No more words here

A Strange Kind of Madness will continue to host my photos. I'm not posting words on here anymore. Instead I've started a tumblelog at raygrass.net. Hear what I have to say (if anything) on there.

Spanish twins and the laws of friction

If he had to trace it back, Leary would have said that it was at the moment that Trotman smashed the limbo dancer in the face with the chair, that he knew that he would not be spending the night rolling about in a bath tub full of sangria and Spanish twins.

The twins hadn’t taken well to the sight of Maxi, the mop handle matador, collapsed on the floor, moaning and clutching at the flow of blood under his freshly flattened nose.

All five feet and six inches of beer-soaked Trotman loomed over the limbo dancer, “Didn’t duck that did you, you slick prick! Stay away from my girl you pigeon-toed broomstick-dodging scum!”

The Spanish faces packed around the bar all turned towards the two gringos and it felt to Leary like he and Trotman were suddenly a long way from home.

Leary kissed each of the stunned twins on the cheek and dragged Trotman towards the door, “We, my friend, are out of here.”

A group of Catalunyans with bad haircuts began to gather on the other side of the bar.

Trotman looked back and pointed at the bloodied limbo maestro sprawled on the floor, “These slimy dogs don’t pay no respect to the laws of engagement Lear. That Maxi character was cutting my grass.”

Loud shouts of Catalan began to build in the bar as the pair hurried out into the fresh night of Barcelona’s latin quarter.

“That was his sister, you moron!”

Trotman looked puzzled for a moment before adding, “Well, I won’t stand for that sick incest crap either.”

Leary rolled his eyes as thoughts of Spanish twins and the laws of friction began slipping away, “Trotman, you are, without a doubt, a massive pain in my arse.”

Eating in

As I stood in the middle of the living room I couldn’t help but wonder how the hungry lesbians had untangled my stereo from the cables gathered in the corner and then carried the newly liberated sound system out the window and down the fire escape in the five minutes I was out of the room searching for my neighbour’s baby to feed them.

”Rufus!”

”What?”

”Where the hell are you?”

”In the craphouse.”

”Tell me you’re in there with the lesbians listening to my stereo.”

”Nope. I’m struggling with that Chicken Jalfrezi we picked up on the way home.”

”Well, did the lesbians say anything about going out to pick up some smokes or pawning my stereo?”

The toilet flushed and Rufus emerged. “Nah, I thought they were still in here.”

Crap. ”Well they aren’t. And it looks like they’ve pilfered my shit.”

Rufus slumped back down on the couch and took a swig of his beer. “Just goes to show that you shouldn’t trust strange hungry lesbians at five-thirty in the morning.”

I fell back onto the other couch. “You introduced them to me. I thought you knew them.”

”I mean, I’ve seen them naked but I wouldn’t really say that I know them.” Rufus took a life drawing class to meet women. He liked the swashbuckling, sun saluting, naked type. That’s where he met the lesbians. He pointed his beer can at me, “Hey, where the hell were you while they were stealing the stereo anyway?”

”I fed them everything in the house but they kept asking for more so I was going to see if giving them Lenore’s baby would shut them up.”

”Doubtful. A hungrier pair of women I’ve not seen.”

”Yeah well, we’ll never know. I think Lenore is down in Brighton this week.”

”She probably wouldn’t have given the kid up anyway.” Rufus paused for a minute. “Besides, I don’t know that feeding babies to anyone has ever truly solved anything.”

Wisdom like that will suck the conversation out of a room, so we sat in silence for a while, drinking our beer. Rufus picked at the edges of a frayed cushion, “Well this blows. I was all excited about the prospect of rampant, unrestrained lesbianism on the living room rug and instead I end up alone with you and no music.”

I swirled some beer around my mouth and swallowed. “I gotta admit, I was excited when they first asked for the bananas and ice cream,” I looked to the quietly gathering daylight outside, “but my heart sank when they made me go back for bowls and spoons too.”

A six word story

Zombies at door. Out of bullets.

(Following the trend started at Everything and Nothing and Caterina.)

On being mundane

Sometimes the Tube presents unexpected opportunities for self reflection. Like the other day when a woman who looked like PJ Harvey stepped onto my carriage with a giant whippet. She had that disaffected alt-rocker aesthetic going on while the mega-whippet was strutting a brooding dark-and-silent type persona. After a quick perusal of the people around her PJ turned her attention to the window. It seemed that she was more intrigued by the dark tunnel walls quickly sliding past outside the train than by anyone sitting inside it. Mr. Whippet on the other hand showed his disapproval of our style by regarding each of us, his fellow passengers, in turn with an expression of rank disdain.

It made me wish I had cooler clothes.

Swords, swan dives and sunnies

I saw a guy wearing a pair of those sunglasses with the built-in music player today. You know, the ones with the ear buds hanging down from the moulded arms like tiny plastic fruit bats. They are the only pair I have seen in the wild. Was the guy wearing them as some kind of joke?

I had to wonder.

Maybe if they changed the design more people would wear them. Maybe they could put music players into large black motorcycle helmets. You know, the ones with the black visors that look like you have a bowling ball for a head. If they invented those we could all walk around like ronin from some dystopian future. You know, starting blood wars and turf battles because our bowling ball-crippled peripheral vision makes us constantly trip over each other in the street, thereby losing our footing and our honour.

We could head butt each other to the sounds of Burt Bacharach.
We could katana-cut arms off while listening to Dave Brubeck.
We could bungee-dive from the edges of ruined bridges and skyscrapers while jacked into The Traveling Wilburys.

Man, what a future that'd be.

Camera Jackals

Last night my brother and I were accosted by the journalistic jackals of Channel Nine's A Current Affair. They stalked us down in a shopping centre car park, shone a bright light at us, and asked our opinion of the extra hidden charges that we as consumers have to face every day. We asked exactly what charges they were referring to. The interviewer said, “You know, like the extra buck-fifty for ordering a half-and-half pizza.”

