Brodsy

G'day, everyone. I hope you are all enjoying a more pleasant Christmas than we all are in Sydney. It was actually cold here on Christmas Day, the first time I have witnessed such in all my forty-five years orbiting around the sun. Anyway, this week we are up to the twenty-fifth story in Aberrant Selected, entitled, Saving Brodsy. This story I wrote about my friend of longest standing, Louise Fraser. I first met her when she was the girlfriend of a former friend, around twenty-four years ago, and we have kept in contact ever since. I find it easy to make her laugh.

     Louise I have nicknamed Brodsy, because like Franz Kafka, who had his own personal editor, Max Brod, Louise is my personal editor. This has been the case for several years, and everything of mine that goes out into the world seeking a publisher has first gone passed the eagle eyes of Brodsy. I of course pay her for her services, and having a personal editor definitely gives one an edge in the vicious publishing industry.

     This story, though, is a fictionalised rendering of Brodsy. It was a chance to tell her thank you for looking after me, as much as I would let her, while I was homeless. Brodsy and I have also, to a certain extent, grown up together, so when I was writing the story it felt like I was with the big sister that I have always wanted. 

     Brodsy these days is verily happily married, and has three young children, two boys, and a girl. I have told her several times that she is an excellent mother, mainly because she puts a lot of work into looking after her family, always putting them first. Not only is she a great mother but she is a great friend too. Thanks, Brodsy.

Such a Party Animal

Well, here we are all again, and this time we are up to the twenty-fourth story in Aberrant Selected, entitled, Very Loud. This story I wrote to dispel the common conception that psychiatric facilities are closely akin to jail. Nothing could be further from the truth. This particular story, like most of my stories dealing with mental illness, is set in Rozella Psychiatric Hospital, a fictionalised Rozelle Psychiatric Hospital, near the centre of Sydney. During most of my admissions here I was taking large amounts of illicit drugs, and this did not stop whilst in said psychiatric facility. It used to be fun committing myself to the hospital because I got free food, and shelter, there were bathing facilities, and I still had my precious drugs.
     Taking illicit drugs in psychiatric hospitals, at least in Sydney, is very common. All the drug users eventually find each other whilst in there, and then spend the remainder of their time in there getting stoned in each other's company. It was great fun.
     I haven't been admitted to a psychiatric hospital in over fifteen years but I imagine that they retain their own mini drug cultures. That being said, if I am ever hard up for some pot, and can't find anywhere to get it, I might just book myself into the local psychiatric hospital (I know how to play the game to get in and to get out), and there I will be sure to score some choice pot. Or maybe some acid. Who knows?

Far Too Sleepy

G'day, everybody. Here in Sydney it is the first Saturday of what promises to be a gloriously hot summer. Before it gets too hot though let's have a cool look at a cool story from Aberrant, entitled, Reality Dreams, the twenty-third story in the collection. This story I wrote purely for therapeutic reasons. In this case it was to explore the fact that I, at the time of the story's writing, was sleeping most of the day's twenty-four hours. This was a habit I had got into, because I was bored and couldn't keep myself occupied, beginning from the early days of my former homelessness.
     I don't generally discuss this very bad habit of mine because I feel ashamed that whilst others are working so hard, here I am, lounging in bed. I don't even really talk about it with my psychiatrists past and present. But since I really do need to talk about this problem (which I have since resolved) I decided to write about it, to have a good natter with my subconscious about the problem. It seems to have served its purpose as now I have regular sleeping patterns.
     There's a few other stories in Aberrant that I wrote purely for therapeutic purposes, indeed, my entering a full remission with my paranoid schizophrenia is largely due to a particularly intense art therapy session I had, once while I was in a psychiatric facility. Further, art therapy is highly regarded by medical professionals, it sometimes causing miracles. It certainly caused the miracle of my own remission. Anyway, I guess I really should be glad that I have such a potent tool as writing in order to solve the big problems. Maybe I should be President of The Universe? Only kidding; sort of.
   

