Jesus

Just My Type

Someone asked me the other day, "Well, what do you think about Jesus Christ?" when they were questioning my heathen outlook on the history of the world.

I responded, quick as a flash, "I reckon he was just my type. Nice Arab boy. I would have had my hand up his toga in no time."

Well, by the wide-eyed look I received in response, I realised, maybe, I may have misunderstood the question.

Kiss Me Quick

Bro-Crush

Apparently, a Bro-Crush is when two straight boys are attracted to each other.

You know what Y-Gen straight boys are like, more bisexual than their straight bros who have come before them. They are way more likely to have a Bromance than their predecessor's.

Y-Gen girl Scarlet was telling me, that it's becoming something they do. Y-Gen girlfriends want to watch boy on boy, in the same way that in the past their boyfriends have wanted to watch them with another girl.

Scarlet's boyfriend Jack had to put out too to see Scarlet with another chick.

"He wants to see that, sure, but it works both ways," Scarlet said.

"And did he?" I asked.

She smiled kind of dirty."Yeah. A party boy. Romny."

"A party boy?"

"Well, med student, first year uni. High achiever. Bright enough star for Jack to be fascinated." She smiled again. She was beautiful when she smiled. "It was hot!"

Scarlet said she didn't, really, expect Jack would do it again, the same way she felt about doing it with another woman. "But if the situation presents itself again." She laughed, kicking her legs into the air, she was talking about herself as much as Jack. "Maybe?"

Are you relaxed? This won't hurt a bit.

As the Rain Falls Gently Down

Okay, as the rain falls down, pitter pat, it's D day? That short story is coming out and it's going to get rewritten to with an inch of it's life. The beginning is all wrong. There is too much dialogue and not enough narrative, always my problem. Actually, to be a glass half full person, always my style. I naturally write in dialogue. (When I was younger, I strangely, naturally wrote in 2nd person, but that is neither here or there now) I should have been working on it all week. Why do I do this? (Because you work better under pressure)

Of course, a new problem has reared it's ugly head, I'm off to chill out on Sunday, Daylesford, day picnic, dance party Sunday night. Me and Shane. However, my writer's meeting is 10 am Sunday. Hands in the air, cursing skywards! I can't cancel again. Grimace. Oh, I have to cancel. Big eyes. Head shake. No, I can't cancel, if I ever want to go to this writer's group again. (And I do) But, it would mean I'd have to drive myself, midday Sunday and not get a lift. Dance party. Car. Country roads. I so didn't want to be in that situation. Grrr!

Dreaming Away

I was at my mums early, which is always good as it means I can get home with plenty of the day left... to fritter, so it would seem this last week.

Maybe it's the change in the weather?

I just wanted to perve at Louis Garrel, again. The French actor who has trouble keeping his cloths on in his movies. I've got the names of two more of his movies to check him out in. Is that a bit schoolboyish? Really, these photos have no relevance to today in any way, other than my dirty little thoughts. I'm off to the DVD shop to find those movies.

I think you can pretty much tell where my writing is at.

 

How's the rain? I haven't heard it falling on the roof for... I can't remember when. Just been staring out the window at it.

Clearly, I don't feel like writing anything today. So lets just look at cute men.

Then I'll get back to beautiful cars, maybe.

Ah! I'm wasting my life.

 

Actually, for a blond Michael Pitt is pretty cute himself

Any Thing You Want?

Given a Big Serve

David has an older divorced sister, C, who has some divorced guy who comes over and gives it to her when she's feeling the itch. Apparently, he's good at it. So much so that afterwards, she feels so good, so pepped up, so full of the verve for living she gets into that kitchen and she cooks up a storm like a mad thing. And she sends it over to us. Home made Greek cooking, none of us are going to turn it down. Dolmades, moussaka, lamb, I'm sure you get the picture. (There's only one thing I like more than Greek boys...)

Now, we're trying to eat healthily. Sensible diet. No deserts, as Mark W would say. Shane and I, that is. David eats anything and everything.

David arrives home with a giant platter, Saturday night, held out with both hands.

"It must have been a marathon," says David. He whips the tinfoil off...

