'are you protecting me from something?'; 'is there some conspiracy around me that I don't know?' ; 'who are you really? who am i?'. None of that makes any sense. She is my sister, I know she has always been militant with my safety. 

I tried to watch the kids are alright to take my mind off things. Sixty minutes in, the theme seemed to be that gays are dysfunctional and capable of adultery too. I switched it off. As a child of a broken home, I will agree that we will be alright. But it doesn't mean adultery and boredom need to be pushed onto an audience as art. As the child of parental disarray, I still see it all as pathetic. Too many people think they deserve to have too much. Never the thought that they may need to constantly work at something to be worthy of air. Maybe it is just boomers. I hope it is just a passing generational thing. 

I need to talk to my sister. I think I know what she is going to say.

Daily Log

Fear and self-loathing are a powerful combination. Apparently they are even capable of crossing over between lives. I have always thought my-self to be quite tolerant and new age. But my behaviour today doesn't suggest that is true. And usually I would be happy to be called a hypocrite; at least I am not straight-forward.

Self-faith must be up there in the human hierarchy of needs for survival. Today mine was threatened and I lashed out.

Marcus was sitting in the middle of the park, cross legged on the grass. I walked up to him and sat down. For some reason it felt as usual as a tea date with grandma.  It is strange to hear you're wrong about who you are from somebody else's mouth. It is strange to hear them weave it into their own culture to provide an explanation.

It didn't go down well. 

As I made to leave, Marcus crawled after me and grabbed my leg. Before shaking him off, I looked down and realised why he was crawling. He was paralysed from the waist down.

There are a few kinds of intolerance. By far the worst is the internalised masquerading kind. It swans around as if it will accept anything, but when it comes to applying the kindness and acceptance it preaches, it pulls away to protect itself. This intolerance is responsible for so much in society today. Zealots have their place, but as long as people say one thing then under stress act another way, there is no chance we will survive multiculturalism. 'There are no secrets but the secrets that keep themselves (Shaw)'.

I saw myself in a mirror while standing to leave; the one man with true need for acceptance rejecting a welcoming friend. I felt like the minority groups that separated their causes for human-rights. Imagine if women, blacks and gays had just stood together in the first place.

I sat back down. Ready to eat my words and challenge my-self. Perhaps the problem was me. Who I am. It is so much easier to look outward; at least there is something to see.

Marcus thinks I could use a good coma. Although he called it something spiritual. He thinks my mind looks out into life through fear goggles. And so all I can see is the danger. My memory is trapped beneath that fear. He wants me to welcome some good danger and survive it. I told him his wife was pregnant; the pheromones on his skin were thick with maternity. He swore.

As I left he yelled at me to slow down. To button the whole meeting I found a parking ticket on my car. Maybe my thoughts did need organising. I wandered through the rest of the day.

I didn't sleep well. When you look inside and see a bad person, where can you go for comfort… God and I spent some time chatting. It is nice to sit together under a full moon. As luck would have it it was a Sunday morning by that time. 

Daily Log

Strangled stomach sounds woke me, lIke the groaning boards of a wooden ship. The volume was ridiculous. I was starving. My stomach was worse than the alarm on my phone. For a regular morning, what I thought was a regular morning, I was not used to this much food urgency.

As I walked into the bathroom, the overhead light caught on a red line down my arm. It stretched from my shoulder to my wrist. And it seemed to be fading. I must have slept on my arm. Turning on the water in the shower, I held out my hand to test the temperature. The line across my arm burned like acid as the water hit.

An image of a young native australian flashed in my mind. He was definitely a native, but he was dressed as a Egyptian pharaoh. He had slashed across my arm with a knife, just before I woke up. I felt tired still. I decided against a shower until after breakfast. But I stunk. Forcing myself in the water, I washed quickly and cut off the water. My arm was still burning.

Marcus had been his name. Images from the dream started to settle on me again. It had been quite a mess. Marcus had kept insisting that I needed a good beating to get through my stubborn head. But in my dreams I am in control; he had no way to hurt me. The cut only came when he caught me off guard. It felt like weeks later. He had been waiting for the right time to injure me. My dreams always feel long. I still remember one when I was a little boy; stuck in a line out the front of my school. It felt like eternity. I woke up crying. I hate lines.

We felt so close. He smiled when he got the cut in. He laughed happily. I even found it funny. But I had no time to laugh because my stomach woke me up. It all seems so stupid. I feel like I have known Marcus forever. When I woke up, light bursts flashed everywhere. The static electricity had built up in my polyester/cotton thermal shirt. In the dark, the electricity shocks made little sparks as I moved.