Well, Dave and I lurched backwards. There were stones in our stomachs. We suddenly realized how far the sweet and innocent system had fallen and we saw our chance to make a difference. We knew we needed to stand up in front of that camera like real men and show the people of Australia that this was just not on. We started with a few curt words directed at big business on behalf of Joe Average Battler. This built into a heated tirade of buyers discontent which quickly swerved into a frenzy of disgruntled consumerism; all of which culminated in us destroying the windscreen of our own car with an abandoned shopping trolley.

The red mist cleared and we noticed that amid our rabid show of dissatisfaction the camera crew had scattered. We surveyed the damage and climbed back into our car. Not another word was spoken on the breezy drive home for we knew deep down inside that we had failed. The seductive offer of landing a massive blow to big business had gone straight to our heads. A little more self control and we could have made a difference. As it stood however, my brother and I just looked like two self destructive lunatics with a pizza fixation; and it would be there for all to see on national television.

Sunstroke in the land of the god-kings

  Alonzo sat with his back propped against the sand dune and fussed with the snorkel and goggles that were strapped to his face. "The coral in this place is rubbish."
  Sitting next to him I looked at the endless sea of sand dunes that surrounded us like the spines of a pod of breaching whales. "Yeah well there isn't a whole lot of water around is there."
  "There's loads of it just up there on the horizon."
  "I think that's a mirage," I said.
  "Mirage you say. Hmmm, I dunno. I think I can see a palm tree or something out there. Now why the hell would my brain make up a palm tree Jerry? It's not like I can eat one or anything," he scratched his beard. "Nope, there's definitely water out there."
  I squinted off towards the horizon and tried to make out the up stretched arms of any palm tree silhouettes against the darkening sky.
  "It’s a pity about the camels," said Alonzo.
  "Yeah, who knew quicksand could drown two fully grown camels in three minutes flat,” I said as I re-wrapped my shirt around my head. “No wonder they were skittish about walking down into that gully. Poor bastards probably knew we were leading them straight to their doom.”
  Alonzo threw up his hands and said, "Oh cruel fate. We are shipwrecked Jerry. We are marooned!"
   “I knew taking the turn into that gully was a bad idea,” I murmured.

  We walked on into the heat haze. After a while Alfonzo suddenly spun around and asked, "Do you have a bottle?"
  I paused for a second before answering, "Al I don't think it's safe to drink your own piss."
  "Who said anything about drinking our piss?"
  "I just assumed–"
  "Listen here man! You are a damned lucky fool. You have stuck gold in being stranded in these here dunes with the likes of me. You see I am an intrepid adventurer, a survivor, a true renegade. I am going to save your sorry arse Jerry. You must have faith in me.”
  “Sorry Al it’s just that it’s so hot and I’m not thinking–”
  “There shall be no apologies! I won’t stand for it man. We must stand together in this mess and we must support each other, prop ourselves up in times of despair. Now if you have a bottle I would very much like to have it. I would like to put a note in it. I will then leave this message in a bottle for someone to find and then they may rescue us."
  “Sorry Al but I don’t have a bottle.” Alonzo stamped his foot and surveyed the dunes around us.
  After a minute or two I said, “Maybe a note isn’t the best idea. Aren’t there pirates out here in the Western Desert?”
  “Pirates you say.” It was Alonzo’s turn to squint towards the horizon through his plastic goggles. “Well if there are pirates here my friend our best chance of survival is to find a place that we can defend together.” Alonzo stood and pointed out over the sands. “Jerry we must walk to the oasis near the sun!”
  “I still can’t see palm trees or–”
  “Have faith man! Have faith in your old friend Alonzo. I shall save you. I shall lead you out. Follow close, I am your Moses!” Alonzo started marching up the rise of the dune next to us. I watched the trail of long and deep footprints forming in his wake. I adjusted my makeshift turban and started after him.
  "What kind of crap is this?” Alonzo said, as he turned his massive goggle-eyes towards me. “There’s not a single bloody angelfish in sight. I tell you Jerry, I’m starting to wonder why the hell I packed my snorkel in the first place."
  I kept my head low as we made our way towards the low hanging sun all the while keeping my eyes alert for any signs of fish.

Odessa

According to a Dutch pornographer I once shared a hostel room with, the Ukraine of today is like the Prague of a few years ago, maybe even better. According to him you shouldn't waste your time in Kiev, Odessa is the bee's furry knees. If you're in the market for photographing naked Eastern European women that is, and let's face it, that doesn't sound like such a bad market to be invested in.

A queer buzzing

I heard a man on the train yesterday who had a vibrating robot voice. He sounded like he was talking through a comb.

I imagine he can talk to mechanical things with that voice. I bet he has regular conversations with turntables and condom vending machines. I bet he avoids the mad rantings of televisions and that the horror stories of vacuum cleaners keep him awake at night.

I bet he impersonates computers and gives out fake lottery results over the phone. I bet he rings universities and pretends to be Hawking. I bet he preaches false physics.

A vibrating robot voice is a dark superpower indeed.

Twin

A friend just spotted my evil twin in Singapore airport. This double calls himself Simon. That is the name my mother wanted to call me. How strange.

My future is suddenly clear. I must hunt this doppelganger down and confront him.

There can be only one.

Los Angeles

LA is a sprawling mess. I felt uncomfortable when I first arrived here but things have gotten better over the last few days. I guess it takes time to warm up to.

I've been hanging out with a few people, watching on as they finish editing their short films and discussing upcoming projects. Lots of names of people and concepts are being thrown about. There are a few interesting ideas in amongst the clutter of it all.

We went for a drive the other night and stopped off at a local club. A pile of muscle in a black suit pulled back the velvet curtain covering the door as we stepped into a place of exhibitionism gone mad. Inside it was all tits and teeth. Girls were sliding against each other with their upper lips curled in soft snarls. Their hips moving on hidden hinges, pushing from bottom to top and back to front; tracing out infinity. All in a bid to tantalize. It was a room full of promise and false angels.

Being conspicuous in a place like that is not being conspicuous at all.

America again

Ah America. It's nice to be back here and not chained to the table in the basement of Corporate America – that crap sucks. The downside of this newfound freedom is that I've been back for almost two weeks now and am trapped in front of a television in the 'burbs. Television sneaks up on you like a bum hiding behind a tree branch on Fisherman's Wharf. You wake up from a daze and realize that you're watching the top-twenty forty-year-old achievements in American sport for the second time in one day.