Madly in Love

G'day, everyone. I've been sick for the past month or so and thus have been unable to post here. It's not uncommon for the mentally ill to become physically ill, not directly because of the mental illness, but because the mental illness means that they do stupid or risky things. Anyway, I am recovered now, and am here to tell you why I wrote the twenty-second story in Aberrant, entitled, Madly in Love. I wrote this story to once more have a good time, albeit fictionally, with the main character of the story. In real life, her name is Jeanette and I first met her upon one of her admissions to Rozelle Psychiatric Hospital. She was, maybe still is, bipolar.

     Jeanette and I got on very well, seeming to just somehow click together. We were both involuntarily committed to Rozelle so we made the best of it. Jeanette was a very vibrant personality and I was definitely romantically interested in her, yet alas she had a boyfriend, whom she said that she loved very much.

     I never saw Jeanette again after she was discharged from Rozelle and this story I decided to write many decades after we parted in order to once again pal around with her. Wherever she is, I hope she is okay, and still has someone to love her.

Believe It or Not

Our story today, Hath Crowned Me, the twenty-first in Aberrant, is very much a true story, and one that happened to me. Even though I have no evidence for the magick portrayed in this story, I still chose to write it, if just to share the wonder. Also, by writing this story, I am in fact providing evidence, albeit anecdotal, but evidence nonetheless. After all, in civil law great reliance is placed upon affidavits as evidence, so consider this story then just an unsworn affidavit.
     There are a few other stories in Aberrant where I portray magickal events that I witnessed. These, again, I consider to be unsworn affidavits. I have told friends about these magickal adventures but they don't tease me about it. In fact, they seem to take me at my word.
     Anyway, the magick experienced in Hath Crowned Me, is fairly typical of the magick that I witnessed while I was homeless and destitute for five years, and they were incidents that always caused me wonder in that formerly sorry state. I still feel fortunate for witnessing these magicks.

A Novel Quest

 Well, everybody, in Sydney, today, it is the first day of daylight savings, which I associate with summer being a whisker away. We will have a good party by talking about the twentieth story in Aberrant, entitled, A New Quest. This story I wrote simply to show off a solution to an ancient conundrum, or saying, really, that one can not get blood from a stone. I have figured out how to in fact get said blood from said stone, and this solution more or less spontaneously occurred to me suddenly one day, without prompting, during my former homeless destitution.
     This fascination with ancient problems and riddles (like if a tree falls in an empty forest does it make a sound?) has been with me most of my forty-five years and I have found solutions to all of them. Not only that but sundry academics I've met over the decades have confirmed my solution(s.) I have actually published a book with all these ancient questions answered, entitled, These Many Voices (not to be confused with my These Many, Many Voices, which is a collection of short stories, not a work of non-fiction), but I warn you that if you do get a copy please be aware that it was written in largely a psychotic state, and is thus a tad disjointed. I have gone back to clear up the book, but have misplaced the digital mastercopy, and so have had to retype the whole thing from my hard-copy. I gave up the job half way through though because it was very tedious. I will get back to it though but might get my printer to convert the hard-copy into a digital Word file. That'll be a whole lot easier.
     Anyway, my manner of how to get blood from a stone I think you will all find reasonable, and cogently argued, but I must warn you the ending of this short story's novel quest is darkly tinged. Still, I hope you enjoy the story.

Even More Personal

Now we are up to the nineteenth story in Aberrant, entitled, Likewise Curious. This story is in my top five personal favourites of all my writings, and the premise that begins the story actually happened to me. In the story, Luisa is a homeless young lass who is so bored that she decides to create something, anything, just to relieve the incredibly immense boredom and mundanity of having nothing to do in her squat. In fact, Luisa is so bored that not once does she think the task an unreasonable objective.
     Luisa, without knowing how, creates this something, a bird. She did so by vaguely staring at a chimney across they way, a part of the squat she was in, watching a pigeon roosted there, vaguely wondering how to create something out of nothing. And then another pigeon, with spiky wet feathers, appeared out of nowhere beside the original pigeon Luisa had been staring at.
     Like I said, Luisa's experience in creating something is exactly what happened to me, but I have absolutely no proof of it ever happening. I always thought that a great shame and eventually realised I could write a story about the experience. That's some sort of evidence. I am also willing to undertake a polygraph test in relation to the improbable events above described. Anyway, this story is one of my personal favourites because it relates a special moment of magick in a life that had been otherwise dark. I also like having proof, albeit anecdotal, that I created the Universe that came with the pigeon I created. Makes life even more personal.

