in big surf today, water warm as embryonic fluid, my central nervous system tunes in to conditions from all angels. 
surface issues can be dealt with with my surfing philosophy, challenges come in waves. some wipe you out, some you ride, some you have to know when to dive under and let them pass. 
im in zen surf now, time obliterates, self in non existence. my fin is me, i am.

most people in australia would not really have an insight into their own country from a political perspective. there are many people who think in terms of left and right, without understanding both sides are completely broken. i can add the greens to the list, because they are not an environmental party, they use the environment but have ambitions based upon the united nations model which is equally as broken as anyone else's.  
the bottom line is australia is very corrupt. it exists deep within all levels from the lowest to the highest, in fact the body that investigates corruption in australia is corrupt itself so there is no way out. the whistleblowers end up as the villain, hounded into foreign embassies, jail or made out to be some sort of traitor.
communist russian tactics were to label the whistleblower with a mental illness or ship them to siberia. in modern times it's no different, in australia you are taken to various assessments and questioned for weaknesses, it's almost like a catch 22 situation. to declare corruption you must be insane and if you are insane you cannot be a reliable witness. 
the consequences of whistle blowing are extremely damaging which is why very few people do it. i have done it twice.
the first time was in reference to a pedophile ring that three work colleagues and i blindly stumbled upon and uncovered that connected to the highest levels of government (yes its a clique but it was true) and personalities in this very country. it was exactly at the same time that franca arena stood up under parliamentary privilege and made her speech about pedophiles operating in parliament and beyond for which she lost her job and was ridiculed. we met with her many times, especially when one of us was killed. anyway i will return to this story in a novel i am working on.
right now decades later i am involved in a very different type of corruption and time will tell if there will be any justice. i would stake my professional reputation on it there will not be because fundamentally these people are all protected, not just by one another but by other corrupt institutions. 
so for the average person in australia none of this registers upon the radar, but when you work below the line as i do, with vulnerable people things are not what they seem. the people that appear caring are usually the ones that don't, the people that write and enforce policies are usually the ones that break it, the people that find themselves in positions of power usually abuse it, and the people that do the right thing and call it are squashed while the real villains are promoted thus entrenching the system. 
in a few months i will spill the beans on the new situation i face but i have to wait until it goes through legal proceedings, another tainted construct itself, but one has to try when the stakes are high.   

sometimes i am amazed by my own trajectory. i set of for calm waters but end up in the eye of the storm, that's my fate it seems a writers life.
so many things to tell you, the current one is a situation that is unfreaking believable, and each day gets more and more bizarre. i can't write about it until after march and maybe april but man, i want to share this story because truth in my world is much stranger than fiction.

the ideal birthday present for my dad, the boxed set of deadwood, series 1 to 3. open up a can of peaches dad, it's in the mail.

the surf brings me back to the moment. 
i'm here now, the perfect place to be. 
i chat with my dad over skype, i miss him heaps, wish i could just be there but i'm here. we talk about a lot of stuff, books, kabbalah, david bowie and it's his birthday! i forgot so have to get something in the post but what? 
i don't know.
better go have a think.

in the foggy haze of communist smog appeared two stars that slowly revealed themselves to be the eyes of my memory keeper, she was sitting back in her high backed chair with that mona lisa look, part oriental beauty and part unsolved mystery.

we had run out of tea and the music had gone sub sonic, my bones vibrated with some deep throbbing bass line...

...so i returned before i was swallowed up, came back to london with an australian, she had warmth and a kind nature, and i clung to her until she turned cold. the vampyre inside me consumed it all. something like west berlin has a wall around it for a reason i thought, it's not to keep the people out but to keep the darkness in. i'd spent several afternoons and evenings in the east and i had always found it warmer, friendlier and richer despite the obvious lack of freedom people were genuine and unpretentious, down to earth. i never would have wanted to live in the east but it had a lot going for it. 

i guess i liked tension back then, now i despise it. if the wind chances direction it interferes with my serenity. but back then i liked the environment to have a little edge, some conflict and danger was good for my creative juices. cities like london in 1977 to 1979 were fantastic as punk exploded in the skools and suburbia, then new york before they cleaned it up, wow, there was a zoo station, man times square was indescribable and then west berlin, satellite of western civilisation, capitalism and freedom. i'd made temporary homes in the nexus of tension and i was soaking it up, when you are young you can do it but as i recall it youth was wasted on the young, but i always knew i was a writer so i soaked up everything i could through my young mind, what i didn't understand or comprehend i would later digest when i matured. i collected impressions, feelings, sounds and ones, colours, shapes and ideas. those albums the idiot, low, lust for life, heroes they do capture the berlin i lived in, the strange eccentric characters. the art of the place, the hopelessness the depression, the absurdity, the amazing singularity. fun baby baby we like your lips, the history and decadence, it's all in those albums so when people return to capture the berlin energy like u2 tried with 'achung baby' the energy had changed by then, it's safer and less volatile, more consumable, marketable and popular. when low came out no one knew just what it was, those moron journalists singing out now about how much bowie meant to them forget i was there, i read their reviews and low was slammed. the record company didn't want to promote it, it had no advertising potential, no hit single but mr jones pushed because he believed in himself and what he was doing and now those very idiots who slammed it put it on their lists as the most influential album of all time. i don't blame them really, it takes a lot of skill to listen to it. skill and context, side two captured something pop music had never done. it had moved into impressionistic painting, captured a new age of music, heralding many other bands and musicians who were experimental and willing to go just a little bit further than making a buck. lou reed had already done this but he didn't have what david bowie had to loose. 
that city, west berlin was something else. as soon as i stepped on the ground there i felt the energy surge, it was so powerful if you were attuned it could drive you insane, i saw this happen to people or channelled with the discipline few artists have would lead somewhere interesting. 
i'd been somewhere interesting and it had visited itself upon me. i owe that partly to david bowie and my ex wife who paid for my fare, and my friend martin von donaldson who i have lost contact with since he  surprised us all and became a rabbi. it's strange how the past comes back sometimes, i hope he does. we have some unfinished music to make but the chances are looking slim. when bowie died i thought he would contact me but he never did as much as i reached out to him. fortunately i'm in contact with some friends from that time, mr chris kibble whom plays a mean piano, tez the wonder kid on guitar who has been a great friend, teacher and true wise man. jean whom is also a sage and friend. they are my oldest friends and i remember them well but it was martin who brought us all together and we await his return like some leper messiah. ha!    