I usually wouldn't write details from a current day down yet. I need time for my cumbersome brain to tick over the details. But yesterday didn't happen. I looked down at my phone, feeling a little like Homer Simpson; speaking and wearing a towel, I picked it up. The red light was flashing away diligently. I had sixteen missed calls and thirty-eight emails. I felt Zoolandery.

The date read; 'August 13th'.

I had been asleep for thirty-five hours.

No wonder I was starving. I had not eaten a thing for days. Messages had come from everywhere; for work, from my family, from my friends.

The smell of my Neice was in the air. She was here. Pulling on my underpants and some track pants, I came into the living room. A bag was on my table, the guest room door was closed.

Sister and Niece had come over and had not woken me up.

They are still asleep now. And I am not sure of what to do. They keep treating this - anything I say or do - as normal. As if the whole family nods and says, 'makes sense'. What is even worse is that I know I agreed to meet Marcus today.

This is insane. I have agreed to meet somebody in a dream and I am already preparing to go. The problem is, when I agreed to meet him, he looked normal. He was sitting on the ground in a park at Burleigh. A park I know well and visit often. It feels real. Like the news casts I dream up and then tell people about; I am not sure whether it is fake or real. I may have met him at Burleigh a few days ago, spoken about native history, and agreed to meet again. I love the native dreamtime. But I would have mentioned that in a log. That is why I started these. To attempt to keep track of my stupid world. But I don't put everything in here. And as I read the last few I sound like a nutter. There is little or no mention of my days. Who do you tell when you can't even remember the day before you went to sleep? It feels like years ago.

Daily Log

Streetlamp sentinels. My sister. Somehow the streetlamps protect me. But the streetlamps are all my sister. LIke she stands out all night every night protecting me. But from what. Who are the waterfalls of light supposed to protect me from and why? These dreams. They don't mean anything. I am hidden in a dark park by the only light for fathoms. I don't see how light can protect me. And how can she be out there with Niece to protect.
It was a great day yesterday. I walked to borough and saw a sleighing skateboarder pulled by a bull mastiff. I got my freedom handed to me in a mismanaged message that must have misfired the world over. My greatest friends helped me to get my business off the ground. And, at night I got to sup with the old man himself.
Still it is like I am in a vice. These dreams are too much. I need to tie rocks to my ankles to keep my feet on the ground. I have a path in front of me I cannot walk from up in the clouds. But keeping my mind from the clouds is nearly impossible. I need blinkers; I am no horse.
Elliot seems to be screaming at me in one ear, and a crowd of mangled dreams in the other. I don't think names are supposed to be posted here but there it is.
I hired two DVD's last night; distractions aplenty. If I can just keep my head down and look forward, I have enough to do to fill my time.
Spare time terrifies me. Those moments where you have nothing to occupy your mind and slippery thoughts of sex trickle into your consciousness. But in no good way. Because they open a shinning door to a tsunami of images and people I don't know. But I do know them and that is the point. All of them want attention at the same time and I can't hear anything but yelling white-noise.
I sometimes fear that the way my mind works causes things to happen.
In some of these images I see the same thing.
Someone like me.
Not just like me. He is me.
I am rambling.
A tea party discussion on my families historical impressions on religion didn't help any. It was nice to see the grandma. Perhaps she did this to me. The truly scary part is that I think I saw her as a young girl sneaking into a military base to see her american boyfriend in WW2. But I am sure that is a story I have heard before. My mind could easily conjure that up. I don't think she told me that he dressed her up as a colonel to sneak her out and back home in a company jeep.

Daily Log

To all of the people out in the universe intent on finding their niche; get over it. It is pathetic. The shields you create of personas are pathetic. "I'm a Type-A" says the overworked business man. "I'm Sagittarius" says the woman behind the counter. "I have anxiety, so I can't sleep," says the bloke drinking his third energy drink. COME OUT OF THE CLOSET! Stop hiding behind labels.
These rioters in London. The police would have shot them back in the day. Louis XIV had them annihilated. But then again they did not have to deal with the encryption standards of a blackberry and its messenger app. I think americans would shoot them; imagine if a bunch of rioters burned down the Washington Monument or Mount Rushmore. There was war declared over three buildings, four planes and countless (but somehow counted) people. At least shoot to wound. Come on, we live in a society that kills people for any reason. I am talking the Global society here. Borders are just a luxury we use to differentiate ourselves from our fellow humans; but don't tell your-self that; it will make murder more difficult.
I have just taken to accepting that we live in a society that is the very evil we claim to abhor. When you accept that, things just seem to smooth out; like floating out to sea.
The memories are surfacing again.