"Carnage!" I say. "Jasus Xist!"

"Lucky to walk again," says David.

"Fuck me!" says Shane. "Can I have this guys number?"

We stare down at a platter covered in rocky road slice, cheesecake and poppy seed cake. Food for fucking days!

OMG! We've been eating it ever since.

I'm heading to the toilet nightly to practice my Bulimia skills. Three fingers right down and there's no gagging.

 

Green [01]

Ivy, moss, snot

rancid meat.

Parsley, lime, peppermint

mowed grass.

Inebriated. Jealous. Mould.

Slimy feet.

Bottle. Glass. Sea.

Poisoned world.

Country side. Maple. Deciduous.

Verdant void.

Inexperience.

Gone.

Austin Atlantic

Yeah, Great

We danced at The Market until 3am, when I didn't want to dance any more. Kane didn't want to leave, some of his friends were there dancing with us, so I left on my own.

Yeah, great, I thought, as I stood in Commercial Road in a wet t-shirt with my hand in the air on my own. That's, actually, not my idea of a night out with a guy I like. Maybe, I'll go see the movie, He's just not that into you, today, 'cause that's how it made me feel. Childish, I guess, but that's how I felt in the back of the taxi as it raced up Hoddle Street in the cool night air.

I was thankful I had one of those maniac taxi drivers who dodged and weaved through the traffic and got me home in record time.

Borgward Isabella

I'd Be Ending It

I’m feeling that depression that I felt last time I quit smoking pot. I asked my doctor about it back then and he said it would pass. And it did, a week or so.

It just makes me feel like life is worthless and there’s not really any point continuing. Nothing is important, every thing is a drag. It’s an awful feeling really. Luckily, it will pass, like it did last time, actually, this time last year. But how do the people cope who suffer from this continually? I’d be ending it, I can tell you, life isn't that special to always be feeling like this. It’s quite horrible. Debilitating. I can understand depressives leaping off bridges.

Now, I'm going for a bike ride to try and get whatever poison out of my system. Make my lungs gasp for breath, make my breathing rasp in my throat. It's the only way to feel normal again.

Then I'm off to Milk with Kane. Then dinner.

They don't make 'em like this any more

Bristol 402

It's amazing what the thought of a D series Citroen, a few posts ago, has lead to. It sent me off on an all consuming car craze, yesterday. But, I am a car nut, always have been since I was a little boy, so, maybe, it is to be expected. Don't know why, I was born with the car gene and the gay gene and, I guess, the writing gene. I'll see how many other beautiful cars I can come up with before I get tired of it and head back to photos of semi naked men. Sometimes, I just have to do photos that just aren't so gay, if you know what I mean.

Bristol 402

Some where I've got some cartoon sketches of me that were done by a very talented artist I used to work with. I'll see if I can dig them out and scan them too.
Now, where would I have put them?
And for anybody who is the slightest bit interested, the blue convertible is a very rare Bristol 402.
Below, is a red Bristol 401 sedan. In my opinion probably the most beautiful rear design on any car ever. Preferably, minus the GB initials for purity of design, but I couldn't find a rear photo without them.

Below that is a black Corvette Stingray.

Return to Work... I Don't Think So

 I got home from my mums to a message on my answering machine from HR @ work wanting to know when my return date was? My head spun toward the machine like Linda Blair. I'm sure my eyes would have glowed green at that moment, if you'd been quick enough to catch them in that millisecond. Maybe, a growl like a wolf. They thought I was returning on March 2nd. Monday? This coming Monday? Jasus fuck! Body shiver. Apparently, Beck is sick with some allergic reaction to penicillin, or something. Spots all over her body. They thought I'd be back to cover for her. Green vomit across the kitchen walls... diarrhoea dribbling down the backs of my legs! Shuddering!

"Call me back when you have a moment," said our HR manager.

I told them it was April 1st, when I was supposed to be returning, not the beginning of March.

And then I sucked in breath and bit the bullet and ignored all of my procrastination regarding the safety of a wage and said that I now wanted to take 12 months off, which would mean I wouldn't return until midway through August.

