Naked and spectacular

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The Christmas Spirit

According to the soundtrack,
  "The weather outside is frightful
   but the fire is so delightful."

In Bondi Beach it is obviously summer, but you wouldn't know it's Christmas.  We have sun, we have sand, waves, surfing, swimming, running and walking the dog.  There is a group of four sitting on the rocks, three of whom wear Santa Claus hats, but they aren't giving away gifts, only bored stares.  In Bondi Junction it doesn't matter if it is summer because it's Christmas.  It is serious business and we see people shopping and we hear the soundtrack reminding us all why we are shopping.  I was with a friend who is not as law-abiding as I am, who does not respect the sanctity of Christmas as much as I do.  He walked into the supermarket and walked out without paying for his items, which we later found out amounted to the value of $AU17.90.  Of course he was tapped on the shoulder, of course no one ever gets away with this type of immoral behaviour and the young security man in his non-uniform shorts and tattoos took the three of us downstairs to the office in the basement with the outdated computers and the knowing stares from the lunching employees.


Es un mundo pequeño

I have always known what it feels like to be loved.  As a child my mother loved me and this was not the mundane love of sitcoms and romantic comedies; I knew that long before I had a language to express it.  I grew up in a land where my mother's love was not taken away from me so people on the other side of the world can drink coffee and eat bananas.  Rather, my mother was always at home when I finished school and the New Zealand government paid her a domestic purposes benefit to facilitate her love.  Every idea of love I was taught by Walt Disney and my Sunday school teachers was superseded by the true love I experienced every day of my life and I grew up with the truth that resounded throughout my entire body and so had little time for the truth that rattled around in my confused head.

Before she met my father, my mother was beaten by her husband, the man she was in love with and married, pregnant, at the age of 18.  It was 1968 and until then she had known only the love of her kind and gentle father and her two older brothers who would take her out and look after her.  She thought that a man should honour and protect a woman until she discovered a different type of love; a love that makes a woman beg her husband not to leave her after years of abuse.
My mother taught me that a man should not hit a woman.  My mother taught me that words like "cunt" are offensive to women and a nice boy like me should not use them.  While my other values slowly formed amidst the cultural noise I grew up surrounded by I knew in every cell of my body that a man should not hurt a woman.  I also knew that a man should not have sex with another man, which is the lesser evil of merely "disgusting".  So I wasn't entirely confident of what to do when my love starting swarming up from loins to my brain in swirling streams of desperate desire.  I was 11 years old.  I liked to kiss girls, but I liked to feel the presence of the body of the boys warm and thick beside me.  It was clear to me early that the rough dirty physical nature of my sexuality would be more appropriately aimed at boys than girls.

I have always been loved and it was true love when Bobby Bish and I dreamed about each others' naked flesh.  It was true love when my friend was older than me, sexually experienced, and we watched The Graduate together and my mother feared that we must be having sex but I was more scared than anybody of her sexuality.  It was true love when Jane and I found each other and she was 33 and I was 17 and she was married and I was virginous and we kissed for hours and found little or no context in which to express our love for one another and when we sat in the front seat of her car and she asked me what I wanted I couldn't tell her that I wanted to be inside her so I simply pulled her towards me in a directive manner and she said no because we don't have any condoms and now our love is just a memory held in the recesses of my body where apparently a great deal of love can be stored for many years.

I wonder about the love my mother stored in her flesh when after 35 years of trying to sustain love through heterosexual monogamy she told me, "I've always found women more attractive than men.  If I grew up when you grew up I probably would have called myself a lesbian.  But I chose men."  When I told her I "am" "gay" this is what she told me.  She knew before I did that this is how I would express myself in this life.  Eight years later I wander around staring at men and wanting to touch them and the ones I stare at are no longer 13 years old and my homosexuality is no longer a secret and yet still my desire is not being manifest as the physical act of love within heterosexual monogamy or homosexual promiscuity or by any other means.  I am as far away from marriage as I have ever been and I respect and honour women as much as I ever did and yet no woman holds me at night and draws me into her body and her vast abundance and I am not sure I want that, I'm not sure I would prefer a man to take into my mouth.

Perhaps it is too dangerous to fall in love with a woman because I know that falling in love is losing control and if I fall in love with a woman she may just accept me and I would be lost.  Perhaps it is safer to fall in love with men, especially men who don't know how to express themselves.  It is real love because I see the beauty inside of them and I understand why it does not come out.  I write stories about the blossoming of the hidden beauty inside of me and I pretend that my love will draw them out of their protective shell but the silent projection of my fantasies produces nothing but masturbation and confusion.  I would like to think that one day I will fall in love with some beautiful man at precisely the time in his life he decides he wants his beauty to be seen by the world.  I visualise some sort of committed relationship, kissing each other on the lips before we go to work, but I don't understand what monogamy is so I don't know how I will sustain it for the rest of my life.

Why is there so much silence at the core of all this cultural noise about sexuality?  Why do we make so many jokes when we can't even look each other in the eyes without filling the air with banal language vibrations?  What does it mean that only in the most loving and accepting places in our society am I allowed to expose my body as if I have nothing to be ashamed of and yet even in these places there is the unspoken certainty that if my penis becomes erect it also becomes inappropriate, even unacceptable?  I have the idea that other people have a more fluid experience of touching than I do, less uncertainty and tension around hugging or making love or wrestling naked in the mud but I am not sure because only my experience is recorded in my body.  I do know that every human being on this planet wants to be touched and to touch.

I imply that I am sad, and yet throughout my life I have witnessed my ability to express myself expand beyond limits I previously never conceived of.  It seems to me this process will continue and soon love will flow through me as effortlessly as the water I drink and it will cleanse me, taking with it all the impurities I have collected.  This effortless flow will transform the part of the universe in my vicinity with an aura of beauty the power of which is not yet imaginable.  Okay, I said, I'm no longer ashamed of my love for you.  Just because you are a man and you are beautiful and you probably consider yourself heterosexual does not mean you don't want to be touched.

My mother used to give me hugs that would fill my being with the certainty of love and security the memory of which has never left my body even though I can't remember in my brain what these hugs felt like.  One time I hugged her and I felt blood swell to my penis and I realised that the physical manifestations of love are not always straight forward.

And while I hunch over the keyboard attempting to say something meaningful about love to post for the entire planet to read I am interrupted by two naked little Estonian girls offering me milk and singing "It's a small world after all" in Spanish, saying more than I have in hours of typing.