Goddamn it – I need an exit strategy.

Oktoberfest

This photo and a scar on my elbow are all I have to show for it.

Life's little lessons

Sometimes life teaches you things. For example: it is a foolhardy venture participating in a shouting contest with a drunk Scottish fishmonger. Trust me, it's a battle you just can't win.

He who shall remain unnamed

I was standing at a bar in Berlin last night when an incredible thing happened. I briefly turned away from my friend _____ who was drinking next to me to discuss the crippling effects of marijuana on the sporting world with a monstrous South African guy when I heard a small explosion.

I turned to my left and there was a space where _____ was standing just moments before. Next to that space was a small step. On the other side of the step and space _____ lay face down on the wooden floor with his freshly ordered cocktail still clutched in his right hand. Gathered about him like deer at a pond were a series of white bar stools on their sides. One of the stools lightly kissed the top of _____´s head. Seeping out from under his right hip was a small puddle of what looked like beer. The group smoking the hookah at the table next to him wore expressions of violent detachment as the staff behind the bar watched on in cold horror.

The whole scene smelled to high hell of treachery and homicide.

My mind raced. Had I just witnessed an execution? Who were these people in this place and why did they want to kill us? What in God´s name had _____ been doing while we were separated that night in Hamburg?

I steadied myself and readied my dust-covered karate skills. This was going to get messy. _____ stirred and my spirits lifted, he wasn´t dead, yet. A man with a huge head and tiny eyes moved towards my prone friend from the left. A woman with a rag in hand stalked in from the right. The bastards were going to finish the job in front of my very eyes and then probably come for me. This was ludicrous. _____ was a good man. He didn´t deserve to go out like this. But what could I do? I was horribly outnumbered. This was it. I wouldn´t let them touch his face. I would try to do that much - for his mother.

Just as I readied myself to pounce the huge-headed man reached down and brought _____ to his feet. The woman knelt to the floor and wiped up the spill. _____ dusted himself off and gingerly walked back to the bar taking careful note of the step. I was confused. Were they playing games with us? Did they just want to watch us stew in fear and doubt before finishing the job? _____ approached me and chucklingly commented on his dumb luck. I looked him over and said, "Damn right you´re lucky. It must only be a flesh wound." He asked what the hell I was talking about. I said that it was okay, he was probably delirious from the head impact and that everyone in the bar wanted to kill us. I counted the people between us and the door and told him that our next move involved furious kung fu and a brutal exit. He said that he hadn´t finished his cocktail yet and that it had cost him many Euros.

I was frustrated.

Here we were in a killing house and all he wanted to do was finish his damned drink. I informed him of this fact. He said that the place didn´t look that bad, except for the step, and that he wanted to stay. I paused for a second. _____ the old fox. Yes, act nonchalant, assured. Make like that first attack didn´t bother us. They would see just how bad-ass we were and be intimidated, then we would strike! The idea was cunning and elegant. I thumped _____ on the back and ordered another cocktail for each of us. I leant with my back against the bar and smiled. The hunters were now the hunted...

Rome

(Obligatory Vatican Stairs shot)

Rome is killer baby.

I went down to check out old Benedict's place, and I must say, it's not too shabby. St. Peter's is absurd and astounding. I was still impressed by it even after the gluttony of churches I've seen over the last few weeks.

The Vatican museum is huge. The Raphael rooms are marvelous. And the Sistine Chapel was mind boggling. I tell you, old Michelangelo really flexed his muscles when he made The Last Judgement just like Bernini did with his Apollo and Daphne. I guess that's why they call these guys masters.

The celebrity look-alike thing has kind of mutated and now I seem to see dead Jerrys. First there was Jerry Garcia on the Rome Metro and then a thirty-year old Jerry Orbach near the Coliseum. I must admit that I'm a bit confused about what this all means.

Not much else to report except that I think James Blunt is stalking me. I can't sit anywhere these days without the fucker piping up and calling me beautiful in that whiny voice of his. It really is quite pathetic.

Those crazy commies

Last night the members of the local branch of the Italian Communist Party organized a talent show in the local piazza.

I am sorry to report that these commies do not know how to sing in key. They do however have a charmingly short fellow in a blotchy pink shirt and fat blue tie who likes to dance on stage. His dancing is quaint, unsettling and not unlike that of a marionette being operated by a puppeteer with Parkinson's disease.

I am also slightly concerned to report that my inadvertent celebrity spotting syndrome seems to continue unabated. Twenty minutes into the talent show I started to walk laps around the piazza in an attempt to avoid the cacophony on stage exploding my head. That's when I saw Willie Nelson. I rubbed my eyes and got to thinking about just what the ginger-haired rebel was doing in the piazza of a small Italian town watching a communist talent show. After a few minutes the pieces started to fall into place.

I had harboured suspicions of Willie being on Uncle Sam's payroll for quite a while now and it seemed this chance encounter confirmed my suspicions; for what better way to use his pleasant demeanour and penchant for honest lyricism than to have him infiltrate a communist entertainment syndicate. I checked to see if there were other obvious spooks loitering around, but then I thought that just wouldn't be big Willie's style. He would only operate as a lone eagle in deep cover. He wasn't disguised very well but then I wasn't sure that his career ever really took off over here in Italy. Either way his intimate knowledge of stage presence and crowd psychology made the risks worthwhile. It all added up. He was born for this job!

I entertained thoughts of going over and whispering, 'Good work Willie' and adding a sly wink so he knew that I knew the game was on but after the whole Snoop episode I was feeling a little fragile. So instead I let Willie be. I continued my depressurizing stroll as Willie smoked his cigarettes and carefully watched the acts on stage; no doubt taking meticulous mental notes on the emerging and dangerous communist talent on display.

So you can rest easy Paula Abdul. Oh yes, you can rest easy. For thanks to brave men like Willie Nelson not a single commie bastard will bring the American entertainment industry to its trembling knees by slipping through the cracks and onto the stage of American Idol.