One minute I am walking down a street in rome - circa 100 BC. The next I am in a cave seeking shelter for the night. The arms of my own naked tribal worrier around me; swords slung low around our waists. The next I am camped outside a city in a fresh mammoth skinned tent; the smell is hideous still. Again lying naked in the arms of my own giant beast of a man.
I knew they had never gone anywhere. The only reason I survived at the museum so long is that I was usually right. The knowledge came from somewhere. I hoped it was clever reasoning; but I am not that clever. Memory, plain and true.
These are the first memories I have had with anything pleasant. They have finally made sex appealing; I wake up every morning harder than chinese algebra. That never happened in puberty. I was trapped inside a nightmare. Wet dreams were literal. I would wake up and the bed would be drenched in sweat. When sleepwalking arose, more sleep-working - I dug trenches in the back-yard - my parents finally let me see the workings of my brain. But still nothing. The only solution was to lock me in my room for the nights.
How can meeting a man for thirty seconds send you into the tailspin of your life? The answer is so maddening. It is on the tip of my brain. I know it.

Daily Log

It was a work day from 5:30 through to 20:30. I continue to be amazed at the abilities of Australians to accept things. Sure our government is psychotic. But the general populous, Gen Y in particular, have both the laid back acceptance of Aussies, and the 'so what' mentality about all kinds. People think the ability to make anything into a joke is offensive. But in reality it brings things out into the open with laughter instead of slamming them into a closet with shame.

There is a new generation rising. One where gay is about as bigger cause for concern as running low on toothpaste. These serene creatures are sprouting out of the ground, unaffected, calm and without fear. They are wondrous to behold. I figure it is simply a sign of the ageing population that we do not have perfect equality here. It is coming. As long a major portion of our generation remain unregistered to vote (it is a legal requirement to vote in Australia), we will stay this way. We allow our country to be ruled by the elderly; we believe them when they say wisdom comes with age. 

In psychology there is a concept known as stratified random sampling. This is where your sample must represent a microcosm of the exact proportions of reality. Taking children out of the equation, our government should represent this formula. The closest we have is the senate, because they use the proportional representation. But I suppose it would be impossible for our duopoly political parties, close brothers of: coles and woolworths; david jones and myer; coke and pepsi, to stay in power with this policy; and we do adore them so. Even when they make it near impossible to start a new movement because they have restricted donation policy. 

They continue to distract us with pointless topics that only interest us because they effect our back pockets. I feel like I am taking crazy pills (zoolander). We are spending our own money to be distracted.

If they would just admit it that we are a communist country. That would be fine. Our finances are socialist, we pay massive tax. Our leaders are chosen and seem to be picked from a cloning facility that has gone haywire on physical appearance. And we do just adore them all. Even to the extent we could pat them on the head and tell them to 'run along little tyke'. Meanwhile, back on the farm, we watch them pretend to give us a homebuyers leg-up. At the same time they increase the hidden fees by an equal amount; they are paying themselves for votes now. 

 I did not mean to find politics this morning. I had a disturbing dream about zombies last night, and the Fusa attacking, and am at a bit of a loss. I think it was due to the major work hours yesterday. My creativity has been replaced by a societal bottom line. Just imagine if only gay men could be politicians… There would be no arguments at question time. There would be a bdsm rack for men who spoke out of turn. Negotiations would devolve rapidly into rampant love affairs. Political infighting would end, and if other countries adopted this, there would be no wars. World summits would be bel ami marathons, and if we only elected our best and brightest, we would pay through the nose to watch the debates! Politics would fund itself.

Daily Log

When rough comes up, you see how people feel about you. It takes a great amount of guts to chance your feelings when you know they will be trampled, but sometimes they need to be trampled to let you move on. It is how to become strong, It is how you learn to be weak with the right people. To trust that old Opera saying 'if there is a doubt, don't'.

From the blood trickling between the lines of the last month, it may be obvious that turmoil is afoot. Whether that turmoil is or is not in my head is unknown. I tend to blur the lines of reality. That is my function: to fight, to dream, and to play. At least that is what I suspect. Without concrete evidence to the contrary, or in the affirmative for that matter, I cannot be sure. Faith ties that line. People would have me believe my spiritual side is psychosis. The yearning of an insignificant to be significant. I can accept that. I don't. But I could. 

There is just too much heart in him, I cannot kill my inner child. And I wouldn't want to. I live on the cusp of dreams and reality. Granted I sometimes dream I have seen something on the news that is completely made up; and start telling people about it. But there is a simple solution to that problem. I just stop watching any news. The dreams then became quite obvious. The world seems calmer then too.

Doctors tell me it is impossible to dream in five senses. But they still cannot explain their own brain scans. Except to tell me that I may not actually be reaching sleep. My family believes, somehow. They are my only refuge when things get tough. It is strange to have a background story of 'coming out' as a gay man, then to have your parents trump you in the same conversation; with information about yourself no less. 

They see it when I am suffering. They tell me. Apparently I show up at each house and look like a dopey toddler looking for a blankie. I get so angry that everyone seems to know more about me than I do. They never want to share with me what is going on. Claiming I have to find it for myself.