Acknowledging the depths I have always appreciated being loved from

My mum always told me that if you don't have anything nice to say then don't say anything at all; I extrapolate that if you don't have anything nice to write about you are free to use "stream-of-consciousness" as my beautiful English teacher in years 10 and 13 described it, free typing with your "piano fingers" as my precious mummy described the limbs at the end of my wrists. 

I am so lucky to have had these beautiful women to guide me as a child.  There was, as I mentioned, Mrs Käsner and her love, which, as you may know, does not emanate from every high school teacher in this world.  A year or three later there was Norelle Scott, who was equally encouraging and loving in her way toward drawing out the rhythms and secrets in my mind that can be translated to external works of art that seem to resonate with others.  What a beautiful anomaly she is in an education-industry dedicated primarily to role specialisation for the benefit of an economy that is draining our planet, enslaving us and and making sure our lives are as meaningless as possible.

Some people go their whole lives without encountering these women who are able to exist within and without the male-dominated hierarchy that we allow to define our society.  They somehow manage to effortlessly spread the security of the chaotic depths of their love for all life on this planet and their, I assume largely unconscious, connection to the mind of this Earth.  I don't understand this connection because I was born into a male form and while my journey has certainly been to overcome many of the limits of my masculinity, I still have a penis and I like having a penis and I am not going to ever not have a penis and even if I did not it would not mean that I would have womb and so my body will never contain a microcosm of the universe.

But I will continue to encounter these women and their depths of infinite love and I can even say with pride that I emerged into this dimension from the womb of one of these women.  Her name is Mum and she was my mother.  She identified with a superficial external world and waited for someone to acknowledge the secret universe inside of her that was not utilitarian enough for the cultural context we are talking about here.  The cultural context, specifically, was Australia and New Zealand 1950-2005.  This strange and idiotic attempt at European civilisation in what is referred to, without humour, as Oceania, is by no stretch of the imagination a legitimate benchmark against which to judge the value of your own worth.  You will discover with a small amount of travel that European civilisation is actually stronger and healthier in Europe and has actually continued to evolve along much more sensible lines into the 21st century.  However, New Zealand and Australia are not failures of human civilisation because each land possesses the spirit and even the physical presence of a different attempt at human society which could possibly resonate with the land somewhat more comfortably than capitalism and political correctness.

I don't think Mum consciously tapped very strongly into the profundity of the expansive possibilities of the human experience in Oceania, though she did tell me once how attractive young Maori women are.  "They are so full of life," she told me.  They don't subscribe to the same repressive performances of restraint that I was taught by my loving parents and hateful teachers, she implied.  Unlike my blessings, seemingly perpetual, of these engaged, encouraging, beautiful teaching women, my mother never danced with the young Maori woman who was to draw out the joy and delight of life that she left dormant within her.  Instead she ended her life dreaming of the father who dominated the household with such love that Mum felt safe, long before she was my mum or anyone's mum; back when she had a mum herself and so needed love instead of just giving so much of it away.

I guess even a woman who doesn't acknowledge the universe inside of her can still manage to access profound amounts of the love contained within it when she has five children to send out into the world full to the brim with love and acceptance.  I am almost tempted to say that this undefinable impulse of women is more powerful than the massive concrete structures and institutions with their layers of bureaucracy that men create in attempts to control their world.  If you understand any of what I have just said then maybe you will have an interesting answer to the question of who is the real god in this world, the war-obsessed Alpha Male god of our monotheistic religious institutions or the goddess who personifies nature and the collective mind of all life on this planet?  A simple question when you understand my definition of all these extremely unspecific words I am using.

Maybe Yahweh and Allah don't exist and maybe Gaia does exist; and of course only a male would make such an idiotic statement.  Don't get me wrong, I am not reinforcing any dichotomy between male and female.  The control systems men have created on this planet have infected women and men alike and both men and women are realising this and choosing to remove themselves from it.  However there has been a retention, thankfully, that survived the last two thousand years of Christianity and Islam and as a result many of us are blessed with mothers or teachers or friends whose abundance is inconceivable within the constructs of certain control-freak realities.


A congruence of internal dictionaries

In his book The God Delusion Richard Dawkins uses some kind of logic to "prove" that some kind of "god" does not "exist".  As this sentence implies, there are tree problems inherent in my prejudiced summation of his book.  Some words are just too undefined for us to ever hope to share a common understanding of.

First we have the word "prove" and it seems to me the primary purpose of his book is to prove that some god does not exist, which implies a belief; the belief that some god does not exist, precisely the evil that the book is against.

The second word we find problematic is "god".  I don't understand, and the half of the book that I read does not clarify this point, how a concept could possibly exist or not exist.  God is not an object that we can point to like a desk or a banana, however we created the word "god" for the same reason we created the words "desk" and "banana", to explain an experience.  I am sure some clever idiot could write a book proving that "hope" does not exist or "evil" does not exist because there is no physical evidence of these abstract concepts in the dimension we seem to most agree on.  I must say that God may be a useful concept for some people to discuss and understand an experience they do not have a better word to explain.  The idea that their experience does not exist is a hysterical degree of intellectual fascism, the idea that the word they use to explain it does not exist is just silly.

Our third problematic word is "exist" and any simple glance at modern science shows that we don't actually anything about existence at all.  Our physics has developed so far within such a limited spectrum that we realise that we have no idea, in a world where there are so many possibilities, each with a different probability of existing, why any event performs the formality of actually occurring.  We also make the assumption that abstractions such as god and hope are less certain than objects such as desks and bananas but when we look at these objects on a quantum level we discover that their existence is not as solid as we assumed.  It turns out they are mostly space and the atoms that make up their form seem to be appearing and disappearing for no reason we can understand.  Now we must wonder what we could possibly mean when we use the word "exist" when a perceiving entity is required as a reference point for anything to be considered "in existence" from our commonly-held scientific perspective.

Personally, I accept science as interesting and intellectually provocative.  I do not understand why it is necessary or how it is possible to "believe" in science as if it is "true".  These seem to me to be very unscientific, unexamined words.  For science to be interesting or provocative enough to retain my attention I first require an effective science communicator, someone who is able to straddle both the understanding of the theory, mathematics and implications of the science as well as the language we use to contain and share the science.  There are some scientists whose prose style I enjoy, just as there are some novelists whose prose style I enjoy.  In this way I can take science in the same way I take any other form of writing.

Belief is a trick of language.  Language does not create any truth.  Any feeling of truth obtained from language is simply that the language explicated something you already understood.  Language cannot present any new information when it obviously requires an existing understanding of each individual word and the listener's ability to reconstruct those words in a way they deem to be meaningful and of course they can only reconstruct these words in a meaningful way that is within their existing realm of understanding.  They cannot accept a meaning for a word that is beyond their present understanding of that word.

