What's news in your stretch of these damp, fungus-infested woods? News here is that I just had to kill an as-yet unseen insect that was traversing my tent underneath the canvas floor. The fucker was making a hell of a racket, tricking me into believing he was inside the tent, and forcing me to start flinging my belongings around on a merry invisible goose chase. Before long I saw the shifty bugger's outline moving across my floor, and I beat him a good twenty or thirty times with an empty bottle that once held Cane Royale - a fine blend of cane spirit, coffee, and chocolate that is brewed at a place called The Hoochery Distillery in Kununurra, and makes a perfect belly-warmer after my evening bath in the languid and chilly Dunham River.
Jesus Christ, there's bugs trying to get into my tent flat out tonight; flying straight into the paper-thin walls and scaring the buggery out of me. It's going to be another fiftful sleep, riddled with Franz Kafka-style nightmares about gigantic insects...
...After my bath, the warmth of my chosen neanderthal exercise has faded and I am decidedly chilly. At this time I dry off and return to my tent, remaining naked but casting a thin blanket over my goose-pimpled body and lounging back on my swag and stretcher. The ecstasy of this warmth is spine-tingling, but the two or three or four slugs of Cane Royale that follow are orgasmic, and the highlight of my day. I can feel the heat of the liquor travelling through my chest and into my stomach, and I re-learn every day the origin of the saying "it hits the spot".
Following the slugs of Cane Royale - men have "slugs"; women and homosexuals have "nips" - there is a ten minute period of reflectance and thought, covering vast spans of subject matter and travelling through time and space infinite. If I could write letters during this time, they would be the best ones, but the mere act of picking up a pen and paper would spoil the purity of thought, and recapturing it would be a dream...
Friday 27 July 2007
Dear Stuart [old football mate]
[Content warning! If the first sentence disgusts you, please do not read on. If it intrigues you, please continue; but do so at your own risk, and with a sense of humour]
I had the best turd of my life today, and if you care to listen, I will tell you about it.
Let me preface this entire story by taking you back a few weeks in my life to a period where I was reading a book of essays by Sigmund Freud, the famous German psycho-analyst. "What does Sigmund Freud have to do with glorious turds?", I hear you ask. "Plenty", is my reply.
This particlar book, "Five Short Accounts of Psycho-Analysis & The Question of Lay Analysis", was interesting in parts, but not what one would call spellbinding. It was generally to do with the idea of the subconscious, the nature of memory repression, and the question of the suitability of using lay people, meaning non-doctors in this case, to perform psycho-analysis. The two sections that I found the most interesting, though, were those covering dream analysis, which I won't go into here, and infant sexuality, which I will go into.
Freud believed, and I understand it is now widely-accepted, that the sexual instinct is basically present from birth, not from puberty as one might expect. He claimed that common childhood behaviours such as sucking of the thumb, fiddling with the genitals, and the old "I'll show you mine if you show me yours" game - I know you've played that one Stuart - are expressions of this infantile sexual urge. I read this information with mild interest, at first questioning the theory, and then conceding that yes, maybe he was right. The only part that outright surprised me was when he said that defaecation or pooing or shitting or number twos or releasing the chocolate hostage or dropping the kids at the pool, or whatever you want to call it - he actually said that we get a sexual pleasure out of it. Until today, I didn't really undrstand what he meant.
Everybody knows that the most enjoyable turds are camping turds. The explanation for this is two-fold. Firstly, the nature of camping dictates that it is not practical to lay three turds a day; most will only lay one per day, or as few as one per three days, and this generally means that when a turd is lain, it is a full and satisfying one. Secondly, the layer of the turd appreciates the primitive and raw sensation of snapping a steaming grogan off into the dirt, just as the cavemen did; it's the same pleasure that one gets when gnawing meat off a large bone. So the two factors are basically size and environment; but today Stuart, today there was more than that. Yes, today was a religious experience, that much is certain.
It happened high on a sandstone ridge, overlooking the broad grassy valley that slopes away towards the Dunham River. It was around 10 am, I had done the bulk of my morning's work, and I felt an almost imperceptible movement in my lower bowel. Understanding that nature waits for no man, nor his drill rig, I solemnly took the paper roll from the back seat of the wagon and began my ascent of the hill, eyes wandering between the treacherous rocky ground, the stark dry scenery, and the flawless sky.