It sounds like the useless refrain of a television episode. Don't people realise it is cruel to send you on a journey instead of giving you the answer up front. We learn all the time through a good story. It is one of the most successful teaching methods. When you go to find it for your-self you could get anywhere.  What if Dorothy had gone off in search of the witch and had teamed up. There was no true animosity there. The house murder was the tornado's fault, not hers. Elphaba and Dorothy could have come together and conquered OZ for the better. The good intensions of Galinda would have actually done some good. Then at least Dorothy would not have ended up stuck in black and white Kansas. 

Obviously my day yesterday was a mess. There was the usual mixed in eating, surfing and sun-baking, but the day itself is better left to itself. My emotions hurt me badly. They continue to build up against my wishes. It is like two magnetic forces are somehow charging each other. And every now and then, so much residual charge is built, it sparks out like a lightning blast; leaving the source damaged and exhausted. I do not know what will be left when this is over.

Daily Log

When the name of one man circles your mind like a cork that is too big to go down a drain, there is not a lot you can do about it. The obvious responses are to cut the cork into tiny pieces that will somehow fit down the drain grates when the water is low enough to allow it. In this case the cork is his name, and it is housed in my brain; I would have to labotomise myself to stop this. Even then as a babbling idiot I would be stuck thinking about him. 

He has evicted me from my life (as good as it gets). My mind continues to retreat into its creative impulses to survive. I follow my business and writing objectives around like a lost puppy to a child. This is me a creepiness DEFCON one. All I can do to work out impossible feelings is to write them into stories and hope they disappear when the stories end. This feeling is ripping me apart. Two months have passed and I am haunted by a hand shake. 

I woke up. Headed to the usual Barefoot experience then headed home. I had promised myself that work would not touch me for the day. I ignored email, I left my phone and I kept my router off. WIth a head filled with lustful/longing thoughts about a man, this day was near impossible. To give up distraction; your greatest earthly salvation, when all you want is to not think about someone, is a big ask. Sun-baking, I pine. Swimming, I played in the water, but that was a distraction that only lasted five minutes or so it doesn't count. Back at the shack, I plan and plot and hope. It is tedious and horrible and pitiful and I cannot stop it. 

To do something direct about this would be going against God's plan for me right now. I have to take it as it comes; nothing is certain. Nothing is certain except the fact that I am falling apart. I am a grown man, and I am a love-sick puppy.

I do not have words to describe the agony inside this yearning. My soul has ignited and will burn through me to get to him. It gives me misleading advise, just in the hopes of closeness. It has turned on me in the most cruel and unusual way, and when I think the pain has ebed it shows the purity of pleasures for a split second and then, again, lets me fall.

My soul will see me in jail for stalking before it lets me get away with inaction.

My life until now has been in a desert. A slow walk through a dry desolate waist-land. To show me green mountains and then let them disappear again, it cannot be for good.

Cooking and cleaning were not work, so I focused on them for a while. I tried dancing out some energy and even walked around my neighbourhood. I invited a familend over for dinner and a movie. What movie gets picked? No less than Shakespeare in love. At least the beef was incredible! The movie may have directly resulted in me spilling my pathetic feelings across this log.

Daily Log

I'm in love with a man I have met once. Seen for a few hours climbing a mountain and otherwise nothing. He said just three words to me and that was it. I may as well have fallen to pieces right there. And this last month has been ridiculous.
I mean that. I have been trying to be something I am not. I have been playing a game that says that any of this is ok. I have a job to do. I used to have a job to do. Now it is all fucked up. Over one chance meeting. Now nothing seems clear. I am left to let the universe call me out, and then and only then do I come. Yesterday was one of those days, I was called to go out.
I woke up, still without enough sleep. I got dressed and tied up a world full of loose ends. Hoping for some reason that control in business would mean control in other areas. I have been forced to realise that my control is for naught. Any semblance of free-will in me must have dissolved years ago, and I am left a sad tweenaged-thing that goes from being 25 to one-hundred-thousand and six.
As if any of this would be ok. I am living the life of a boring spinster-man. And right now, when I finally feel like myself again, I know it cannot last because there is simply no energy to sustain this. Again, the universe is deciding for me: whiplash, fatigue; what ever this virus is this year it is a doozy. It is knocking everybody over for months, and leaves them with weird lingering symptoms.
I have this feeling that something terrible is going to happen. And I am not taking about the pretend monitory world where the rich fatties are manipulating the many to take more and more money away from the people. A modern day robin hood is coming to deal with that. I have this lingering doubt that God knows something is coming and as usual I just have to take it as it comes.
Last night was a great night. It felt like a celebration had been planned for me by the universe; while friends were occupied elsewhere, another friend sent a stranger to have dinner and a toast to the last few months. It felt like a celebration. Some really great business steps were taken yesterday; and a validation came to stick it right up the big banks. The government is going to take me back as a pure consultant too. It is about time they realised where all of their locations came from.
Some work has just created more work. Finishing one job has shown me twenty more. But it is forcing me to be creative. Luckily I have these business and IT boys watching my back. I have a feeling my next meeting date with Elliot is now firm. The birthday invite came yesterday, after I left my accountant, I found it in the mail. I confirmed a time too. I hope my core is stable again by then.