As a writer perhaps my primary break-through was the idea that words cannot convey meaning.  I cannot tell you anything you do not already know, or you wouldn't believe me.  Words do not contain information.  One might think this would end my career as a writer, realising that I could not possibly tell anybody anything worth knowing.  If this is true it makes sense simply to find some strand of pleasing illusion I can call my own and try to make a living from my skill and my specific strand of illusion.

However I also realised that despite being fundamentally meaningless, words are also extremely powerful.  Swear words are the most obvious example of this; meaningless words whose utility is merely offense.  I know from experience that I can stand up in front of a group of people and have a tremendous effect on them.  I can simply say some words and people will become quiet, the atmosphere in the room will change and some sort of physically awkward, intellectually quietening feeling will come across the listener.  Afterward somebody might tell me that I have "spoken the truth" and their feelings for me are genuine but their meaning is false.  A more honest person might tell me that it was "amazing" but they didn't quite get it all.  Superficially this second person might appear less intelligent but really they have a more accurate understanding of the fundamentals of what has just gone on here.  Consciously they might be thinking that if they heard the text one or two more times they would "understand" it but subconsciously they know that it is beyond understanding and that they have simply been affected by the vibrations of the sounds shaped by my voice and that connections have been made in their brain that have had psychic and physiological effects on themselves and others.  Perhaps, like a shared meditation, many of these psychic and physiological effects are similar from person to person and there is a communion possible in the sharing of words.  And of course it is all in the vibrations of the words, rather than the perception of their meaning.

I know I am a brilliant writer, but sometimes I bore myself with the blahblah contradiction of what I am writing about.  At my best I do not think, I simply slam the ends of my fingers down on the keyboard and beautiful combinations occur easily.  Sometimes I will sit and think and construct intellectually and bend my mind around concepts that are complicated and difficult to communicate and will most likely end up being limited and possibly contradictory and even maybe completely meaningless if I choose the wrong tone.  How can the tone of my writing render something meaningless when surely it is either true or untrue?  Perhaps there is no such thing as a shared truth that can somehow pass from me to you via this collection of symbols on some glowing screen.

Perhaps if you understand English well enough and we have read some of the same books and grown up in a similar cultural environment we will use these letters in a way that allows us to create vibrations that gives us a feeling of communion, of commonality that we might call understanding, of spiritual union and a feeling that we are the same being because we have the same experience of reality, if only for a moment.

Some days coffee and the sunrise morning allow me to clear and focus my mind and use my skill with language to shine  light onto the darkness of the internet that not only I find pleasing, but potentially many people around the world.  Some mornings I am not entirely sure I have been effective in this process.  To reassure me today I will post a series of three references all of which will be interesting and to the point and will perhaps communicate my intention if I haven't already.

An excerpt from the 2001 film Waking Life in which our hero hears a passionate explanation of the limits and power of our attempts to communicate through words.

The 1991 Robert Anton Wilson talking about how nothing has been explained so far and our experience of the universe is constantly changing.

An hour-long excerpt from a 1992 discussion with Terence McKenna in which he talks about, amongst other strange and fascinating topics, how reality is created with language.

Let me know how your explanation of reality fits into this paradigm.  Perhaps we can use this page as the beginning of a conversation because certainly in this area I am incapable of presenting a conclusive story.


A New Heaven and a New Earth in Sydney

I seem to be more attractive in a state of complete detachment.  As I brisk walk down the street plugged in to my mp3 player I am completely immersed in the Swedish lessons I am listening to.  I am listening very carefully and repeating the language they are introducing me to.  I barely take a few quick moments to direct my attention out into the world to make sure I know where I am going, or to keep half an eye out for the street down which I should turn.  I pass hundreds of people and barely notice their reactions.  Perhaps they find it amusing or confusing that someone is speaking clear simple sentences in some foreign language with a tone as if they are speaking to an idiot.  But the day is hot and I am wearing only a pair of shorts, no shoes or shirt.  My body is exposed to the weather and the world.  A young woman whose beauty deserves more than the attention I give her is trying to elicit donations for the Red Cross.  When she approaches me I assume she will ask me for money, but she asks me if I am going to the beach and then admits that she would love to come with me.  I invite her silently with my hand as I brisk walk away and we both smile and we both know that she's not going to come with me.  Again I am completely immersed in the world of abstract Swedish language until I am stopped again by a couple of guys who tell me they are making a video for a Christmas party and they need me to perform for it.  I give them two minutes of attention and enthusiasm, receive their brief thanks, and continue walking at the same pace as before.  I finish the "tape" and begin the same lesson again.  I am profoundly excited at how fast it is possible to learn a new language.

I am a part of this capitalist world but not so identified with its seriousness.  I am a hypocrite for criticising it with such moral superiority and then desiring its objects.  I desire its food and literary objects.  I am not one who is pathetic enough to be defined by my low economic status.  The fact that I have very little money and currently have no income whatsoever does not mean that I have to buy house brand noodles and white bread for nutritional support.  I desire these superfoods like chia seeds, goji berries, unhulled tahini and New Zealand manuka honey.  I don't see why I would muck around with anything else simply because it is cheap.  There are ways of shopping, of course, that many people are not aware of.  There are now cloth bags which are reused and increasingly common.  One can simply shop with one of these green cloth bags, putting all their items into the bag with the most expensive items on the bottom.  When one reaches the checkout one simply digs as deeply into the bag as finances allow.  Sometimes only the cheapest two items are scanned through the checkout and the rest simply remain in the bag.  Life is more simple than people are telling us.  Of course I would never do this because it is against the law and I face the prospect of an awkward confrontation; and it is morally evil to enjoy the pleasures of the Earth's nutritious plants without financially supporting multinational corporations.

Whatever the city, I can behave in as unusual a manner as I like, and it is only my shame or self-consciousness that will attract negative attention.  If I perform my strangenesses with complete self-confidence I will radiate an attraction that will draw all sorts of beauty into my life.

The city is a place where we live so violently close to one another that at any moment we can create the experience we want and need by finding precisely the right person to share this experience with.  Perhaps this is the real deep-seated reason for the modern tendency towards urbanity.  The world is speeding up, time and space are expanding and we all need to contribute to the exponential increase in novelty in human society.  This tendency we are all manifesting will lead to a collective catharsis because as a universe we need an eschaton in order to be reborn.  Together we will create the global experience we need to experience.  In exactly the same way that individuals carefully subconsciously select each other because we know the experience we need, so the collective mind of all life is bringing about the experience we all need to share in order to destroy the veil of separation and bring us back to our god.