"Oh... okay," said the HR chick. "You know we want you to come back, don't you? You know we don't want to lose you."

Yeah, yeah, tell it to the judge, I thought.

I told them I was looking after my mother, whose mental state is deteriorating, which it is. And which I am - I spend every second day with her. I guess, I don't, actually, talk about her that much. My beautiful, intelligent, gorgeous mother. She is going down, it is terribly sad. Heart breaking. Awful. She's not my mother any more, some strange, demented old woman has taken her place. And then, of course, she is my mother. Soon, I'll be going to see her every day and not long after that, I guess, I'll be moving in with her. It's inevitable. She's not going into a home, I'm going to make sure of that.

She's had a great life, travelled the world, lived, loved, had children in her 40's, been happily married, had a privileged and happy life. She's had it all.

But the up side is, no work until mid August.

May be I should just throw caution to the fucking wind and resign and be done with it? Then I'd have to take this writing gig seriously, hey?

Late in the Night, Like a Dirty Secret

I had a joint, so kill me. 5 days of not smoking and I had a joint like a dirty little secret after David and Shane had gone to bed. Bad Christian!

A bottle of red didn't cut it.

I'm not admitting to anything, you understand.

Bristol 401

Back in the Group

Okay, apparently the writer's group is pretty relaxed in its organisation. And since I copped a caning from all concerned re declining of the invite, I've now said yes.

The meeting is Sunday week.

Count me in, I wrote nervously.

I have one shitty short story to take. What with meth come down last week and nicotine withdrawal this week, I haven't written a word for 10 days.

But, I guess, I only need one piece, hey?

They welcomed me back. Yay! They all hoped I'd change my mind. I'm shitting myself. Fuck! I've got nothing good to take. But, I guess, that's the point of a writer's group, hey?

Now, I'm going to ride my bike over to my mums, exercise is one of the best cures for the ciggie screams.

Chevrolet Corvette

How Does It Feel

I'm half way through a bottle of red wine, I figure that's all that's left for me now. My last addiction, which was never really an addiction at all. Booze is a poor man's drug.

Shane bought down a bottle of Valium, saying they mix well with red wine. You won't care about anything. Smoking. Nothing. Take two.

I'm waiting for the apathy to kick in, as G arrives.

I tried to plug the cord for my lap-top into my A drive. Clearly something is working.

You've made a life time of trying to plug your end into the wrong hole, says G.

Unless it smells like shit when it comes out, you are just not doing it right, I say.

G grimaces.

Change the world!

Change it to what, though?

G shrugs.

An egalitarian society where everyone is treated well, I ask?

No, nothing that fucking radical, says G.

I'd make all the straight boys crave man on man sex...

In your dreams, says G.

You should see what you do in my dreams.

G smiles nervously.

Would you accept Jesus into your heart, for this new world?

Jesus is just my type, I say, dark, swarthy. I'd accept him into my bed. Suck his cock! Divine spoof.

Jesus is the saviour.

I'm the devil with the pitch fork and the horns, I say. It's a much cooler part.

G drinks from another bottle of wine and scoffs 2 v's, but his pants still don't come off. (you know what straight boys are like on alcohol)

Do you want to see me naked? G slurs.

No, that would be like perving on my brother, I say.

We finish our bottles of wine and wrap ourselves in blankets and sing, He ain't heavy...

We think we sound grand.

The phone rings and there is just heavy breathing on the other end.

Say something obscene, says G.

Fuck off cunt, I slur and G laughs. That's obscene?

Your mother sucks on dead bitch dog's cunts in hell, yells G, after he snatches the phone from my hand. Pulling the dried, deteriorating vaginal skin from her lips in sheets. He makes slurping noises with his mouth.

I quietly take the remaining red wine away from him

G and I both watch, "I'm not there" and neither of us get it.

You do look like Christian Bale, though, Christian, says G.

Get fucked!

But you do!

I've heard it all before, I hear myself slur, as my head spins on the wine. I can't see it.

The only drug left to me, I say. And it's the worst one of all.

That's cause your a pig.

Am not, I say.