The Dogg is on the bus

I thought I saw Snoop Dogg on a bus in Palermo. I admired the tight wind of his cornrows as he stepped on at one of the stops. As the bus trembled along I became quite excited about meeting the Doggfather until it occurred to me that things just weren't right.

First: He didn't have a possé – he was riding solo.
Second: His bling was a little too understated.
And Third: He was riding on a bus.

I panicked. Surely Snoop hadn't fallen this far. Surely the gangsta rap world hadn't crumbled since last I checked. My heart leapt out to the many young American rappers whose futures had suddenly become uncertain. And then something magical happened: Snoop spoke. His hands flashed and his head bobbed as he unleashed a stream of fluent Italian.

I was pretty sure that Snoop hadn't hung out with any Italian kids back in Compton. My chest settled. My head cleared. This guy was an imposter – and one of the worst kind. The kind of slack-jawed, gelly-spined bum who had decided to trade on the revered image of one of America's true darlings. The mere sight of this young man riled me. Something had to be done.

Like any intrepid traveler I quickly turned to my European phrase book in search of the most telling rebuke this young charlatan would ever witness. Time was short, he was rousing to exit at the next stop. The pages flew between my fingers and beads of sweat formed on my brow. Then, as he stepped off, I let fire with my newly knitted patchwork of Italian venom.

Unfortunately all I managed was a gracious invitation to put him in a cheap hotel room without paying the bill. He looked at me quizzically and left the bus, oblivious to my true feelings towards his devious ways. I sighed in the knowledge that I had tried my best and if I wasn't leaving Palermo that night I would have hunted him down and given him a piece of my mind. But alas I was out of time.

So beware my friends for a fraudulent Dogg stalks the streets of Palermo and there's no one there to stop him...

Sicily

I have seen many churches and kissed many men...That's right baby I'm in Sicily.

The towns and villages of the northeast coast are stacked upon each other at the foot of Mt. Etna. Black volcanic rock is used to pave the streets and support the church steeples. Church bells ring every fifteen minutes and Vespers buzz like bees in and out of the constant chaotic traffic. Driving on the whole is hilarious. This is a place where rearview mirrors are ornamental and defensive driving is having one hand at the ready on the horn.

The people here are so dramatic and friendly. Every meal (that's what seems to spontaneously happen whenever people gather) has a festive atmosphere. They all have a burning curiosity about Australia. They want to know if there are kangaroos in the cities and if we have busses. They are also intrigued by the dark and wily schemes of crocodiles.

You should climb Mt. Etna for no other reason than to hear groups of Germans say 'magma' a lot.

Another bloody invasion

Aliens took over the Earth last night while I was asleep. It’s about the fourth time they’ve managed it this year the nasty bastards. I lie down, close my eyes, and then spend the next few hours in a life and death struggle against extra planetary forces from somewhere behind Betelgeuse.

They must approach the Earth from behind the moon or something because everybody (NASA and radio telescope geeks included) seems to be surprised when they arrive on the scene. But once they rip on through the ozone layer, well, everyone kind of goes a little bit nuts. Dogs start running around in aimless circles. Women get to screaming and carrying babies in blankets while men hoist pitchforks and shotguns and quote Nostradamus. And bad luck if you’re in the military kid. You get smoked in the first few hours. It’s those funky invisible shields – they’ll pop you every time.

I like to think that I’d be a bold hero for all of humanity in times such as these but it seems that I’m not the most dependable person in an apocalypse. My first reaction involves a desperate amount of running and generally avoiding being squashed or burned (or whatever the killing flavour is that particular night). In my defense these aliens really are a fearsome lot with their flesh searing weaponry and expensive chrome accessories.

Last night’s invaders were intelligent jellyfish that could fly. Sometimes you get cosmic octopi or those big-eyed midgets from the X-Files. I think I like the midgets the best. At least with them you feel like you have a chance. Like you could maybe get an almighty kick to the head in before one lobotomizes you with its psychic powers. Anyway, like I said the jellyfish were a somber lot and doing quite well with the whole unleashing mayhem and destroying mankind thing before events for them turned for the worse.

It always happens the same way. Some dopey guy stumbles about in his pajamas and accidentally finds the invader’s weakness just as he’s about to get squished. (Note that this usually only happens after most of the Earth lay in rubble and hope has clocked off for lunch.) Last night the jellyfish’s Achilles’ heel was garlic-infused water. Once Dopey’s discovery went public the men with the pitchforks descended upon delicatessens and pizza places everywhere, skewering every piece of garlic bread in sight.

This, of course, turned the tide. The jellyfish beat a hasty retreat. They send down apologetic fruit baskets as they leave, as if to say the whole thing was just a big misunderstanding – some kind of intergalactic double-park. People the world over are elated. They elect pajama man President. They want to make something out of this whole mess. Kinda like big Arnie in California.

One of those things

Yesterday was fun.

I processed a heap of photos from my trip.
I watched Million Dollar Baby and Constantine.
And I resigned my job of four years.
I don't have a new job to go to either.

This newfound freedom presents some interesting possibilities: I could do some writing and photography courses. I could dedicate myself to writing a few longer stories; maybe even a novella about a chain-smoking guy on a drip and his ambulance driving girlfriend. I could travel to exotic locales with my camera and take hundreds of photos. I could get my hands on a beat-up bass and finally get Wolfman Strauss and the Pestilence off the ground. I could get a job. Or I could wander the streets of London putting change into random parking meters.

So, with all of these options swirling around my mind this morning, I chose to spend the first day of my new life in Richmond having a beer by the Thames with Pauline and Damien.

You can't go rushing yourself into these things.

Leaving Jordan

Some parting observations of Jordan.

In Amman there are these trucks that drive around the streets playing twinkly fairy tunes like Ice Cream trucks in Oz except that they sell large gas bottles.

I stayed out in the Wadi Rum desert for a night with a local Bedouin family. If it wasn't blisteringly hot I would have been hyperactive from all of the sugar laced tea I drank. Walking about the desert at night is spooky and surreal and highly recommended. We watched the sun rise in the morning over the mountains and sand and helped put a large tent up for a wedding while camels verbally abused us.