Powerful Thoughts

Well, everybody, now we are up the eighteenth story in Aberrant Selected, entitled, Her Most Earnest Wish. This story is the result of a persistent delusion I had during the full blown stages of my schizophrenia, wandering around homeless in the inner city of Sydney. Essentially, I had become convinced that I could blow up a single thought, anyone's particular thought that I chose to explode for any reason that I chose. The only trouble with this power is that it can easily turn on itself. Thus, I was reluctant to blow up the passing thoughts of strangers on the street because it could well be one of my thoughts exploded unintentionally. And dying from an exploded thought is particularly disgusting, even though I saw no-one passing away after, on the rare occasion, I had exploded one of their thoughts.
     Writing the story was fun because I enjoyed seeing just how far I have come from having crazy thoughts and erratic behaviour. I should also mention while I'm here that since the early days of my writing, thirty years ago, I have chosen to to have mainly female main characters, as most main characters, my senior high school teacher told me, are male. Thus, upon learning this, I have been practicing positive discrimination in favour of creating female main characters. The main character of the story in hand is accordingly female, and she is the only person I know who has successfully exploded a thought. She has a great power.

Freakin' Birds

G'day, everybody. Sorry I missed you all last week but I was a tad under the weather. It took me about a week to recover too. But I'm back to my usual chipper self, ready too to tell you about why I wrote the seventeenth story in Aberrant Selected. The story is entitled, Probably Dishonest, and is the tale of a delusional obsession that I had, back when I was homeless for five years. Basically, back then, I had become convinced that the pigeons, Myna birds, crows, and other such birds one sees hanging around the city had become my particular enemies. The were all, in fact, each one of them, my dreadful nemesis. Why I became convinced of this obvious falsity is unknown. Maybe I was jealous of the fact that the birds got food and shelter so easily. They didn't have to work, didn't have to apply for welfare. They always had someone to chirp with. All in all, those birds were having such a fantastic time just to spite me in my homelessness. Typical.
     The story was very fun to write, one the the best to write from the collection, and I was bemused at myself while creating the tale that I had taken such an irrational dislike to these birds for irrational reasons. Writing the tale also highlighted the fact that where I am now, in safe housing, with a full pantry, clean water, and cleaning facilities, is very precious. This has further reinforced the fact that I will never choose again, either completely or partially, to return to that destitution. You too, I hope, will enjoy the story's irony.

An Experimental Note

Good morning, everybody, it's good to be back again, whilst also the Sydney winter seems to have ended, allowing of more play. This week we are up to the sixteenth story in Aberrant, entitled, A New Home. This story was a bit difficult for me to write, and is a good example to show you all how I come up with a story. After all, this story was written just to fill in the scheduled hours of writing, on a certain day. 
     This story began with an idle note in my Moleskine pocket notebook: 'An aqua coloured leaf, obviously spray painted, was the only thing disturbing the pristine pool.' Thus, one day during writing hours, whilst going through my Moleskine, I decided to use this note as an opening line. I then outlined its introduction a bit more, outlined a middle, and outlined the end. Then I got out my laptop and just wrote out the first draft of the story, using the outlines as a guide. Yet I was just filling in the hours scheduled for writing, so the tale felt a bit unnatural in the telling. I then, like all my stories, put it away for two weeks, after which I began editing it, at two hours per day over three days. Any more editing than that tends to drive me somewhat balmy.
     Practically all of my stories over the past several years have begun from a note in my Moleskine notebook, which I always, whilst awake, have on my person. Each writing session begins with taking out this notebook, and then writing random sentences, or old memories, or conjectures, or something experimental. Once I have something that intrigues me, I begin expounding upon it. This week's story's genesis was from an experimental note.
     Anyway, these days, after many years of practice, I have got writing short stories down to practically an automated routine. Sometimes I even think that it's too sinfully easy. But still, it's good when things come easy.
     