Piggy, piggy, piggy, piggy, piggy, piggy, piggy, says G. (which sounds strange coming from a straight boy's mouth)

And a D series Citroen comes on the screen, Heath Ledger drives away in it, and G loses me completely.

The most beautiful car ever designed, I say.

You're the most beautiful guy ever born, slurs G.

No more wine for you, I say.

yOU GOT ANOTHER BOTTLE AND i'LL DO ANY THING...

Promises, promises, I say.

Suck me off...

I'm calling your girlfriend, I say.

Kate Blanchett sucks on a cigarette and I hate her guts... big time! I want her killed!

You got it bad, says G

Have not.

I saw you inhale when she did.

Get fucked, I say. I chug on my red wine, totally unconvinced.

G puts his arm around me.

I lay my head against his chest.

Bob Dylan sings, How does it feel.

Neither of us say anything.

What do you think Jesus' bum crack would smell like? I ask.

Shit, says G.

What does Valentina's cunt taste like, I ask?

Piss, says G.

I take another Valium, washed down with more red wine.

The Dreaded Day 3 - Shake, Rattle and Roll

Am I hungry, or just withdrawing? Do I have the shakes, or am I just detoxing? Is my central nervous system packing it in, or is it just the addiction?

Every cell in my body is quivering! Like low level panic. Like electricity being leaked into my system. Zzz! Zzz! zZZ!

Harder to give up than heroin? Personally, I found heroin much easier to quit than tobacco.

Ha, Ha.

Kane called, he's coming over to give me a massage, smooth me out, tide me over, relieve the tension. He's been finishing and submitting his thesis. Oh? I see? Well, that's a pretty damn good excuse, I thought. Hmm?

I've got 4 short stories written, I'd better get on and write some more. But, who can work with these shakes and this foggy head? I just feel like watching movies.

a few hours later...

I pulled my tax together for the last 2 years, that must count for something?

An organic cherry muffin cheers me up... not unlike that buzz-cut wog boy in the lime green t-shirt with the nice smile could have...

I'm giving up now and I'm going to watch "I'm not there."

I haven't seen too many Heath Ledger or Cate Blanchett films to decide if either of them are any good. The few Heath Ledger films I've seen have left me thinking that he is way overrated. The Dark Night, it seemed to me that Heath was on some trip of his very own, kind of separate to the rest of the cast. Brokeback Mountain, for most of the film Heath was unintelligible. Call me old fashioned, but I like to be able to understand what my movie characters are saying. Candy was okay. I switched A Knights Tale off before it was finished. Awful.

I've seen Cate in The Talented Mr Ripley and Lord of the Rings, but I can't remember seeing her in any thing else.

 

Screaming Silently into the Void

I feel like crap, on the edge, staring down from the precipice, want to scream, yell, lay very still. Burn! Kick my arms and legs. Explode.

Every cell in my body is humming. Ahhhhhhhhhhhh! But I've had no cigs, no joints, no evil tobacco and now I'm crawling into my cave. Pull the doona over my head and stop breathing! Scream silently into the void!

I bought mangos to eat, but instead drank 3 glasses of red wine. Hick! Now I'm light-headed on top of it all.

I'm ready for day 3. Really day 2 because last night I, well, you know... Bring it on!

I should go walking, riding, running, something?

I'm All Yours

Day 2 - Christian's Addiction

 Yay, for my haircut, I thought as I looked bleary-eyed into the mirror this morning. Even if me & the hairdresser did have an inordinately detailed discussion about what I meant by short.

Just cut my fucken hair will ya?

My reflection looked fresher, happier, cooler, handsomer, gazing back.

I'm never going to smoke again. That's what I'm aiming for. That's what it has to be, if I want to quit. I can't piss around with this any more. Time to get serious.

I had dinner with Mark W, Shane and D. So you think you can dance results show dinner. We had a couple of joints.

To tell you the truth, I'm not even enjoying being stoned any more. It just feels stupid.

And cigarettes, I hate them.

This should be easy.

nervous smile.

6 hours later...

