is this lonely?
...or is it just me
Your brokenness unattractive, your attempts at attractiveness broken.
Built you for quick damage and slow healing, fragile enough that living itself is a constant danger.
Somehow that made you strong. Far stronger than most.
Strength, it is that which attracts you. What you are attracted to being.
You are not broken. You've seen the real broken types, and that ain't you.
Nothing so far has truly broken you. Nothing can. So give yourself a break.
Because no one else can do that.
You can ride bike with your gloves on all of your hands some of the time.
You can lick your fingers after eating all of a drippy kebab some of the time,
but you can't lick any of your fingers any of the time you are wearing bike gloves.
and in the morning
oscillate between wanting to quote
Ani Franco and Travis Bickle
between wanting to run through walls
in a muscle hurricane
and wanting rest quiet
like the old mountains do
wanted to wake up next to you
and not apologise for it
we didn't do anything
which means me not doing anything wrong
was going to come away regretful
sorry, I'm a mess
trailed in all this mud
from other states I've been in
still raw to the touch and smell
hands are dirty with top soil
from holding my ground
there's a trick to this
but never actually give an inch
you can hide yourself
in plain sight
not you nor them
from the damage
will go to the grave
with nothing left to say
It'll be awkward like ...uh yeah
like in six days actually
will leave here
start my riding back home
in both cases
I will take my sweet time
not to sound ungrateful
your well-meant advice
as a note left
with a wrench dropped
in my otherwise empty food bowl
"go ahead, fix yourself some dinner"
On the porch. After a careful dissection of all the issues in play, and several shots of tequila, we have clearly identified and discussed maturely, the fact that she will not be sleeping with me. I have in turn acknowledged I should probably leave now, but for some reason all this makes an interesting conversation in the unpacking. So I'm still here. All too drunk in my honesty. She has gone inside to get us more beer. While she's gone I piss on her front garden. She comes out with more shots instead.
There's no moon tonight.
Probably starts in the head, but there's a hollow ache in my chest, it goes down to my stomach sometimes. It's there now. It doesn't know where else to go. It doesn't know any of the reasons.
It doesn't understand how the love could be snatched away so quickly, and so completely. Makes it feel like there was none there all along.
It doesn't know why I am on this trip. You can't explain inspiration and aspirations and personal challenge, to a hollow lonely ache that only wants to go away. You can't talk about profound life experience to it. It's had plenty of those and it knows none of it keeps people from leaving you, or gives you people to talk to. It's waiting for their knives to come out.
It knows there's no whore/madonna/princess in shiny amoŕe coming to save you. It knows you will have months ahead of you of no one to hold, nights of touchless pain.
It's a belly that wants to do bad things. It knows exile, and anger, for fuel, it wants to push every one away before they have the chance to take more things from it. It feels like something not felt since I was a teenager. I guess that makes it juvenile.
When I cycle it doesn't feel so bad, for a few moments. I don't want to stay like this, once I'm back in the tent I'll start to get better, I think. Meanwhile, it seems important to document it now. Something tells me I will need to be able to look back and reflect/remember this. It will be important. I don't know why. Probably just so I don't return here. Writing, right now gives me something to do.
If nothing else.
after I went
she left me
for someone else
then she went away
down a road that closed
this isn't the way
it was supposed to go
somewhere in the folds
of this over-fondled old map
have to find some place
where I can accept
it's marked poorly
unsealed road and
and there's some long ways to go
really don't know where
the end of this journey lies
the only fixed point
I had for it
is now broken
my life is adequately expressed as:
the coffee I order for takeaway
then drink it as have-here
within my contradiction
I'm just trying to hold on
to the warmth
though in the process
I end up creating garbage
October 13th, 2014. I have been alive for 12,553 days. And it's not even 5pm yet.
It's inked right here on my arm-
"Everything that has a beginning has an end."
No words, but a picture/symbol representation from that movie no one likes. (The Matrix: Revolutions). Here at the end, I should remember what's written on my skin, know this thing bodily.
Should anyone ever ask, that's what this tattoo means. It's here so I can remind myself of endings, impermanence, finite mortality and infinite applicability. I will say all this when asked, I will sound wise.
I'll be lying to them.
Right now I am one of two people scrambling desperate to rewrite their own personal histories to make all the jagged pieces fit, outside of a relationship.
Previous decisions made are now continually repositioned around the room, for decorative taste and illuminations sake, but mostly for convenience. Why I was wronged, stopped, shut down, held back, put upon, turned off, suffocated, by the the partner drawn second-draft.