...the place was empty. 

i was alone. just me and my memories.    

the atmosphere shifted, the strange music slowed right down to a few beats and the faces of people seemed to distort as i focused upon the woman who had given me the tea. she was staring at me intently and her lips were like an exotic fish, pastel coloured half pouting but her eyes shone like jewels as i watched them sparkle and take over the room.
uncertain if i had closed my eyes i was drifting in time, the memories had flowed over me like fresh river water but now they were carrying me downriver into deep time.  
i was so skinny, almost skeletal, my body was all angles and straight lines, sunken cheeks and part of the berlin night between my ears, half human half creature. wrapped in tight leather and a peaked black cap, my boots were older than me, an old nazis i had procured from a vintage shop in nuekolln, they were supremely comfortable and i loved stomping around the snow in them. well you old nazi i'm wearing your boots now i would think, hoping he would be cringing in the spirit realm. i was talking to ghosts in a city spilling over with them, and the strange thing was i was also a ghost but i didn't know it yet. i was loosing myself, falling into the dark zone of europa, a history of tears, bones and ghosts. sometimes i would see shadows where there were none, disembodied things were everywhere if you knew where to look so for most of the time i would be in bars and clubs drinking to stay warm and escape the phantoms, talking to girls or driving around in the back of a beaten up old merc. 
the car belonged to von donaldson's friend peter, a dealer in medical antiques. 
one night we smoked some very strong hash in the back room of his shop and drunk cognac from the previous century, a bunch of decadent expats at the end of the line, the crossroads of all influence, a city of random fate hurling us one by one on our way. a city whose history had burnt and whose future was rising from ashes, whose shadow was cast as long as it was wide. i was out of time, money and luck stumbling around in jackboots, unwashed and somewhat slightly dazed. 
peter was boring me to tears with intricate details of his skiing holiday in austria, martin was sitting on a milk crate discussing pool strategy, the room was filling up with smoke and there was no ventilation, i could feel myself phasing out while peter was talking and talking and i was drinking and smoking until all i heard was a fade in fade out atonal sound, 'wha wha wha wha wha wha' that was pulsing in and out, there was no air in the room any more. i just fell, straight as a ruler and just as rigid. passed right out but old peter just carried on talking even though i was on the floor being helped up by martin and some drummer from a band called the planets. they lifted me right back to where i was standing next to peter whilst with his story not even acknowledging my temporary absence, didn't even miss a beat and i just continued as if nothing had happened.  
we would always end up at der jungle, the one with the fashion police, that balcony overlooking the tiny dance floor, i never noticed that balcony until a few months of clubbing when i looked up to see a whole strata of nightclubbers looking down at us.
my girlfriend was an austrian air hostess called gabrielle. for some reason i was always going out with air hostesses, mostly whom worked for dan airlines, they were gorgeous but way to far gone to ever come back. i was pretty out there myself but i never follow trends, i never follow crowds and i just never really follow so i was outside her scene. 
gabrielle was always dancing, always on something or the other, always luring me into her with her sexy movements and motions. to be honest i didn't need luring i was quite happy to be trapped by her many charms. we didn't seem to talk much, my austrian was zero, my german was abysmal and i don't think she really liked talking in english and so our communication was all non verbal. i didn't care, never been good at small talk anyway. so we had this strange relationship. we would meet on the dance floor, we would embrace and kiss and dance together, she would watch me doing my crazy jungle stomp and i think was impressed with my originality and uninhibited ability to dance to my own beat and then she would lead me home to her apartment somewhere where if we were lucky we would be in bed before sunrise. gabrielle spoke a different language, her's was fluid, body movements and theatrical gestures, like a dolphin playing with a surfer she elegant and supremely decadent. i'd never take her to my apartment although it was big enough, my room was sparse, a mattress and a pile of books, a few candles, there was never any food there and there were always people coming and going. 
i hardly ever saw daytime back then, my existence was totally nocturnal. i liked that club as it played the kind of music i could dance to, tribal, organic and funky. it was a good place to meet people, i never found a similar club like it ever again. one day gabrielle flew away and i never saw her again. i wasn't to fussed, i had no expectations and always knew a relationship with her would be transient and beautiful, strange and surreal. the city got a lot colder after she left.
i was always looking for heat. winter was hard, everyone just got absurdly drunk. the wall was everywhere i went it would just loom out in front of you, it was always present so you could never forget where you were, tanks rolled down the streets, german, american, english and russian, every night there was some kind of riot, cars burning upside down. punks, hippies, zen masters, junkies, draft dodgers, speed freaks, artists, the city was spilling over with them. sex was everywhere, i never saw a city so turned on as west berlin. 
they had clubs where people just fucked on tables while you ate a burger. i was living on whiskey, weed and poppy cake, occasionally on market day i'd wander down to buy some bread and a big block of cheap cheese. 
some afternoon's when the weather was not so severe, it may have been spring i wandered over the bridge and picked up some onion bread and some cheap cheese which i purchased every week, the markets sold all sorts of produce but in those days i was kinda not an eater but i did like my cheese. for some reason it was getting cheaper and cheaper each visit or i was getting more and more for the same price. so in the end i had to ask my cheese dealer why it was so cheap only to be told it was from the part of norway that had been contaminated by radioactivity during the chernobyl disaster a few months ago. there i am eating fucking radioactive fucking cheese. in those days there was no health inspector, people could sell anything, in a few years they would be selling part's of the berlin wall. 
there was a greek guy called steel who played keyboards, he would always walk into a room and spit on the floor and rub his spit into the carpet or wood. he would often come over in the middle of a cold night and we would drink, get stoned and play cricket to warm up. indoor cricket with a real bat and cricket ball, and there was no holding back. our place was big but inevitably windows would get smashed. fuck, then it would get cold. after a few months of this i became adept at fixing broken windows with tape.
some nights i would wake up in the early hours, it would be freezing, my bones would be like ice bones freezing me from the inside out, sometimes i would sit in the kitchen with the oven on and open just to warm myself. outside dogs would be frozen on the street, the bars would be emptying people out and they would stumble along reichenberger strasse. 
next door was a bar frequented by older berliners, often men and middle aged whores all by the end of the night so drunk they couldn't walk, talk or find their way home. so one night i wake up and wrap myself in a big black cape, the classic kind with high collar and red silk lining on the inside. i roll myself a joint, the north london four skin, a spliff and gaze out at the window below. it's about 4am and the bar next door must be closing as a few people stumble out and stagger down the street. they only have to look up slightly to see me. my joint burns down and the awful stink of industry from the east manifested in some dark ambient cloud appears over the horizon. a lone figure ambles out from the bar, he is holding a bottle and taking large swigs from it. each step he takes is random, he's all over the place, two steps forwards one step back, he makes several attempts to bring the bottle to his lips but can't quite manage it and he's confused about which direction he should walk in. i gaze downwards and he suddenly stops walking and looks up.
our eyes make contact, he drops the bottle and i watch it explode into fragments on the pavement, it makes no sound but the man is open mouthed in horror, struck  by the shock of seeing me he runs away into the night.
and then it dawns on me, he's seen a strange naked man smoking a joint wrapped in a cape staring down at him. he's drunk and disorientated  so perception mutates but he would have a good story to tell tomorrow at the bar. i watch him disappear in the distance and then my gaze shifts to the reflection in the glass. i'm not there, just the cape and a burning joint.
outside i looked for the stars to guide me but the smog blocked out the sky, the city was consumed by it and i had been consumed by the city. 
   
