Dear Diary

Cruised to the island fort of Ripapa—the gates were padlocked, but we made our way in – and dropped four tabs of acid. Four tabs isn't really as big a deal as you might think. Just a taste really. Depends on the strength of the acid of course, that's the tricky thing. You don't want to take four tabs of some truly powerful shit and then end up spending Christmas in the psych ward. But four tabs of the standard dose isn't a big deal. I honestly don't think people who only take one tab know what tripping means. I mean you're lucky if you get any visuals at all off one tab. FOUR TABS man, that shit will BLOW YOUR MIND OUT YOUR MOTHERFUCKING EYE SOCKET cough cough.

Next time, eight tabs. Personally I'm chasing that old skool sixties trip. Talking leprechauns and such forth. Groovy man, like far out.

The best thing about hallucinogenics is they shake things up. Introduce novel thoughts and concepts. Most of it you lose when you come down of the high, vaporising like escaped prisoners, but a few little sheens and shines and glimmers tend to hang around in the crevices of your head. One idea that struck me as promising was putting my entire browser history online. There's all sorts of deep earth tectonic rumblings about privacy violations now-a-days, but the fact is people want to violate their own privacy, they want to share the cup of themselves as much as possible. If you've ever seen the twitter account of somebody who really gets into it, you'll know what I mean. It's mundane stuff sure, but such a quantity of minutiae and useless personal trivia you can easily reconstruct the entire day-to-day of the person. Son, if you don't put yourself out there you don't get a share of the social pie.

A lot of what I do feels like disrobing, so I figure...

No code to show for it yet, but watch this space. Photos of the fort up on slackninja. Spending the night in a pre-world war one fort was pretty mint all things considered.

lost heaps of data, comments blitzed, tags gone, as well as all my feeds et al. managed to recover my posts thank god.

barf said it would be easy.

"I have shown myself as I was; contemptible and vile when I was so; good, generous, sublime when I was so; I have unveiled my interior such as Thou thyself hast seen it, Eternal Father! Collect about me the innumerable swarm of my fellows; let them hear my confessions; let them groan at my unworthiness; let them blush at my meannesses! Let each of them discover his heart in his turn at the foot of thy throne with the same sincerity; and then let any one of them tell thee if he dares: 'I was a better man!'”

— Jean Jacques Rousseau, "The Confessions", written whilst he was swimming (mostly sinking) in the inkly bottomless depths of a glue binge.

A little better than average, maybe bigger even than King Kong's cock itself; looking about me, casting my line out, trying to catch some of the olden time writers strut, that all-knowing swagger, I just needed me a few crumbs of self-confidence to feed to the sewer rats. Around and everywhere life continues inevitable, the incredibly heavy pink stiletto of time still refuses under threat of law of gravity to lift it's heel off the ant farm. Only an insect possessed of an uncommon valour and fortitude could continue to raise his proboscis to the sun under such unfavourable circumstances—lord knows I'm trying to be that insect.

Life continues: inevitable, infinite, terrible, wonderful. I once looked, direct, straight into the bright blue eye of God. It was a mistake. I blinked, felt small, engulfed, felt tiny by comparison, horrible, tiny small, and then went: blind: deaf: mad, ecstatic in my grief for one more glimpse. Bigger gods are scary. All tripe of course, worthless gutter rubbish, but trying to, attempting to write. Every time I think about writing I feel the thousand gleaming eyes of some black spider god upon me, evaluating, calculating, weighing up this old piece of brick against the hummingbird feather of virtue. Still, a brick can smash windows, bust heads. I'd rather be a hammer than a cold crushed skull. I'd rather be a nail than a kneecap.

I think I'd choose a sticky ounce over over a pound of contentment any day of the week.

That said, putting things in perspective, what have I got to lose? Nothing worth selling, anyhow. My net worth is well under two thousand dollars, including personal affects. Finally got some projects on the go, hope I get my face in the papers cos I love that shit. Infamy makes my balls throb. It's like some kind of justification for existing, drunkenly pissing my name into the yellow snow of other peoples lives. Sweep all the broken dreams back into the toy box cos I got some all new cheap pieces of plastic crap to choke on.

What we need now is some explosive decompression. Dust all the dust off the dinner table. We could set the bedbugs scuttling for cover, go tip some sacred cows – perhaps hold hands in Sunday School and then fuck in the confession booth. Too boring otherwise. The intolerable nonsense of the hours. the sheer senselessness of the minutes pass like glaciers crossing the street to avoid each other. There's not enough sex in this slow dance, still! teacher gets her steel ruler out! screeches “You kids must maintain at least a ten inch distance!”, a vicious slap on the wrist that leaves deep red welts for weeks. It can't be helped. It's difficult.

In my garden let a thousand grotesque flowers bloom and open, let them sow their pollen to the winds. Sailing out to undiscovered territories, sending our little boats to every compass point available, let them float on off the edge of the map and into history.

Fuck you black spider-god. \m/

So there I was, straight back home to the Ronald Regan memorial hospital for failed writers and the incurably insane. Hasn't changed a gram, I tell ya. Same people, still spouting the same brown fountains of shit they used to say, and here's me, once again, riding into town on my signature horse of raw sewerage. Detecting the passage of time in Christchurch takes some serious heavy duty scientific equipment. It's like one of those pick-the-difference-in-the-picture old people puzzles they have in the last few pages of the womens magazines, 'cept the only real difference in the second picture is that we're all older and getting progressively less attractive.

The way we want to define ourselves, and the way we are, are often, more often than not, generally always, completely and totally, extremely out of sync. Different people, ostensibly, pounding out a sense of self on the marshmallow punching bag of common communal discourse—or else vice-versa, the clubs of discussion pounding out all sense, the very self out of them; yes! I'm like that! I agree with you.

It's bullshit, but it's our bullshit, which, of course, means everything. How I yearn for simpler times. A fist to the face would bring me to my senses, slipping into my nihilism like some see-through negligee, see me, split-crotch, panties down around my ankles, yeah, why not, yeah, do it. Santa Claus is doling out the thick eyes this Christmas.

When I complained about the lump of coal in my stocking they first put me on hold, then told me to complain to my local political representative. Of course I tried, wrote strongly worded letters etc. but to no avail, no reply, not anything.