Writing Thread

I have written a journal all of my life. Well, most of it. Somehow, one of the inspiring teachers at school got me interested enough to keep one haphazardly when I was a teenager at school. 

Then I discovered poetry in my late teenage years and I wrote it for five, or so, ten years after that. (I write it again now. Go and check out my poetry blog. Urban Poet. There is a link in the blogs I like section) Because all of the poems were so personal, reading back over them I was transported and I knew exactly the reason behind most. And I always dated them (I think that is some mad Virgo instinct towards perfection, I assume) and I wrote them, practically, every day. So, each poem made the basis for a daily journal entry, many years later. So that filled in a good chunk.

When I lived in London, I kept a travel journal, or sorts. But I was a really good letter writer, and that is all I wrote in those days. There was theatre to it. A performance. I'd left the love of my life behind, Leah, and I wrote her every day. I lived 2 years in London celibate, I never went to a gay club, not once. (2023 – stupid me. Seriously, I have no words) Not ever. (2023 – if I could get hold of my 20 year old self, I think I would just punch him) I'd been to gay clubs in Melbourne with Leah, but it never occurred to me to go London on my own. (Some years later, one of my Aussie friends, Russell told me he was sneaking off to Heaven all the time. We’d eventually lose touch and I heard he contacted Multiple sclerosis) I don't even remember having any man crushes whilst I was in London. None. Nothing. (2023 – none. Nothing. Ain’t that the truth) We lived our cosseted North London lives, going to dinner and the theatre with my (plutonic) girlfriends. 

Anyway, Leah kept the letters, and before we stopped talking to one another – nothing to do with me being gay, but that is another story – she gave them to me, so that filled in a few years.

(2023 – some of her boyfriends found it hard to cope with being compared to her ex, gay, boyfriend. Michael Brown comes to mind. Was he the one directly after me? I think. He had issues. He told Leah’s mum I was gay just spitefully. And you know what, he was cute, just my type. Dark. Hairy. Good looking. I’d do it with Michael Brown. Kiss him, his stubble mouth. Slide my hand into his pants. Not such a big todger, apparently. Makes no never mind. Push his suit jacket up, and push his business shirt up, pull his suit trousers and jocks down around his hairy thighs and do him right in the arse, him on his knees. How I’d like to hear Michael Brown moaning with my dick all the way up inside him)

But I digress.

There is a bit in the middle that is missing, when I discovered boys and drugs and dance parties and sex. Pity, as it could have been the most interesting piece. As Tulluha Bankhead once said. "Good girls kept journals, bad girls never had the time."

It was something lost with Tom’s death. We were always going to sit down and write it together to fill in the missing 5 years. We did those years together. He’d kept a journal, of sorts, during those years. He said he remembered it all any way. 

Pity, Tom’s death was so sudden in the end, and his parents were so devastated, having lost the grand battle so hard fought. It always looked as though Tom was going to make it, even in his sickest moments. None of us ever thought he was going to die. 

And then he did. 

It didn’t occur to me until many years later to ask for those journals. That was a loss. Tom wrote beautifully when he put his mind to it. His mum died some years after him and I didn’t keep in contact with his dad. 

His dad was amazing, really, and we all got to love him too, during Tom’s illness, so it is not as if I didn’t know him. He amazed us all one night when we all sat around smoking pot with him, (he didn’t partake), and he told us that he had a sexual relationship with his brother during their late, teen years, which stopped when his, year older than him, brother got a girlfriend. And then Tom’s dad got a girlfriend and a wife, he never thought any more about it. Pretty much, until he was sitting around with his gay son and his gay son’s buddies. 

“We’re in our sixties now, it was a long time ago, who really cares now,” I remember Tom’s dad saying. 

I’ve thought of friending him on Facebook, but then going on to ask him for personal items of his much cherished dead son after I have ignored him for 9 years, seems, well, kind of shallow. But, you know, I could probably scan anything and have it back to him in 24 hours. You know what I mean.