      
        

i was locked out of my head, it was raining, the clouds were low. i was in a cold climate, the birds were being aggressive, flapping wings, making shrieking noises and swooping in far to close for my liking.
a man with a dog came towards me, some small eastern european cars drove passed, the streets were empty otherwise.
the dog stopped and pissed on the side of the street, the man pulled the lead and the dog moved away reluctantly leaving a splash on a wall. 
i let them pass me, blending into the wall as best i could, i don't think the man noticed me but the dog looked at me curiously as he was dragged away.
across the street was a cafe, it was getting dark and i needed to access my memory, get some information why i was here. i bunched the collar of my jacket around me put my head down and walked across the big road. while i walked i searched through my pockets, some coins and notes, i looked to see the currency, it looked like greek writing, vaguely familiar. 
the cafe was tiny and it was packed with people, there was nowhere to stand let alone sit so i just squeezed through the crowd, i seemed to be sucked in and swallowed up, walking deeper into the cafe i realised it was larger than i originally thought, just narrow as i descended deeper inside to it's bowels.
as i walked in the people were all glamorous and beautiful, dressed in elegant clothes and adorned with jewels but the further inside i walked the more the people began to change appearance, their clothes less sophisticated, they wore costumes and some were naked, a dwarf in a ringmasters suit cracked a whip, some girls in heavy make up laughed and blew kisses as i walked by, smoke filled the room making it difficult to see but i figured i would continue down, deeper inside.
i came to a small table, where a lady in a silk gown seemed to be waiting for me, she gestured for me to join her.
someone in a long black suit brought us a tray of drinks, tea.
the tea pot was ornate, perhaps chinese but quite ancient and decorated with jade and emerald. small matching cups were placed in front of us, and two chinese fortune cookies. the lady nodded and then reached outwards to fill my cup. steam rose and carried with a scent of sweet wild spice that relaxed me and made me think of being in a warm bath, in a marble room.
'the tea will replenish your memory' she whispered.
i smiled and sipped it slowly but not before bringing the cup to the tip of my nose and inhaling the fragrance. the smell unlocked my time in the berlin salt bath. west berlin, a long time ago, i was naked and swimming in a big salt water pool with other berliners. i sipped the tea and remembered i lived in kreuzberg on richenberger strasse, in-between the bar and the church. 
i remembered my years there, it flooded back, der jungle night club where i perfected my one and only dance move the jungle stomp. those crazy nights playing indoor cricket drunk of whisky and stoned on hash, the strange bars i used to frequent, remember the one with sand everywhere. oh my how they flooded back, a tap turned on and even trivial things, a shop that sold coat hangers, ka de ve where i bought my organic indian tea, zoo station, nollendorfplatz and the metro. we used to hang with some strange cats back then. i was a vampyre getting up at dusk and heading to bed at dawn, i remember the cold winter and my quest for the heat but now, where are we now?

