is the rubbish I'm left with
each day after living
are the nearest bin I can find
with all that trash
is someone else' fucking problem
Sorry I've been neglecting this blog , while out and just using my phone I just tend to punch into Facebook. There's a group page I've setup relating to this adventure -
Anyway, here's where I'm at this morning:
Finding it harder to interact with people. I get a few seconds into a conversation and something inside me clinches up and I can't do it. I talk to my girlfriend on the phone and suddenly hit a wall where I can't talk anymore.
My friend Pete, whose done lots of long cycles, warned me this would happen. You go back to being an animal, you look for food and places to rest and piss where you want, and think out loud and then suddenly it's smiling faces who want to know all about you and your bike, like striking some massive uphill you had no run-up for.
Between my eyes, right where I breath in, there's this space, all the landscapes, sky and ocean sit there. Everything I look at it is a photograph. Everyone I try and speak to has the volume way down. It's too much for linguistics. Words are like acts of vandalism against it, in here.
When I pedal you can't stop me, you can't reach me, I think my thoughts the way you might approach a big meal. I saviour every bit. Lick the plate. Lick the cutlery. Lick your fingers. And you don't share a single morsel, it's all for you.
I remember vipassana meditation, three years ago, how freeing it was not interacting with others. The life in my head is equatorial, tropical~ no seasonal energy drop off, just more and more, growing like elephant grass.
I get mad and it keeps going, I love life and it keeps going. No fuel, no battery, just calories.
The music breaks me. I listen to my mp3 player, other times I just sing the same stuff to myself. Ani Difranco, Ennio Morricone, Daft Punk, GangStaar, Hilltop Hoods, Icehouse, Philip Glass, Incubus (early albums), DJ Shadow, The Disturbed, Steve Jablonsky, Hermitude, Black Sabbath all compete in the shuffle.
And poetry... it's gone. I mean there's nothing left in the tank, and there's no tank, and there's no space here where there used to be a tank anyway.
I'm writing (obviously, hello), so it's not writers block, but the idea of poetry is nauseating to me.
After Slamalamalynchmob happened in late February I started writing again, having already quit and still getting hawked, I began writing reactively. But without that proximity I just don't care.
I look back on it like these very mental, very young-young people were trying to kick me out of their wretched garbage heap, and I objected to being told I can't be here. Silly, shoulda just shrugged it off, but y'know... I still think those fascist little shits needed someone with a spine to challenge their ego mania, so no regrets, but fuck, keep the heap. There are better places to squat, kids.
I'm still looking forward to the gigs coming up, still love the work and that crystalised aesthetic emotion you get from inhabiting your words on stage.
I'm still excited about putting together more chapbooks, and collect narrative strains out of my existing work, I still stand by my style, and am proud of those poems. But whatever is next is different. Everything that has a beginning has an end (that's why there's no Matrix part 5).
Writing at this point is a journal for me, articulate and collect, edit and catalogue later.
I make it public to not get lost amidst that elephant grass in my brain. Maybe you read this and some of this will mean something to you, help you get through. Sage Francis, Ani Difranco, Henry Rollins, Ronald D Moore, and so many others, they all helped me.
Right now, I'm sitting at a table with my back to the bike. I've manifested a thought into reality, cycling out there in Australia. People helped, are still helping, but I made this happen. Life is short, cut the shit and get some kicks.
-Randall Stephens, September 2014
when I went to the big Apple
I hooked up with a girl from Chile
and had a wondrous time
When I went to The Big Pineapple
I got swooped by a magpie
for over 500 metres
and it was closed when I got there
the moral of the story is
girls from South America are hot
especially when in other places
and that I shouldn't be a vegetarian.
I rode up a lot of hills today
on my bicycle
glaring sun and heavy bags
whilst doing thus I decided something
my auto biography,
will be called-
y'know what... fuckit, it would take too long to explain
and will be just a picture of some guy trying to bite off his own ear
I am going to go have a shower now
then die in my tent now
I would have much rather been remembered not as the difficult genius but as a good guy."
I was haunted by Orson Welles' last interview for a long time. When I was in hospital overnight in 2012, I had no visitors and few well wishers. I made it like that. It didn't feel good.
I remember thinking about Orson Welles, while lying there alone. I was a lot more isolated from family and friends and people back then.
Now I want to say thanks to everyone. Those who called, those who came to visit, and still those who gave me the space I asked for, because yeah there's only so much interaction I can handle.
I think if I died today, now, I would be remembered as a good guy. One of the good guys. That's important to me.
Of course, it would be nice to have the greatest film ever made under my belt as well, but instead I have "Breasts!"... I can live with that.
I mean die with it, whatever.
Yeah, I feel like whatever stubbornly mercurial artistically-justified self-consciously angry path I was on a few years ago, has been altered. I'm not the idiot things I write. Hell, even they aren't the idiotic things they write (themselves) anymore.
I don't need to be remembered, there is no legacy here. For now, I am a good guy, and I am very much alive.
My Dad is down
because his boss
(who was a friend)
He missed the funeral
because of a flight delay
I know this now
because my mother
and my sister told me
when I went around last night
he was (even) more quiet
and withdrawn than usual
barely said hello
or moved from the couch
I tell the whole world
what I masturbate to
or if the coffee is any good
My Dad on the other hand
simply -cannot- tell his own family
when he's feeling sad
There is a generation gap here
you could drive a whole world through
but not get one word squeezed out
between these two men.
I have paid more attention to the handful of critics encountered,
than the scores of supporters and friends I've made.
Given more currency to hate and petty wounded-ness, than love and intelligence. I regret this.
I wasted a lot of time these past two and a half years, since my last big trip.
I am leaving Melbourne in sixteen days.
I will be taking with me only things that I need.
I don't need bitterness, anymore.
I am going home after this
where your repealed carbon-copy
Herald Scum front pages
and homophobic talk back callers
will not be
I am going home
where your irresponsible voters
downed passengers liners
and Palestinian massacres
have no domain
I am going home
to make today ended
find a place divided out
where your drive through
your leashless dogs
and discarded McDonalds wrappers
cannot find me