This brings me to my favourite Australian city, which only exists for two weeks per year; one week over Easter and one week over New Year.  I don't see Confest as a festival so much as a city.  A festival is a temporary distraction from life, an amusement or an entertainment.  Confest, however, can be seen as bringing you intensely into the reality of your life in a deeper and more immediate manner than is usually experienced.  As an "alternative" event, Confest is not an alternative to society at all.  Confest is a city, Confest is what a city can and should be, Confest is practice for what the cities will become, once we have achieved the catharsis that will bring about the manifestation of our joy.  The intensity and delight of this world is available now for those who want it and for those who somehow know that in the years to come they will be ready for the inevitable.

A New Heaven and a New Earth have been promised to us and the city is making it happen.  Thank you, Sydney.


I feel uncomfortable sharing my freedom with people who are incorrect

We live under the illusion of control of a state who, if they do not like you, will forcibly and, if necessary, violently take possession of your body until you are judged to be sufficiently submissive to their authority and law. For the duration of this period in which possession of your life has passed from yourself and God to the state, you will likely be contained in a small room within what is known as a “correctional facility”. You are not allowed to leave, in fact you are forced to stay.

The name "correctional facility" is entirely political because almost everyone calls these institutions prisons or jails. This name does not imply that these institutions are in any way correct; the name suggests that their purpose is to correct people who are deemed by the state to be incorrect.

A correct person, I presume, is one who accepts the authority of the state despite the fact that its authority is not natural or legitimate and has no history of success. A correct person submits to the authority of Police, not only to enforce the state's laws but also to arbitrarily intimidate, waste time and seek justification for your behaviour. A correct person does what they are told. A correct person lives in fear of being caught. A correct person obeys. A correct person is economically productive, producing consumable items to increase the tax revenue of the state. A correct person behaves in a way that correlates with the official culture and does not express ideas that contradict this culture. A correct person does not expose their genitals.

Naming prisons correctional facilities suggests that the people in them are incorrect. There are a number of ways a person can be deemed incorrect. In New Zealand, 14% of people are Maori, whereas 50% of the officially incorrect are Maori. In Australia 2.5% of people are original Australians, whereas 24% of incorrect people are original.

This suggests to me that if you are a Pacific person whose home was infiltrated by the illegal authority of Europe you are far more likely to find yourself to be incorrect, presumably because your natural behaviour correlates less with the behaviour the state finds acceptable, perhaps because you have had fewer generations of experience with this type of submission to authority. This behaviour is so unnatural that it takes many generations of reinforcement before submission is sufficiently normalised and the state is able to retain control of the minds and bodies of its subjects.

While hitchhiking I met a man who has worked at a prison in New Zealand for many years. He estimates that 60% of the prison population are mentally ill. He suggests that the best solution to drastically reducing the number of incorrect people in our society who need to be imprisoned is to test young children for minor sight and hearing difficulties such as glue ear or long-sightedness. In this way they won't fall behind at the beginning of their school career and they will be able to participate and flourish in the schooling environment. He claims lack of this type of simple testing and assistance for our children is the primary cause of incorrectness.

He does not use the term "correctional facility" but like almost everyone else uses the term prison. He tells me that the notion of rehabilitation has no basis in reality. He tells me that nobody benefits from being in prison and in fact people are severely damaged by being forced against their will to stay in prison until they are deemed sufficiently acceptable to participate again in the natural processes of life.

Like you I did not question the idea that some people in our society are simply too incorrect to retain control over their own lives and bodies; they hurt people and property. However, through a serious of synchronistic events in my life, such as the meeting of the above person and the possibility that a gentle friend of mine might be imprisoned for a demonstration against violence, I realised that I felt deep within my person a strong revulsion at the idea that any human being would lock any other human being in a room against their will and keep them there for many years. Any type of moral justification or unfounded suggestions of practicality do not justify the naturally abhorrent nature of this act that we all feel as empathetic beings.

One method, of course, of suppressing this natural empathy is to make distinct those people we imprison with the use of language. When we define them as "criminals" suddenly it is acceptable to imprison them.

I am a sensitive person and I find the idea that anyone I love may be imprisoned at the whim of what is known as the "justice system" sickening. I have a tendency, however irrational, to trust my own responses over the official belief systems of the state and I am therefore uncomfortable with imprisonment as a method for producing a healthy society. Nobody has convinced me that this method is in any way effective.

So why do we have prisons? Some people I have spoken to, in order to justify a reality they do not necessarily agree with but would rather not acknowledge, have suggested that some people are simply not able to function within society because they hurt others, therefore they should be imprisoned. This is not the "you will be corrected" concept suggested by the state in renaming their prisons "correctional facilities" but an entirely separate concept in which these people are inherently incorrect and can not be assisted in any way. Some people are simply incorrect and instead of finding out why we will imprison them perpetually.

If anybody can suggest an alternative to my empathetic belief system regarding imprisonment that they truly feel or believe, rather than simply repeating the official doctrines of the state, I would very much like to hear it. Now is the time to engage in a dialogue regarding the legitimacy and effectiveness of our behaviour as a society.

End the British occupation of Australia

Less than 300 years ago Australia was invaded and colonised by the British without regard to the people already living on the land. The British Crown obstinately instigated a government for a land which does not belong to them and through no other means but force and time is the government recognised today as the primary authority on this continent. There is a natural authority which is all-pervasive and undeniable, however not economically relevant. There is a human authority that is thousands of years old, developing with the planet's oldest living human culture. This is also not considered relevant because it does not strengthen the control and economic dominance of the regime.

In this enlightened age when we have massive institutions like the United Nations to make sure human rights are supported by other massive institutions with excessive amounts of power we recognise that it is not acceptable, not legal, to invade and settle any land, dispossessing, dislocating and destroying its people. However the Australian government is allowed to stay because it will be too difficult to hand the authority back to the people who possess it naturally. It has been 230 years and this institution is now an established and permanent part of this country. The previous authority barely lasted 100,000 years.

We are as arrogant as we have ever been and now is the time not to make public apologies but to withdraw the illegal occupation of this land and return the authority to the people who have walked this land for thousands of years, the people who respect and understand this land, the people who belong to this land. Whether our family has been here for five generations, hundreds of generations or we arrived yesterday, this is our world and we deserve to be here. However, we have no right, legally or morally, to then impose European law on a continent in the Pacific and use this arbitrary illogical law, which clearly does not work because it requires Police and prisons to implement it, to intimidate, control and disempower people.