Oh yes, feisty Christian is lurking just below the surface, like hot mud pools, or thermal rocks. Beige to bitch in milli-seconds. Guns are armed but so far have not been fired. At surface level I look nice and normal, but under the surface, toil and trouble brews, ready to spew forth @ the slightest provocation.

Okay, so I took my mum to Safeway and ate lunch with her without incident. So, let's not push it, I think. I've got DVD's, I've got tea, I've got juice, I've got 3 newspapers and I am heading to bed to endure the rest of the first day out of sight.

Probably best.

Oh yawn, Heath Ledger got the supporting Oscar.

Is it just me or do other people find his family just a little creepy. They seem to enjoy their ill-gotten lime light just a little too much. Go to the opening of an envelope, as they say.

Must go see Milk. 

Model For You

Day 1 - Here We Go Again

Okay, I know you've heard it all before, but, here I am, all right again, day 1 of quitting smoking. Give me strength.

Got my hair cut and went to the old post office for breakfast, while the cleaner was here. I hate being home at the same time, don't know why. Phobia? Maybe, I was scared by my mother's cleaner when I was a little boy?

I bought the movie Intermission, on a whim. ex rental $5. How can I go wrong, I thought? Now, I'm going to settle on the couch and watch it. Do nothing for the arvo. Be gentle on myself.

Already, I'm going out for dinner with a bunch of pot smokers. Okay, so I'm going to puff on a few joints, before the end of the day. Kill me! No cigs though. 

Please, Sir

Life Goes On

Tom,

Last night as I played pool with Shane, Mark W and D, we all had a moment where we were all standing looking at one another, tuned into each other at exactly the same time, waiting for the next person to take their turn. I looked from Shane, to Mark W to D's faces and I thought of you - you should have been there, like once you would have been. Fifteen months after you died, there were your four best mates living life, being guys together, playing Sunday night pool. I know you would have been pleased. I know you would have smiled. I know you would have had a tear in your eye.

As David would say, Tom was right there with you, that's why you thought of him. Nice idea David, but I don't know?

And life goes on. Unfaltering. Unswerving. Indomitable. Incessant. Unstoppable. We're all just fodder for time, nothing else. There is no great mystery.

Movies

I watched...

Slumdog Millionaire - so the Indians make a formulaic American movie and beat the Americans at their own game. It was good.

The Bankjob - yawn, another pommy cops and robbers movie. I spent part of the movie trying to convince my friend that the lead actor was not Guy Richie.
Great cars, though.

Sitting up late in bed... The Dreamers - I've always loved this movie, nice to go back to it to have another perve.

Saturday night in DVD's

Troy - Will this movie ever end? Sure, Brad is pretty, but we always knew that.
Eric Bana is beefed up too.

Little Miss Sunshine - oh please Toni? Surely you can get better material than this? Rubbish.

Old Volkswagen's are so emotive. They are so cool, organic, sexy.

I had a 1965 Beetle. I loved that car. In fact, if it weren't for the safety issue, I'd probably drive an old Beetle now.

I used to run my hands over my Beetle sensuously. They were a sexy shape. I could lie over the back of my Beetle and hump it. Smoke a j. Get off on it. It was sexy. (cheeky smile) Not really. But it was nice to lie against in the afternoon sun. Curvy.

My favourite float in the Mardi Gras Parade ever was the handsome boy in the overalls polishing his pristine notch back sedan, circa 1965 ish, with his body. He seduced his VW all the way up Oxford Street. It was hot.

See Something You Like?

You'd Hate To Be...

You'd hate to be a Muslim, refugee, arsonist, right about now, hey?

Out Into the World With a Smile

Alex stepped out onto the street into the sunshine of the crystal blue sky day. He had to negotiate a woman on a mobile phone coming in one direction and a woman with a pram coming from the other direction. There he was between the two, doing some fancy footwork. He looked back at me and smiled and blew a kiss. Nobody noticed. Sweet.

We met online.

Shane, Mark W., Sebastian and I went out for dinner to a Singaporean restaurant. I held us all up looking for my wallet, before we left. It wasn't in any of my usual places. I never lose my wallet. It crossed my mind that Alex could have taken it. Easy, I hadn't thought about it until hours later, just as Shane found it on the mantelpiece in the lounge room. I reproached myself for the thoughts I'd had. 