Daily Log

Somebody told me a while ago that sleep was as important to health, weight-loss and general intelligence as any form of exercise, if not moreso. Right now I am angry at everything! I feel like the toddler woken early from his nap. There is a little voice in my head saying be positive, all is well. But that voice may as well be elmo singing his namesake song. I think I am just tired. I meet a bloke that blows me away, and he disappears up a mountain. There are all of these things I am supposed to believe and I am starting to think I am as nuts as others say I am. I talk to God everyday; not out of reverence, just because we get along well. I am tired.

I went to office works yesterday and I saw a desk. I thought, for some reason, it would be nice to own a desk. One day I will own my own desk. It was eighty bucks, I bought it. I don't know what is happening to me. In the car on the way back, I nearly broke into tears when I heard a song I wrote a screenplay to. It was a gut wrenching scene, but just thinking about it caused tears in me. I am loosing it.

I woke up yesterday, a little late, and headed to physio. I did my thing, maybe I am doing it wrong, but I am starting to feel really good. And on the other hand, I can't get this guy off my mind. I have touched him once. Once! Three words spoken. 

My day was broken by design; I had arranged friendship events up in Brisbane. I knew I could not make the beach or sun-bake, but I still had a lot of work to finish. Everybody still does nothing. And what makes matters worse is that I am trying to recruit people to expand and have nothing to really offer. Some stupid part of my mind is pushing growth. I see opportunity central, but cannot make them work on my own. 

The IT boys have got all of my stuff running now. The chance meeting has given me a whole production section in one place. I am pushing them to do all of my production, even though it isn't really their business, I just have a good feeling about them. I feel sorry for them that they have to deal with the nitwits of my world now. 

I drove to brisbane happy. With this core work happening, I can scream along to the stereo without loosing my breath at all. Lunch with former-work-wife was great, it is amazing to see a world of old. It is like peeping in through a looking glass. Afterwards, after begging her to quit her job and come work with me, I headed away for the reallocated best friend day. The day has been transient thanks to university scheduling, but it may have finally settled.

Again I nearly started crying when I thought of other characters in books I have written. Perhaps I am hormonal. I have never had this much trouble controlling my lead characters before. Perhaps one will come out and stir up some trouble. Or perhaps my control is completely devastated by a single chance meeting over a month ago, and it will never recover. 

Dinner was great; my first curry in months. We made office furniture and watched the lincoln lawyer. It was very good. But again it tries to glorify the minuscule portion of lawyers who care about humanity. It is strange that they never get down to the nitty gritty of lawyers who's main reason for existence is to transfer pain from one person to another. Quantify that when you grow old: 'i transferred 4 trillion widgets of pain in my lifetime; a life well spent.'

When I got home, I unboxed and build my flat pack furniture. It took me three tries to find the right location, and once again my whiplash is killing me for it. I honestly think this is becoming ludicrous. Part of you tells of you are magnificent untouchability, and the other gets you back pain for protecting your mate.

I must be hormonal. I saw an echidna on the highway yesterday, and nearly stopped to go back and save it. I was a kilometre away when I thought to hold up four lanes of speeding traffic to somehow get a pointy marsupial our of harms way. But even then I did not know how to do it or where to take it.

I can write on my new desk with whiteboard marker. 

Daily Log

Macbeth does not murder sleep; people calling do. And why is it that so many people call when they should be asleep. I will tell you why, because if exhausted people went to bed earlier, they'd have less to talk about. It is unseasonably hot too. People go cuckoo in the heat, and during full moons. It may be that they are always nuts and the weather gives them an excuse to ham it up, like talking with an exaggerated aussie accent overseas.

Ill at ease with the amount of REM I had, I got up to start the day. I don't think people without need for caffeine can understand the yearning for the first cup in the morning. When you won't drink coffee after lunch, the wait builds like a restless tantrum; threatening tears, expulsion, feeble whinging and even the occasional whimper. 

Physio tells me that instead of working in one position for too long, I have to move every thirty minutes. I can't believe whiplash is classed as self-inflicted and won't heal quickly. I suppose it was me who insisted on driving instead of the train. It has taught me how to exercise properly. I get to take away they joy that nobody in any gym gets to use the grand strap in machines. And my core is building up like there is no tomorrow. 