i skirt the outer limits, the peripheries, the edges, a shadow detective meshed into the occult and dark magicks, not quite there but not quite here. there must be solutions amongst all fringe sciences, philosophy and practices but each one is imperfect, most fakery, some just to dangerous. there is just one that appears born from the vast aeons of pre-creation, it comes to me from the gift of my dreams, the application of an old trick i used once in an incarnation i felt uncomfortable with. it's the reversal of time, to make it flow counter to my own, a uniquely internal alchemical process, a subconscious adjustment. i need certain materials to do this, preparations are required, a ritual to focus and sharpen the concentration. 
i complete my acts in silence, alone, drifting through space, through the unknown, in a void filled with my own self. the deeds are done, all is still.
there's nothing left to do but live, going forwards now. the future travels through us relentlessly, my photosensitive mind captures it all in a single image called now that changes all the time.
i took the train into the superficial city, somewhere in a suburb i gazed out at the streets and saw you, a single poster in the mundane world. it seemed to be misplaced, out of context with everything else. that profile and the stars staring at me as i took that very moment to raise my head from my book and look out the window. my book by the way was berg's 'zohar explained' which seemed slightly significant, but then again...
the city was murky, a mass of people wandering around under grey skies, children dragging parents along everywhere, religious groups out preaching from their book, hellfire and brimstone and cafe's over spilling with elegantly dressed peoples, i myself being discrete and blending in chameleon-like with the greyness, the un noticed. you know they fucked up my hair. no longer long and flowing, now more like some sort of scouring brush you would clean an oven with. i was furious at the stupid teenage hairdresser who pretended to listen to my instructions when i stated their importance. anyway it will grow back and i will manage but for the moment i feel self conscious and vain, there is nothing worse than bad hair.
i picked up a copy of norman mailers book 'moonfire' which i had been wanting to get for a long time. i first saw it about 20 years ago, in large format but today i noticed it reprinted in smaller edition so i picked it up. i'm still reading, 'limit' and halfway through bergs book so i can't start another just yet.
i waled into the chinese area of the city, hive central where my friend and i used to go. it's been spruced up, looks cleaner and there's hub of activities, hordes of people feasting on noodles and lotus cakes. it feels good for a moment to be lost in a crowd. on the train back i must have fallen into a deep sleep, woken as we passed some central coast waterways, i followed the rivers and estuary's, small battered houses, tiny unkept gardens, the occasional boat and then the oyster farms stretching out. the water was still, for a moment the sun came out and it all looked wonderful, like a imminent holiday.
    

rain steals my day, it's a beautiful thief, nourishing the environment and depleting my spirits, i can't surf in the rain. i want to throw a tantrum. i sit in my studio and look at it falling, drops exploding upon the palm fronds in morning light. big dark storm clouds black out, far out, it feels like sunday evening on a friday morning, and i feel like i'm dreaming.
later i pace up and down, in one room out the other, can't read as my thoughts are half formed. the 'limit' narrative gets mashed into my own. i float through space towards the sun adrift, isolated, alone, isolar, i think of... 'subterraneans' that magnificent sound, your vocals come out of the music like a ghost, man that was incredible. i see on bowiebook csm that stupid critic from the old nme who slagged you off saying, 'it's the last nail in his coffin' when he reviewed 'heroes' is now singing your praises. what a prick, i feel like writing to him and pointing out to his zillion followers what a wanker he is but you would probably have forgiven him long ago and found it funny, just like you did martin amis. 
'flash in the pan' ha! not many got the reference in blackstar, especially the video but i did, a very funny moment you always were a step ahead. i recall you saying how much you enjoyed 'money' i did to, i liked most of his books except 'yellow dog' which i should try again but 'zone of interest' is probably his best. 
anyway it's still raining here, and everyone says hi.   

i surf the blues away, every morning at the crack of dawn, each wave brings me home, each thought drifts over my head and out into the endless white noise of static. it's a strange feeling all this energy in the air and i fulfil my promise and work it out, work through it, work on it until it just works.
i surf, i think about you, i think about me, i think about death, your's, and mine. that's what it's all about isn't it? 

you went out perfectly man, with grace and style, and dignity and creativity and there's so much love for you, from humanity. 
i have only really played the blackstar cd, not listening to your previous recordings yet as i am still discovering blackstar. i did play 'in the heat of the morning' as i've loved that song for ages, the words particularly and i wanted to hear them again becuase it's a romantic song and i always think of you as a romantic despite some dark social commentary you kept a romantic heart.  
i see you stuck with your buddhism in the end. it's an elegant choice and top of my list although who knows what goes through a mans mind in the circumstances of ones death. actually i do. it's all about letting go, i understand it but nonetheless instinctively we cling to life. because we want to be with our children and family and people we love. because we are scared. just because. i'm so glad you were with your family. 
i played blackstar really loud at sunset, i didn't cry, even at 'dollar days', i like the way you rock out of that one and into 'i can't give everything' the sad songs now sound so strong when i hear them, so full of your strength. 
anyway, i feel this energy around, it may not last but it's there unifying people who celebrate your life. i can't think of many people who have ever done that, facebook is bowie book now and it means something. it means for a moment there is no hate, no division, no bullshit just a genuine feeling of love for you. that's what's happened man, everyone knows you now and everyone loves you.

the surf spits me out and sends me back to mission control where i start to clean up, i have a lot to look forwards to, a lot to do.   

     

Sigma Librae, Spica, Alpha Virginis, Zeta Centauri, SAA 204 132, and the Beta Sigma Octantis Trianguli Australis all very close to and pointing at Mars. That's a gift from Belgium but I think I speak for all us Earthlings when I say it's from us all. I heard they want to re name Mars itself, but I feel one cant play with mythology like that Mars has it's own place. I think perhaps this new constellation is more appropriate. It's shape is the ZIG ZAG from Aladdin Sane so as I am an avid star gazer I will be able to look up and see your stars man. That makes me happy. 

it's the sad days for a while here at mission control. i'm mourning you. i can't even eat (which may be a good thing) i need a big bag of weed for this one, while i comprehend this loss and this effect upon my very soul.

i know it will pass in some slow time and i know you would not wish me to stay in one place to long. 

i had a beautiful e mail from my father. it said, 'i know you must be heartbroken, he was your hero. god bless him.'

my old man! that's gotta make you laugh, he was always yelling at me to take that wretched ziggy stardust off the turntable so he could play his trini lopez albums ha, i bet that makes you smile. it was simple and heartfelt i guess but it was my mother that really surprised me a few days later when i finally spoke to her, she said, 'he was so much part of your life we feel like we have lost a son.'

my mum said that!

she reminded me how my room was filled with posters of you. i can't remember that, i know i had one massive 'low' poster but then my memory does have a few leaks.

