usual performance with the family, within five minutes we are all in disagreement, the english sky darkens and a big moon hangs in the air ominously, strange pole type structures line the roadside, the cars are all undisciplined, driving faster than they should, the centre does not hold here, things fall apart, i’m in the back of the car staring out the window bleakly wondering if i should have got off at amsterdam or paris arranged to meet jake, hole up in pigalle in a cheap hotel, living on potatoes and wine busking with three chords and the truth, see there’’s always options and choices but i am committed, yes i am in full on warrior mode, if i could apply war paint i would but i have to make do with painted toe nails, i’m here to defend myself, honor and self respect against the judgmental and often mistaken perceptions of an older model brain and generation that subconsciously hate their children so i attack fast, with unusual rapier blade wit and directed intelligence i assume control, i draw diagrams and maps on scraps of paper, i’ve been in london 20 min’s and i’m already in the thick of family politics, explaining myself, justifying my self. i’m tired and i really was looking for a easy evening with at least one good nights sleep before round one but i have to help them see that i am still a good guy despite my dabbling with lucifer, sex magick, opiates and pornography, south american plant goddesses and refer madness and various exotic indulgences i cannot name.
look i can’t self direct my evolution if your just going to criticize my choices. i lean over from behind and grab the wheel from my brother, the car twists and spins and the landscape spins with it, i can see my left side but the right is somewhat obscured, my brother screams, mum stops mid diatribe, dad looks stunned, see, i’m the driver of my car, that’s all it is and when some one else attempts to drive it in a direction that makes me unsafe i don’t like it. so let me drive my car and if i need directions i’ll ask, otherwise drive your own. and i won’t interfere in fact i will be positive and reasonable and often chip in for gas.
silence all the way home, but the point is made, it was made hard and with a certain dramatic impetus that has shocked everyone. i went in hard and early, the cards on on the table, jokers and aces.
after a shower, a shave and an exchange of strange family gifts we sit down for an equally strange meal, mmm, now the weirdness is over the strangeness has begun sooner than i thought. however, in the aftermath of dinner we do start to laugh about things and the family discussions are steered into more debatable topics.
my mum bought me a 10 pack of toothbrushes, i’m so happy.
i have a shower, the water is so different here, it’s weak and lacks vitality, i drink a lot of whiskey with my dad, he’s become very religious, i notice this with old people, they get like this, i have no opinion on it, it’s just a fear i guess, it’s just there’s a difference between religious outlook and spiritual outlook. anyway it’s good to sit with your dad and drink a whisky weather your spiritual or religious or none of the above.
unpacking my small bag i flush out the alister reynolds book i bought at sydney airport, i’ve nearly finished dan simmons ‘black hills’ and i would only recommend it if you are or were a member of the real human free people or as the americans called them red indians. it is a sad weighty book, filled with poetry and loss, as the americas lost it’s esoteric roots, killed the buffalo, the native people, the history, the wisdom, it’s landscape changed and it took a course towards what it is today, neither good or bad just different. the disconnection between the spirit of the land and nature has resulted in the calamity we all live in. sometimes i love it just as much as you, sometimes i am seduced by it’s colours and glamour sometimes i am taken into it’s heart and dance with it’s devils and demons, sometimes i embrace it but at the back of my mind i know it is not real, in my past life i understood this, in this life i understood this again and what can i do, what conclusion can anyone reach except brothers and sisters, it is a good day to die.
here in lies the truth. the real human free people think it is a good day to die.
i pull out some clothes, i’ve taken hardly anything, some books and music. but the horrible thought that hammers home as i search through my stuff is i have not got the deep fix footage i burnt at amalias house. the footage i was going to edit and post online, curses. i must have left it on my desk.

a short sleep and i awake at 4am, wander down to make some tea, read a bit, look at the sky, but it’s not really working for me, the sky is grey and dark and it’s a cold spring morning and some birds make their call as the sun rises, but the birds sound pathetic as though they have no spirit, the fog swirls around the house and i wander through the big old house, looking at the sculptures, the paintings, it’s filled with art stuff, magazines and travel trinkets, mum and dad had a lifetime traveling, they saw the world together, travelled into the most unusual places and they still hold hands when they sit in the sofa, they still do everything together, it’s sickening yet wow, it blows my mind. what ever issues i have with my parents i am in awe of the fact they have a very strong relationship.
i stop at a roman bust, a head upon a pillar, see i would adorn it, dress it up, put my glasses over his eyes, my hat upon his head, my scarf wrapped around his neck, i would call him zero like a cross between an emperor and a philosopher senator. but he sits there on his pillar with his fixed stare looking bored and lost.
there’s lots of paintings, one i like. it’s a small group of jews in a tiny basement huddled together around a burning candle, they look to be saying a prayer together, but it’s dark, these are dark times and the only light is from the candle. they seem consumed by the darkness yet safe with their light. very symbolic very rich, i like that, if i inherit anything from my folks, i think that’s all i want. it’s painted by a lady called ‘scarlet.’
later my mother starts to tell me about where they purchased their art from, people they met on their travels, people that were young artists starting out who have gone onwards to become successful. i guess the value of this stuff is high but the memories attached are even higher. but the other art just don’t work for me, it’s clunky a bit bland and despite the parisian street scenes somewhat cliqued. there’s some massive flowers on a canvass painted by a famous south american painter, it’s not really my cup of tea.
there’s other stuff, exotic emblems from around the world, amazonian carvings, trinkets from asia and the americas, there’s a nice sun room mum calls a conservatory, a sort of lounge area that is part green house and part relaxation room, it’s filled with exotic plants. i sit down and look at the garden, it’s an english garden, very manicured and disturbing as there is no wild areas. i find it difficult to appreciate a garden without wild bits, i love my chaos. my dad is the gardener, it’s his love and passion, he’s very good with plants in that english gentle way.
meals are very civilized, we sit around a dinning table and various things are brought out, it’s kind of mediterranean then at 9am everyone sit’s around the tv to watch what i describe as the english version of ‘the insiders.’ a program where the current affairs of the week are dissected and analyzed in detail by a panel of guests. it’s strange my family is so political, they are so animated and passionate about this, i am some what bewildered and feel like sneaking of for a spliff. i grew up in this type of environment, instead of playing with toys or colouring in books i was forced to watch the news or current affairs, we were made to have opinions and see things from many angles always going on marches and demos, my mom just loved it, yelling and shouting out at protests and punching police men and politicians, causing a disturbance and starting a riot, i sweated away writing letters to political prisoners in russia and god knows where else, i was denied a normal youth but had this strange world of ideology and art. and now i am an adult, a freak, so whose fault is it i hate politics and ideologies.
london, i never really liked you very much. except the punk years, your history, your geography, your culture, it was all soaked in blood and rituals of the rich fat exploiting empire, and now it’s a stinking cesspool of multi cultural anxiety and tension as it’s outpost nations have come back home to ravage the mother country, the empire can’t strike back, it is a fading star, impotent and dreary it has nothing to offer anyone anymore, no innovation, no music (name a good uk band from the last decade) no writers (well amis is american) no artists (tracey emin is a turk and not that good, banksy is better) and no hope. all i see here is defeat.
each moment i am here reminds me how much i want to become an australian or a freaking norwegian just not english.
i drive mum to the shops, her fave deli where she introduces me as her son with the good heart. it’s a new phase in our relationship.