I found an old drill site - only in the good-old-days would they have had the guts to put a drill rig up this far, I thought to myself - and luckily the 150 mm PVC collar was left sticking from the ground. It was an angled hole so there would be some skid marks, but that wasn't my concern; the God's had smiled upon me, and I fully intended to take their gift graciously.
Lowering my pants, I took a deep breath and sighed, before flexing my knees and placing the estimated position of my anus over the hole, making a small allowance for the backward momentum of the stool. The first 3/4 of the faeces came in a rush, as if it had been eagerly awaiting it's release; like an innocent man from the prison gates.
While waiting for the aftershocks, I again took in my surroundings, eager to savour the moment. My earplugs had dampened the roar of the drilling into a low and pleasing hum that seemed to gently massage my bowels, and the sun was just high enough to shed the first golden light on the high west-facing cliffs towering over the Dunham. Yes this was God's own country, I decided, and He was with me now as the final dregs exited my satisfied arsehole.
It was only as I zipped up my Yakka shorts that I thought about what Freud had said. He was right you know; by the time I had reached the bottom of the hill I was convinced of it. The tension was released from my muscles; I had a small smirk on my face; my legs were a tad wobbly; I felt I needed a cigarette. The troubles of the day had washed away, just as the skid marks on the PVC collar had washed away with a few handfuls of dirt, some extra toilet paper, and a dozen good-sized rocks. Shitting is like sex; no shitting IS sex. Sex IS shitting, in every way. Both are releases; one of sexual tension, the other of decomposing foodstuffs and other bodily waste. Think it through; right through to the end. You know it's true...
I had the best turd of my life today, and if you care to listen, I will tell you about it.
Let me preface this entire story by taking you back a few weeks in my life to a period where I was reading a book of essays by Sigmund Freud, the famous German psycho-analyst. "What does Sigmund Freud have to do with glorious turds?", I hear you ask. "Plenty", is my reply.
This particlar book, "Five Short Accounts of Psycho-Analysis & The Question of Lay Analysis", was interesting in parts, but not what one would call spellbinding. It was generally to do with the idea of the subconscious, the nature of memory repression, and the question of the suitability of using lay people, meaning non-doctors in this case, to perform psycho-analysis. The two sections that I found the most interesting, though, were those covering dream analysis, which I won't go into here, and infant sexuality, which I will go into.
Freud believed, and I understand it is now widely-accepted, that the sexual instinct is basically present from birth, not from puberty as one might expect. He claimed that common childhood behaviours such as sucking of the thumb, fiddling with the genitals, and the old "I'll show you mine if you show me yours" game - I know you've played that one Stuart - are expressions of this infantile sexual urge. I read this information with mild interest, at first questioning the theory, and then conceding that yes, maybe he was right. The only part that outright surprised me was when he said that defaecation or pooing or shitting or number twos or releasing the chocolate hostage or dropping the kids at the pool, or whatever you want to call it - he actually said that we get a sexual pleasure out of it. Until today, I didn't really undrstand what he meant.
Everybody knows that the most enjoyable turds are camping turds. The explanation for this is two-fold. Firstly, the nature of camping dictates that it is not practical to lay three turds a day; most will only lay one per day, or as few as one per three days, and this generally means that when a turd is lain, it is a full and satisfying one. Secondly, the layer of the turd appreciates the primitive and raw sensation of snapping a steaming grogan off into the dirt, just as the cavemen did; it's the same pleasure that one gets when gnawing meat off a large bone. So the two factors are basically size and environment; but today Stuart, today there was more than that. Yes, today was a religious experience, that much is certain.
It happened high on a sandstone ridge, overlooking the broad grassy valley that slopes away towards the Dunham River. It was around 10 am, I had done the bulk of my morning's work, and I felt an almost imperceptible movement in my lower bowel. Understanding that nature waits for no man, nor his drill rig, I solemnly took the paper roll from the back seat of the wagon and began my ascent of the hill, eyes wandering between the treacherous rocky ground, the stark dry scenery, and the flawless sky.