Every morning I get up, and it is as if the circle of life should be booming from an unknown source. Sunrise on the gold coast is a thing of beauty. Sometimes I have the circle of life blaring through the stereo, but that is just my geek having fun. I have no child for my own modern family moment. 

Yesterday was disappointing, I figure there is still a little retrograde out there. I got rejected more than the last hors d'oeuvres on the plate. I am convinced the bank did not even read my application, but the only reason to find out for sure is to get my account manager in trouble. It is a very tempting thought. I should have gone with my gut last month. But on this diet my gut is getting enough attention; so I ignored him. My gut has been responsible for a lot lately. Or a lack of a lot. I cannot decide which.

I worked mostly on copy all day. I went to the beach. Wrote and fixed little typos across my universe. I even got set up for twitter, on the advice of others, I will try!

Time seems to go nowhere. I try to get in some solid sun-baking; to look after the skin, but too many ideas come into my head and I want to work more. Adam and eve had it right, and it had nothing to do with the apple that made them get clothed; I would run around stark naked now if I not for the arresting threat. It would save so much time on sun baking. The first two got dressed in leaves because too much fruit made them chubby. Vain idiots. You would think the fruit of wisdom would have given them enough sense to continue their exercise program. No. They sat around pontificating and writing poems with sticks. Then whined because they put on twenty kilos. When they finally saw each other again, in all their wisdom, they had no winter woollens to hide their loads. As if leaves would hide anything; we all saw right through them. A light breeze had them naked again in minutes. There was no wisdom or knowledge in the application of those leaves. That was direct stupidity. Vanity mixed in there too. They both looked at all the trim and muscly angels and felt flabby. The leaf attempt was hilarious. And adam had major low hangers; a maple leaf hid nothing.

The end of my day saw another hydro-therapy session and my senior cit clique. As the quiet youth in the pool, apparently, I say nothing and am amazed at the teenage level of gossip that passes through these people. There is no wisdom or growth that comes as a gift with purchase of age. These people are in many ways worse than the squealing "wiper-snappers" on the trains. I'll admit one of them made me laugh when he said I may be a dirty old man now, but I was a dirty young man, so it is just the times that have changed; at least I am consistent. 

At least that is something to look forward too. Dinner with Dad and a restless sleep greeted me before a couple of midnight phone calls. It is a fun world.

Consistent would be boring. Gay and old will be interesting, but that depends if I will make it that far. I am disgruntled half of the time now; but then again I may be much older than my waist-line suggests. Tack Black old and wise. Tack Black young and stupid… Tack Black naked and betrothed.

Daily Log

I had a real 'gets in my grill' day yesterday. Even when I woke up I was bent on the insurmountable. Later in the day somebody told me that something was in retrograde. Since astrology is an ethereal thing, I do not follow it unless it finds me first. But I am assuming the rest of the world does, so that would account for my mood of late. It does not seem fair of me to blame an innocent retrograde; a planet or moon would just find itself there. Like we find ourselves in puberty without asking for it. Some people do ask for it, and that is probably a floor in my smilie. 

Breakfast consisted of a Kassler steak again, eggs, toast and coffee. It was good, weird to be almost able to see the former shape of the pig it belonged too, but still good. This intolerance diet is quite amazing now. I have refined my food in a way that, if somebody comes over for dinner, they have no idea I am trapped in a cage without dairy, preservatives or gluten. Except when they ask how I lost twelve kilograms, and I start the wanky spiel. Or if I go out with them and end up eating dry toast like a wiener. But it is not like any diet I have heard of. They say, when a rat sees another rat get sick off a food, they, and all of their mate rats, will never eat that food again. It is one of the most developed collaborative survival instincts known. We as humans have this to a lesser extend, although we have morphed it to just stay away from tequila for a bit; once we have vomited on it for three days.

My eating is like that though. I simply cannot eat those food; it requires no will-power at all. Diets have always sounded tiring to me. Intolerance rocks! Besides, I feel like a lumberjack, or old time thug, all I eat is meat and roast vegis.

Food aside I made the delightful commute up the Gold Coast highway to the physio. Whiplash still keeps me away from strenuous exercise; shows how much exercise has to do with weight-loss. I am not making mention of the traffic. But I swear the traffic lights are holding me up just  to hear my music. They must just sit there waiting for a good song to be playing, and go: op lets stop this one, I love this song.

I shaved my head on Monday. I didn't really mean too. I had the clippers out for a trim and I set the length too short; as the first piece of hair fell and I looked at my head, I knew it all had to go. I think my yesterday log missed a lot with my general annoyance level being high. I suppose that is evidence for my mood changing my world. And the thing is that Monday was a good day, except for the hair incident. I have just tainted it with annoyance.

