Thursday, 21 June 2018

The World is Desperately Hurting, Traumatised and Fucked Up.

We need our artists - it’s an emergency. We need the kind of people who always save the world right in the nick of time, by giving us hope.

We need our painters and writers and sculptors. Knitters and dreamers and gardeners and volunteers and nurses and teachers. We need our first responders .. we need people who give to other people. We need creators of all kinds, which is everybody. I once wrote a slam-poem that ended with the words:

“If there is a god
And he is a creator
Who made us in his image ..
That means we are creators
And if that dude’s a prophet then man,
You’re a prophet too.”

It’s time for me to get back to slams. I’ve known it for a while and my mum said it to me just the other day. I can do this again now .. but more. I’m writing big again now. Why?

Because I cleaned my bedroom.

I have a clean, uncluttered yet slightly askew, opulent, fancy, soothing bedroom for the first time in .... ever. EVER. This means everything. I just found out the Katoomba Heat for the Australian Poetry Slam is on at the library tonight and if you were allowed props I’d be performing with bells on.
... and I haven’t even written the piece I’ll be performing tonight. So far it’s just an idea embryo, so fragile. I must handle her with care as I bring her to life.

That’s what I do - I bring words to life. Make them dance, and show us their magic.

I’ve  never done this but I’m doing it now fuck it: I can write. It was in me all along .. I’ve won awards and competitions and received praise from high but what if I told you I haven’t even tried yet? I write my way into people’s souls and hearts. I put God in the machine .. I’ve been in the computer for over a decade now, since before the internet turned into a monster. It’s terrifying but I stay here on purpose, it needs people like me. It needs ME. I had to sort through a lot of Edens to get to this Eden. So many incarnations of ourselves we could be. Years ago I’d skite that I was “the best version of myself I could be.” Which was probably true it’s just that I didn’t realise I could fall so fast and so hard.

When you read me I don’t use breadcrumbs so you can find me I use pieces of my Soul. My hair is fucking fire. When you read me you often recognise yourself. Or you learn a truth - or you feel something you can’t quite name. In a lot of ways it’s got nothing to do with me - the statue was there all along he just carved it out from the block of marble. If you’re bold and righteous and tell the truth? Kaboom.

Some blog posts I’ve written have stopped people from killing themselves that day and I often hope and wonder if they’re still alive.

Nobody cut a path for me. I’m one of the ones who cuts the path. I’ve always been a wolf foundling. Wild. There’s something terribly wrong with me which according to Newton means there’s something terrible right with me. I’ve gotten through things that would have killed most others years ago. I’m stronger than any man I’ve ever met .. even my hair is fire. When my light shines it shines so bright it shines darkness straight out of people standing in front of me. But not all because the darkest dark swallows the lightest light. It’s been a battle, I won, now let’s keep moving we got shut to do before we sleep.

You with me? Sometimes I lose people, sorry. (The people in the psych wards were always with me. They understood everything .. I understood them. Beautiful shiny broken people. Sticky tape and staplers and blue tak .. whatever it takes to get through.

I’ve wanted to delete this blog so many times until I’ve realised it wasn’t my blog I wanted to delete. I wanted to delete ME. I’m glad I didn’t delete it, even though it’s embarrassing as shit because I’ve overshared my real and messy and crazy in an airbrushed, carefully coiffed, curated, beige, safe, bullshit fakey fake from fakeland world.
I write things you’re not supposed to write because ... it’s just so satisfying. Shock people out of their safe havens. Heh. I’ve written here about searching three cemeteries in one day to find my stepfathers grave so I could piss on it. I didn’t find it but hey guess what: if I found it now I wouldn’t piss on it! Evolution, baby.

I’ve written about Peaches Geldoffs drug addiction. I’ve written about going to my brothers flat the day after he killed himself and his belongings were either half packed or half unpacked .. guess we’ll never know. I’ve put up photos of my hairy nostrils, tuck shop arms, fat stomach. I wrote about using my nose hair trimmer to trim my chin hair. I google-earthed a photo of the flat in Batemans Bay that my real father died in and put it up on my blog and said “here’s the flat my father drank himself to death in!Did I write here about that copper who wanted to get into my pants so bad he let me hold his Glock? Whoops I’ve written it now mistakes were made. I still want to go do confession with the local catholic priest just to write about it here - it’ll make you laugh. “Bless me Father for I have sinned it has been thirty years since my last confession.” Buckle up while I take YOU to hell for a change, Father.

The love jumps off the computer screen when I write about my sons. You can’t blog about your children when they enter their teens but I was never a mummyblogger anyway I was masquerading all along, often dumbing myself down. I like flying under the radar and I love not being taken seriously.

I don’t know if I’ve written here about accidentally discovering women can have orgasms too but I tell you what, I was 14 and hardly left my bedroom all weekend. All that magic in a secret button.

I’ve led a Big Life which needs to be properly told. I’ve just found out that the book deal I had for my memoir has fallen through. WEEP. I hadn’t even mentioned my book deal here yet because it was early stages and I didn’t want to jinx it! The publishers are SO disappointed, so am I. But I just refuse to be disheartened, right when I’ve found this amazing ledge in life I’ve never reached before. So I’m doing something I hate: asking for help. Can somebody please help me keep moving forward with this? Who knows of a person who knows a person who can hook me up with a book deal? Out of all the Edens I’ve been I’ve never been this kind of an Eden before and I really like who I am. My email is so if somebody could help me get my book out that’d be great. For some reason it’s really important and it’s not for my ego - it’s for other people. Which sounds so fucken wanky but I’ve so many stories .. there’s so many ways we can make it through. And not just gritting our teeth make it through but shedding skin dancing in front of bonfires made it through. My brothers suicide has taken me a long, long time to process. And grieve, and make it through. And I couldn’t save him, I thought I could but I couldn’t. Which means I can’t save anybody else either but Jesus lord if there’s anybody who can be the funnest best most inappropriate cheerleader life coach who swears, vacuums the breadboard and do life a bit wrong then I can.

Holy crap I now have ONE HOUR to write the piece I’m performing tonight. Gotta go, almost at the bridge so how DO I get this shit out?? Dear me I just spent three hours typing this whole post on my phone, my back hurts, I can’t spellcheck it and it won’t let me insert Jack Johnson’s song “The News.” You should google it, very fitting.

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