Shelter

Love brings together two men who aren't sure where to fit a relationship into their lives in this romantic drama. Living in the oceanfront working-class community of San Pedro, Zach (Trevor Wright) is a young man in his early twenties who has been forced into the role of emotional anchor for his dysfunctional family; his mother is dead, his father is too ill to work, his sister Jeannie (Tina Holmes) is too busy partying to look after her five-year-old son Cody (Jackson Wurth), and Zach is the only one with the wherewithal to hold down a job and keep the rent paid. He's sacrificed his dream of attending CalArts in order to help Jeannie raise Cody. Between cooking at a diner and looking after Cody, Zach has little in the way of spare time, but as often as he can he heads to the beach to indulge his passion for surfing. While hanging out with his surfing buddy Gabe (Ross Thomas), Zach meets Gabe's brother, the struggling homosexual writer Shaun (Brad Rowe), who has taken a break from Tinseltown while rebounding from a dysfunctional relationship. Shaun goes surfing with Zach one day, and the two discover they're powerfully attracted to one another, and a flirtation turns into a love affair. As Shaun has to explain to his girlfriend why he no longer wants to be with her, Zach tries to make Jeannie and his father understand why he's come out of the closet. Shelter was produced for the gay and lesbian-oriented cable television network, though it enjoyed a brief theatrical release before its broadcast premiere. Mark Deming, All Movie Guide

Later...

I watched Another Gay Sequel. It is on my list of all time worst films. I almost turned it off before it was finished.

I opened the freezer to get some bread and a bottle of amyl fell out and smashed on the tiled floor, just as my scrambled eggs where ready. I had to just finish them, 2 minutes and they were done. The amyl stunk the whole house out. I tried to watch another movie, but eventually, I just had to get out, my head was spinning.

I went to Club 80. I haven't heard from Kane, so fuck him. Not that we have any agreements, but I think it is only polite to be somewhat exclusive to begin with. My Ex fuck buddy Stewart was there. I kind of wish he wasn't, he was so keen. He kind of took my attention... when, I was keen on giving somebody else a go. We did it, but my head wasn't really in it. He's cute, really. But... And then there was a lot of walking and chatting to Crazy Boy. I fancy him, kind of. No, I do. Maybe? He fascinates me.

But now it's 3am, and... ah, I don't know. That's my considered opinion on life. 

What?

I’m not going to defend a teacher having sex with a student, but this week a female teacher was found not guilty of sex with a male student, but was found guilty of the indecent act of hugging and kissing.

What?

We are getting a little precious, aren't we, if that's all that happened.

I don't think a boy has ever been psychology damaged from kissing and cuddling.

More likely the ensuing legal palaver that caused the damage.

Bursting Out of His Shirt

Hot February Night

It was hot, I thought, as I wash rushing along Gertrude Street late for my dinner date. I'd only remembered at the last minute, after pissing the day away. I passed two girls with their hand bags tipped out onto the footpath, as I passed them one said to the other, with an unlit, half smoked cigarette hanging from her mouth,

"Me fucken lioghta doesn't work."

I was looking at my phone wondering if I was going to make it on time, wondering if I should continue walking or catch a tram, wondering how much I was going to sweat in the process, with either option, with my eyes on the lights at Brunswick Street ready to make a run for the green man, when I heard,

"Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me."

On the third excuse me, I thought, Oh, I guess they are talking to me. Yes, I have a lighter. I was about to turn around when I heard.

"Ah, he's just a rude fucken dog!"

"Yeah, ya rude fucken dog," wailed the other scrubber.

Yeah, that's the way girl's, I thought. Winning friends and influencing people. I kept walking without any hesitation.

I went to dinner with my friend Kym. She's just been to America and loved it. She agreed the food in San Francisco was tasteless, but said New York was completely different.

Kym found Americans are much more confident and assertive than Australians. I think it's all a part of the American dream. You can be any thing you want to be in America. Thank you President Obama. Where Australian's are taught that you can only do your best.

