hanging out in the faux italian villas of the central coasts cultural center, the small niche coffee shops, alternative fashions and  lovely little groovy areas where interesting objects de arte are on display, we wander through like old druids. man and son, cleaved from the same flesh, it's uncanny how alike we are and the strange karmic thread that weaves through us like some sexy double helix.

i dunno, i don't write often about my son, but he is amazing.

when i was 16 i left the UK and traveled, ending up in sydney australia. he left sydney and traveled and made a home in london, same street i was born. he worked hard to find his place in the fashion industry and now travels the world, having been to all the places i went to, even the north beach in zanzibar where the remote and infamous beach bar lay. 

time and space have been kind to us, both immersed in the same books, films, politics, health regimes and family. he replaced me and i'm living the life i always wanted.

when it's time to say goodbye we hug and it's some hug, it's the best hug ever and there are a few tears. i drive home, passed empire bay, i smile all the way knowing i did bring something beautiful into the world. there's not much i am proud off but i'm proud of my son, he's intelligent, worldly, independent, kind and gentle yet strong and powerful, he's sensitive and empathetic, he's true to who he is. what more can a dad ask for?

yeah we make some plans for the next year, groovy plans, look out world.

so we meet in a cafe where the music is soft low frequency jazz, dwindling sonatas, moonlight outside, candlelit interior. i'm in a movie, the one where the guy smokes all the way through, jazz cigarettes. he wears shades and a looks like a west coast cultist, on the run from the masters of the galactic corporations, on the run from the heat, on the run from the past as it blazes a trail at his heels. comes a moment in that movie where you have to turn and face the strange right. else you just keep running. 
this past looks good, wow, impressive and sleek, like a thermo nuclear porn star exuding confidence and control, every structure bends her way, gravitational forces are at work. i perceive it with my seventh eye. 

i order some coffee for us, the coffee here is very good and there's something interesting about a city that allows people to smoke indoors a small slice of liberty in the cake of oppression that is forced down our throats until we choke.

zendra gives me the look. the wry one, the one that says everything i need to know. 

let's have sex, lets travel. she's ready to hitch wagons, i'm ready to ride. how about we finish our coffee first, i'm not quite the man you knew. 

really she says, i never really knew you.

no i was a different person, i'm still different, an anomaly apparently.

she smiles and takes the joint from me and puffs on it, she says she likes holding the joint, likes the way it smells, but doesn't really smoke at all anymore.

i take it back from her delicate fingers, and replace it with a sugar sachet. 

i always recall you had a sweet tooth and loved your lollies.

yes, and i still have my teeth, all good, shining like stars she flashes me her immaculate teeth, they do look amazingly white and dazzling. 

coffee arrives and we drink it down fast.

what now?

pack a bag, meet here in an hour?

i need more than an hour, let's make it noon.

that leaves me 4 hours. 

come on, don't you have loose ends to tie up.

no, they are tied up, put in a sack, driven to the docks and thrown into the bay.

she stands up. i hope you put weights on that sack.

don't need weights the loose end was heavy enough. 

noon. i will be here, she leaves.

we are deep in the simulation

on the verge of something new

despite all this fascination with 

the disappointing truth

an underground super collider

an overground god machine

technology has us by the balls and 

it is not going to set us free

i recommended 'when we cease to understand the world ' to a friend who absolutely hated it, he said his hero's, the scientists mentioned in the book were degraded and exploited by the author. he said it was repulsive. he certainly didn't mince words.

i took a moment and reminded him it was fiction but he continued as though the writer had transgressed some kind of code about deconstruction and post modernism. 

it's fiction, i said again but to no avail. i endured a barrage of opinion and apologised for recommending it, then he said, 'keep recommending books to me though.'

mmm, well i may just suggest 'william burroughs' next.