I found an old drill site - only in the good-old-days would they have had the guts to put a drill rig up this far, I thought to myself - and luckily the 150 mm PVC collar was left sticking from the ground. It was an angled hole so there would be some skid marks, but that wasn't my concern; the God's had smiled upon me, and I fully intended to take their gift graciously.
Lowering my pants, I took a deep breath and sighed, before flexing my knees and placing the estimated position of my anus over the hole, making a small allowance for the backward momentum of the stool. The first 3/4 of the faeces came in a rush, as if it had been eagerly awaiting it's release; like an innocent man from the prison gates.
While waiting for the aftershocks, I again took in my surroundings, eager to savour the moment. My earplugs had dampened the roar of the drilling into a low and pleasing hum that seemed to gently massage my bowels, and the sun was just high enough to shed the first golden light on the high west-facing cliffs towering over the Dunham. Yes this was God's own country, I decided, and He was with me now as the final dregs exited my satisfied arsehole.
It was only as I zipped up my Yakka shorts that I thought about what Freud had said. He was right you know; by the time I had reached the bottom of the hill I was convinced of it. The tension was released from my muscles; I had a small smirk on my face; my legs were a tad wobbly; I felt I needed a cigarette. The troubles of the day had washed away, just as the skid marks on the PVC collar had washed away with a few handfuls of dirt, some extra toilet paper, and a dozen good-sized rocks. Shitting is like sex; no shitting IS sex. Sex IS shitting, in every way. Both are releases; one of sexual tension, the other of decomposing foodstuffs and other bodily waste. Think it through; right through to the end. You know it's true...
Dear Michael and Ngaire [Kalgoorlie Miner editors]
Top of the mornin' to you! It may not be morning as you read this, but judging by the stars it's about 4 am here, and I am writing to you in real-time, so top of the morning to you. This business of waking up at 4 am has got to stop, but until the business of going to be at 8 pm stops, that just isn't going to happen. Normally I just lie here in my swag, thinking about how cold my face is and waiting for a bird to start chirping, but starting this morning I have resolved to start a series of morning letters, to juxtapose with my series of evening letters. It will be interesting to see how their styles differ. Looking back at the letters I wrote last night, I am immediately struck by their rambling and incoherent nature, and the scrappiness of the hand-writing...
...[if Kalgoorlie was attacked by terrorists] I would join the army without a moments hesitation.
I would make a poor soldier: ill-disciplined, messy, fond of drink (on no, a bird just chirped - time is running low), a preference for chaos over order, an abhorrence of killing people I don't know (and, for your peace of mind, people I do know), look bad in khaki, don't make my bed, long-haired, unshaven, meek, yellow, timid, soft, cowardly, and, to top it all off, a deserter.
In many ways, and on many days, I regret deserting Kalgoorlie. I have seen new and interesting places, but at the moment they have the cold and short-lived embrace of a random floozy from the Palace Hotel corner bar; I long for the warm and reassuring breast of my first true love. I read in Dolly magazine that to get over a relationship, one needs to allow half of the duration of that union, in which case I have around three years of desperate pining to go. Unless I come back.
Ciao for now, from the banks of the Dunham River, East Kimberley.
...[if Kalgoorlie was attacked by terrorists] I would join the army without a moments hesitation.
I would make a poor soldier: ill-disciplined, messy, fond of drink (on no, a bird just chirped - time is running low), a preference for chaos over order, an abhorrence of killing people I don't know (and, for your peace of mind, people I do know), look bad in khaki, don't make my bed, long-haired, unshaven, meek, yellow, timid, soft, cowardly, and, to top it all off, a deserter.
In many ways, and on many days, I regret deserting Kalgoorlie. I have seen new and interesting places, but at the moment they have the cold and short-lived embrace of a random floozy from the Palace Hotel corner bar; I long for the warm and reassuring breast of my first true love. I read in Dolly magazine that to get over a relationship, one needs to allow half of the duration of that union, in which case I have around three years of desperate pining to go. Unless I come back.
