diary

overtired. unmotivated. also ive eaten too much cheese. my body feels 'out of control' and i feel adrift, passive and dragged around like a balloon in the hand of an idiot. it's fine. why do i become so annoying in the presence of my parents? what fools to consider ourselves merely some adults hanging out together.. why am i suddenly so opinionated. why do they have as much energy as a 6 year old. im tired and i need to sleep. sorry. 

ok it's been over ten days since my last entry. i am finding it harder and harder to muster up the brain power to write here, but perhaps it is the way i have been writing here that is putting me off, requiring thought and planning and revising what i say. perhaps a fairly unfiltered stream is better, at least to keep me doing this. i think i started doing this with the vague intention of getting my brain to start thinking more about putting words together with the vague end goal of writing something more substantial perhaps at some later point. i do find in a similar way to writing down one's dreams one starts to remember more and more, so too writing each day one tends to notice more and more. and this seems like a good thing i think, especially for someone like me who is often ruminating. i think writing can help enrich my life in some ways. i don't find thinking about writing per se particularly different to thinking about making things in other mediums, it just so happ...

the flickering fire of the outdoor gas heaters outlines your old friends face in glowing orange. you are in the pub now. you had eaten the mains outside but it proved intolerable due to the noise, speakers blaring overhead, shrieks of the the young children sitting (well sitting is rather an optimistic was to describe it) at a table nearby. when the kids and family finally left it was like a tooth had been pulled, an abscess lanced, instant relief, a new vista of clarity opened up in your mind like a wide open room caressed by a gentle breeze. dinner was nice. you went back to her place and gawked at her lifetimes worth of collecting and making beautiful objects. 

 another day lost to time. apparently there's a man in the town over who has a rusty old door inside his house bolted with several padlocks. it's the entrance of what he refers to as 'The Sick Room'. his name is Dan. his house is full of dead animals. elephant foot waste paper basket, moose heads, a bear clutching a cathode ray tube television in the living room. he also likes quirky old things which was how the antique dealer found out about his house - when dropping off a hand powered record player he purchased and how the antique dealer subsequently found out about The Sick Room. a woman with her neck sliced hangs from the wall, fetuses pickled in jars line the shelves, a taxidermied shark has human limbs protruding from its mouth. there are two coffins, a woman whose arm is replaced by a knife, various children who are either malformed or mutilated - it is hard to tell. don't worry they are mostly mannequins or dolls. there are only two real human skulls in the ...

they scrape by on pensions their lives full with gardening, vegetables, pickling, pets, repairs, projects, home-made medicines and maybe a single cow. their plans like their plot of land are vast and unruly and quickly get out of hand or simply forgotten. despite being off grid and out of reception they are deeply concerned about being tracked. they use only cash, they only log on to public computers with anonymous guest accounts. some vast faceless entity is apparently very interested in them. and maybe The Entity real or imagined would be interested, they certainly look like they're hiding something. of course eventually their project will become so all consuming they will have little time to do anything other than avoid The Entity detecting that they are trying to avoid detection. 

bursting through he continues, like an a aussie rules player bursting through a banner or a thespian bursting out from behind the curtain, to face the crowd, sometimes cheering, sometimes booing, sometimes absent... sometimes grinning demonically. never knowing the next scene -heaven or hell, life or death, comedy or tragedy- thus his life unfolds. a relentless procession of massive emotion, gripping him and his piecemeal understanding and thrusting him on. he performs his life before the world and it seems largely out of his control. his deepest insecurities are that the audience will see through, think him ridiculous, a fraud, stupid- where really in spite of it all he is very much a whole person, perhaps in some ways even more so than most. his greatest defense is laughter, at himself, at it all. it is true that he is in many ways transparent to all around him, he is vulnerable and they do judge, and they do ridicule secretly and openly and poke at him but still -it is wrong that he...