Recently I worked in the cherry capital of Australia, Young, labouring in the major industry of the town, picking cherries. We were received with warmth and curiosity by the locals, contempt and suspicion by the police. We heard plenty of anecdotal evidence to back up our experience that every year when many people come into Young to pick cherries for $0.70/kilogram they are targeted and harassed by the police, who converge on the town from surrounding areas for the picking season. Our experience was of being threatened and fined by the police for committing the heinous crimes of swimming naked and not wearing a seatbelt. It is easy to recognise the deep sickness in any institution by simply observing their behaviour. The government-funded gang known as Police have targeted and intimidated economically-supportive international travellers in one particular case in Young, presumably because of the cultural diversity and sense of chaos we bring with us.

Aside from the obvious overwhelming importance of the economy, the government's responsibility is to maintain a static obedient European capitalist monoculture here in the Pacific. Any threat to this monoculture must be policied and Policed out of existence. We are not able to maintain, let alone explore and enjoy, some of the oldest and richest human cultures on this planet because it doesn't reinforce the quasi-European monoculture that we are trying to enforce and maintain at the expense of everything and anything.

We should count ourselves lucky that we live in an age of democracy and not anarchy, capitalism and not survival, regulation and not chaos. How can we possibly survive in this world if we are forced to depend upon the land, if we are forced into a culture that is fluid and dynamic? If we do not heavily regulate this land and enforce these regulations with threats of imprisonment, people will die everywhere. We will die.

What could possibly be more of a threat to our noble desperation for civilised mind-control and wage-slavery than a nomadic people who don't wear clothes or live in houses? What can we sell them if they don't recognise the concept of ownership and they eat insects and other non-processed non-packaged non-marketed foods?

God help all of us who subscribe to a democracy that must be enforced by Police.


The storage capabilities of water

I fall in love frequently. I refuse to see this as a problem. I love love. Even when it drives me crazy. Perhaps because it drives me crazy. In a society in which people are constantly talking about how normal they are while behaving with pathological insanity, I enjoy the state of insanity supported by a deep and profound reassurance of a sanity based in the pervasive love that I am living in the depths of.

Often this love is not a natural and beautiful and powerful ocean. This weak desperate perverse urban love is more like an underground sewer, where all the people of the city flush away the part of themselves they would rather not look at, the part of their humanity they don't like the smell of, the part of their expression of life they consider superfluous. Their love.

These people are comforted by the knowledge that they love their spouse and their children and maybe even their parents and their friends; this they consider to be sufficient. There is an excess of love that is so unnecessary that it turns their urine a dark yellow and they flush it all away to this dark and unknown place beneath the concrete pathways that represent the trajectories of their lives. These people never consider what this place is like, or even that it exists. They are certain, at least they claim to be certain, they tell themselves they are certain, that the flush of the toilet is a natural process akin to opening up a wound in the earth and filling it up with their abundance.

However inside this non-biodegradable wound lined with concrete and metal pipes the excesses of human civilisation are not rotting into the earth but festering and fermenting and being consumed by rats who become drunk off the fermented faeces of our denial.

How can I look at this beautiful young man who sits peacefully only meters away from my body and though I have no social permission to talk to him and so only stare, how can I deny my secret knowledge that despite his uncaring expression and his subdued behaviour, he has an abundance of love in his heart and nowhere to put it? I can be sure that he spends a great deal of time and energy masturbating this love out and flushing it down the toilet.

Sometimes I wake up in a dream and I am in the sewer of the human soul and I am wading through the waste and I see his abandoned abundance floating away and while I see it and desire it I cannot entirely reject the imprinted ideology that it is dirty and contains disease and I shouldn't touch it and so I watch as it floats away into the unknown.

Of course what right do I have to break through the emphatic denial sometimes called social etiquette that claims to be more correct than the simple fact that I am here and you are here and we are looking at each other and we even speak the same language but probably don't have anything to say to one another. I have nothing to say to you of course but I want to look into your eyes and I can only look into your eyes if one of us is talking and neither of us have anything to say. I see your shit floating away and that means all that is left are our bodies and they are young and strong and yet we can't help but doubt and perpetuate the feeling that we may not survive the expression of the love spilling fourth at convenient ashamed lonely moments from our body and our soul.

I am one of the lucky ones and I have found a process in which to express much of the love that pours fourth incessantly from my mind and my soul; this process of languaging into literature or onto the internet. In this way, despite the fact that I never touched you while I had the chance, while we were intensely experiencing the reality of each others' presence, I can now use language to create another reality, a reality in which I proudly declare my love for all the beautiful persons I share this dimension with. I appeal to you now, in this form, to love as excessively and sanely as you like and not to worry about the expectation of social and emotional repression that we all pretend to agree with.

If you feel a little uncomfortable then spend less time on trains and avoid regulated cubicle-style working and shitting environments and rather than shitting down a sewerage pipe dive instead into the ocean.

I am not saddened by the sewer of urbanity because I know there is always an abundant ocean of love waiting for me when I return to that place I know is safe from all this illusion of insanity. There is room for everyone on these long beaches to offer up their love to the earth. She will take it compassionately and distribute it to the most deserving, those who ask and appreciate and are open to receive their piece of the collective love stored in the oceans that we all use to divide the continents on which we live our lives.


Immanentize the eschaton, please

I will continue to tell you that the end is nigh because this is my job.  I am a prophet and a wordsmith.  As a prophet I smell something in the air and have no desire to deny the reality of my perceptions.  As a wordsmith I utilise irony and suggest through exaggeration that you don't believe me about all this apocalypse shit cos it's all a joke.  I use puns and undermine myself by saying the end is night, no no no, the end is night.  Of course the end is night.

When the sun goes down and it gets dark everybody knows that it gets cold and everybody knows that's when the freaks come out, that's when things really get dangerous.  We all know the world is a dangerous place and at any moment someone could attack you and at night this is almost certain.  Because the night is nigh and the end is night.  When you see that red glow in the sky that you have always associated with the setting sun you will realise that this time the tones are different and this time that red sky symbolises everything you desperately cling to in your pathetic life burning in front of your face and you standing there with a single glass of water wondering whether you should futilely pour the water on the raging fire or drink the precious liquid and enrich your body.  This is the moment when you decide what is really important to you.

Today is the first day of the rest of your life and those old cliches are so comforting maybe they even contain some degree of truth.  But then I realise their truth is entirely bound up in their ability to comfort me and nothing else matters and nothing else holds any meaning, certainly not the symbols on this screen that I use to feel better about my life, these collections of symbols I present in a way that makes me feel productive, like I matter in this world when really I know that I matter more than anyone cos after the end has come none of this will matter.