After physio I came and tried, once again, to push progress forward. I think retrograde must mean, Murphy's law is heightened. Anything that can go wrong, goes wrong. 

The beach was good and warm. Finally a few bodies have found there way to sun-baking down there again. It is much better to be joined in the beach in the middle of winter than be the isolated object of passerbys ridicule. 

Another point on perspective tho. When I see two shirtless guys strolling along together, I get this smirk on my face like Joey from friends. I look at them and my libido conjures their sex life. They could just be mates, but my unconscious insists that they are a couple and I smirk. And this is not just on the beach. Anywhere I see two guys together: couple, libido, images. I do not know if this is due to my recent encounter, or if I have always thought it and just never paid attention.

Home again I made to prepare a few experimental meals; frittatas and tuna curry. I cannot believe I have bowed to anti-quiche pressures. I like pastry, but one or two friends comment on the gayness factor and I am over to frittatas. How does pastry, gayness make? The only difference is the pastry. But I forgot it at the shops, without even thinking. I have been affected by another taunt. Next time I am making quiche in defiance!

 Another dvd got me through the evening. This romantics movie, should be titled adultery. If zealots think that america is going to pot because of gays, send all gay here. We will send you our starving, our poor and our huddled masses, you send us your outcast, your oppressed and your subjects of discrimination. I have not come up with a plan for our prisoners yet, but perhaps we could swap them for boat people. Really ramp up the multicultural objective! And this movie, all it shows are the tweenager leftovers from the american pie age; all grown up into an incestuous friend group that cannibalises itself. Hopes for american survival are at an all time low.

Even sleep eluded me.

Daily Log

I can see how and why people would like to think, the way you wake up sets the tone for the day. This gives a creature with very little control a morsel of vestige in the coming events. And it holds some truth, as all good phalacies do. The influence of your affect does effect people; in turn effecting your day. I woke to the beginnings of a realisation; an old saying that art reflects life. It occurs to me that business does as well.
Finally the whole deceptive mess makes sense. In society, there are now a large number of fat (i.e. really really fat) people. These people glut and glut and glut, and feast and feast and feast. They become so fat, they are house ridden. Then, the source of their life finally gives way, and their valiant heart gives over to the overwhelming slag of their store bought byproducts. But what of business. Here too we can find these rotund hephelumps. The titans of our age, fumbling around wreaking havoc and glutting themselves on all the money they can see.
I have come to a realisation. We are in the age of the overload coronary. Finally, these heifer companies that have consumed all they can stomach of wealth have lost touch with that vital organ that give them their life in the first place. They are confined to their outdated houses. With their only connection to the outside world being the cathode-ray-tube television they absconded with when they could last get through the door. Like cult leaders they force others in the world to ignore their own dreams in favour of a script they have constructed. This script has then been drip-fed to the starving masses as what they all want.
All too soon our brilliant youngsters find themselves being fattened for the slaughter. But what goes is not their bodies or their abilities, but their free-will for novel thought. That precious factor that has now been beaten our of them from primary school all the way to university; where they must parrot their predecessors to succeed. Film and television have been used to replace real dreams and now we find ourselves with the mid-life crisis phenomenon, and a suicide rate well beyond any other generation.
The american dream, is no longer a dream that comes from people, it is an imposed psychosis of wealth-seeking-wannabe despots. Just listen to all popular music. America is fat. Australia is fat. Most of the white-western-world is fat. And we are dying. We can all feel it. We have sold our souls for monopoly money. And we live in the society that even the religions should be appalled by. Societies that flout the only commandments actually given; we kill prisoners as a collective. We vilify sex and promote violence. We allow mediocre members to act as our voices around the world. And we do not care much that we have forgotten common sense; news papers tell us what to think. Luckily there is always salvation offered down from our fat leaders in the form of discrimination; it sustains the huddled masses.

I woke up. Ate breakfast. Drank coffee.

