Got a bit drunk last night, walked home.

Walking though wet streets I want nothing but the rain with nothing
other than the rain to replace the faces that left me tonight. Another
face from the company that dispersed, I feel hurt I feel free with my
feet in the wet yet there’s something missing. And that’s you. All the
people that you brought to my life, Pandemic, all the trouble and the
wonder that you’ve brought to my life like a supernova fades into the
wet streets tonight as the last of you leaves. Leaves the bar, leaves
the country, leaves me restless lonely and alone. I See you, Pandemic,
now, as all that was. Company collapse glistens in my 2am haze.

Dirtbags

Are my choices really between just, dirtbags and whores?

No. In my experience whores tend to own their business practices, feel centered in their anarchical trade.

Whores don’t pretend to be doing something acceptable, lie to themselves about their worth based on a predetermined and a socially acceptable value system, and perpetuate lies and mistrust to make a name for themselves. They come out, breasts and balls blaring, smiling through the sweet smell of victory over indecent rules and judicial practices.

No, my choices are between dirtbags and bureaucrats. Few dirtier words exist. Rule makers and promise breakers, I can chose from. That’s where my choice lies if I stay here. My day to day choices move seamlessly between the liars, fuckwits, users and their fan clubs.

Too many of the women I know and the men I know are all dirtbags and bureaucrats in the big smoke. So much tension, so many regulations and rules. I miss the grass roots I came from, where people weren’t afraid to laugh and swear with a policeman about the kids that crashed their bike into the soccer shed. The men who took pride in the little things, the finer things, took pride in a day’s labour for their families, didn’t get caught up in their self righteous, self obsessed, self wank towards a name in lights. Take down as many people as you have to along the way, burn every bridge and hurt every human and animal you need to put a dollar sign in front of your three birth titles. It’s so fucking god damn important that you do exactly what you want to do when you want to do it, and everyone else can get FUCKED.

Right?

Right.

Prison System

Norman Mailer writes in his moving introduction to the novel In the Belly of the Beast, “Prison was an infernal machine of destruction, designed for the Dispose-All anus of a prodigiously diseased society.”

I’m reading a book by a man in an American jail, Jack Henry Abbott. His letters to Mailer were published in what has ended up being Abbotts memoirs: an amazing blow-by-blow recount of a life inside.

A LIFE.

From his 17th birthday to his 43rd, and counting. This man has been continually institutionalised and reinstitutionalised for reasons sometimes no more dangerous than spitting in a guard’s face, and at other times as violent as killing a man while defending himself against a knife.

I’m up to chapter: THE HOLE: Solitary Confinement. Abbott was sentenced to twenty-nine days in the hole for breaking an officers arm, which quickly became fifty-eight days when he poured a glass of water onto another guards uniform.

It’s disgusting. It’s inspiring. It’s making me want to learn more about it, and change the world. I want to punish the guards that have their violent way with the men Inside. I want to stop the Starvation Diet, and Drug Therapy.

I want to finish this book, first of all, and find out if they’ve let Jack Henry Abbott out yet.

I feel like I might be back, actually. I feel like I might be ready to pour script from finger tips again. I’m seeing coloured descriptions of my reality as I’m walking around, I’m seeing words, passionate descriptions about things I’m looking at, all the time. I’m actually reading a book for fucks sake. I actually have time, and subconscious peace, to read a book.

I’m enjoying my day at home today. It’s one of only two days that I’ve had at home alone in nearly six months. I’m going to enjoy sleeping alone, and waking up alone tomorrow morning.

Going from living by myself in a one bedroom flat for half a year, to immediately moving into this house, sharing every part of my life with three other (lovely) people and a best friend who stays with me in my bed two nights a week … has made it very, very hard to find time for myself.

It’s been very nice today though. I woke up at a friend’s house, came home, unlocked the door, got changed, cleaned the house, watched a movie, and soon, I’ll go to bed.

That’s my life. That’s what I like my life to be. It’s becoming apparent that the city is very hectic.

Future Considerations

I’m beginning to wonder about the order of things.

To Canada in ‘10, or to university again. Two dreams, two options.

Both options are of equal importance to my future, and my happiness. I suppose a voice of reason would try to convince me to take on a uni degree, finish my education before I take on the world. But time’s running out. I won’t be young enough to gain a UK working visa forever. It’s just for the under 25s, right?

Then again, if I’m an accomplished film producer I wouldn’t need the security of a working visa to make my stay in the UK seem feasible. I could just hire a hotel for a while and see the sites. Small time retail and bar work was never my forte, anyway.

I was just reading about the Australian film industry in the Courier Mail and found myself reconsidering again my move to the great Canadia. I was so sure, I’m always so sure, that the move is the best option.

But I think I’m settling in here.

Hard to believe, I know. I’ve been light-footed and mobile for so long, tripping over my own wake to get to the next short term goal.

But I like this house, and I like the people I live with. And the people around me. And the people I work with. And my job, and the place I’m from, and the dreams I have, long term.

I might have finally accepted my long term future as reasonable. More importantly, I’m beginning to see them as achievable, without the need for spontaneous everything-uprooting, every three months. Maybe I can own a car, and buy furniture. Maybe I don’t have to sing songs from my suitcase, and own only what I need, and what’s crucial to my day to day survival.

I even saw purpose, the other day, in buying a toothbrush holder.

Not really a heavy investment, I know.  But it means something to me.

I want my toothbrush on that same bench for a time long enough to justify my buying a suitable holder.

That there means a damn lot, to me, actually, if we’re being honest.