this is a different kind of loss for me because i don't want to let you go just yet, i wanna keep hold of this moment in time and it's influence but a few days ago i wrote some words about light from the sun, and how it is a few minutes old by the time it hits the earth. it's the light from the past that enables us to perceive and motivate in the present and prepare for a future. so while i try to let you go, i'm going to embrace the light you left me and try to look for a better tomorrow. i know that's what you would want me to do so i'll just take this moment... to say... farewell, my hero. 

vale david bowie
strangely i'm about two hundred pages into the huge novel called limit where the main characters are travelling on the maiden voyage of the space elevator and they are about to meet a guest with different coloured eyes who is going to sing for them. the characters name get's mentioned about 10 pages later but by then it's obvious whom frank schatzing is writing about. 
there's a conversation where the inventor of the elevator and bowie are chatting and bowie reveals he's in his 90's only to be told, 'you look remarkably young.'
i read that this morning, and about seven hours later some one text-ed me bowie has died. 
i checked with duncan bowie's feed and it was legit. 

it's impossible for me not to shed tears, i can't even begin to write how much bowie meant to me and about a million other london kids growing up in the 70's. i must have been around 12 when i saw him on TOTP's preforming starman in glitter suit and with a star on his forehead. He leaned into the camera and thus my room, and said, 'i had to phone someone so i picked on you.'
from that moment my life changed.
pin ups, ziggy, aladin sane, i was getting my hands on everything.
i vividly recall getting diamond dogs and playing it in my room over and over until my parents went nuts, the vinyl wore down the needle, i knew the words inside out, candidate, sweet thing, candidate reprise, that whole epic was so amazingly cool, i went out and read 1984 straight away, i read burroughs and it was like education really began for me, my education. not some curriculum the government rams down your neck at the sausage factory, this was me hungry to learn everything i possibly could about this world bowie inhabited. it was my world now. 
bowie wrote our lives, he did. ask any london kid my age. without him in the world it's like our soundtracks just stop. thankfully i have an equal love of kilbey's music so let's hope he keeps knocking out the classics but with bowie i guess he came back, back from the dead. and then he died. it's stumped us all.
he gave us 'the next day' a retrospective mish mash of his past glories completely reborn into brand new songs that sounded fresh and brilliant, only the discerning listener would know what he had done, it was as though he had never gone away. and then blackstar. which now takes on a different light in the knowledge he knew he was going to die whereas we didn't have a clue. the lyrics all begin to take shape, reassembled in light of this dark truth.
i don't know what to say, i love bowie. i dragged my pregnant wife to see him twice over two continents, she wasn't such a fan but i wasn't thinking of her, no child of mine will miss out on the experience of bowie live, the thin layer of skin was exposed to many influences and the developing embryo evolved into a highly intelligent, beautiful member of the human race. 
i saw bowie play many times in many guises, and i saw the final sydney show, right in the front row. amazing. i took jaci my lesbian friend along and we screamed like teenagers and cried when he played fantastic voyage. 
but with his final album i believe he completely redefined himself yet again. not just lyrically and musically but also as a statement on the three most important aspects of humanity. art, life and death. 
i'm really sad, sad for him, his family and my selfish self because i want more yet i'm happy he died at peace and with the people he loved, and i'm happy that he came back one last time and surprised us all. lazarus indeed.
there's never going to be another individual like bowie again.
although i'm deeply emotional about this, i'm also very aware when you die it's not the end, you just transition to a different frequency. so david, i'm tuning in. god bless you.



  

obviously people will compare the new bowie album with his past body of work, it's important to apply some frame of reference, so i'll start by saying this fit's somewhere in the earthling / outside spheres but let me state, it's just a frame of reference because the blackstar album is unlike any bowies previous works and i think does a great disservice to apply that kind of comparison without acknowledging this is a unique piece of work. 
the other aspect is to make a big deal of the jazz musicians playing rock. yeah i guess all that's important if you need a genre but bowie is way beyond genre. possibly the only pop musician who deserves that status. there's never been any individual who has imprinted upon the lives of so many and spawned so many styles so lets just for this moment give him some credit and look at the music on blackstar for what it is, a new bowie album.
it's magnificent. there's so much going on in the mix even when you think there's nothing happening, there's layers to his sound that just keep revealing themselves. he's in good hands with visconti who had applied his magick here. bowie is not one man, it's a team of people contributing, the musicians here conjure some dark brooding, sonic tones, simple riffs become complex, drum patters shift and change like water, the sax drones and throbs, blurts and squirts, it's pushing forwards all the time over some incredibly organic bass. there's subtle tonality in here and then suddenly it clobbers you like a very hard massage but never assaults or batters, it's extraordinary.
then there's the voice. completely sweeping through everything, picking you up and taking you away, god, that voice is everything, it harmonises with itself, it shifts over itself like some personality disordered doppelganger, the song 'the girl loves me' is made up of two obscure languages, one being nadsat (from a clockwork orange) the other polari an obscure london slang for gays but bowie sings it with the kind of commitment only he delivers, it's a magnificent song which does remind me slightly of the obscure  'untitled no.1' from the soundtrack album 'buddha of suburbia' just fleetingly. 
the title track is saturated in darkness but suddenly halfway through becomes something else, a ray of light, a different song altogether only to return where it started from. there's talk that this song was written about isis, i think it may well have been, but at the end of the day it don't matter what it is about, it's opaque and could be about anything. it's a beautiful opening song, filled with wonder and mystery. there's drum patterns and loops and percussion textures that shift time signatures, there's saxophones going mental, there's bass lines that are unfathomable and even a space drum that actually sounds cool for once. the saxophone blurts and squawks as the whole song shifts into another phase and bowie does his vocal changes that make you wonder where he's taking you. that dark gloomy sound is now suddenly much lighter until he kicks in again with his backing vocals all dread and creepy. there's some great synth playing on here, just tiny runs that layer the whole song adding richness. i feel that what he may be doing is using free jazz styles but between electronic instruments.  
'tis a pity she's a whore' kicks in building to a cacophony of sax, keys and percussion. bowies voice on this as the song ends is great, he's really kicking back and just cooking along, almost enjoying the groove.
lazarus is my fave at the moment, possibly as it's related to the play bowie wrote and therefore connected to the final days of jerome newton, the alien who fell to earth. i adore it, music and lyric.

just like that bluebird. 
okay i can't write anymore about this album anymore, buy it. it's fucking the best few bucks you ever spent and you can listen to it on repeat and it will always be like hearing it for the first time. it's invaluable to anyone who thinks bowie is the bees knees, or those that wish to know why he is an important artist, it's all in here waiting for you. 