In need of not being alone, I went for an early drive. The depressing thought of early had left me feeling solum. I headed to the borough. It was empty. I headed to Vintage, where I found my family, or a portion thereof. They invited me to their breakfast, and for a time I sat content. Then of course somebody brings up the government. I cannot sit around any longer while the idiots left as guardians of the people systematically destroy us; being responsive to only the popular opinion of the day. I held my tongue as much as possible.
I remember a man telling me that the renaissance-man is no longer possible. It is strange to think that true. I think it is just not possible for him. Now that I really consider it, that has become a refrain of people. Telling you, with absolute certainty, that something they could never do, or anyone they think they know could do, is impossible. Completely irrespective of the fact that they do not know anything, and only their age gives them any authority to speak. People have forgotten that even if they are insignificant, they are important. The delight of being who you are, is lost.
I'm sure that if I could manage a platform I would either be killed, made into comedic sport, or imprisoned, because the fatties do not want to loose at monopoly. I have to remember that these people are three-year-olds who will throw tantrums when park lane is sold out from under them due to their overextended mortgage. More than likely they will toss the board in the air, tears will fill their eyes, and they will whinge about the good-ole-days in the sub-primes of their lives.
I came home to get my work finished for the day, and accomplished nothing. Except the beginning of the end of another design. Banks still ignore me, search engines are very slow at uptake for a world wide hub, and even my own book has turned on me at present. I am in a waiting puddle. At least I can surf and sun bake.
With a quick check of the mail I gave in for the day. I had physio and a dinner date with the bird. It is amazing how the promise of youth can regenerate you. Until you realise you are poisoning them with TV too. But it is all to keep you sane. Just to buy that ten minutes where they aren't tugging at your leg.
I wonder if our culture will be referred to are the addiction age. If we survive it that is.

Daily Log

Sleeping in is an art. For it to be really good it must be unplanned. Slightly against the rules. And, be decided that you are being defiant. When you wake up from a proper sleep-in, you feel wondrous. The day greets you already bright. Breakfast tastes sweeter.
As the day gradually kicked in I prepared for nothing. The only plans I had were a family dinner at Panchoes. I looked around at my need to clean and decided to go for a walk. I walked to the Borough. I think there is a formula for the stupidity of people. One of the variables in this formula is the number of living creatures they have to think for. Therefore people with dogs are morons. And when you group a lot of them together, in say, a shitty flea market style bazar, they half themselves again. It is difficult to believe that people can be so oblivious to others.
Dogs tangled and fighting and children falling off bikes, I ventured through the shit storm once more to walk home. A few random people decided to talk to me while buying coffee. I started the first conversation, which lead into a drawn out recollection of where I was known from. Then a random Kiwi interrupted AFL talk to add in the all blacks victory. I was taken slightly off-guard. She seemed nice enough, but the segue left me at a loss.
Home again, I tried to fill time with eating at TV, but it would not do. I cannot get lost in the toxicity of intellectual poisoning like I used too. The sublime averageness of all art at the moment is disappointing. I want to see mountains again. I headed for some sun, and then to the beach.
For the second time in four days, after zero times in two years (maybe three), I ran into medium. This time I was needed. It is nice to be useful. All of the diatribe I have learned - perhaps one percent of it is useful - I finally got to use a small portion to be helpful. This is of course a few minutes after I had sent the creepy email of the world. And it wasn't even email, it was Fmail. I have finally asked permission...
Completely understanding the general nature of the planet to ignore the genisis of an idea. I could not. I have admitted to my unusual freak, and, feel slightly dirty for it. Perhaps this is the feeling I should have had all along. But how else do people get ideas? If they really looked at them, I am sure a creepy origin would be in everything. I have owned up to mine. It may destroy it, but if it is to be destroyed then it should be.
But not by me.
After an unexpected green tea. Where my minuscule knowledge of psychosis was applied, I walked medium back to her post. Returning home I made to clean, cook and generally tidy the office for the week. I again tried, and this time succeeded, to watch an old movie.
Dressed and directed, I drove to Mum's to pick her up for Panchoes. She was, for the first time in ages, going to be on time. But unfortunately the lack of flow in her new living room preoccupied me to complete distraction and I had to arrange it. Against medical advice, good advice this time, I hurt my whiplash a little by moving the couches. Once complete, the room felt warm and acceptable, and I felt hurty and a little violated.
Family dinner was great and painful; like all good things. People harassed me on quitting my job, and being unemployed. And I assisted their generality by offering dismal projections on my new business venture. It is strange that when anybody has a foothold to proffer an opinion, they do, and they become condescending in the process. Some people put in an effort to empathise, which actually felt good. Others sat on horses high and prophesied a doomed end to my insignificant flight of fancy. Little did they know, a doomed end would be a welcome alternative to returning to the halls of our august leadership.
With the pleasantries out of the way, we all returned to harmless and fulfilling banter. Once the group had reduced to less than eight, conversation actually started. We finally discussed more than tip-of-the-brain anecdotes. We all ended up laughing. It was great after the free-for-all smack-down of a large group. I do despise groups. Like at the shit market, people trip up on unseen dog leads and step in the poo of their trembling animals. It has always baffled me that any type of group gathering could be enjoyable. Especially that people aim for it at the ends of their every week.
I think it must be the lowest common denominator formula. The conversation requires little-to-no thinking, which most people are highly adept in. It gives people a chance to pretend to be good at something, and get points on some mythical scoring factor known as coolness. And it distracts them from the mundane disinterest that their contributory-life offers them. At least at a group gathering they are expected to accomplish nothing. And they all succeed with absolute aplomb.