I should just friend him on Facebook anyway, he was a nice bloke.

I have written my journal solidly for the last 20 years.

So, now one blog has to make me rich, so that I can cash in with the other journal ha ha.

So, for many years, my journal and my blog have competed. I’ve switched from writing my blog at the expense of my journal, and writing my journal at the expense of my blog. It has never worked that I have been able to transfer my journal directly to my blog. It is too personal, I’m not sharing all of that with you guys. Except that I do, pretty much. It is really more logistical. Changing everyone’s names, and all the key points that would really identify them, is really, really time consuming. 

I’m not being ridiculous, it has happened. One of the minor characters, I have written about, whose names I once didn’t change, because he was a minor character, was someone I saw professionally and he recognised himself and he sent me a very clever email letting me know.

So, the latest philosophy behind this blog is to take what I think is an interesting paragraph, or an interesting idea contained within a sentence, of my journal, transfer it to my blog, to see what interesting piece of writing I can come up with. That’s what I do now. I think it is better for me that way, it stretches me more so than just transcribing day’s events.

And, if at all possible, I include a photo that I also took on that day. (My blog philosophy on photos changed a few years ago, I now, 99.9% of the time, only publish photos that I have taken myself.

I like the idea of a daily photographic journey, as well.

So, if some days I only have one, slight, interesting thing to say, and no photo, I just say it. I try to blog every day. Photos count.

All I Need Is A Little Self Confidence

I was up at 9.30am.

No milk.

I needed to go to the supermarket.

I feel guilty about not ringing the not for profit employment agent back. It is my appalling lack of self confidence, I know that. But, there are a number of things in that job description that I haven’t done and there are a number of things that I haven’t done for a while and I barely know (the new system) yet.

I applied because the salary was good and it was in the CBD. I’m not really sure why I applied now, as I have never worked in not for profit, I never thought I’d hear from them. And then the employment agent called yesterday.

So why did I apply?

I think I applied because I have just signed on to (name of company) to do temp work, which will not necessarily be full time and could be any where in Melbourne… and I have walked to work for the last ten years and it was easy and is easy and I want to walk to work again. I don’t want to drive with all the madmen in the chaos that are our roads it sounds frightening. And stupid. I can walk to the CBD in fifteen minutes.

There are plenty of people with more gumption than me who’d bluff their way into that position. There are plenty of people who have got a lot more with a lot less.

Let’s face it, I am driving to Tullamarine on Monday for ¾’s of the pay.

So I am feeling weak and useless and, in a certain sense, defeated.

So, this morning, it made me feel that I should, at least, get off my arse and close my bank account, you know, get something done that I have been putting off. I am going to be working full time from Monday, after all. It was still early. Take the money out of my savings account in one bank where I earn no interest, effectively, and put it into my mortgage at another bank where I pay interest on every cent of the out standing balance.

And there it was, my natural step back instead of stepping forward, there right then when I thought about closing my account. Maybe I should stop and think about this some more? Translation, maybe I should hesitate. Outcome, do nothing.

I’ve learnt over the years how to deal with this? It is more than laziness, it is a terrible lack of confidence? It is still difficult for me, but I have a mechanism. I’ve developed an override, a leap of faith feeling. I don’t know where it comes from, and I’m not really sure how it works, but it over rides my natural dilly dally, do nothing, lazy arse, procrastination.

I had to pay my mobile phone and my credit card. Get those bills, leave the house now. Go to the supermarket and get the milk. The two banks are opposite each other, just take you passport just in case you need more identification, as my account is actually held at the Richmond branch. Pay the bills and get milk, that’s all you have to think about. Just get going. Move.

I concentrate on the simple things that have to be done, phone bill and credit card have pay by dates and while I’m out there the banks are right there, I walk passed them, all I have to do it go in in between the other things.

I don’t know if that makes any sense? Just concentrate on the easy things and the other things take care of themselves, especially things I have put off and put off and put off, as they have been over thought and certainly don’t need any more thought wasted on them to get them done.