   

big waves, lot's of beaches closed, i sit on south avalon headland looking down at the hardcore surfers ride. they effortlessly slide down the face of giant forces of nature, make it look so easy. i 'm up there watching about twenty surfers wondering if i could body surf those waves but like clint says, man's gotta know his limit.
i see some old faces, chew the fat with some avalon people. it's nice but it also reminds me why i left. to much talking, sitting around drinking coffee although in those days i had friends, now i feel i don't really need any company. what's there to say that hasn't been said.
i think if i find a girl i wanna stick with she and i will just spend most of the time in silence. a silent girl. is there such a thing?
i leave avalon feeling i got out just in time, the place was a village now it's a town, the place was a community now it's a stage. it was magickal, now it's double bay and triple pay. the magick long gone. 

light from the past illuminates the present, the face of this moment is an explosion. all that we know fit's inside our minds, yet more is unknown outside. light is metaphor, it's not what we think, it's tied to a language we can only navigate with wisdom and knowing, a meditative practice perhaps but it's not simple buddhism or some eastern philosophy, it's the essence of a western tradition we like to reject in our fury and mindlessness. 

here i am bathed in old light, in the garden of an eden, in the temple of this present moment, thinking about nothing in particular. the abyssinian banana plants have such big leaves, they cast a nice shadow where i can sit in my cool spot watching the bees buzz and the big leaves dance over my head. the tiger grass gently configures in its corner as it grows protecting me from the intrusion of some yonder construction.

along i drift, sown streets and alleyways, roads and avenues, shopping malls, churches, farms, winery's, spas and wide empty spaces, sub tropical pockets of bushland and there waiting for me, the waves. 

true detective season 2. mild spoilers ahead but not enough to ruin the show.

despite the negativity surrounding true detective's second season i must confess to really loving it, not just for it's complex story but the characters and the semi mystical sub text, the soundtrack and the cinematography. 

the difficulty is that whereas season 1 was obvious in it's literary references season 2 is somewhat opaque.  

the original western book of the dead was written by a guy called  alfred schmielewski aka yogi narayana whom was also mysteriously murdered under unsolved circumstances.

the book claims that a yogi can leave his / her physical frame when they wish, therefore they have left the body long before it is dead. the body does not die but becomes something else. now things get tricky here as yogi narayana goes on to say, 50% of the population cannot transcend their own selves, they are not capable of understanding consciousness and therefore unable to contribute it. he mentions sufi mystic yazid who also says, ' humanity is asleep, few are awoken.'

at it's heart the characters are 4 completely different personalities one a gangster who are attempting to overcome their own natures and gain insight it what it means to be good while doing things that appear bad against a backdrop of corruption, madness, brutality and what one could be called evil. the world.

in the book of the dead travellers in the afterlife are given spells and enchantments to navigate their way into the afterlife and not the underworld. the underworld being rebirth.

clues are scattered through the narrative but they are not easy to find, it's all there. 

the last episode is particularly powerful, because emotionally we want these characters to make it, we know they deserve it and we know we have been their judges. 

i loved this tv series, such clever writing. so rare for tv.

 

“If then you do not make yourself equal to God, you cannot apprehend God; for like is known by like.

Leap clear of all that is corporeal, and make yourself grown to a like expanse with that greatness which is beyond all measure; rise above all time and become eternal; then you will apprehend God. Think that for you too nothing is impossible; deem that you too are immortal, and that you are able to grasp all things in your thought, to know every craft and science; find your home in the haunts of every living creature; make yourself higher than all heights and lower than all depths; bring together in yourself all opposites of quality, heat and cold, dryness and fluidity; think that you are everywhere at once, on land, at sea, in heaven; think that you are not yet begotten, that you are in the womb, that you are young, that you are old, that you have died, that you are in the world beyond the grave; grasp in your thought all of this at once, all times and places, all substances and qualities and magnitudes together; then you can apprehend God.

But if you shut up your soul in your body, and abase yourself, and say “I know nothing, I can do nothing; I am afraid of earth and sea, I cannot mount to heaven; I know not what I was, nor what I shall be,” then what have you to do with God?”

~ Hermes Trismegistus

more rain than a planet could possibly imagine, water world, the endless heavy downpour makes my night driving more adventurous as shriekback and i navigate our way through treacherous roads. it's incredible, like being underwater, even the wipers can't wipe fast enough. when i reach mission control i make a dash for the post box and see there's a parcel waiting for me. great, i can pick it up in the morning,
i hope it's the new bowie cd. i already got the lithographs. it could be anything, items come here all the time, from all around the planet. 
i just finished reading 'after the crash' by michel bussi a bestseller in france and as this now confirms that french culture is officially dead. usually i always find something positive to say about a book, i appreciate it's usually one mans single vision and hard work but this was just nuts. 
anyway i picked up a copy of limit by frank schatzing, it's a massive 1500 page brick of a book but it's already got me hooked. 
i'd read schatzings previous epic novel the swarm and enjoyed that so i can't wait until this kicks off. i'm enjoying all the information he includes, the science in science fiction. i mean who knew konstantin tsiolkovsky thought up the idea of a space elevator! according to wikipedia he seemed strange and bizarre to his fellow townsfolk, already making him very likeable in my book. konstantin is not really in 'limit' but his elevator is.