Ciao for now, from the banks of the Dunham River, East Kimberley.
Dear Frog [old football mate]
I just heard a frog croaking outside my tent and it reminded me of you. Why are you called Frog? It's one of my life's biggest regrets that I never found out. I always assumed that it was because you are green and say "ribbit" a lot and you are covered in slime that makes one hallucinate when one licks it. I came close to licking you on many occasions, but you always hopped away at the last moment, damn you.
I would lick one of the frogs outside right now, but this would be a risky place to be hallucinating, especially of a night. It would almost certainly be a bad trip. There is water, fire, crocodiles, aboriginals, snakes, spiders, bush geese, bulls, falling trees, spinifex, scorpions, hypothermia, heat stroke, silicosis from RC dust, burst eardrums from the noise, red berries, brown snakes, stingrays, piranhas, fast-moving locomotives, trapdoors, wild boar, deranged field assistants and drillers, wedgetailed eagles, steep cliffs, quick sand, cannibals, ewoks, star troopers, klingons, muslims, jews, white pointers, white supremacists, white-tipped reef sharks, black-tipped reef sharks, pink-tipped reef sharks, and reef sharks with no tips at all but very sharp teeth indeed.
... But yes it would be a bad trip - there is too much worry. I certainly wouldn't be leaving my tent at night without a sharp mind, a sharper axe, and a fucking good reason...
I would lick one of the frogs outside right now, but this would be a risky place to be hallucinating, especially of a night. It would almost certainly be a bad trip. There is water, fire, crocodiles, aboriginals, snakes, spiders, bush geese, bulls, falling trees, spinifex, scorpions, hypothermia, heat stroke, silicosis from RC dust, burst eardrums from the noise, red berries, brown snakes, stingrays, piranhas, fast-moving locomotives, trapdoors, wild boar, deranged field assistants and drillers, wedgetailed eagles, steep cliffs, quick sand, cannibals, ewoks, star troopers, klingons, muslims, jews, white pointers, white supremacists, white-tipped reef sharks, black-tipped reef sharks, pink-tipped reef sharks, and reef sharks with no tips at all but very sharp teeth indeed.
... But yes it would be a bad trip - there is too much worry. I certainly wouldn't be leaving my tent at night without a sharp mind, a sharper axe, and a fucking good reason...
Dear Drew [old uni/house mate]
... My stupid rechargeable lantern went flat after that sentence, and it is now the next night, Tuesday 10th July if I'm not mistaken, which I probably am. A freezing cold night it is too; cold enough for my penis to shrink to a mere 6 inches when I jumped into the mighty Dunham River after my evening jog. That's 6 inches across, in case you were wondering, which you probably were you seedy cunt. Honestly Drew, grow up and get your mind out of the gutter.
All this talk of penises has made me lose my train of thought, which was a narrow-guage, two-carriage, rickety steam train of thought anyway, so it's no great loss.
What would be a great loss, would be if you and I were not to meet when I am next in Perth - I believe between the 20th and 29th of this good month. Unfortunately Skywest do not fly people around according to when the passenger "believes" he is travelling, so I will need to somehow confirm those dates. No easy feat when your only form of communication is a good loud yell. I suppose I could just yell out my message and ask that anyone who hears it, can they please yell it on in turn, but it would no doubt lead to a horrible Chinese-whispers-style balls-up, where my message "When am I flying back to Perth?" would become something like "Dead-eye driving, smack the smurf" or "Jedi flying, slack the berth" or, worse still, "Cup of tea please. Milk and two sugars. Oh, and a milk arrowroot". Can you imagine the embarrasment? I only take one sugar!...
All this talk of penises has made me lose my train of thought, which was a narrow-guage, two-carriage, rickety steam train of thought anyway, so it's no great loss.