Oh, I don’t know what it is. I was told everyday of my grade six year that I was no good and I would never amount to anything, by my teacher Arthur Batson, who took a huge and irrational dislike to me. I have written about this before and I suspect the old closet case homo could see the poofter in me and it terrified him.

At the same time, I was sent away on school holidays to my auntie’s farm with my sister. My aunt also told me that I was no good at anything. But, at least she had insanity as an excuse.

“Oh Turtle (the miserable bitch used to call me turtle as she said I was slow) I do worry about you, I can’t imagine that there is anything in this world that you can possibly do.” Then she would give her shrill, mocking laugh, I can still hear it.

She had lost her precious 2nd son in an accident and I was smart and going to live on as my mothers’ son where hers wasn’t and I reminded her of him and she naturally wanted to destroy me… that would be my understanding of her behaviour if I had to say.

“Oh, but Christian you must remember that your aunt has had great tragedies in her life,” my mother would say.

My father, who was an all around good bloke, who was loved by everybody he met and who never had a bad word to say about anybody, quietly responded with, “She didn’t need tragedies in her life to make her a bitch.”

Many years later as an adult when I describe my treatment at the hands of my aunt, my mother was furious.


They were full mental assaults on a twelve year old boy. I often wonder if it is that which has had a detrimental effect on me. I wonder if I should be seeking out therapy for my lack of self confidence in the terms of what happened to me at the hands of those two cruel people.

It’s not in social settings, or with friends, in that sense I am considered quite confident and out spoken and quite a leader, in a certain sense. I’m also good with practical things. I can change a washer, repoint a brick wall, strip and paint a room, but they are all practical skills I learnt from my clever father. My father could do anything and he taught me lots.

No, it is more difficult to pin point than that. It varies as to how it manifests itself. It is not always logical. It is…

You know, it is funny, I’ve never thought about it in relation to my father before. My father was a tradesman when he left school and an academic once he had my mother to encourage him. He started out in one field and then went back to university when we were small children and changed to the other. Consequently, he had a very wide skill set, he could do just about anything. He was also handsome, out going and funny. I used to spend my time hanging out with him watching him and learning from him. Now that I think about it, anything my father taught me, or anything I watched my father for an example, I have no lack of self confidence, those things I am strong with, but anything where I don’t have my father as an example to draw from, I struggle.

Wow. I wonder if that is true?

It could be? I felt a shiver run up my spine.


It was a gorgeous day, sunny with blue skies, it was nice to be out in it. I love that smell of sunny freedom when I get to wander around the shops with just myself to please and nothing pressing to do, or to get to.

I went to the supermarket and got the milk. Everything was done, bills paid, bank accounts closed, I decided to reward myself with Danishes. Yum yum what the hell. So, of course, Woolies had a special on, any 4 pastries/small cakes for $6. Really? Oh why oh why universe have you come to tempt me so mercilessly? Instead of $2.40 each. It would seem crazy not to go for the cheaper deal. But, you know, if I buy four Danishes, I’ll eat four Danishes. I know that. I surveyed what was on offer. Licked my lips and thought of the extra jam and pineapple donuts I could scoff. Then I put an apricot Danish and an Escargot in a bag and I walked away.

Mr Touchy

My grade 5 teacher was Mr Touchy. He was cool. I liked him. But, I wonder now about him? When we had misbehaved to, what he thought, was an unacceptable way, he used to get us boys up the front of the classroom bending over his desk, so he could smack our bottoms with a metre ruler in front of the whole class.

Do you reckon it gave him a thrill when his long ruler made contact with our nubile arses?

Did us boys think it was a joke? I can't remember now. Did I ever get my arse whacked, I don't think I did.

It seems quite bizarre now when I think back.

I guess things were of a time, and if we looked back at practices of a bygone era we would be horrified about many things. 

I'm a Happy Sodomite, How About You?