A Good Time

Well, hello again, everybody. I think winter has once more left Sydney. Thank God! Anyway, now we are up to the fifteenth story in Aberrant, entitled, Luna's Grace. This story I wrote as both something very fun to write, like last week's story, as well as something very serious. Let me explain.
     One day, several years ago, as a result of sharing some wine with friends, I thought it would be fun to write a story where a man had a torrid, and tactile, relationship with Luna, the Moon. In fact, I thought, wouldn't it be fun if we wrote it to be pornography for women. It certainly seemed like fun.
     I also wanted to write this story to briefly reflect a brief, intense, and tactile, romantic relationship that I myself had with Luna. This relationship was another of the weird things that I experienced when I was homeless, and I feel that I have accurately described in the story the intensity of my passion with Luna. She's all woman.
     I still fondly recall Luna sometimes, and those times we had, and I am glad to be able to share the tale with others. After all, crazy or not, I had a good time.

A Funny Thing

Change continues apace. Now we are up to the fourteenth story, on another typically cold, Sydney winter day. At least it's bright. Anyway, the fourteenth story is entitled, A Momentous Epiphany, and I wrote it simply to give an unexpected wrench, not a twist, to a common saying. In this case, absence makes the heart grow fonder.
     As is common with my more romantic stories, this story draws on real life experiences with my desired belle, Elizabeth, and as a result all of my romances tend to be very similar. But I make no apologies for this as I write largely for therapeutic purposes. Writing about Elizabeth helps a lot.
     To the story at hand, though. When I was teasing out this saying, unwinding it in order to recast it anew, I was greatly surprised at how logical the whole thing was to reshape. How rational. For this reason, I suggest you not try the logic at home. Even I'm wary of it. The story though is just meant to be a bit of  fun, and I have been told that the very last line is very funny and piquant.
     There are a few such stories in Aberrant, stories written just for fun, and I still have fond memories of writing them. I love being a writer.
   

A Great Magick

Now, everybody we are up to the thirteenth story in the Aberrant Selected, entitled, Thus Encapsulated. This story is a bit of a horror story and I wrote it to deal with some powerful magick that I still possess. Let me explain.

     About twenty years ago I was shown a jar of vitamin C tablets, by a friend, from Soul Pattinson chemist with the label 'Souls' on it, and the price. At the time the significance of the label didn't impact me. But one night, around a year later, laying back on a filthy foam mattress, under the floor of a squat, munching on some of the tablets from said jar sold by Soul Pattinson, I realised that I held the jar of souls. Which was funny because I used to have voices in my head saying that they knew how to make a soul gibber eternally, specifically mine, if the voices commands weren't strictly carried out. All the voices had to do was to take my soul and to seal it in a jar. Thus, I realised that I held everyone's souls in my hand, to do with as I pleased.

     Now you may think that having such power would be a tremendous boon, but in fact the opposite was true. What was I to do with the jar of souls? Did I have to hold onto it for life, to protect? At the time I was not capable of looking after myself and terribly resented now being made responsible for everyone's souls. My response was to damn everyone, except me, my family, and my friends. It was the easier solution, and let me carry on with my precarious life.

     To this day I still have the jar of souls, but no-one, except paedophiles, are damned. I keep the jar safe and I have stipulated in my will that the jar of souls, with other decoy jars, are to be buried with me. I am no longer bothered by this immense power and I think I am doing a good job of looking after everyone. I also enjoy occasionally looking at them.