Now I speak as the prophet and tell you that everything will collapse and nothing will remain and you will finally understand so many things you did not could not chose not to before because all the illusion will vanish and all we will have left is a reality to share, an environment in which to live together and an abundance of life and love to do something with.  Perhaps we will spend another 100,000 years developing a lovely Christian capitalist democratic society with antidepressants and polystyrene or maybe we will do something else. 

All I know, and as the prophet I really do know, and as the wordsmith I am just typing in hope and faith, eternity is not such a long time.  I also know that as things intensify around here you will notice one of two things happening to you and this is very important to observe.  You will notice that everything either gets a lot funnier or much more serious, and the rate of increase is exponential. 

If you find things getting funnier you are on the right track, don't worry about it.  You already realise that everything that is created will soon be destroyed; you already know that so much of it is illusion and reality is so much more simple and nice than all this hysteria suggests.  You're noticing that silence and space and presence and peace is imbued always with a subtle powerful energy that can only be described as love.  Forgive the restrictions of the English language but if we had a better word for that which I am referring to as "love" it would certainly go a little further to destroying this precious energy that preferably is not even thought about, just experienced and appreciated.

If you find things are getting more serious, that is not a good sign.  I'm sorry to say that this is a strong indication that things are just going to get worse. Chaos will increase, you will lose control and understanding, you will be distraught, you will lose everything that matters to you.  You might as well start panicking now because this is a serious situation and you are going to be the victim as it gets worse and worse as we all head straight to the point of annihilation.  And after annihilation, nothing.  Existence will cease and there will be nothing.  I know you're afraid, you should be, but more importantly, be suspicious, do not trust anyone, and keep your passport and all your money in a small bag inside your clothes against your person at all times.  The world is going to destroy you.  Do not accept it.  Fight.  Do not die.  It will not be okay.

Either way, whichever category you find yourself fitting into over the next few months, things are going to change and intensify around here.  Maybe you will enjoy it and accept it; maybe you will worry and resist.  But I guarantee you will die.  I will die.  The internet will die.  Bill Gates and Elvis Presley will die.  The global economy and Western Civilisation will die.  Christianity and Islam will die.  The English language will die.  All the whales will die.  All humans will die.  My words will be forgotten.  Your gravestone will rot like a tomato in the sun and no one will remember your name.  Your ego will disintegrate and your worries will cease to exist.  Coffee will cease to exist and television will cease to exist.  One day you will go to work for the last time and all the data you have entered will be wiped and there will be nobody around to care or even notice.  Everything you memorised for school will rot into the earth with the fat of your brain and even the dirt itself will rot, into what I do not know.

I do not know because my role as prophet is to stand proudly with the confidence of my ignorance and so that's why my writing makes no logical sense.  My role as prophet is to stand in the strength of my vulnerability and the power of my simple faith.  I will lead you when the time comes, rest assured I will be ready when I am needed.  You won't know I'm leading you, but I will provide the guidance.  And there is one of you reading this who will help me.  You know who you are.  Of course most people are inactive and inadequate, but you too will be ready when the time comes and we will be the invisible leaders of the new dimension.  In our humble confidence we will secure all survivors with the simplicity of our faith in reality.

Reality will be my god and miracles will abound.  Now is the time.

Melt [part II]

"Our lives are always interrupted by some thing or another," the man reminds her.  "It's as if we don't have any control."  She allows the words to settle on her, although she does not understand them.  "It doesn't matter anyway, where the information comes from.  We can be certain it is there.  That's what matters.  That certainty."

She feels like walking and so walks across to the other side of the room.  Not that there are any rooms in this world, just one big vast open space.  But she moves anyway, just for a change of environment and to exercise her legs slightly, they haven't been exercised in a few minutes and she instinctively knows they are becoming slightly cramped.

She does remember that in that dream world she was totally inactive for large portions of the day and she never even noticed that her body was crying out to her as a result.  She can't imagine now what would have distracted her so sufficiently that she was able to ignore the pleas of her body for so long.  But now it doesn't matter.  It was just a dream and already the memory of it is feeling far-fetched and distant from the reality of her existence.

It was an intense dream though.  She wants to think about it for a while as she walks through the endless landscape of crunchy fresh snow.  She remembers in the dream being unbearably cold.  But then she can't imagine a world any colder than the world she is walking through.  Maybe in the dream her clothing was insufficient.  She remembers being unbearably wet too, as though the rain was a curse.  She hated the rain in this dream.  No, she remembers, everyone in this strange world hated the rain.  They would all curse the rain and then the rain would make them wet and the wet would hang on them, their clothes would smell and they would feel much pain as a result.

The overwhelming message of the dream, she was beginning to deduct, was this tendency to ignore the body and persist in the face of pain.  The pain would hang all over her body like those wet clothes and she would never take them off.  In this world she loves getting her clothes wet and feeling that cold sting on her skin and then taking the clothes off and feeling the wind all over her naked body and running in that feeling and howling in that feeling and then entering the sauna and feeling the heat and then coming back out into the intense cold and continuing until nothing else mattered.

But right now she is walking and continuing to ponder this pervasive pain everywhere in the dream world.  There were other people in that dream world who also had wet clothes of pain hanging all over their bodies all the time.  They say that every person in your dream is really you and this is probably true but she remembers feeling very alienated from all the people in the dream, as if they were always just looking at her with detachment.  She would look at them too, with fascination but no love; the same detachment.

As she walks though the snow a person passes her, seemingly pondering some dream as she is.  They exchange no words but look deeply into each others' eyes.  Like her, this other person wears a purple scarf and walks slowly with her hands in her pockets and with her face mostly pointing up to the calm powerful sky, rather than watching where she is going.  They say many things with their eyes and feel the deep warmth of love and then quickly forget each other as they return to the bitter excitement of the unreality of their dreams.

In the dream world the people couldn't take off their clothes because they were the clothes.  She couldn't take off the shirt and exchange it for the shirt of another person because the shirt was hers and the other's shirt was his and this carried some sort of importance that she now finds curious.  She decides it must have something to do with the pain.  In that world, she considers, if I took off my shirt my pain would go away.  I would be free.  In the cold world of home she knows exactly how long she can run around naked in the snow before it is time to go into the sauna and warm up.  In the dream world there was the threat of death.

Another strange consideration is suddenly remembered.  In the dream everyone was always afraid of dying.  That's why they never took their clothes off.  Even though the clothes were heavy and wet and caused great pain and sometimes hypothermia, all the people were worried that if they took them off they would be too cold and die.  People did die in that world, she remembers, but they always resisted it, focusing on the pain rather than the transformation of death.