I liked playing the villian, til I got type cast.
Now every failure I've had as a boyfriend, a man, a lover is a self prescribed hand-drawn blemish on my surface that I want to call something else. Tidy up the truth and make it mean more than it did.
It's why I write-it-out here, in my head I can lie, get lost in the elephant grass growing there, refight every battle so it looks like I won. What a loser.
Writing is the only thing keeping me honest right now.
I got this tattoo in Singapore in July 2011, with a friend, he and I about to go our separate ways. He got the same design, in the middle of his chest. Simpler times except they weren't. And we were good mates when we didn't annoy each other. At least that's how I like to remember it.
It's a joke. On the basis of the irreconcilable fact that I like those movies so very much even though they're terrible. Funny when we were drunk. For some reason. The truth is, this tattoo doesn't mean shit. Shoulder that.
Everything that has a beginning has...
hard part will come after the blast
when the smoke clears
the air no longer choking on clouds
of cement dust and debris
the clearer picture will cut into you
deeper than the initial damage
ground has shifted hard
cracks opened up underneath
angry lines like a kid trying to cross-out in crayon
start to see where you went wrong
what weaknesses you built upon
apparent structure merely painted on
you were trying to live inside an intellectual property
but never laid your foundations properly
you can see now
it was never going to take much
to bring the whole place down
all it took was one spark, a bang
and everything collapsed
all the experts have their take
already talking blame
before we've seen how many bodies come out
can't deconstruct til we clear the rubble
demolish down what's left in the layers
hard part will come after the blast
when the smoke clears
start again from scratch
no choice but to rebuild
build it back up to last
make it stronger
make it better
this might be a massive mess now
but that's always been where you've lived.
Sometimes I keep the story simple. It goes: Melbourne. Then being a Haemophiliac. Having a bicycle. And bad knees. And taking pilates classes. With a holiday. Sitting on the bike seat.
Other times it's an extended cut. Nine years of welfare work. Performing poetry. Some place to hide. An empty desert flat. Head full of holes. Fundraising. Thin skin. Slippery grip on a will to live. Awareness.
There are other angles on the same journey, Hepatitis C. Interferon. Sore thighs. Hollow eyes. Lonely hands. Strange spaces. Urban exploration. Restricted areas. Dark. Discovering the muscles.
There are small parts made large. Inhibitors anti-bodies, relationships open, solipsism, my weight, how much I still carry, temperature ranges, a disassembling cycle. The parts exposed.
Your story is what you leave you out, how you collect and display the details, what questions the tale asks, what answers it seeks.
The best stories don't answer all your questions, or tell you what to think. Sometimes the writing tells too much, and the pacing drags.
Your story is always the short version. Life is written that way. Don't lose your authors voice in the details.
Above all, you gotta keep it interesting.
Muslims in Australia. (Nobody asked me for this, but here's a story from Uncle Randall...)
I first got to know some Muslim people when I worked at the Telstra call centre in Burwood, back in 1999.
I was nineteen years old. Very angry and withdrawn teenager, dyed hair, baggy punk/work clothes,carrying around and art folio covered in offensive slogans and band names, telemarketing for a corporate giant. Go ahead, tell me you don't like how I look, or what's written on my bag. Hated it there.
Other than one friend, the only people I really talked to there were some of the Muslims. There were dozens of Muslims working there, don't know why. Telstra was hiring lots and lots of people, from what I gathered, word had got around at a few mosques, a lot of people had applied. Many of these men and women all seemed to know each other.
Of course, at first I never made any remarks, asked any questions. The hallmark of political correctness would seem to be to simply not notice someone's appearance, clothing, skin colour, disability, gender.
What I knew of Islam came from the Spike Lee film on Malcolm X, dramatising his discovery of orthodox Islam, from his originally distorted/ bigoted representation of it.
From hip hop I knew about five percenters, (thanks to groups like Public Enemy and Brand Nubian). So there was something tangentially cool, to me, about muslims. A vague connection to the rap culture I still admired.
Months into working with some of these folks I eventually started asking some of the women in my team those questions, the ones you want to but can't because you'll look stupid, or racist, or sexist.
Why do you wear that... y'know, that uh stuff? Doesn't it bother you? Isn't it weird to be surrounded by other women who don't. Do people give you a hard time?
Without exception, each person I asked was happy to talk about it. This wasn't some cult or club or secret gang, these things represented their beliefs, how they saw and understood the world, their families and community.
This dialogue continued into year 2000. My teammates/friends Waleed and Susan (an engaged couple) understood my lack of understanding, I stopped being embarrassed. I would greet people at work 'asama mulakim/malakim salam'. Got such a kick out of that.
