must be on slow time, bones ache, flesh weighs me down, symptoms of gravity and sleeplessness, silk night steals my dreams as the day my time.

driving here and there, highways lost and lonely, fading melancholy blues, i watch the sun rise drifting across an ocean. the waters are still and tranquil. we are siping on early morning coffees, the metallic bridge just zooms in the foreground like some impending structure of rusted decay, mans stamp over water, by passing nature. a few tiny boats cut a fine line across the glass surface. we talk a little about boating adventures, my sailing away days, adventures on the hawksbury, mored of jerusalem bay with no signs of life, no civilization save for a boat and some minor luxuries. i'd swim in the water, splash around like a character from the old italian movies from the fifties, a girl in a bikini would drink champagne and smoke as they watched. 

memories drift away, back to now. i'd like to sleep, just drift away but the day has only just begun. time is about to march. breath it in captain mission, snort it like a line of colombian cocaine. let the day engulf you in it's beautiful moments. 

part of me steals a boat, down near the little beaten up jetty, a small one with a good motor. it starts first time as i draw the anchor, place my hand on the throttle. wouldn't it just be prefect to burn everything and set sail north, start again, a new life. sigh. not this time. 

healing time, resting time, down time, introspection blues. the water dragon and i share some grapes, pan chews upon a bone. the birds chirp, the frogs make amphibious conversation and my fish are enjoying a new high grade japanese fish food product that looks like tiny black canon balls. peace ascends upon libetaria, all is calm like slow motion liquid motion, almost emptiness. some zen moment, flickering in intracience. 

no energy left after massive tooth extraction. the nitrous oxide came in handy, i sucked it down like a jelly fish mantra, my bones floating in painless europic daze, eyeballs must have glazed over as the dental assistant looked quite glamorous in her strange medical uniform and lipstick, big eyes and groovy smile. she said her name was mallory and i was taken in to a literary fantasy. even when i came back, mouth filled with blood and a dent in my finances i thought it was good value for money to have shared a little mallory fantasy. it was a romantic period piece with some bold problem solving as we solved the riddle of the ancient and lost city out in a desert somewhere, in a field of ice, on a tropical remote island, underwater, in deep space mallory and i foiled the villains, rode off into a laughing gas cloud of false hope and childish fantasy.
off course there's always the residual downside to these drugs, nightmares and peripheral hauntings but for a girl like mallory it's all worth it.

the day goes from stinking hot to cold, to wet and humid to strangely tropical and the cockatoos swarm outside mission control, making a racket, swooping and carrying on like punks of the skies, these feathered friends don't care if they wake up the neighbourhood. i find time to watch them, even though there's some sort of 'spill' in canberra and apparently people think it will make a difference therefore it's news. in my heart i just know it's all degrees of worse to worser, politics is the problem. the birds play, they swoop and criss cross the skies, they all line up on the telegraph wire, hundreds of them. one comes over and sits next to me. he's massive, sulphur crested. i don't know what to do, he wants something but i'm to fucking wiped out to consider feeding him. he nods his head and flies off back to his mates. the noise is amazing, it's so loud and raucous. i sink back and imagine myself being a bird, swooping and flying, riding thermals and playing bird games with other birds. i'm like the young king arthur from 'sword in the stone' t h white, such a magnificent series of books. yes i feel like that boy, grown up into a king with all the weight of the world upon his shoulders. looking back at being an impossible kid.    

long strange gold road by the waterboys

i thought i was well informed about the war on drugs but halfway through 'chasing the scream' i find myself shocked and appalled, in tears and angry at what the usa has inflicted upon the world. the war on drugs is like all political constructs, it's a racket. johann hari's past ain't squeaky clean, he's a journalist whom had to hand back his awards after he was discovered to have manufactured most of his quotes or stolen them from other interviews so this book comes with a web page where you can hear the interviews, unedited. despite what the author has done in the past, his integrity is glued back with this book, meticulously researched and constructed, brilliantly illuminating and at the same time will make you want to scream at all the wasted resources, lives, money and lies in the mythology of war against drugs.the american institutions that perpetuate this idea hunted down jazz musicians, doctors and anyone who counter claimed their myth, poor billie holiday, what a life she led and then the mothers of the disappeared in mexico whom are disappeared themselves for standing up to the cartels, the corruption and the us government who are part of the problem because they refuse to allow mexico to decriminalise drugs. decriminalise, regulate and taxing drugs will eliminate all the crime, death and violence that the drug wars create. 
it's a racket just like everything.