In Search of Love

Now, everybody, we are up to the twelfth story in Aberrant Selected, entitled, Narcissus Loved Again. And in case you're wondering, there are forty-five stories in the collection.
     Narcissus Loved Again is my personal favourite from the collection and I wrote it just for fun. It tells the story of Narcissus awaking in Paradise and of how he settles in There. Naturally, being set in Paradise, God is a character, and Him and Narcissus get along very well.
     The story was also written to briefly explore the last great sexual taboo of Western society, that of self-love. God, in this story, is shown to be a very loving Character, even to the point of being genuinely flattered when Narcissus makes a pass at Him. But as to Narcissus' self-love, and God's attitude to such, that I will leave as a surprise.
     Not only is this story my personal favourite from the collection but it is very high among the personal favourites from all of my short stories that I have written over the past three decades. The best part I like about it is the ending. I gave it to a friend to read several years ago and she thought it was absolutely excellent, confirming my own extreme liking for the story. I am sure that you too will like it very much also.

Serving Satan

Well, everybody, things are chugging along well and this week we are up to the eleventh story in Aberrant Selected, entitled, Discovered. This tale is of a young homeless man who chooses to abandon his service to God, choosing to serve Satan instead. This choosing of Satan was very deliberate and one that I wrote to be even handed and fair. As I mentioned near the start of this blog I have a God Complex and consequently very much enjoy writing short stories with God as a main character. But then one day I realised I was being somewhat lopsided, and so chose to write a story with Satan as the main character.
     I thought using Satan as a main character would be fairly straightforward but the reality was vastly different; I was very hesitant to call him up, if even only fictionally. Thus, in the story, Satan has no dialogue and is only seen as if through a veil, or through a steamed up window. Even that was too close for comfort for me.
     Mind you, towards the end of Aberrant, Satan makes another appearance, but as a black kitten. Well, the kitten was actually named Lucifer, which was Satan's name before he Fell from the Heavenly Host.
     As I've mentioned earlier, regarding my stories involving God, Satan didn't need his nouns and verbs capitalised either, as was the case with God. This meant that Satan was a much easier character to write than God. That being said though I was glad once the story had been written and had been to my editor. This story, by the way, is currently available, gratis, at The Short Stories Club (www.shortstoriesclub.com) if you'd like to have a real good peak at what Aberrant Selected has to offer. It is certain to be one of the very few times I balance my stories of God with stories of Satan. Amen.

A Past Time

Well, everybody, we are now up to the tenth story in Aberrant Selected, entitled, Raising Fire. This story I wrote for the sole purpose of talking about one of the significant voices that I used to hear in my head, Father Time, or, as I called him back when I was hearing voices in my head, Lord Time. When I first began hearing these voices I thought I had come into telepathic contact with The Gods, and Lord Time was one of the Gods in the forefront of this menagerie.

     Lord Time was a difficult God and he was always challenging me in way way or another. There was one night, whilst I was in the locked ward of Rozelle Psychiatric Hospital, where he challenged me to slit my wrists, in concert with him. The first one to drop from loss of blood would be the sad loser, allowing the other to crow eternally. I accepted Lord Time's challenge but when I told him that I had no razor blade he said that that was okay, we'd just both slit our wrists with our thumbnails. As I couldn't draw blood with my nail the challenge was soon over and a stalemate declared.

     This was just one of the many, many crazy things that I would be involved in with Lord Time, and, when I entered a full remission with my paranoid schizophrenia, decided to fondly use him as a character. I presented him well in Raising Fire, although in real life, and like I said, he was perpetually challenging me in one form or another.

     These days I no longer have voices in my head that only I can hear but I often reminisce about Lord Time. Sure he tended to be cruel towards me, like the other Gods, but he and they were all being cruel to be kind. Still, I am very glad I no longer have to put up with his harassment. Yet another reason to take my meds on time.

