She rubs oil into my skin pathetically, we are both bored. She calls another lady, she walks in, looks very young, offers her services and I say no again, slightly more tempted. It’s nice to see your morals hold up in a town that does not have any. Anyone can be a good man in a strictly governed society, who is he, when he can be anyone?
espresso macchiato with an extra shot, a vegie burger, sitting, learning Spanish with my forehead shimmering from a sweat that’s been running for 2 months. I cry during my meditation thinking of Ralph; thinking of the way his tongue fell out when he died. The way he shat once dead. The way it was just another morning for the vet who poured green liquid into everything I've ever loved. The way I placed his body into a bag. The way I killed him two weeks too early because I couldn’t handle the fear anymore. The way I run towards pain and label it courage and not the inability to endure it. The same way I want to kill myself. The same way I want to ruin every relationship. I'm sorry Ralph, I defaced you from my grief as soon as a woman came along. I sat beside an old man who was mourning his dead wife, I envied him for she died after it happened.
Out of hope I say the artist doesn’t need pain, out of hope I say the art can help pain, out of hope I refuse to surrender and soon I’ll be grateful I didn’t, you should be too. For there's a flame in my ribcage that could burn down futures with a whisper. My illusion of control is losing its power. I'm using you to figure things out, don’t take it personal.
The stories change, but there's a whimper of the same knot in my flesh that’s creates the narrative. Always the same play with a new cast. Maybe before I'm gone, ill perfect the script.
Sure, it could be four months of travelling alone, drinking and smoking every day. It could be the fact I walked 55 thousand steps in two days through the Himalayan mountains and got drunk with a pom and fucked her all night instead of resting. But I'm cut from the same cloth as Van Gogh, so expect an ear in the mail.
I used to hate the government, until I loved a girl, and then I hated myself. Love is the ultimate corruption. Yet, if a girl makes you want to be better, that just means you don’t feel good enough as you are. Should we hate love for all it exposes?
Now I sit in a rooftop of Kathmandu with a taxi picking me up at 5am to get a flight to Varanasi. I feel a presence within me, going there to die. Making the most of the time he has left. I bully myself; friction polishes my character. I walk to get a massage. Dingy and horrible. $25 for an hour. After five minutes she asks if I want sex, I say no. After ten minutes she asks if I want a hand job, I say no. She rubs oil into my skin pathetically, we are both bored. She calls another lady, she walks in, looks very young, offers her services and I say no again, slightly more tempted. It’s nice to see your morals hold up in a town that does not have any. Anyone can be a good man in a strictly governed society, who is he, when he can be anyone?
So that vigour that often causes me to write instead of bringing it into my reality, I must thank also. To be able to smile in hell, you run the risk of suffering in paradise. Victor Frankl said that next to the statue of liberty, there should have been a statue of responsibility. I guess I am a rogue Jew, I hope I do you proud Victor.
So tomorrow I head for the spiritual capital of the world. The timing is impeccable and makes you believe it’s all going to plan. Ayelen challenges me to be a little less dramatic, a little less chaotic, but it’s a nice feeling to love, sometimes it doesn’t matter who it goes to. The quicker a girl loves me the less chance I have of ever loving her back. I'm playing with a reflection of myself and they’re both saying they don’t want to play games. When I went on a Contiki tour at 20 (turned 21 in London) there was a girl on the trip named Laura. After three weeks of drinking and hardly any sleep and winning her over, her pulling me off on the Contiki bus as we drove through Paris; the day she left I wept on the floor of the bus. eso es riduculo! Three weeks back into routine she was just another name. The girl I met in the mountains was named Laura. As if shiva was giving me an obvious sign to not get caught up in the circumstances.
Kathmandu is busy. Australians walk the streets here more than anywhere I've been. Being alone has become beautiful. Maybe things are harder now than they will be, but you don’t know. Hope lives in the future, I'm just here now. Observing myself, also through some depression, I've become slightly narcissistic. Me, traveling alone, all I care about is myself. Who has a more interesting story to tell?
Who has a more challenged mind?
Why would I listen to anyone else when my mind continues to surface gems?
And I never feel like anyone gets me, and I'm pursuing a career that depends entirely on being got.
So the pain and troubled waters of the last little while have bent me to submission as I enter Varanasi in the morning. If there is a chance to believe in the legend that vibrates in the city, then it will be now, because I have hope. Scary, scary hope. Expectations… Something to put a smile on my face. And if the smile brings pain, then wont they all? If it’s all that subtle ill just try and laugh at both sides. I love them both.
Do you want me to talk about love? do you want me to show you under the veil?
I will, and not show anyone, not show Ayelen because I'm still playing the game to not scare her away. They say girls start loving you when they say, ‘I love you’ and that’s when men stop. What a shame, she’s a new thing to conquer, and when I do I’ll get bored and move on to something else. That’s what I tell myself anyway, to feel tough, to feel strong. But it isn’t true, I love so hard. Maybe though, look at Laura, sitting there in the bin of my memories. My duality found something where the other side thinks it’s worth fighting for. So the solace in the drunk careless and free character is disrupted. When indifference causes words, then your muse will always disrupt serenity. I have lived fifteen lifetimes in this relationship. Felt the joy and pain of all of them and on the surface… calm, cool, collected, beneath, the currents swirl and the creature’s bicker. I messaged myself in the midst of trouble and said ‘you're my favourite person to message’
I found an island within myself that is myself. I suffer in silence because I know it will all pass, and no one has to know about it. I can help myself by enduring. Heaven is a good night’s sleep away, Varanasi awaits, the gurus will feel my presence. The Ganges will slow to see me arrive. We were always coming. I just hope what dies, isn’t what my mother calls her son. I like being her son. I like me. All these black words, the sawdust from the chainsaw that cuts me in half.
And the dumb whore who wanted to pull me off finished the massage after thirty minutes and wouldn’t give me my money back. For the same price I could have just let her, it would have been easier to do the wrong thing, it’s always easier to do the wrong thing, but in the long run, which I'm aiming for, it’s just not worth it.
me me me
what's on the other side of those eyes Riley Dyson?
A laptop.