Pain.  There was a lot of pain in that world.  She had been obsessed with pain in the dream.  She loved to hate the pain and wrote stories about the pain and felt the intensity of the pain without actually listening to the pain and what it was saying.  She tries to imagine what was so special about the pain in that dream world but cannot.  Pain is simply not interesting to her and she can't imagine why she or anyone in that world would dedicate their lives to it.  It seems, she considers, that in that world we all needed a certain amount of pain and we would stand there and wait until we had it all.  It was like waiting for our pay at the end of the day.  We all knew how much pain we were owed and we weren't going to leave until we had it all.  And when we had all that pain grasped tightly in our hands we would put it in the safest pocket on the inside of our jacket and we would do up the zip and walk away from each other certain that we had all our pain, all the pain we deserved, and that no one would take it away from us.  There was a little bit of fear that someone would attack us and take our carefully folded wad of pain from our pocket for themselves, but this fear was just a little bonus for a hard day's work.  Nothing to be afraid of.

She shudders at the strangeness of this dream world and notices the feelings of this world fall off her body and soak into the earth.  She has finished reliving them and now she integrates the experience into herself with a laugh that tilts her head back with her face facing the sky.  She can't wait to tell him about this dream.  She always tells him her dreams and he always listens to her and not to the dream.  Last time he told her that he forgets her dreams instantly but never forgets her face as she tells them.  This is enough for her.  First she experiences the dream, then she returns and remembers, then she laughs, then she recalls the dream to him.  This fourth stage is when the dream becomes a story and after she has told the story she writes it in the book and closes the book for another day.  One day all the little children will open the book with curiosity and read all the dream stories, visualise all the dream worlds and marvel at their strangeness before closing the book and running to play.

"A world of pain," she announces because he is standing in front of her.  They both laugh at this because she is more dramatic than seems appropriate for the telling of the story.  Their bodies convulse with the hysterical laughter of what so far is only the title of her story.  "This world is serious," she pleads in a moment without laughter and he holds her hand to the heart in his chest and laughs a gentle restrained laugh.  The dream world feels so different that it's hard to tell it's story in her world of lightness and laughter.  There's an abstraction to it that she can't relate to anymore.  Even the sense she has just made of the world is fading away fast.  This would be another one of those dreams forgotten.  But she doesn't mind because when she looks at him she sees that he knows.  He can see her so clearly and he sees the fading dream and that her moment of reliving it is passing and that she doesn't mind.  Soon they will be completely present together.

"There it goes," he announces quietly as the final residue of dream leaves her body.  She looks at him as if discovering her love for him for the first time.  "I had so much to tell you about this world," she smiles into his eyes.  "Now I don't remember a thing."  "You'll have to sleep again tonight then," he responds.  "There are plenty of dreams around."  He pretends to pluck one from the sky and hold it in his hand like a trapped fly.  They both carefully stare at his closed hand and pull closer together as he slowly opens it and lets the imaginary dream float away again.

She stares at his empty hand a moment after the dream has gone and draws the gentle hand to her face where it rests in a tangible comfort and intimacy.  She feels the intensity of his presence all over her body and enjoys the overwhelming emptiness of no dream and no thought, just him and her standing together in the snow.  Their mutual body heat keeps them both warm for an eternal moment until again they are moving, silently and together, along the plain but not towards or away from anything.


How safe is this world?

Late at night we all desire the warmth and comfort of dreams or love.  This seems to be a daily need.  We want nothing but to go somewhere we know we are safe, a place where we can become vulnerable enough to sleep or vulnerable enough to open ourselves up to another person.

And yet we spend so much of our time on the streets, where we do not feel safe.  What is the fear of spending a night on the streets?  That we can never allow ourselves to feel safe enough to be vulnerable enough to sleep.  We can sit down, we can rest, but we are not in dream, we are not in love.  We are guarded, we are clothed.  This is not satisfying because every day we must become naked, every day we must shed our protective barriers and reveal ourselves to a safe and contained section of the world; our bed or our partner.

We then ask ourselves why the streets are not safe.  Or rather, why do we perceive the streets as unsafe?  The streets are where the strangers come together and we have been taught to fear the stranger.  The streets are the inevitable realm of chaos in between our trips to the workplace, the school, the institutions of control and comfortable reassuring understanding.

We understand the social context of our institutions and we all play by the rules.  On the streets there are no rules.  We so fear the chaos of the streets that our politicians must create laws and hire gangs of intimidatory thugs to patrol the streets and enforce those laws which barely scratch the surface of restraining the chaos of the streets.

Life cannot be contained and even though we have created what we like to call civilisation and we participate primarily in consumption and production rather than the circle of life we are still living creatures and inevitably intertwined into life itself, despite our efforts to appear as robots or to behave as ants, busily selflessly serving our queen.

We are not like we talk about.  We are dynamic multi-dimensional creatures of infinite complexity and despite all these thoughts of fear that cloud our over-developed under-utilised brain we are living in a state of love and the streets are not actually dangerous after all and we all know that personally we prefer faith and trust and comfort to the ability to take advantage of some stranger by removing a few dollars from their sleeping pocket.

We don't want to walk through streets of fear and threat.  We think we must because we believe the news and the news tells us to be afraid of each other and this makes us confused rather than truly afraid because deep down we know that fear is boring and unnecessary and inappropriate.

Not so deep down, just below the surface thoughts of the incessant manic conscious mind, we realise that we have the ability to choose a place where we can sleep in vulnerability and dream of our most loved and know for sure throughout this restful night that even the possibility that our bag will be stolen is remote and even so the risk of losing the bag is insignificant in comparison to the value of knowing that we are safe in this world.  That we are in it together and that even when we have an unpleasant confrontational moment with another person we both carefully select and induce this experience from one another and perhaps we should appreciate each other afterwards.

However, culture is an organic living system and we decide every moment how it is going to manifest.  The limits of entropy as an explanation are limited in a world where millions of people are aware that their reality is their choice every minute of every day of their lives and that all their brothers and sisters are in on it too.

"You should view the world as a conspiracy run by a very closely-knit group of nearly omnipotent people, and you should think of those people as yourself and your friends."
- Robert Anton Wilson


More free

It doesn't matter anymore. I am not anyone that I thought I was. I'm just not. Although I know I'm better than they are. I know I'm more free.

We both walk the same streets, yes, but their feet are bound by shoes that damage their body and cause them pain. My feet are free and the skin underneath has hardened and serves me well. I wear the wounds on my feet with pride because they are the result of my freedom and I know they will heal. I don't need to spend money on shoes that do nothing but damage and bind me.