Unfinished Business

This week we are up to the ninth story in Aberrant Selected, entitled, A Perfect Mirror. This story I wrote to conclude a bit of unfinished business, business that was around fifteen years old. I first came up with this tale when I was homeless in Melbourne, in a Salvation Army hostel. The hostel had a building attached to the main residence and I often sneaked in there late at night to write, and to sleep, because I could not afford the price of a bed for the night. One time, while in this outbuilding, I decided to write a story where a main character was both homeless and in safe shelter, or relatively safe shelter. To give myself a better grasp of this apparently incongruous concept I pretended to be living in safe accommodation and then, to better imagine living completely wild, I would move to the other side of the outbuilding and pretend I was living completely in the wilderness. Unfortunately though the story did not get completed at the time as I spent most of that night moving from one side of the outbuilding to the other, living in my imagination, but to little effect.
     Throughout the proceeding fifteen years or so I would often think of this tale and feel guilty that I had not finished it, especially as it seemed to me to be a very good idea. Eventually I took the bull by the horns and wrote the story and still am extremely pleased that it came out so well. Mind you, I invariably finish what I start so it is no surprise that the story was eventually written. The actual writing of the story was fairly straightforward and I am still surprised that it took fifteen years to write. Well, I guess, better late than never.

An Excuse to Quote Joyce

This week we are up to discussing why I wrote the eighth story in Aberrant, the story being entitled, Henry Flower's. Basically, I wrote this story so I could use an epigraph from my favourite book, Ulysses. I have always enjoyed reading epigraphs, a quote preceding the text proper, intended to summarise the theme of the work or chapter. I regularly use them and one day decided to use one from Ulysses, which I have read fourteen times.
     Ulysses was further exploited in this short story when I named the main character Henry James Flower. Henry Flower is a pseudonym that the main character of Ulysses, Leopold Bloom, uses in romantic correspondence with a young lady, Bloom being married. The reason why I used James as the character's middle name is pretty obvious.
     But as to my tale, it relates the story of a young man who chooses homelessness, opting out of western society. Consequently he has very little money and is caught in the act of stealing. Things eventually spiral out of control and Henry finds himself in remand. His father, a successful lawyer, comes to his rescue though, to such an extent that he convinces his son to consider abandoning the squatting 'lifestyle' and take up safe housing. My own life of homelessness, between the ages of twenty-two and twenty-seven (am currently aged forty-five), was largely freely chosen, like Henry's, although there was an element of being pushed into it by my paranoid schizophrenia. My parents were instrumental in getting me off of the streets and this experience is reflected in Henry Flower's.
     This short story was one of the favourites of mine in writing Aberrant Selected and its epigraph is one of my favourite quotes from my favourite novel. I hope you all enjoy it as much as I did in writing it.
   

In Choosing God

Today, everybody, I will tell you about the seventh story in Aberrant, entitled, An Unexpected Sabbath. This is one of my several tales featuring God as a main character, and this story tells of his second original Thought (including the Thought that created Reality.) I won't ruin the surprise.
     I wrote this story simply so that I could manipulate God as a character. Myself having a God Complex I like to cathartically strut around the Universe, showing off my Godhead, in such stories. Of course, I also take the opportunity, whilst writing such tales, to think responsibly about my Godhead, and how best to wield it. It's not all beer and skittles you know.
     I should also mention something generally about my stories with God as a main character. All nouns and verbs relating to God have their first letter capitalised, all the rest are as per normal. I do this simply for tradition's sake, although when it comes time for me to edit such adventures the whole process is very, very intricate. But still, it's worth it.
     I expect to write future stories featuring God, simply because it's a very fun thing to do. Another thing about using God as a character is that, being eternal, He's always around and up to Shenanigans. He really is a top Bloke.