Clearly, the bottom is in the red bathers. Bigger, taller, stronger

You know what they say about the poofter basher, at school? He's the closet fag. There have been so many recorded cases of this that it is now an undeniable fact. What he really wants is for his victim to kiss him and love him, he just doesn't know how to ask.

I have personal experience of this. The most anti gay, poofter bashing boy, when I was at school, Nick, the big, tough Greek boy, I slept with when we were both in our twenties. He was passionate and keen and he had the most beautiful olive skin covering his beautiful body. He wasn't shy and certainly seemed to be over his old hangups, despite having a girlfriend at the time.

He said he put up the façade, at school, because he was so terrified of the other boys (and his father) finding out how he felt that it used to make him blind with rage.

As it clearly is with Fred Phelps of the Westboro Church. The man bangs on so much about sodomy that his heterosexual orientation has to be called into question.

My answer to Fred Phelps - right after my question of why do we even give these minority, hate filled, nut bags air space at all - mate, if you want to be sodomised so badly why don't you just go out and get your arse hole popped with a big cock and do the rest of us a huge favour.

Back to my question - Why do we give such hate groups, with only 70 followers, after all, any air time what so ever? We don't give it to antisemites. We don't give it to white supremacists. We don't give it to racists. Why give it to someone like like Fred Phelps and his freak show Christian homophobes?

What Was I Thinking?

I think I have manifested pains in my chest. I kept thinking about the bogey man cancer, I used it as a smoking deterrent. You’ll get lung cancer. You’ll get lung cancer. You'll get lung cancer. Which made me quit. But the point is, I kept thinking about lung cancer. And now I've got pains in my chest. More so when I think about it. So, I conclude that it is largely psychosomatic. But still? What was I thinking? Idiot!

I kind of had that realisation this week and every thing since has been about how your mind can mess with you. David's Happy Cards, all of them, as if it was some sort of telepathy. Now Shane has been talking about it, tonight. The power of thought to give you disease.

On the bright side, I've got dope and nobodies home, so I might just get shit-faced and watch porn. Fuck it!

Shane's gone to fuck a trolley dolly in Matt's bed, while Matt is over seas. Matt's housemate is overseas too.

I’m still smoking cigarettes. I know, I know. Tomorrow I quit. For sure!

I was going to do some writing tonight, but now I can't be fagged.

They'll write that as my epitaph. He couldn't be fagged. I'm a lazy fucking bastard...

All of my school report cards. Christian is a boy of such great aptitude. Maybe one day he might decide to use it.

Actually, a couple read, A very excellent student. It's amazing what happens when you have good teachers in subjects you like.

But all of the rest...

Shane's on his way home with Nandos. The trolley dolly couldn't have been great. Never go out with a loaded gun, said Shane. He must have taken Viagra because it stayed hard. Shrug. But that's okay.

You know. Grimace. Air stewards? Always found them a bit girlie, myself. Not that there is any thing wrong with that, of course. 

Monday Night... and Everything is All Right

I gossip about frivolous things, but I never tell secrets that shouldn't be told. I can always keep secrets, I'm good at it, if I know I have to... because I learnt long ago that...

... my mouth gets me into trouble... big time! (I first learnt that when I was persecuted by my grade 6 teacher... I was too smart for him and he didn't like it. I ended up with shingles @ the age of 11) Too blunt, my boss said to me the other day, shaking his head. I say what I think.

People don't like that today, they mistake someone disagreeing, for rudeness. (They mistake passion for attitude)

I live on my own, so nobody cares if I flush the toilet; wash the dishes, clean the house or leave the place on a weekend. (I must get out more. I'm not at all sure that blogging is good for me.)

I'm never satisfied with my body, which is stupid, as we'll never be as good looking as we are today.

I'm going to buy a treadmill.

I don't care about people, necessarily, I'm good with my own company. People are stupid... mostly.

Rat-faced receptionists the lot of you. (until proven otherwise, of course)

I'm very laid back - a friend of mine said, you are so laid back, it must get uncomfortable with all that pressure on the top of my head.