In a huge word-up to Indiana Jones I ventured out to Petra to suss out the whole eternal life from the Holy Grail thing. The place is huge and superb. I tell you, those Nabataeans loved to carve rock. Be ready to do some serious walking if you go there and definitely climb the eight-hundred stairs to the monastery Ed Deir and the lookout beyond. Ride a donkey too.

I visited Aqaba and had a dip in the Red Sea. While in the water two local boys asked if I had swum across from Israel. They were disappointed to hear that I hadn't.

This one time, in Amman, I got into a cab and the driver was playing a cassette of a guy pontificating in Arabic. After we got out my friends informed me that the tape was calling all Muslims to Jihad in the name of their persecuted Chechnyan brothers. Nothing like spreading the word I say.

The Dead Sea is awesome. You can float around like a little message in a bottle without trying (instead you actually have to work at keeping your legs under the water). Rub the therapeutic mud on yourself and the sea water in your eyes and you'll quickly be screaming and staggering blindly about the place like some crazed African bushman.

I have mentioned the Amman traffic already but yesterday I saw something that took the cake. I saw a car on top of a metre-high retaining wall with a telephone box wedged underneath it. There were a few guys standing around scratching their heads and I bet they were thinking about how they weren't sure how the car got up there but how impressive the KITT turbo-boost impersonation was anyway.

I saw three Albinos in twenty-four hours. They were all male and sporting bad haircuts.

On the road to Jerusalem

We cleared immigration at the Allenby Bridge border crossing after a six-and-a-half hour wait. We piled into a minibus and drove to Jerusalem.

Along the way we drove past a lone guy walking in the desert near the road. He ran down towards the road as we approached and flagged us to stop. The driver opened the door and the guy, wide-eyed and sunburnt, asked if we could take him and his friend into town also. There was no-one else in sight and this guy was a little crazy lookin but the driver agreed. Crazy Man smiled and then wandered about this no man's land shouting in some language I couldn't understand. A few minutes later another guy with a shirt wrapped around his head came marching towards the bus from over a sandy hill in the distance. They sat in the bus and rode with us to Jerusalem in silence.

I personally think it was a good decision on their part. It can't be much fun walking fifty kilometers in the desert with no shirt on.

Filling it

I got talking to Tim as I was waiting in the crowd for The White Stripes set to begin. Tim was wearing a faded black tee, a red cap and was stoned out of his gourd. He was a nice fellow and repeatedly offered me a drink of his warm beer. Tim asked if I’d seen the Stripes before. I said I hadn’t. He said that they were incredible. I said I’d heard that they were good. He shook his head and said he was amazed at how the two of them managed to fill a venue of this size sound-wise. “They fill it man. They fill it with just a guitar and drums.” tim said.

I nodded in agreement; it was an impressive feat.

Tim staggered about for a few minutes looking skyward. I was waiting for the moment that the scrawny joint balanced on his bottom lip set his thick black beard on fire. It didn’t happen. Instead he turned his attention to his mobile phone for a while before handing it to me. “Can you check that this text makes sense before I send it?” I had a look. This man, staggering about, beer in hand, joint dangling from his lip and eyes squinted shut had just used his thumb to write a message of utter gibberish.

I informed him of this fact.

“Aw hell man. Can you do a brother a favour and help me send my friend a message?” I said sure. We revised the text so that it instructed his friend Paul where to meet him after the Stripes. He drooled his thanks and the show started.

Jack and Meg came out strong. A flurry of punches to the body. All guns blazing. Tim swayed deliriously. He danced and slapped me on the shoulder. “Look man! They’re filling it! Just the two of ‘em. They’re filling it!” I nodded my head and shook my hips. He was right, they were.

A few songs in Meg took a rest as Jack stood over a xylophone and started hammering out a pretty beat. Tim staggered forward and flung his arm around me screaming, “He’s filling it with a fucking xylophone! A fucking xylophone!” Tim’s eyes rolled up, he pirouetted twice and pushed off through the crowd away from the stage.

Things can only get so full before they overflow I guess.

The early light

There is something cinematic about sleepwalking out of a club into the empty London streets at seven-thirty on a Sunday morning. It's the morning light.

Once you step outside you breathe again. You walk with a swagger. You walk with your hands tucked inside your pockets and feel like you're on the inside, like you're seeing the secret face of this place. You show your teeth to the asphalt as its trail leads you on.

The sun sighs into your eyes and scattered piles blow about your mind. You look to the bruised shadows and hope that this moment doesn't break.

All of a sudden

All of a sudden I am the only one dancing on the table and it's a lonely place.

Space time and me

A few weeks ago I woke up and found that I had written the following note to myself the night before:

Note to self – Invent Teleporter and live with the consequences.

I haven't had much luck.

The man who could fly

I once knew a guy named Greg. When I say I knew him I mean that I would say hello and repeat the same small talk over and again with him. I guess you'd call him an acquaintance. Either way I knew him well enough to recall two things: he liked boxing and jumping out of first story windows.

I remember the first time. I was sitting on the couch playing solitaire when he sprinted past me into the adjoining room. I forgot about where to place my red seven and glanced over as he bent his knees, spread his arms wide and launched himself out through the open window. After a second or two of confused silence I walked over to the window and looked out. There he lay, spread eagle on a mattress on the lawn below.

When asked why he did this Greg would just shrug his shoulders and raise an eyebrow. You see it was his Thing. Everyone has their Thing and this was his: jumping out of first story windows.

I witnessed this stunt three more times: the last of which the mattress was replaced by a forward roll. (You need to up the ante or the crowd gets restless you see.)

Sometimes if I'm alone I imagine myself playing solitaire while Greg comes running into the room from my past and out through the window to the street below.

That always did make me smile.

Rats with guns

I've just come upstairs from the living room after witnessing a heated conversation about a scientific proof of the non-existence of God. The highlight of which was the following statement:

There is no reason why I can't train a rat to build a gun.

Don't worry, it doesn't make any more sense in context.

Undefeated

When the boy was in school he would stand against a wall and let the other boys hit him in the stomach for ten Lira a punch. One day the biggest boy in the school, a real man-child, handed him a hundred. Man-hands beat and pummeled as the boy braced himself against the wall with his own hands so that he didn't hurt his head.