Kym just wanted to drink American wines and was often offered Australian or New Zealand, which surprised her. Surprised me too, I wouldn't have thought she'd have glimpsed a squashed Aussie grape at all.

"Americans are much nicer in America, aren't they," said Kym. "The people who really got to me were the whinging Aussies and Poms. If something was wrong, let's say with a meal at a restaurant, Americans would take steps to rectify the problem, where the Aussies and the Poms would do nothing but bitch."

I saw Carl, the straight boy I had an affair with, walking through Melbourne Central with some girl, as Kym and I drank coffee with the last of our red wine. Jeans, dark blue Bonds T-shirt, short cropped hair, handsome face, boy he looked good.

He didn't see me. I'd have said hello, but I didn't see him until he was passing by. I was just thinking about him, the other day. It's funny how when I think of people out of the blue, often they turn up, or something concerning them happens.

I thought about that night in the spa, the night in my bedroom when he stayed, on the couch that morning after that dance party in his chaps and wondered why we lost contact?

At dance parties, he used to take his singlet off and give it to me to wear and he'd walk around shirtless holding my hand.

Sweet Carl.

Tuesday All Day

Today, I thought it was Wednesday, until a few moments ago. Oh, really? Tuesday? Are you sure? Tuesday?

My reality shifted. Clunk.

Nothing wrong with me. Nervous smile.

I tried to organise a massage, but have had no luck, so far. All booked up, apparently.

I think I'll spend the rest of the day being tranquil and still.

Monday Morning

Indication of my mood this Monday morning

So, Monday morning, ay? Broken skin around my nostrils, I can feel it ripple and sting as I yawn. A weeping eye, with unspecified crunchy gunge in the corner. Oh, such a stiff back, a walk to the shop will fix that. A wheezing chest, oh not good. A cough from hell. Could I have just one last j before I set my cough off again like a Gatling Gun. Sore knee, from bike riding, why I ask? And a Dodgy ankle, I think from the same. Apparently, problems with knees and feet are a resistance to moving forward, resistance to change, David loves to tell me, which he connects to my non-show at my writer's group, oh so pointedly.

So, you'll understand when I say I'm not feeling altogether too pretty.

Shane's gone to work, I don't know how?

Missy meowed for a second time as I was making coffee and was flung outside, with a rather incredulous look on her fat face.

I'd go back to bed, but I pulled the bed clothes off, first thing. As I was trying to doze this morning, parts of my doona smelt sour. Er!

What's that about? I'll have to get onto the cleaner. She complains when the three of us leave bedclothes out for changing on the same day, she says she doesn't have enough time left to clean properly. So I decided I could change the sheets myself... and now they smell sour.

I'm glad she's not coming today.

David has gone to New Zealand for 10 days, staying with my ex-boyfriend in Auckland. I've got the house to myself.

And I get to clean up. Fuck me! How many bombs went off in here? Everybody came over last night.

The washing machine is chugging, the dishwasher is whirring, the morning is drifting.

Excuse me while I cough up a body part. My lungs have turned into rabbits. Not feeling all together too marvellous, as one might expect.

It's just not worth it, he says with a giddy head from too much coughing. Sure, it might all seem shiny and colourful and amazing and consciousness altering, whizz, whir, bang, weeeeeeeeeeeeee while it is all happening, but when it stops...! I really don't feel so good.

I reckon I could manage a fitted sheet, then pull the doona over me, without a cover.

What Day Is It?

Nice night for a walk. Up the hill from Collingwood. There was a girl giving a boy a blowjob up a side street and he was liking it, by the way he was moaning. I'm not sure if they even noticed Shane and I, so into what they were doing, and all. It's unusual for Fitzroy, usually it's boys up side streets giving boys blowies. What were these amateurs thinking?

We thought about judging and holding up score cards, she had good technique, he had good leg muscles the way they were shaking. We thought better of it, though, I mean, they weren’t even looking up from what they were doing to appreciate our whit.

