A Blog Post

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Hello comrades, its me, Riley Dyson from The Wandong Chronicle. Well, its all coming together now. My little plan I knew long ago. The little plan that was conspiring against my idea of happiness to get me here. It will do it again, impermanence is your friend, life is your friend, the mind is your friend, your body is your friend, your spirit is your friend, your essence is your true reputation and your soul, my soul, our souls, they may just be a kid playing a PlayStation game, but your soul is your friend.

The soul knows everything that’s going to happen they say, so I close my eyes and speak with him, I close my eyes and become him and I ask, “Well, what's going to happen?”
My soul replies, “Its going to be awesome.”
“Okay, but so has everything that has happened, and that made me suicidal.”
“Learn from that,” he replies.

Fine.

I sit on the front porch of my bungalow. Frank Ocean currently singing through the speaker. I see a white flower whose petal reminds me of the eloquence of a wedding dress, in the middle is yellow attracting bees and me. The flower reminds me of Ayelen, I have a photo with the same flower, from the same trees, sitting on her ear, her big brown eyes looking at me. I love that girl. I cannot express how much she changed my life. I fell in love with her and through circumstance or wisdom she did not return it in the way my insecure self needed. Although, she didn’t throw the baby (me) out with the bath water (me).

I knew she was special so I showed some push back but ultimately I observed myself. If I never spoke to her again I will always love her, she will always be a special character in this story I write every day, and I am always grateful.

The mornings start with a broken sleep and a body burning with anxiety. I count to twenty with each nose breath. In long, hold, release. Sometimes I go back to sleep. Others I pull myself off. Feel shame and depletion. The masculinity and testosterone that convinces me to leave the porch. Where the young boy rides past with training wheels getting stuck in the sand. He is wearing a spiderman outfit. Through the little holes in his mask I see the innocence in his universe filled eyes. I do the hand gesture spider man does and shoot him with a web, making the noise with my mouth. I see those little eyes smile and he shoots me back. I pretend it hits me in the eye and I hold my face. As he rides off I hear him laugh. As I write, I too with training wheels, I hope the innocence and hope fills the world with as much joy as that little boy. Eventually I walk to the store. I don’t wear jocks. My fat cock bouncing around like an elephants trunk. It is my rebellion to the double standards of life. Girls can do whatever they want. Topless, ass out, cunt out, seeing the little hairs from their ass as you walk past. So there, here I go, refusing to wear underwear. The ladies who massage people on the beach, who massaged me, who giggle and find everything funny, wave to me. I wave back.

“Where you going?” she yells.

I make the gesture of ‘drink’ as I walk to get a cold coffee in a can from the store. I wave like a two-year-old. My hand opening and closing, then I do a little dance and they laugh.

With the coffee I buy a bottle of vitamin C, I am a health nut. I walk back, sit down, play chakra healing music and drink the coffee and the vitamins whilst loading my pipe. When I am ready, when the drinks are done, I walk into the bungalow and do my yoga sequence. My body is reacting and I am looking after him a little better, he owns the morning and I fill him with tobacco, weed, beer, wine, and desire in the night. I even do some push ups. I even do some burpees. The other day I did an ab workout. I couldn’t cough without pain for three days. I am still chubby, but learning to find balance, to not be a hostage to the disaster artist and also not fall into the fast currents of confidence, self image and fitness. I feel I can be a little bit healthy without losing my way.

For a long time I wanted to be a fat retarded cunt. I wore judgement as a badge of honour.

How easy to fool the world. One hour of exercise a day. No good food. No alcohol. Just do that, just look good, no matter how you act, then they will leave you alone.

Well, I want to be left alone, even by myself. In just three weeks I will be with my family. Everyone I love more than any poem could describe. In the presence of twelve kids each with a smile that can make you forget everything. Four brothers who get every single joke you say no matter how obscure. A mum and a dad who adore everyone they created. And four sister in-laws who make your brothers happy, who mother the children you love and who you love and know as you grow and become an adult yourself, and maybe a parent, you will know on a more personal level.

After my yoga and little workout, my fat hairy guts sweating beneath the aircon. I sit cross legged on the bed and do a fifty-minute meditation. This morning when I did it I cried. I was heavy with guilt. Heavy with anxiety. I had done something bad. Something bad is going to happen. Anxiety is a pre traumatic stress disorder.

As the meditation goes the man says, “And what perspective do you want to lose?”
And I say out loud, “That I am a bad person.”
I go to the valleys of the currents that dictate this surface. I go with my consciousness and logical mind. I speak with myself to myself.
“You are a good person,” I say.
“I am a good person,” I say.
And another little voice says, “Well, you try, but you have to always keep a close eye on it, life is long, the world wants your movements. The devil is cunning.”
And I know that. But I cry because I believe it. I am a good person?
Well, I try to be. I try to be free.
I am not perfect but I am better than I was yesterday, that’s all I can do.
I am not a good person, I'm a pervert so disregard all that soppy bullshit.

You want to hear my opinion on the writers strike?
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Seriously, I am somewhat a writer myself. I write, just don’t get anything but my soul growing. What a shame!
The worst thing is there are very successful and rich actors, and maybe writers taking part in this strike, Of course, you can say, how noble!
To sit with the lambs even though you're a lion. Well, can someone shower one of us with common sense, if it is me who needs showering, I would love to hear it.
Why do these people fight to change the machine, when they are the electricity?

If you are so good, do it yourself, reinvent the world. The arts does not need a gatekeeper. It has the beauty of the rose with the determination of a weed. You millionaires so passionate, find a way to help the others to create, find a way to reach the audience, don’t beg your master for more scraps.
Fuck you.
haha.

A new character has got the wheel. To talk about yourself is so ridiculous, so lazy, so heartless. If you cant find a way to delve into the playground of the unknown and find out about yourself, rather than just talk about what this mundane logical mind wishes to articulate.

Sorry, he is scared, he is scared of all those eyes that will read it, he says he is telling the truth, and he is, its just that his truth is deeply corrupted.

I came here to find out the character that lies to portray me as noble, the character who lies to label me as bad. I came here to learn how to write. I now wish to kill three birds with one post. A blog post.