He grew.

He left Turkey for the United States of America to study at Business School. He supported himself by boxing. A six-foot-three featherweight. He would run twenty miles a day. Before fight night he would jump rope in the sauna till he lost those last two aching kilograms. He fought in 370 fights. 29 actual bouts. Undefeated.

He was the skeletal conqueror of the western rings.

A lesson in shoplifting

It’s the next morning and I’m sitting at the bus stop in my smoke-soaked suit. My tie hangs loose around my neck as I rub my eyes. The number seventy-six bus rolls up, the doors open and I am greeted by the sound of the Jamaican driver singing the blues. I’ve heard of him before. He has his own little fan club around town. Some people get on his bus just to hear his voice. They don’t mind where he takes them as long as he's singing. He makes all the usual turns and visits all the usual stops and sings Muddy Waters the whole way. I’m on the bench daydreaming as the doors of the moving red blues bar close. The seventy-six isn’t headed my way.

A man on crutches screams his way towards the bus as it pulls away from the curb and up the street. He swears and fusses with the pockets of his crushed blazer as the seventy-six fades into the distance.
“Did you see that?” he asks me. “That bastard’s meant to wait five minutes! I can’t go any faster. I’m bloody disabled aren’t I? If there was an inspector here and he saw that, he’d have been fired on the spot!”
The guy in the pinstripe blazer and torn trousers stands about fidgeting with the paper bag under his arm. I go back to slowly blinking while waiting for my bus.
After muttering under his breath for a while he sidles up next to me, “Hey guv you see this here bag I got?”
I slowly lift my head.
“Here, look inside.”
He’s holding a Prada shopping bag. The walls of the bag are lined with aluminium foil.
“It’s for shoplifting. You see the scanners don’t work if you got foil in your bag like this. You can nab anything that fits inside. But if there’s a gap in the foil the scanners will go.” He winks at me, “The key is layering. If the foil breaks you’re nicked.”
I nod at the guy, unsure of what I’ve done to earn the trade secrets of this shoplifting mastermind. He spits on the sidewalk next to me.

It is now officially me and him at one end of the bus shelter and the rest of the people waiting for buses way on the other side. They’ve left me high and dry. Bailed out. I can understand.

He leans towards me on one of his crutches, “I only take what I need. I’m not greedy. I don’t go to where people know me ‘cause they’ll charge me with being equipped.” He winks at me again, “That’s the thing you see. You don’t just get charged for shoplifting. You also get charged for going into a shop equipped to lift.”

I swear I learn something new every day.

He suddenly turns on his crutches and yells out to a couple walking on the other side of the street. “Hey! Hey who’s that fella there you're with? I’m gonna tell your man!”
The couple starts walking in the way you do when some guy on crutches wearing tramp clothes loudly accuses you of infidelities in public.

Pinstripe man leans in close again and says, “See that bird walking over there, with her arms around that fella. That’s not her geezer. Her geezer is much younger.” He stands still for a moment, “I tell you if a woman did that to me...I’d hit her in the face.” He spits on the sidewalk again.
I don’t really have much to add so I just continue sitting on the bench waiting for the slowest bus in south west London. Sweet silence follows for a while as he fidgets with his pockets first, then his bag and then his pockets again.
He looks up and down the street, “Aw bugger this.” And with that he swings off up the street. I don’t get as much as a wave goodbye.

In a while another seventy-six bus arrives. The doors open but there is no blues being sung. There is also no sight of the old guy with the scuffed shoes, torn trousers, creased pinstripe jacket, and Prada shopping bag. It's just me drowning in the smell of last night's smoke.

A blood red moon

Sitting on that tired brown chair at the bar is Mystic Lou. He is a modern day magician and by that I mean that he is a wizard from times past wringing his hands in today’s London.

Right now he’s telling Kenny about one night in the Somerset hills when he and a few of his druid friends finished erecting Stonehenge. Apparently there was a royal kind of shindig that night. Lou says that druids in those days really knew how to throw a party. It was a night soaked in fire and skin and smoke and spit and dirt. Lou says that people just don’t celebrate like that anymore and that the key to a good soiree is a blood red moon.

Apparently they happen more often than you think.

A bitter ride in the back seat of night

I opened the door, sat on the cracked leather seat and said "drive". We pushed on into the night's arms. It wasn't until a few hours later that I realized we were driving in circles.

Didn't bother me much though. It was, after all, the shape my life had taken up to that point anyway.

In the waiting room

Two things you can always manage to find in a doctor's waiting room: magazines that you can't stand reading and old men with lunatic expressions of slow motion death.

One of them has just walked into the room. I look up from a gardening periodical straight into his sunken, rabid eyes. His lips are pulled back from his clenched teeth. It's like he is enduring a five-year heart attack.

Some invisible puppeteer drags his thinly veiled bones into the empty seat across from me. He reaches down to the cuffs of his trousers and adjusts the way they sit on his brown leather shoes. As he looks up I catch a glimpse into those wide, wild eyes. Inside I can see him behind the controls of a runaway train. He is not frantically wrestling with levers or pumping at brakes. Instead, behind that cracked windscreen face, he proudly counts the hills that slide past. He counts the sleepers under the tracks, the sand and the clouds.

He looks to the looming horizon and I go back to reading about the best soil in which to grow roses.

Evidence

Running his wet hand across the stubble that covers the broad sweep of his face he knows it's time to repeat the ritual. It's time to scrape away the black bristles that extend through from the edge of his soul. It's once again time to hide the evidence of that irrepressible, growing darkness within.

Listening to an exorcism crosslegged on beige carpet

It's about six in the morning in London and I am sitting on the floor of a room in California. In the room next to mine is a group of people singing and playing the guitar. After a while they start speaking in tongues and grinding Lucifer into the carpet with their bare feet. Now they are clapping, quite content with the results of their work.

The thing is, from where I'm sitting, I can hear him in the walls and he's laughing.

Two guys three girls and a couch

Last night I set my camera up on the ironing board and pointed it at: Two guys, three girls and a couch.