nice guys finish last had never felt more true. did this dude even cum? she had tried on top, underneath, backwards, forwards, grinding, pounding, sucking, even pinching and through it all - the same vacant smile, the same dumb facial expression. she wanted to slap it off him.  don't be mean  she told herself. at first she'd been into it. she felt a slight thrill on his behalf at being out of his league, giving him a shot. she actually did cum fairly early on while riding him. now she was nearing physical exhaustion. the fucker had barely moved. "it's 'Ok!" he said "i can finish myself off". "sure" she grimaced - a mixture of frustration and hurt and defeat -  she felt exposed now, unattractive. he seemed to perk up, veering upright, a flicker behind his eyes locked on her face. he gripped his cock. he began to pump and grunt. 'you're so beautiful' he said between gritted teeth. the smile was gone now, his face tense, pink, swea...

the day drips into itself in some slow disintegration, a colourful puddle rippling before you, around you, it is you. the ripples are echos of your forgotten intention. something stirs beneath. an invisible but massive form. for an instant a slithering appendage breaks the surface and disappears. green so dark it's almost black. glinting like metal. something horrible. the tip of a memory that ruined your life. or rather when your life began to be ruined. the appendage poking like the tongue of a friend from junior school out the side of his mouth when he was thinking. now black almost green swollen like a dead thing. your friend is dead. not literally of course but he might as well be. you talked on the phone every day after school. then stopped and never began again. everything stopped. your world stopped. your plans, your hopes, your dreams, your sense of self. it stopped. a moment, like you were riding a wave your short life, the sun above, the wind through your hair, a board a...

between the squalor and filth, the beer cans, used tissues, half eaten food, the crusty crumbs in the couch with peeling vinyl flaking like dandruff into the carpet covered in piss yellow stains and purple splotches of wine like a bruise. between it all if you squint your eyes, looking not at any thing in particular you might see it shimmer like a lake in sunlight, for an instant you might glimpse something deep beneath. no mere reflection on the surface or shadow of the thing but the truth at the bottom. some other realm where time is different and fairy queens hold court and goblins lurk in the shadow, where the orange man sleeps under the bridge...   

they descend like a tornado upon the house. suddenly strewn all around are phone chargers, dirty dishes, wrappers, clothes, wet towels, half finished beers, pickled fish, wine, tarot, clay and like an outbreak of hives various patches around the house have inexplicably become slimy or sticky. they chant about Dads and by moonlight pour water over each other's feet from a golden goblet. a collective piercing of the plodding regularity of the everyday. a break, into some other realm, summoned and entered into from the house

you called him by the wrong name. the name of the other driver who was older, uglier, pudgier, cruder, a jokester. there was some resemblance sure, similar build, similar short cropped sandy hair. they were both truck drivers and maybe that was the problem. they were just truck drivers. interchangeable. or maybe it was that he wasn't as pretty any more. driving  8 hours a day will do that to you. a young family and kids will do that to you. whatever it was the mix up seemed to cut deep. he had started to look more like the other guy since he started driving this year... but he still had those pale piercing eyes. well proportioned face, faint golden stubble, wide pink lips. a face with depth, eyes tinged with sadness, like he had seen into the true face of the world.

a customer gripped with anxious nervous energy. a kind that brings about its own demise. that is seeking at the slightest chance to affirm the worst fears, to justify the correctness to fear them. a kind of self reflexive loop, an echo chamber of emotion drowning the ability to function, maybe even secretly, deviously, disrupting function... some perverse impish part buried within seeing himself and hating himself. sick of the game. pulling the levers to make the fated outcome inevitable. surely dealing with him is beyond our pay grade?   

the vegetation sways gently in the golden morning light but is secretly, imperceptibly trying to escape its concrete enclosure. the cat too is planted dozing near her owner sipping tea on the front steps. he suddenly stands and retreats to the shadowy verandah and then back into the cold bowels of the house. he opens the fridge and illuminated in the artificial light is a segment of an old avocado, grey brown with a tinge of green, the surface dry and textured like human skin it looks almost like some rotten gangrenous wound.