I'm so the opposite of a control freak it is probably detrimental to my well being. Take more control over life, I say. Is it just my inherent laziness?

I'm rarely jealous of others - I share my life, my house and my boyfriends with ease... although the latter is in for reconsideration.

I must dump Manny... ah, beautiful Manny... so I can get some intelligent conversation in the evenings... you know, like a real boyfriend.

I'm a whinger only @ work... but that's because I'm so sick of people not doing their job properly. I hate it when I hear my voice whine, because I'm not, generally, like that. I hate that work does that to me.

I never leave the water running while I brush my teeth, but I cheat with the water restrictions. But I figure that I don't water nearly as often as I'm allowed to, so what difference does it make if I water during the day, instead of at night?

I think and analyse too much, at the expense of "doing." I am the world's worst procrastinator.

I judge people. But I don't care about being judged. Give it your best shot. (Be clever with it and I'll love it, no matter what you say)

I'm rarely offended... you'd have to be really going to do that.

I don't have any goals, dreams, I seem to have exhausted them all - oh yes, to be a published writer, I nearly forgot.

I've been feeling down this last week and several people have called my boss to ask if I was all right. "Chris is just not his usual bubbly self, is there something wrong."

Is there something wrong? (I've been sick, truthfully) Have you not been listening for the last, oh, year? Do some work you lazy cunts!

I have cynicism in bucket loads to spare - I have to work at being positive. People can't handle the truth.

I'm considering monogamy for my next boyfriend - it's time they can put up or shut up, keeping it special for the two of us suddenly has some appeal.

I've got my act together about a car. I've made two inquires about Peugeot 306 GTI6's. Yay for me.

I'm smoking too many cigarettes, yet again. How did that fcuking happen?

He who shall never be mentioned - you would have had to have been following very closely to understand - bought over 3 joints and we smoked them all.

8 Weeks Till Xmas

Eight weeks to Xmas. What? Already? The middle part of the year just kind of gets away from you.

And the world slips by.

I wanted to be a bloody great success by now. But, I guess, that is the unquenchable wants, one half of the economic equation, of human nature. A bloody great success is a sliding scale, depending where you are along your personal journey.

Depends, what scale you are using? The accountant scale, or the superstar scale. I guess, on the accountant scale, I am a bloody great success. Although, to me, it just seems like a bore, like some how I got side tracked and here I am. Sometimes, I feel like I joined the wrong dots, professionally, that is, because at eighteen I didn't know what the hell I wanted to do.

I want to do architecture, I said in year 12 - all my art through out my whole school life was of buildings, normally terrace houses, or renovations to existing buildings. You know, herritage facades...

You're a business student, said the careers teacher with a snigger. You've always have been, you must take this path...

But, I think, buildings are the only thing I'm passionate about... blah, blah, blah.

You've never done physics, you wouldn't get in. She looked at me if I was mad. Now, here's your business course choices.

How much did you say they earned?

Blah, blah, she enthused.

Oh, okay then.

I had to live before I even knew what dots to go for. I still didn't take writing seriously until years after that. Writing was something I'd always done. I wrote my first story in grade three, my mate Stuart Williams, illustrated. It was so good, it was read to the grade 2's. We wrote a sequal. Writing was something I'd always just done - I kept a journal, wrote poems, made up stories, in year twelve I had so many characters going around in my head, I feared schizophrenia.

But, at eighteen, I did as I was told. That kept me busy for a while.

Success is always void, as soon as you get there, or at least, as soon as I get there, because there has always been something else. Architecture and then writing. Achievements are null and void by the dream of something greater.

It wasn't until my twenty eigth birthday, I remember it well. I could have been a writer all along. But that's just kids stuff. You mean I could have?

Then I spent five years studying that.

Now, I just want to see something of mine in print and have people tell me they enjoyed it. (Other than people I already know, that is) That's all.

I guess the moral to this story, well, for me anyway, is that if I want to go up a scale in success, I need to work twice as hard and not kick back and smoked pot and relax - and not write this blog.

Sad, but true.