In Being Noble

This week I will tell you all why I wrote the sixth story in Aberrant Selected. The tale is entitled In Being Noble. The story is actually a protest, but not a protest against the mainstream, or against anything that the concerned left winger protests about. Rather it is a protest against anarchists. Let me explain.
     Shortly before I became homeless for five years I lived in a share house with an anarchist collective, who dubbed themselves Vibe Tribe. This collective thought they could restore sense to the planet by organising raves, the subsequent good vibes steadily bringing in world peace. I moved into that share house with a friend, whom I will name Stanley Nilsson, and Stanley's brother, David (not his real name), moved in a little while after I did. David was the opposite of every member of Vibe Tribe; he was a suit, working for the Man, and fully engaged in the capitalist system.
     On the fridge of that house was a roster for everybody's household chores and, as there was another David in the house, David Nilsson was referred to on the roster as 'David suit.' I thought at the time that this description was absolutely abominable, dehumanising, and not concomitant with the wider anarchist ideals. David is a human being, with emotions, and aspirations, not something inanimate that can be easily walked over. Sure he was working for the Man, but he was just a pawn in the wider capitalist scheme of things, a fact which Vibe Tribe simply did not take into account in thus dismissing him and his humanity. Thus I wrote In Being Noble as a protest against how David was treated, and to highlight the hypocrisy of the average anarchist.
     Another thing I should mention, which was also a reason for the creation of In Being Noble, is that shortly after I had moved in with Vibe Tribe I was beginning to develop symptoms of paranoid schizophrenia. Vibe Tribe's response to this was to forceably evict me from the house, literally throwing me out into the streets while they called the police to assist in my eviction. To this day, even though I still hold anarchist views, I am very bitter against all anarchists, their anarchist uniform, and their hypocrisy. Let's hope members of Vibe Tribe read the story and are duly remorseful.

Finding Substance

Today I will talk about the reasons why I chose to write the fifth story in Aberrant Selected, simply entitled, Help. This story tells the story of a young homeless man who discovers a newborn babe wrapped in a blanket, in a park. The setting of this story, a small park in Redfern, inner city Sydney, is where I spent a miserable, cold night trying to sleep during a wilfully chosen five year stint of homelessness. I tried to sleep under some bushes, on the ground covered with wood chips, and only had a thin piece of cardboard to lie on. That night has remained in my mind ever since because while I was trying to sleep, trying to obliterate my destitution temporarily, I was also looking around at the nearby houses, well lighted, and looking so obviously warm on that cold winter night. I eventually chose to set a story under those bushes in that park to tame that demon, to reinforce the fact that I am now in a much better place and will never again choose such dereliction. In fact much of my writing is done to exorcise various demons that I encountered in my five years of homelessness in the inner cities of Sydney and Melbourne.
     Another reason I chose to write this story is because of why the main character, Joshua Andrew Devine, discovers the abandoned infant. Joshua espies the wrapped infant and approaches it hoping that it is a bundle of money. When I was homeless I too was often on the lookout for money that had been discarded. Certainly this expectation was irrational but during my five years of homelessness I was largely irrational and a full blown schizophrenic. I never found any money.
     I didn't end up sleeping that night in the Redfern park, it was simply too cold on that winter's night. But I remained lying down, looking forward to the sun's rising. I only ever stayed there the one night but I have been back to the spot a couple of times to compare and contrast my life then with my wonderful life now. There still was never any money there, discarded or hidden under the bushes. As one would expect.

The Real Life Marlena Geiger

Today I will skip talking about the third story in Aberrant, because it is somewhat traumatic to talk about, and tell you about the events that led to the creation of the fourth story, So Intimately Entwined. This story I wrote so I could use the name Melina, although in the story I spelled it Marlena. The character of Marlena, Marlena Geiger, is very loosely based upon Melina Marchetta, a famous Australian author I went to uni with, at Australian Catholic University. We were two of the inaugural editors on the student newspaper, Chalkdust, and I was present when she informed her newspaper colleagues that she had been offered a publishing contract for her first book, Looking for Alibrandi. This novel has since gone on to receive many awards and Melina is now a very successful author and teacher.
     I decided to use Melina's name for a character because I always found it fascinating being so close to my life goal (to be a published author), yet so far. Of course, I have been published since leaving uni, although not to the same level of fame as Melina. Mind you, as I said last week, I have indeed experienced fame and it was not at all what I thought it would be. These days I consider myself successful because I am in a position to do what I want, when I want, and how I want to. I have plenty of money and choose to spend most of my copious free time in reading nineteenth century fiction. In fact, I am in the position of being paid to read whatever I want, which I choose over being paid to write whatever I want.
     I lost contact with Melina after uni, which doesn't surprise me since I only saw her when we were working on the paper. I am greatly chuffed that she has become so famous, as well as a well respected writer. Melina, whilst at uni, was also respected by her lecturers because she achieved high marks whilst also being a busy editor on the student newspaper. We have both gone on to great things.
   