ah the big wet has arrived, treachery on the roads as cars upon the freeway scatter and slide, collide and spiral out. me i'm okay in my all wheel drive pleadeian vessel, the finest cosmic ingredients designed to withstand any planetary atmospheres, i just gaze out at the chaos before me and glide on by. 
insanity on the streets as the crashing force of water sweeps people away, out here in australia we are prone to extreme elemental forces. it's a terrible thing to have control wrenched from your hands by such simple things like fire and water. water here happens fast, floods in an instant, places get cut off, me i have to drive over water wheel deep where overflowing rivers spill out into the suburbs. many cars don't make it. i'm lucky.
the road home is treacherous, partly flooded, it's gone midnight and there are no street lights. the car is in lockdown, it's just me and shreikback. my headlights cast a circle of light into the strange foreboding bushland around me. it's tropical nature at night and in torrential rain not so friendly, the sinister plants  swaying wildly in the wind rejoicing in water, dancing with joy and thirst quenching madness.
the rain here is crazy, it's harsh and falls in a density i have not seen outside monsoon countries, raincoats are no protection and umbrellas are just silly. may as well wave a matchstick at the sky.
my street when i get there is covered in frogs, they hop around in my headlights as though on a stage. it's weird to watch and i slow down so i don't squish any. hundred of them hopping and jumping everywhere. 
eventually i reach the sanctuary of mission control.
i sit in the studio and watch the rain in my garden, the palms and ferns all alive and in undeniable ecstasy. i smoke a joint and watch them grow. 

dangerous moment, the speaker arrives, his words chosen are carefully... i don't fear the new world. what a mind blowing idea in an age of conformity, he speaks of national security and his aversion to google, he speaks of control and power but not in a deranged fearful way, he's curious like a cat, he knows we cannot go back. society can't hang on to an age that has passed, it's a new era coming and it's the conditions that need questioning. new forms of control can be new forms of freedoms. no nostalgia. he's a glass half full guy whereas i'm the water in that half empty cup has been replaced by poison. however i like his perspective, it makes sense. 
einstein says we can go forwards in time and offers two ways to do so, one in a spaceship leaving the earth and getting close to light speed and returning to earth. the other is a spaceship that hovers close to a black hole and then returns but his mathematics says we cannot travel backwards, those are the laws of this universe.

it's good to see val and olga on new years eve, we walk along terrible beach in the twilight amongst all the people, men in shirts, women in summer dresses, boys on skateboards and girls in skimpy revealing outfits. yeah that's blipped on my radar, the girls, all drunk dressed in hardly anything, the sex urge running hot. notice me, notice me, they are like beautiful coloured birds, dancing and cavorting for attention. it's incredible, i'm somewhat disturbed and aroused at the same time. the ocean looks good from here, fading light, beautiful surf, calling me to it's gentle peace and oblivion. instead we head for a small restaurant, with an unfortunate name. i like it, very simple style but very well done. simple menu, simple drinks, just right. the music is good, dub, groove, soft piano beats, i relax and settle into an easy evening with my friends. later we decide to walk, walk along the headland up to the lookout. the stars shine for us, i can see orion and the belt, follow it along outside of it's cluster by several million light years...to pleiades.
val and olga are telling me tales of strange things they have seen in the skies, we wander back to the town and hunt down butterscotch dessert for val but end up where we started at the little restaurant as new years approaches. 
as i get older i value mornings more, so it's early to bed for me, way before midnight. i fall into a soft sleeping state, where morning comes with it's solar power and kicks down the doors with a surge. i am reminded of the chariot from the tarot.

   

awaked by the sun i play in the garden for a while with the hound of love until he disappears. i dig two fucking massive holes and plant two beautiful abyssinian banana trees near my elephant ear plant, these two grow so fast you can see them getting taller each day, pretty soon libertaria will look like a fucking sub tropical eden. the fish are leaping out ready for breakfast and i notice i need to work on their pond again, some water anomaly plagues me. weeds invade and my resistance is being worn away. the water dragon is at my feet in expectation of some nibbles and pan is visiting his friend across the street no doubt to return when hungry. the beasts have me well trained.
a lone kookaburra watches me moving, he sits there on that weird gate, king of the bush surveying all. australian mornings are beautiful, especially at the beach where the crystal water meets the shore. i have to resist the pull this morning as i have to focus upon domestic tasks but how i would love to just go surfing.

christmas will break your heart LCD

she said her name was deadly nightshade, she offered me a cure. she kissed me on my lips softly and i fell into her allure, of dreams where bliss dances on the end of my fingertips and hunger and thirst are defined in longing for the promise of another... most deadly kiss. 
she revealed her body ravaged and haggard with use and wear and the brutal hands of men, who had taken her divinity and turned it against all sacred things, a commodity in the markets, a stock for trade and sale. flesh and blood and bag of bones, a weeping eye that sees, the elementary particle that secret vessel is revealed.
i clung to her like life itself but finally i came to know, the power was in her heart and the knowledge of letting go. i watched her fade away in time, my memory unclear, but some evenings when i see that moon i speculate she is near. 
her spirit form it is a light, that dazzles the spectator, it manifests incandescent glow and dissipates much later. you cannot resist the magnetic lure as she pulls you in to her, the nebulous truth that she is gone and whom is the true deceiver. 
it falls like flames, it burns asunder, it calls forth the yearning of taboo plunder, and when all is lost all that is found, is that ancient sense of wonder.
  

the subtle shades of dark falling down tonight, the green fading away, disappearing down the line into night, the fractal patterns of the darkening sky on the other side of the silhouettes of trees, the insect chorus chirping, bleeping away like some sort of divergent technology or secret cosmology.
the evening glides in from behind me, with the beating of wings, the grace of a gazelle and the silent approach of a serpentine albino warlord drawing their sword, drawing down the night, slashing away the tethers of memory and temporal gravity.
soft fading rays, an alien heat looking for pleasure and formless enjoyment. dancing through the trees, stepping over leaves, hopping like a goblin over fairy ring and circle, hiding out in wilderness that creeps and eats the crushed bones that carpet the ground. 
full moon over the ancient earth, civilisations crumbled and long gone, blown away upon the breeze of time, hard matter stone and rock all fall under the spell of chronos and daughter ananke. 
mere mortal i but flesh bone and breath, a weak skeleton that cages a strong beating and true heart lives in the shadow of inevitability and the consorts of fate. i care not for politik of men, i care not for petty arbitration and justice dispensed by man upon his fellow, the psychology of mercy lies within the spirit, only this truly escapes time. 