What would be a great loss, would be if you and I were not to meet when I am next in Perth - I believe between the 20th and 29th of this good month. Unfortunately Skywest do not fly people around according to when the passenger "believes" he is travelling, so I will need to somehow confirm those dates. No easy feat when your only form of communication is a good loud yell. I suppose I could just yell out my message and ask that anyone who hears it, can they please yell it on in turn, but it would no doubt lead to a horrible Chinese-whispers-style balls-up, where my message "When am I flying back to Perth?" would become something like "Dead-eye driving, smack the smurf" or "Jedi flying, slack the berth" or, worse still, "Cup of tea please. Milk and two sugars. Oh, and a milk arrowroot". Can you imagine the embarrasment? I only take one sugar!...
Dear Sam [old housemate]
You are the second person (besides Carlie, who is always No. 1) to recieve a letter from my book of Kimberley letters. I have often thought of you as my No. 2, and please don't take that in the toilety way because that brings to mind all sorts of horrible images, and would also add new meaning to my reference to Carlie being my No. 1 - meanings that I don't think she would appreciate.
But yes, you and I are a fine partnership: completely different at surface but precisely the same at depth. We are both men of values and morals that rest deep within us, and that nothing can change. We are strangers to each other, but we go together well. You are the dexi; I am the scoob. You are the pork chop; I am the apple sauce. You are the roaring fireplace; I am the $5 cask of Old Tawny Port...
But yes, you and I are a fine partnership: completely different at surface but precisely the same at depth. We are both men of values and morals that rest deep within us, and that nothing can change. We are strangers to each other, but we go together well. You are the dexi; I am the scoob. You are the pork chop; I am the apple sauce. You are the roaring fireplace; I am the $5 cask of Old Tawny Port...
Dear Carlie
It's me, your boy, writing to say hello, and to add that I love you and that all is well, despite these troubled and difficult times of terrorism, facism, starvationism, and me working for weeks at a time in the Kimberleys...ism.
All is not lost in the Kimberleys though, my gorgeous one. It is my bold and outrageous intention to fill this 100-page Spicers Olympic Carbon Book "with extra carbon" (it says that on the cover, which I, for some reason, found to be quite hilarious) with letters to all of my lovers (of which there is but one*), relatives and friends alike, so that they may benefit spiritually from my ye-olde-fashionede letters, and that I may benefit financially and egotistically by selling the book's contents for many millions of dollars, if and when I become famous. What say you of my plan? Dare you dismiss it as impossible?
Regardless of your stance, it should hearten you to know that you are No. 1 in my book, quite literally and probably even "with a bullet"...
*Maybe two, counting Stuart, who often refers to me, and me to him, as "lover".
All is not lost in the Kimberleys though, my gorgeous one. It is my bold and outrageous intention to fill this 100-page Spicers Olympic Carbon Book "with extra carbon" (it says that on the cover, which I, for some reason, found to be quite hilarious) with letters to all of my lovers (of which there is but one*), relatives and friends alike, so that they may benefit spiritually from my ye-olde-fashionede letters, and that I may benefit financially and egotistically by selling the book's contents for many millions of dollars, if and when I become famous. What say you of my plan? Dare you dismiss it as impossible?
Regardless of your stance, it should hearten you to know that you are No. 1 in my book, quite literally and probably even "with a bullet"...
*Maybe two, counting Stuart, who often refers to me, and me to him, as "lover".
Thursday 26 July 2007
Coming Soon: Something New!
Hello...hello...hello...is there anybody out there? Just nod if you can hear me. Is there anyone at home?
Whether you want to read it or not, I will soon be posting some new stuff, probably in the form of letters, or excerpts of letters, that I have written to friends or relatives. Some names may be changed, some parts may be left out, but they will otherwise be word-for-word and punctuation-error-for-punctuation-error, as written in my Spicers Olympic Carbon Book "with extra carbon" from wherever I was at the time, and in whatever state of mind I was in.
Material may come on in spasmodic bursts, because I am often working outside the techno-sphere.
Whether you want to read it or not, I will soon be posting some new stuff, probably in the form of letters, or excerpts of letters, that I have written to friends or relatives. Some names may be changed, some parts may be left out, but they will otherwise be word-for-word and punctuation-error-for-punctuation-error, as written in my Spicers Olympic Carbon Book "with extra carbon" from wherever I was at the time, and in whatever state of mind I was in.
Material may come on in spasmodic bursts, because I am often working outside the techno-sphere.
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