Indebted to a Sick Frog

     This week I will tell you about the second story in Aberrant Selected, entitled A Very Quiet Guest. This particular story is very important in my ouevre as it is the story that began my writing again after a break of about three years. I took a break because I had briefly experienced fame as a writer and I absolutely loathed the experience; I was made to feel like the object of my destiny rather than the subject. Basically, one day in Newtown, a bohemian suburb of inner city Sydney, I was selling self published booklets from an impromptu stall. I had been successfully selling these stories to passers-by in Newtown for a few months and had consequently been very favourably reviewed by The Sydney Morning Herald for them, both for the literary merit of the stories, as well as my unique selling method. This article resulted in my brief, loathsome, experience with fame. It was so horrible that I was simply too traumatised to write, for around three years.
     A frog however got me back to my writing. This frog, large, and green, I noticed one morning when I was heading up to my local supermarket to buy the milk for my morning coffee. I initially thought it was a large maple leaf, but since there were no maple trees in the grounds of my block of flats I thought I must have been hallucinating. Returning home, though, the 'maple leaf' was still there, and a closer inspection showed it to be a large, green frog.
     My neighbour, about thirty minutes later, also noticed this frog and after a brief discussion and inspection of the amphibian we surmised that the frog, whom I named Frederick Hibernia Wilder, was a bit depressed, and had sought out our block of flats as a retreat. Over about the next week or two my neighbour and I looked after the frog, setting him up with a little home, and always keeping fresh water and a water soaked towel within his/her easy reach. I introduced Frederick to another friend, who easily picked him up and gave him a few pats. Frederick must have been really depressed to thus let himself be so handled.
     And then one day, around two weeks after Frederick had taken up residence, he disappeared. He hasn't been back since. Whether he simply moved on, recovered from his depression, or fell victim to a predator, I have not the foggiest notion.
     I was naturally very taken with Frederick's situation and very soon after he left us I wrote about him. Writing this story reinvigorated my joy in writing, allowing me to recover from the trauma of my brush with fame. I have written fairly constantly and regularly since completing this story and I still thank Frederick for his help. I sometimes still think about him and hope he's okay, the parent of many, many healthy tadpoles. I owe him a lot.

In the Wings

G'day, everyone! I'm back. Soon after my last entry here I got the writing bug, desperately, and insatiably. But it did indeed become satiated, myself now having around two thirds of my 2019 book ready for submission, a collection of short stories. But let's get back to the current collection in hand, Aberrant Selected.
     I thought we'd spend a while, quite a long while, in each week looking at a particular story from Aberrant from the wings, seeing the machinations that led to its publication. We'll start off, of course, at the beginning, My Dear Psychiatrist.
     This story was basically created as the result of one of the many idle notes in my literary notebook, which I always have on me, as well as a pen, a pencil, and an eraser. The note was discovered by my youngest brother, Chris, who was staying with me for a little while. When he discovered it, he laughed uproariously.
     'What is it,' I asked him. 'What's so funny?' I was very excited that he had discovered such a funny note, hinting at great potential.
     'This note,' he replied. '"I think my psychiatrist is crazy."' From there we learn of one of my former psychiatrists, who appeared to me as ill at ease in his profession.
     The story was originally published in my first book, Bearing All Gods and Goddesses, but in a shorter form, and under the title, My Psychiatrist. Whenever I change a story, no matter how little, the new story always gets a new title. In the title under discussion, the addition of Dear is also meant to allude to Deer, reflecting the good psychiatrist's fundamentally innocent nature. But this allusion isn't pushed.
     I have also shown this story to a few psychiatrists and they've always thought it was hilarious. Even the subject himself laughed throughout its reading, which I asked him to do to gain his approval for its publication. It is such a funny story that I am certain that you shall enjoy it too.