Life… a tornado of emotions where we try to cope while walking or twirling in dust, rain and mud. A life where luck arrives occasionally to wrap us in silk or sensuous stink, but, ultimately, for what? In a world of people behaving badly, canceling each other with spit, name calling, bombs, etc, it grates me, especially when everyone is actually as corrupt as hell.

(cue crazy time)

Perhaps we should be expressing and freely admitting our ‘evil sides,’ because we might be here on this planet to challenge that corrupt aspect which seems to be intrinsic, and not hide from it by ‘virtue signaling?’

Maybe?

Confusing huh?

Why rant?

We are definitely in a spiritual war. The Universe at its core must be a battle, a dirty-ole-fistfight of ‘good versus evil’ – which is the core, the obvious ground-stone of every story.

Why do I write books?

Three life events blew me over, completely knocking me off my feet and forcing me to take a step back and stare at reality. 

Three events:

A skating teacher who ‘liked’ little boys, including me, wayyyy too much. An older man with a corrupt, unforgivable soul?

The state of Queensland, Australia, which was run by snakes – men of filthy ego and disgusting parliamentary and police corruption. They were jailed or crushed one way or another by the ‘Fitzgerald Enquiry.’ Does their skin and soul still slither?

A major suicide/terrorist attack right in front of my eyes digging deeply into my… everything. A young man dies while murdering 202 people. A young man corrupted by fanatics and their lies. Are they corrupted endlessly?

Those events drew a shade over my mind. In time, I discovered that I could not take a full step forward and walk back into reality, or into a normal life. I was stuck, reasonably happily inside some sort of funk. A state of being addicted to writing real-life stories drenched in escapism and magical realism. I surrendered the silly and childish idea of ‘reputation’ to hang out with devils, criminals, the disenfranchised, the crazy, and worst of all, deeply religious, fake, cunts.

I wanted to see what’s inside of them, and split the Universe open a tad to take a peek inside.

I’ve thrown people under a bus, including my own soulmate, to see their metal, or their fairy-floss. I was nice about it, I yelled ‘sink or swim’ as the wheels of the bus went round and round.

Many people scream and twist themselves stupid, worrying about this strange thing called ‘character,’ churning themselves silly in a thousand different ways. However, it’s a suitable place for me to start digging for truth, as we seem to be here ‘disturbingly alive’ on planet Earth to develop something deep? Something that requires radical acceptance and stoicism, a ‘grit versus sugar’ battle where the sugar needs to be washed off first, so the grit can start scrubbing away on a mission.

I wish, deeply, that I was privy to the absolute truth of all this fire… of course I’m not, so I settled on a deep suspicion that the Universe is a test, a maze, a place to create or build ‘better souls,’ and not just polish them or give them a quick spin, because, in reality we are all assholes.

All of us.

For fun, I jump into the dark soup of situations and chase a situation, a story. I often ‘act-out’ a character, pretending to be ‘who’ or ‘whatever’ is needed to push the events and the story forward.

For example:

I was in a terrorist attack. After some terrible years, I moved and lived on the terrorist’s island for three and a half years.

I met a 16-year-old, completely legal hooker in a first world country. Most people have a problem with this situation when talking openly or socially, but in the deep of the night, or after a few beers, most people speak very, very differently – she was a busy girl! Her clients included the ‘best of the best’ that society has to offer. How corrupt are the ‘good’ people of civilized countries?

I fell deeply in love with a Dayak woman, a Christian, a ‘little-rocker’ from Borneo who threatened violence – so I walked from the bottom of Borneo and up to Central Borneo shouting ‘come get me.’ The people I met on that journey still bring stars and smiles to my mind.

I stumbled upon a situation where a young child was sold to Russian nudists. The ‘nudists’ were good people, surrounded by a unimaginable hellscape.

Etc. Etc. Etc.

Yes, yes, yes, I’m soft flexing… why?

Because nobody gives a shit about what I do, except me. So, I must ring my own bell, chase a misi (mission) and write my own stories.

My fascination is everyone’s dirty and glowing soul – that ‘mud under the light’ weaving around uncomfortably, always fighting for something, a strength which is always revealed if I dig or push a person, or a situation, hard enough.

There are no physical angels in this world, find your own path, and build yourself – build ‘you’ with spirit-light if you can, or, if tragedy bites, just lay down in the dust… it’s okay, because you will always, eventually, get back up. We live forever in one way or another on this journey, this misi of being ‘washed’ by reality, by struggle, all for a purpose that we just can’t understand.

To know more about the silly, gut-wrenching soup we live in, wholesome is not an option, so I deliberately lurch from one disaster to the next, always keeping notes, chasing that elusive ‘lightness of being.’ Inevitably, shit goes down, I’ve been in and out of all sorts of situations, leading to brilliant highs and devastating lows. Every second was worth it, every single step, as the only way for me to find a new story is to put on a pair of sandals and walk, walk, walk, fucking walk. There is always a story and a page to be turned, and very, very occasionally, a miracle.

You can find me babbling incessantly, degenerating in the nearest, dirtiest, hooker infested bar. Yes, I often thrive on seeing true-spirit glowing in someone’s eyes, watching them come to life after surviving tragedy and pain. I also love the stickiness of dank, dying carpet under my shoes when walking into a shit-hole.

My always-broken and always-optimistic soul is yearning for cleanliness, and elusive, impossible, freedom. The life of an author is always lonely. If a man has a full and satisfying life, there is no need to dream about an amazing girl who might walk down the street smiling, she’ll lose her teeth – insane authors throw rocks at everything.

Anyway… clearly, it’s time for my happy pills.

Deep exhale.

Digging away at the filthy truth, one disaster at a time is thirsty work. Defeated, my brain always directs me to the loneliest chair in the darkest corner of that sticky-carpet dive, sitting with a gin-tonic, or two, or ten, comfortably numb, with a sensational Asian whore plastered with tattoos and god-only-knows what else.