Associativity

I find music and memories impossible to separate. That's what I love about music, that reminder. They say that the olfactory sense is the most closely linked with memory, and I can vouch for that too, but when my ears prick up at a familiar tune a host of memories always come rushing back.

Cigarettes Will Kill You by Ben Lee - Sitting on the stained carpet of the dirtiest house I've lived in, drinking beers with some of my best friends.

Hey Boy, Hey Girl by Chemical Brothers - Standing in a field in Somerset with two old friends and not a care in the world.

Fuzzy by Grant Lee Buffalo - Nestled next to a sweet girl in bed listening to the sound of possums crawl over the roof of my house.

Gabriel by Lamb - Sitting on the edge of a bed in a room with red curtains feeling someone slip through my fingers.

Wonderwall by Oasis - Standing in the moonlight a thousand miles from home enjoying a completely new sense of freedom.

Go To Sleep by Radiohead - Cruising around the streets of Brisbane in Cono's car wasting away the humid summer days.

Kashmir by Led Zeppelin - Sipping whiskey with new friends one early Californian morning.

March of the Pigs by Nine Inch Nails - Grinning wide in an abandoned farm house while practicing for a gig with the band.

Human Tornado by Unida - Driving north to San Francisco along highway 101.

Fake Plastic Trees by Radiohead - Laying on my bed staring at the orange glow of a single light bulb wishing I could get to sleep.

Good or bad they are there and that's just fine with me.

The Living Dead

I was in Amsterdam on Queen's Day last year with a few friends. The locals brought their furniture and stereos from their houses out on to the streets. There were people everywhere milling about drinking, smoking and dancing to their music.

We arrived kind of late so most of the festivities were already over. There was rubbish strewn everywhere and the place looked like some kind of natural disaster had struck. As the four of us walked towards the centre of the city I realized that the crowds around us were moving away from it. The sun was just setting and things felt kind of spooky. Looking at the drug-fucked crowd shuffling about us it suddenly felt like we were in the midst of a horde of the living dead. We kept on walking towards the sunset and the zombies ignored us. Maybe our brains weren't juicy enough.

Two thousand and four

It was one hell of a year.

It was the year I flew across the world to live in the mist under the grey.
The year I worked in my pajamas.
The year I came to understand that an Irish accent and an exposed shoulder is my kryptonite.
The year I started writing with a little more purpose.
The year I owned my first scarf.
The year I was reunited with two great friends.
The year I first saw the west coast of Australia.
The year I went to my first Glastonbury festival.
The year I spent a magical weekend in Paris.
The year I planned and took my first decent photograph.
The year I drank a Guinness in Dublin.
The year I watched more football than ever before.
The year I saw one of the Beatles play live.
The year I first saw the sun set over water.
The year I ate Thai food in Thailand.
It was the year that I had two haircuts.

Yeah, like I said, one hell of a year.

The Brick Layer

I got drinking with an old Scottish bloke named Colin last night. You know the type: worn and weathered exterior, story filled interior. He's been a brick layer and tramp for most of his life. He's apparently lived in every city and town in Great Britain and rates London as the worst.

We started on a pair of whiskeys and he informed me that all of the girls working behind the bar were his family.
"You see that tall blonde girl", he said. "She's Latvian. I call her my granddaughter." Another girl came over and collected some empty glasses. "This is another of my granddaughters. She's Polish." She smiled at us and walked away with her hands full of empties. He then pointed over to a short brunette serving food. "That small girl there is Brazilian."
"Another granddaughter?" I asked.
"Yep, and a very lovely girl," he paused, "but she's spoken for."
I told him that his granddaughters all seemed delightful.

After we'd been chatting for a while longer he reached into his jacket and gave me a badge with a miniature Australian flag attached and a miniature whiskey bottle on a key ring. For some reason I didn't find it at all unusual that he would carry miniature gifts around with him. He was glad that I knew there were six stars on the Australian flag. He said that most Aussie kids he'd asked didn't and that it was an important thing to know.

He then said he couldn't understand why my country threw itself behind the causes fought by, "this small island they like to call Great." I told him that I thought these sort of things were never straightforward and that everyone back home didn't necessarily agree with it. We then spoke about the diggers and Gallipoli and about how he lost a grandson in Desert Storm.

After a short while spent silently sipping on our whiskeys he said to me, "I have five children, eleven grandchildren and three great-grandchildren and here I am talking with a complete stranger." I nodded and we saluted each other with our glasses and sipped some more.

As he stood to leave I told him I still owed him a whiskey. He said that I could get it for him next time. He then told me that I should go up and spend some time in Scotland. I told him that I would. We shook hands and he left.

God is in the Television

Vincent was a slave to late night television. It was the self improvement advertisements that did it. The TV told him about all of the broken things in his life. It said that he needed a flatter stomach, a whiter smile and a timeshare in Florida. There were so many things that Vincent needed to fix. Sometimes he even wished he was bald just so he could try out that scalp camouflaging spray.

One time he decided that his sex life needed improvement so he bought a bottle of one hundred percent herbal pills and an instructional video that resulted in him walking around his flat with a longer, harder erection and nowhere to put it. He spent the rest of the night in bed, on his back, distracting himself by counting the cracks in his ceiling. From where Vincent lay it seemed that some things were harder to fix than others, and suddenly, that some just weren't worth fixing at all.

Pinstripes

Jeremy looked into the mirror as he straightened his tie
he looked large and square and strong
ready to face another day in his pinstriped navy suit
hiding within its silken folds
he looked like the man he pretended to be

the morning sun greeted him as
he opened his door and stood on the step
he savoured the warmth on his face
as the minutes passed

Jeremy's Mondays were always like this
all dressed up
and nowhere to go

A Crown and a Curse

In the Wenceslas Chapel of Prague's St. Vitus Cathedral sits the Czech Royal Crown and it's said that anyone who wears the crown but is not worthy of it will be cursed.

During World War II the Germans occupied the modern day Czech Republic and Reinhard Heydrich was the Nazi in command. He ruled the region from Prague and set up his base of operations in Prague Castle. From there he viciously suppressed the local people and became known as "The Butcher of Prague". The story goes that one night during his command he entered the Wenceslas Chapel and tried on the Royal Crown. Not a good idea.