So, we moved on. The night shone and the Langridge Street hill never seemed as steep. And then you are over the hump and on Smith Street which was was pumping with twenty somethings all with googly eyes for each other. (read pissed as newts)

They now keep them in a cage at Barry Bar. The new smoking section at the front has been completed. If that's not a homoerotic picture for any self-respecting gay boy, I don’t know what is? Straight boys in cages, like picking a lobster, from the tank, at a seafood restaurant.

"No, no, the one up the back with the well developed chest and the dirty smile, have him prepared and brought to my table."

Our heads spun.

Methed, tripping, stoned, pissed? What kind of condition do you call this to be in walking through Fitzroy at 3am, young man? Shane and I giggled. Well, at least we were responsible, we didn't drive.

We went to see Howard Jones. Yeah? Well? Shrug. You know, I thought I would have recognised, at least, one of his songs, but no. He has a nice voice. He was witty and charming.

Went to Mark W's forty fifth birthday. He's still Prince Charming, Mr tall, dark and handsome.

Now, I'm going to sleep for twelve hours.

The Weekend

Pot. Piss. Meth. Now I lay my head down to sleep.

First of all I got my vodkas mixed with sweet pink stuff of varying descriptions. After I mentioned it, read complained, I got them mixed with lemon, lime and bitters mixer. I think they thought I was objecting to the gay colour. Sheesh! I was objecting to bad taste! I may well scream!

A little ice, a wedge of lime, or lemon, preferably lime, vodka and tonic water, don't drown it. How hard can it be, I ask you?

Kane's got an ulcer, so I haven't seen him. He sounded funny on the phone, could hardly talk. Harrumph! Just when I'm, shall we say, primed for a... um... er... cuddle. Grrr!

Moving Forward

I said no to my writer's group, who can live under that presure?

Even though, I got a new short story finish that I could take.

I could still reconsider. Shrug.

 

Write & Run

Well, at least I got my bike tyre fixed. I perved on the cute waiter at Red Tongue, while I waited for it to be fitted. Dark. Cropped hair. Nice jeans. Cute smile. I liked it when he grabbed for a pen in the central pocket of his apron, it really looked as though he was playing with himself. I wanted him to notice me watching him play with himself. I don't think he did.

I've been writing every day. Sit and write and it comes. A little less pot and a little more exercise and it will feel fulfilling.

It doesn't now.

 

Personal Trainer

Must put the mull bowl down, take my bike to get the flat tyre repaired and do some exercise.
The days are just whizzing by.

OMG! April is looming! Back to work? No, no, you can't make me! I need more time. I might have to take more time. I'm going to have to work on July 1st. My finances are okay. Let's face it, it doesn't cost much to be staying home pretending to write. Ha, ha.

Must get back to my short stories.

I'm not brave enough to send my script to my new writer's group for feed back. Must go and work on that. So what if they tell me it's shit? Someone needs to if it is, hey? Nothing to lose?

Call Me

Whoosh!

I just fell down the stairs, first thing I did. I'd just got out of bed. I was still asleep, rubbing my head. I was gazing out the window, at the top of the stairs, to see what kind of day it was going to be and whoosh! Out went my right foot and down I went. I hadn't even woken up. I felt my shoulder get a chiropractic correction, click, click, click, as it hit the top step. And now it hurts. I don't think I can type? Bloody hell!

Good morning world!

It must be time for a joint. Strictly for the pain, you understand.

I've joined a serious writer's group, with serious, intend to be published, women. Now I'm nervous. What have I done? I'll have to lift my game. I guess that was the point? First meeting is immanent. Shit! I'd better write something.

Someone at the Door

Green [02]

Environment, lot of talk

We've all been told to use less

Progress is a great thing

Political Correctness?

British Prime Minister Gordon Brown's supporters, Scotland and disability campaigners were up in arms (does that translate, simply, as Gordon Brown supporters?) after Jeremy Clarkson called Brown a "one-eyed Scottish idiot" while comparing the UK leader's handling of the global economic crisis to that of Australian Prime Minister Kevin Rudd, at a press conference in Sydney earlier this week.

I think it may be a sign that we are taking life a little seriously, chaps.

Apparently, "It is an absolute outrage of the worst kind."

He is the Prime Minister. What did we say about that Howard idiot?

Speaking of idiots, I started smoking again.