  

dawn surf patrol, sun rise over oceanic movements, the water is still cold and treacherous but it must be said it's magnetic pull is powerful as i find myself already waist in, one small dive and i'm committed. 
around me it churns like some vast machine, the rip pulls me across as i swim out and get crushed by a few freak waves. the sound surges around me, white and blue flashes of brilliance, the penetration of everything as my transmutative skin adapts and dissolves, i'm everywhere and nowhere.

return to terrible beach where the waves are larger than ever, i assess the situation with enhanced vision, many cross currents make treacherous conditions for any water based lifeform. i feel something cruising through my spine, some strange fluidity as my limbs acclimatise and thin webbing appears between fingers and toes. i walk down with my pod strapped to my hand, my technology is beautifully aligned to the surf whatever condition. i step into the cold water, regulate my breathing apparatus with some pranayama exercises as my core temperature adapts for the temperature.
it's difficult, there's some major surf to negotiate, it's wild and reckless, showing no mercy. they crash in from everywhere, sand slipping away under the ferocity and power, nothing holds together. i pass through the chaos out where there is some predictability. vision is obscured by my long hair now, i need to bind it behind me in a pony tail but for now one hand sweeps it back over my head. there's no one out here, a few boats surging up and sown in the rough seas out there. 
my reactions have to be fast, there's no time for land based lethargy in water i'm swifter, my feet kick off and all calculations come together as the wave carries me forwards in speeds that shock the watchers on the shore. not only is it fast but i can feel the wave massage my body, turbulence meets shiatsu. my android muscles pummelled by water. 
'what's that daddy?'
'it looks like a man son.'
'he's going fast'
'yeah he's going very fast. look at him ride that wave.'
'are you sure that's a man.'
'it could be a fish.'
'or an android.'
i turn out of the wave before it breaks, the instinctive knowledge comes through years of practice. but the next wave sneaks up and whacks me over as i can't see due to my hair over my face. it sends me tumbling along, down and up, i grab some air when i can and let my body relax, best not to fight the energy of the ocean. when it's over i right myself and stand upright looking out at the massive waves. drenched in sun, the celestial light of dawn. behold the gods.   

terrible beach in summer filled with tourists, coffee shops over spilling, parking spaces unavailable unless your a revered local like good old captain mission who knows all the secret spots, who knows all the waitresses, who knows all the waves. the water is ice cold, refreshing against the early morning heat. i splash around, i catch two magnificent waves, i fall out of the ocean back to land. spat out in a great arc, somehow landing upon my feet.
my coffee tastes metallic, the paper is filled with nothingness, the airs smells salty makes my joints ache. i ponder if i am not whom i should be. 
somehow i am no longer human.
perhaps i am an android of captain mission. i look at my body. stretching out limbs and moving my eyes around. i can zoom in on things afar, i can focus my hearing to pick up conversations and if i concentrate i can tap into the internet with some sort of wifi inside my head.
i run up the steps of the crown plaza and make my way to the elegant restrooms where i look at the mirror. deep inside i appear human, my face is the same. i run my hands over my skin, and over my face. then in a strange sliding motion i detach my face, it just slides off. a non reflective bank of black and blue lights embedded in some kind of solid state circuitry. 
the realisation is not so much a shock or surprise but a steady acknowledgement. i am here as a replacement, i must p[ass myself off as an authentic human, as captain mission. i must convince the ocean i am he. if i can convince the ocean then i am free to be captain mission.
but why am i here, i ponder the curious nature of my existence. i must have been created by the real captain. i commit to the endeavour of discovery but first the ocean awaits... 

travel through static oceans, captain missions assignment for liberteria, the mission should you choose to neglect it would result in the conquering of a virulent meme. it's existing in a string of communities, small sites of like minded conquerers. they were doing fine until the virus's started being launched onto servers, crashing people who didn't think along their lines.
i'm incognito, an stoned agent in the empire of fear. i use my chameleon skin to blend right in, i use my moon powered zap gun to protect me from psychic attack. i use my wit and ingenuity to pierce deep beyond into the heart of their digital domains. 
now the enemy is intelligent but singleminded, focused upon their feared opponents with psychotic precision. they promise peace while they decapitate, they promise submission while they dominate, they offer victory but play the victim, they have no solution but finality.
inside the veiled ones bow down to their god, they pray and chant, they wail and a demented holy man stands and shouts out to his followers, kill, pigs, curse them, satan, and the followers agree. they sway infected with a new kind of hate, a cleansing one. it washes away all their ills, cleans their souls like a bleach detergent, it sweeps through and kills everything, love, hope, reason, rhyme, peace, understanding, union. it's a fiery thing to behold, flames ignite flames and it sweeps through from server to server.
i do a quick reconnaissance, a card game with the enemy. a game of poker, backgammon, chess, hide and seek, i'll play any game they want, until i have won. 
their leaders are denied me but i make many friends, they embrace me and offer me their kindness, unaware i am their enemy. they tell me stories of their dominion, off how they will kill their enemy and liberate the land from me. they smile and pat my back, they drink strong black coffee and spit into tin cups. they repeat their mantras and kiss. their language is serpentine, aggressive and then soft and gentle, it's twisting around, buzzing like a wasps nest. they part and let me leave, the traveller, a welcome guest in their habitat. 
i'm grateful to leave, i don't like their hate, i don't buy their case. i'm a long way gone, travelling down the wire back to mission control but i left part of me behind, a little code embedded in their mind. it will explode in 7 days, a peace bomb in the form of three little words. love your enemy.
it will detonate softly and change everything.