During the early 1940s the exiled members of the Czechoslovak government were taking refuge in England. It was there, in concert with the English government, that they hatched a plan to assassinate Heydrich. They trained small teams of Czech soldiers in England and sent them to Prague in May of 1942 to carry out the deed.

On May 27th the Czech soldiers lay in ambush waiting for Heydrich's car to appear. Once the car arrived one of the soldiers, Sgt Josef Gabchik, aimed his previously hidden gun and shot at Heydrich, it jammed. His partner, Sgt Jan Kubis, noticed the misfire and threw an anti-tank grenade at the car. It exploded causing extensive damage to the car and serious injuries to Heydrich.

A dramatic gun chase ensued as the Czech soldiers fled from the scene. Eventually they escaped and hid themselves in the crypt of Prague's Orthodox cathedral of Saints Cyril and Methodius. One of their number was captured by the Nazis and was eventually forced into giving up his compatriots' whereabouts.

The Nazis surrounded the hiding place of the soldiers and attacked. The soldiers held them off for fourteen hours. The Nazis eventually tried flooding the crypt to flush the Czechs out. Instead of surrendering the Czechs shot themselves.

Heydrich was left with ruptured internal organs and an infected bloodstream. He was taken to a German hospital for treatment and after ten days of excruciating pain and unsuccessful surgery he died.

Maybe he should have tried on a fedora instead.

The Synagogue of the Golem

Rabbi Loeb was a Jewish mystic who lived in Prague in the 1500s. It's said that one day he gathered clay from the nearby River Moldau and sculpted it into a giant body. Using The Book Of Creation and the True Name of God he conducted a Kabbalistic ritual with the aim of granting the clay body life. He finalized the animation process by writing The True Name Of God on some parchment and placing it into the construct's mouth.

The Golem would tirelessly help the Rabbi in his work around the Synagogue throughout the week and each Shabbat the Rabbi would remove the parchment from the Golem's mouth in observation of the day of rest. The Golem would lay lifeless and then be reanimated the following day once the parchment was reinserted.

One Shabbat the Rabbi was so preoccupied with his duties that he forgot to remove the parchment. The Golem became enraged and unleashed a whirlwind of destruction throughout the Synagogue and Jewish Quarter. Once Rabbi Loeb realized what he had done he calmed the Golem and removed the parchment. Realizing the danger the Golem posed to those around him the Rabbi decided that it should remain inanimate forever. The parchment was never used again and the clay body of the Golem was stored in the attic of the Synagogue. It's said that traces of the remains can still be found in that attic to this day.

Correlation

I find that the state of my room correlates to the state of my mind and this morning I awoke to find my room looking like a brothel.

Bones

After taking a deep drag of his cigarette he asked,
    So what do they say?
She stared at the bones strewn across the table in front of her,
    You're due some bad times I'm afraid.
He smiled,
    Figures. I have been a prick in my day.
She continued staring at the bones,
    Yes, it seems you have. Are you sorry?
He stubbed out his cigarette,
    Nope. Not a bit.
She looked up from the bones and into his eyes,
    That might change.
He smiled wide,
    If you say so.
She shook her head,
    Not me. The bones.
He nodded slowly, still smiling. He lit another cigarette and drew on it heavily while looking around the tent,
    Is that it then?
She gathered the bones up and placed them into a red velvet bag,
    Almost.
His brow furrowed as he tilted his head, his ear pointed upwards,
    What's that sound?
It was her turn to smile,
    That's your time: it has come.
The tent flap opened and she emerged into the cold with a new set of knuckles added to those already in her velvet bag.

Stargazing

Bruce lay on his back looking up at the clear night sky. His eyes wandered over the points of tiny white in the darkness above looking for a familiar shape – the only shape up there that he knew. Eventually he spotted the curved handle and box-like bowl. It always felt good to find the Big Dipper. It reminded him that he still could if he ever needed to.

He shivered as a cool breeze flowed over his exposed arms and chest. He felt the tension in his skin build as goose bumps started to form. His foggy breath lingered in front of his face as he tried making mist rings. He quickly gave up. He was restless.

He just couldn’t get all of the thoughts careening around inside his head to settle and move to the edges. They were too much to deal with. He decided to try and clear his mind. He lay there trying to relax and not think about anything in particular. The hard thing about not thinking about anything, Bruce realized, is not thinking about not thinking about anything. Still, Bruce tried, time would pass quicker that way.

After a few minutes of little success Bruce closed his eyes and concentrated on the sounds around him instead. He ignored the low wail of sirens in the distance and the dripping of water off to his left, they reminded him of things he didn't want to think about anymore. Instead he found himself attracted to the sound of his open shirt flapping in the wind. It was somehow soothing.

It sounded to Bruce like some creature with a large set of wings was descending from the sky towards him. Maybe it was a giant eagle like the ones he saw in that really long movie that time or maybe it was one of those dinosaur birds winging into the city from its secret island home looking for dinner. It might even be an angel who’d drunk one too many and mistaken him for somebody else. Bruce imagined groups of Angels holding large mugs of beer dancing around crystal tables perched on fluffy white clouds. He didn't know that they actually drank wine.

Bruce's body started to vibrate. A deep rumbling flowed through his back and across his chest. A bright white light washed over his face and suddenly the clutter in his head and heart didn't matter anymore. Bruce smiled and the number five train to Liverpool arrived late that night.

feedback

turn me on
grind
distract me from myself

let's learn to unfuck ourselves
together

slide over
and help me
overdose in you

Constant

The more things change
The more they remain a shame

A flurry of blows

Sometimes it comes like a rushing from within my chest, back and up through my spine, and out the top of my skull.
And sometimes it just doesn't come at all.

Notes

He awoke to that familiar stinging behind his eyes. That dense pain in his neck. Glancing across the room towards his scuffed notebook he wondered what it held for him today. He opened it.

More notes to himself.
More scraps of his soul.
More midnight madness.

Always the same. At least he could be original. But not this night and not for a while yet.

The Mission

To capture the little creatures that live in my gourd and put them down into the ether for you to read. Feel that cresting wave my friends? It is the here and it is the now.