In fact I don't need to spend money on anything. Unlike these poor trapped souls, trapped in the concepts of their minds, I am free from the idiotic ideology of Capitalism. Yes, I walk the same streets and carry the same green shopping bag, but I do not pay for my food. Only the ignorant and the trapped pay for their food when every day every supermarket in the country throws away masses of perfectly good food. All I need is access to their dumpsters. And failing this I merely go into the store, place the items in my bag and walk out. Why pay this corporation to bind my brothers and sisters into corporate slavery and food addiction?

Of course I am not addicted to bread and meat like they are. I am a vegetarian and I am not under the illusion that wheat is a viable option for a healthy body and mind. I am more free than them. Instead of paying for cheap industrial wheat bread I enjoy expensive spelt bread for free. I am more smart than them, I know that spelt is an ancient form of wheat that hasn't been industrialised over the years to make it indigestible to the human body. It is also organic and wholegrain. How they feed themselves on this barely edible food-like item called wheat I do not know. They are addicted and despite eating and searching for my organic whole spelt bread compulsively, I am not addicted like them. I can stop anytime I like.

I don't have a car like they do. I don't pollute the planet. I don't support oil companies raping Iraq. I don't send my brothers and sisters hurtling through windscreens so I can arrive a minute earlier than necessary. I'm better than them. I will never own a car. I hitchhike instead. I am more free than they are because I don't believe the propaganda saying that hitchhiking is dangerous and you will be murdered if you participate in it. This is obviously not true and only the ignorant and the slaves to television believe it. I can go anywhere I like because I am free.

I can sleep in the park because I have a tent in my bag. I don't need money to pay for accommodation. I can sleep in a cave on the beach if it rains. I can stay up as late as I want eating huge mouthfuls of expensive food that the most hard-working wage-slaves can't even afford. They can't afford it because a refrigerator on hire purchase is a priority over the food that sustains their body. They can't afford it because they choose to not be free, like me.

Sometimes I sit under my temporary shelter with my warm cheap sleeping bag looking at their cars driving past and I pity them and their ignorance. They don't even know they're not free. They can't bear the silence; I'm guessing they all have their radios on inside those expensive air-conditioned cars. They're listening to that music that they're supposed to like and eventually decide they do like, just because they listen to it so often they may as well like it. They're pretending to not pay attention to the advertising but of course they can't help it.

I can't stop thinking about these people and how much more free I am than they are. It is fair? Why am I so free and they are so not? What catalyst broke me awake from this over-fed indigestible sleep of an entire childhood of religious capitalistic authoritarian weakening education? I want to burn the schools that enslave my brothers and sisters but I can't be bothered. I ate too much avocado and rye bread. If I could bomb every school in the world maybe there would be another person sitting here beside me in this park in the rain in the night looking at cars and silently judging them. This moral superiority doesn't feel as good as it used to. I know I need to read some more books and expand my mind further and find other ways of judging people. I am bound in my own world of limits and I carry on my back everything I own and it is only a single kilogram too heavy.

If only I was free enough to throw away that extra kilogram. If only I was free enough to know exactly which items are superfluous. If only I was better than I am, like I'm better than them.

Have you ever seen the rain?

Love is a scary thing and I guess we have to hide from it sometimes.  Sometimes I go to great lengths to avoid the exact thing that I want more than anything.  I am crazy, I know.

I fall in love far too frequently and the dangers of this sordid act of abundant love has finally manifest as violence.  As I told one of the Koreans at The Ranch, the one who told me I have "kind eyes", "I have a lot of love to give; maybe too much."

Just as water flows into our body through the mouth and out as urine, just as we receive stimuli and express ourselves, so it is that the more love we allow in the more love we have to share.  I am not deluded in my experience of a universe full of love.  This is what I naturally encounter and despite the conclusions of my ego I am not unique in this experience.

I do choose openness and I do not understand why someone would choose to include me in their game of opening themselves up and then guarding the door.  Sometimes it's too scary to become close to someone via intimacy and honesty, so obsessive confrontational attention is employed.  In this world the physical fight is the act of making love that all such intense relationships must eventually reach as a breaking of the tension, as a climax and release.

Sadly, in my world there is a fear of the fight and a revulsion of physical pain.  Otherwise perhaps I would have chosen to fulfill the destiny of my union with the self-proclaimed Alpha Male who has captured my mind more in my hate for him than in the love that preceded it.

And now that I have conveniently distanced myself from his violence and aura of hatred in some guise of self-preservation I find myself missing him more than anyone in that brief family of cherry-picking and joy-riding.

Did his love suddenly become hate or are the two not so different after all?  Is his behaviour any more strange than my responding to his "love" with "love" and my responding to his "hate" with "hate"?  I do know that the +/- designations we apply to things are arbitrary.

So many times I wanted to touch him and did not.  I never told him about my homosexual nature because I knew he would not relate to this word as I used to.  He sensed it all, of course, it was never invisible.

He finally manifest this apparently mutual desire to touch one another and establish our connection firmly in the physical world; he manifest in the way that he could; he manifest in a way I never would have; he manifest what we both desired and what I could not and I rejected his as he would have rejected my physical advances.

It never occurred to me until now that the hate might be love and that what I am running away from is perhaps not as honourable or justified as I thought.  My emotions are the best guide I have in this world but it's not until they  have passed that they make any sense to me.  It's not until I have made unalterable decisions, such as the decision to reject and escape his "inappropriate" attention, that I am able to reconsider the complexity of the situation and my morally neutral part in it.

I also realise that this beautiful linguistic realisation could not have been shared in the context of emotional repression both twins are in the habit of perpetuating.

I am a stronger man as a result of his love and a wiser man as a result of his hate.  I can only hope that my loving presence briefly in his life enriched his person, that my hate was the response he wanted to his violence and that he remembers me fondly.  Hopefully when I see him again my ego won't dictate my response and maybe I'll even get a hug from him and his brother.

If I am sorry for anything it is that I did not fight him.  Perhaps he would not have beaten me to within an inch of my life as he is likely physically capable.  Perhaps he would instead have drawn the line where we are evenly matched and our anger could have been channeled into passion.

Perhaps it is not so anomalous that in between the two times he physically attacked me he told me, "Your smile is a sign of true happiness and it brings happiness to everyone around you."  Or that as the rain poured, amidst the craziness and the flooding and the maggots of The Ranch, he pulled me aside to sing,
  I wanna know, have you ever seen the rain?
  I wanna know, have you ever seen the rain
  comin' down on a sunny day?