Tuesday, May 31, 2011

new novel: the Mission stories.

Shrinks listen to everything and speak softly. On your final appointment they usually make a short speech; “Psychiatry taught me that you have to come up with your own version of neurotic happiness. I'm never going to be a normal person. No one changes, no one gets better – once you make friends with your neuroses you can plan a life.” I might have to book into a therapist myself, a male psychiatrist this time my previous shrinks have been female. The start of winter and lack of light has flattened me out. I feel like I’m walking in custard. Thing is, I’m the best counselor working in Melbourne.

On the up side my orange tree, which I have grown from, a foundling lying in the yard of a wrecked house is really fruiting up. Homegrown oranges are great, not so sweet, with a real tang. I’m reading many books, Russians & eastern Europeans. I have written a new album, but decided I will wait till next year before doing the rounds of the arts bureaucrats to hawk the idea of recording it. Listening to audio book of 'Brave New World' its rather good. The book foretold the future reasonably well. I lay in bed I listened to the new Keith Richard memoir, read by Johnny Depp. It was draining. Each note of a rich drug addicts self-satisfied spiel. Does it get worse than that? When Keith sticks to music its enjoyable. Australian literature is of zero interest to me. I quit Facebook; it was harder than stopping smoking.

“Our time is up Dog,”

“Our time is up Dog,” I said to my customer disguised as a Cambodian shrapnel bomb of ill-angled words and sputtering electronic bleeps named Boo. He reckons he uses me as his confessional or tour guide. Boo’s first single "Dicksweat" comes out in March.
Boo exclaimed, "Hey Mister C, guard your grill and take a chill pill.”
Boo bumped knuckles and I stepped on to the platform. It was like entering through a portal into nothingness. It was called Huntingdale.
Next thing I knew I was eating at sub-continental cafe with a nun. “So how can I be of help Sister?”
“No in fact, quite the opposite sinner. How can I help you? Your face looks like hell and I can tell you’re a crotchety old man whose carnal appetites have shrunk to zero.”
Looks like nothing romantic this afternoon. Bummer. I needed time to think. I played games with the soy bottle on the laminex table to gain some leverage. A yellow banner with a slogan like ALL YOU CAN EAT; No Sharing Plates. Was plastered behind the counter.
I lightly stroked her cheek: “Why don’t we talk about this next week?”
The sister adjusted her habit and whistled a Latin alternative version of the Beatles ‘Eight Days A Week’.
I bought a newspaper and sat down at the table: “Listen Sister, last I heard you were dead and hiding out in New Zealand and working as a turntabalist in a bar where you made top-shelf Brazilian pastries and empanadas’.”