I swapped my friend Anthea a copy of her family's Qu'ran for my paperback copy of The Big Questions (Philip Adams in conversation with cosmologist Paul Davies).
The book she gave me was beautiful, hardbound leather, embossed wih gold trimming, annotated pages, Arabic and English side by side, the works. Not the sorta thing I could slug in my backpack and read on the train.
I took so long reading it, Anthea said I could keep it. She was so happy I was taking interest to read it. I, frankly, took a lot of pride in doing so. I couldn't wait to add it to my bookshelf, and vainly show off that I'd read it. I never finished reading it. (Eventually getting the more-portable penguin paperback version, and read that copy whole). I still have it though.
I read other books too. The Hadith. The book of Taweed. Another whose name I can't recall (lots of apostrophes).
I watched Terry Jones' 4 part series on the Crusades, and Waleed lent me his tape of the 3 part Empires series shown on SBS. I learned about Moors and Caliphs and Mongols and King Baybars (badass).
In early 2001, I found out a high school friend I was still in touch with, Rabbi, was becoming Muslim. He gave me lots of material from IISNA, an organization dedicated to putting out lectures and argumentative pamphlets to convert people.
As a disaffected youth with some pretty heavy medical problems, I thought about Islam as something that actually might be for me, maybe. The people at work were so much more intellectually switched on and less-judgemental than the Caucasian Aussies. Their reassured certainty about the hows and whys of the universe appealed to me.
I even started learning some Arabic (both spoken and written), so I could one day read the Qu'ran in the original language it was created/written down.
It was Rabbi who put me off, ultimately. He had a convert's zealousness, always trying to get me to come down to his mosque. He also talked about how western philosophers were all wrong and rejecting a whole bunch of other stuff I still thought was awesome. My friends at work didn't pull that shit.
Then one of Rabbi's other friends started calling me, telling me at length down the phone how much happier he is now. Since he converted. Too. How excited he was that I had been talking to Rabbi about Islam. It creeped me out. Cult people have a way of doing that.
I started to see, for me, some holes in the story, some stuff that didn't fit me right. Also, as my medical situation improved, I less and less needed that overarching cosmological determinism. I remain an atheist to this day.
But nothing changed. My friends were still my friends and I still had a young person's voracious curiosity for knowledge. Historical, scientific, philosophical, and you can't avoid religion if you're serious about any of those three fields.
September 11th 2001.
Everything changed. Nothing changed for me. Every idiot never saw how bad the USA had it coming. Overnight everyone is renting 'The Siege' (Bruce Willis, Denzel Washington), no one is touching Rambo III.
The news starts saying all types of shit. I was already living out of home (from parents) so no broadcast TV, but when I would see the news, I knew it was... wrong.
I remembered asking Susan at work if she was getting any flack of people in the street for being a Muslim, she looked down and said this "nothing physical". She didn't want to say anything else.
It was like she had shrunk into her headscarf. But it wasn't the hajib that her free humanity was suffocating under, it was what Australia was putting onto her hajib.
Coincidentally, I ended up leaving that job not too long after 9/11. Telstra pulled back it's casual telemarketing stuff, so we could all watch dust clouds over New York for weeks.
But I never forgot the people I worked with (and to my delight, years later I saw Waleed pop up as a presenter/journalist for SBS).
In those years since Telstra I've travelled in 5 countries with Islamic populations since then. I've met many Muslim poets. Some individuals I met were easy not to like, most were hard to dislike.
No-thing ever put on a television can take away my years of experience working/talking to/travelling/performing with Muslim people.
It's not "them" I recoil from, firebrand racist Aussie, it's you. You're the one who tries to run my bicycle off the road, bug my phone, copy my hard drive, dismantle my employment prospects. Lie to my face. Make my life harder. You are not my friend, or my protection.
None of thr Muslim ever looked twice at my bleached hair, or told me off for my offensive art folio.
I'm appalled by what I see going on in this country at the moment.
I'm not threatened by something I don't agree with, or don't share in. Today I'm no fan of any religion, but I understand that people are not solely their beliefs or the books they hold dear.
Islam isn't going away. From the many Muslims I met, the stories they've shared, I know these communities are resilient enough to survive your bullying, your violence and intolerance.
I'm not going to say I have 'faith', I just know people. It was on that term, as people, that I first got to know Muslims.
Peace be unto you, salam.
-Randall Stephens, September 2014.
Reposted from my Facebook page. Please feel free to share around, if you think it will help.
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