Like a Moth

Well, everyone, the Sydney autumn is proving changeable, but is still warmer than usual. Although, thank God, the evenings are nice and cool. And speaking of cool, the story under discussion today has some very hip and cool characters, set in bohemian Newtown, inner city Sydney. The tale is entitled, Throwing Poses, and is the thirty-first story in Aberrant Selected. Like the previous story, this one is also a chronicle of true events, which I partially turned into fiction. Let me explain.
     One cool spring night, high on LSD and walking along the main street of Newton during my previous years of homelessness, I was suddenly attracted by bright lights on my right, seemingly just having turned on. Like a moth I was attracted to the lights, and stumbled into the beginning of a photo shoot in a shop. The photographer looked very disappointed at my entrance, and I likewise felt guilty about causing trouble. Needless to say I left the shop immediately, but my high was a bit damaged.
     Throughout the years after this incident I sometimes thought of it, and the feeling of guilt remained there. I eventually wrote a story about it, starting off with the bright lights, and then fictionalising the rest. I no longer feel that guilt since writing the story, and for some reason remember the bright lights fondly now. Probably because it was my first taste of fame.

Puzzling

G'day again, everyone, hopefully the new season is treating you all well. Here in Oz the autumn is proving to be very warm. Very warm also is the thirtieth story in Aberrant Selected, entitled, Puzzled at Himself. This story I wrote purely for fun. Usually when I write I have some theme, or motif, to convey. This story though was written just to tell a funny story, one that happened to me. Let me explain.
     Around six months after I turned fifteen years of age, one morning, washing my hands and looking at myself in my father's shaving mirror in the bathroom, I noticed a black hair sticking out of my chin. With much consternation then, I realised I had to fully lather my face, and give myself a manly shave. Sure it was only one hair, but a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.
     The next morning, again washing my hands in the bathroom and idly looking at myself in my father's shaving mirror, I was annoyed to see my cheeks, mouth area, and under my chin were covered in hairy stubble. Since I shaved yesterday, I decided not to shave that morning. My mother had other ideas. At the breakfast table she told me to shave before eating, despite my protest that I shaved yesterday. She then informed me that since I was now obviously a man I would have to shave every day. And I still shave every day.
      So Puzzled at Himself was written just to describe the above incident, but the rest of the tale is the product of fancy. I am still surprised, at the age of forty-five, that my facial hair grew so incredibly quickly, and so very abundantly, and I still choose to see it as a good sign. Who knows?

An Unbelievable Lady

Thus time moves on, moves inexorably on. I only realised this morning that we are now in autumn, here in Sydney. So let's get ready for the cold with a warm story from Aberrant Selected. This post I will tell you why I wrote the twenty-ninth story in the collection, entitled, Despite Her Reasoning.
     Like some of the other stories in the collection, this tale I wrote to chronicle a magickal event that I had witnessed. Essentially, I was at an illegal rave one night in Sydney Park, in an abandoned warehouse. I started off in the evening in a mildly psychotic state, but eventually improved as the evening progressed. Anyway, at the start of festivities, I was sitting with some friends, feeling persecuted, and trying to ignore the hostile voices in my head. In doing so I noticed a young lady a few feet from me, and crouching down while apparently studying something in her cupped palms. She swung around while crouching, looking on either side for someone or something, and also clearly sobbing. She then noticed me, and, still sobbing, offered to me what looked like a little faerie, a little, delicate lady with a trailing gown. The crouching lass could see it, I could see it, and the faerie could see us. The lass was waiting for me to confirm the miracle.
     I turned away, then got up and moved off.
     The reason I chose not to confirm this magickal event was because if I had indeed done so it would have fundamentally changed Reality. And I was in no state at all, at all to take responsibility for that.
     These days I am still happy with my decision, at least, most of the time. This tale is only time that I have told the story of that faerie, but I hope it does make you all think that magick happens. You just have to keep an eye out.

A Telepathic Romance

Well, everybody, autumn is slowly creeping up on us here in Sydney, meaning that Christmas is getting steadily closer. Typical. Anyway, today we will talk about the twenty-eighth story in Aberrant, entitled, Such Possible Love. This story I wrote to express to others the experience of having a woman always in one's head. Let me explain.
      I have mentioned Elizabeth before, here in these posts, a woman that I am still madly in love with after over twenty years. Trouble is she's very upset with me at the moment, and has been so for decades. Thus, my solution has been to telepathically communicate with her, the closest I can get. So far. This story then was written to let others know what it's like living entirely on one's romantic imagination, especially when it seems so real.
     Of course, some of my friends have told me that I am obsessed with Elizabeth. I prefer devoted. Like Will Benton said, more or less, in Trollope's, The Benton Estate, 'I can only love the one woman. Her or no-one.' Like Will Benton it does seem very shallow to me to fall in love with more than one woman.
     Anyway, I am still these days telepathically communicating with Elizabeth (usually when I am very intoxicated), and I have also started begging here forgiveness on Facebook Messenger, in the real, non-telepathic, world. Wish me luck!

Powerful Characters

G'day again, everyone. Here in Sydney we've just come out of a heat wave that lasted for about two weeks. It was roasting! Anyway, now we are up to the twenty-seventh story in Aberrant, entitled, Born of Necessity. Basically, this story is about Death taking his first holidays. I decided to write about Death because I have written many stories with God and/or Christ as main characters, so I only thought it fair that Death, being so important to us all, should be included too.
     Writing the story was fun, almost as much fun as writing about God. My obsession with these large characters (God, Death, Adam and Eve, etc.) is partly due to the voices that only I was able to hear. I would spend many hours with them, and these large characters, exploring the nature of Reality, and in some sense, deciding its fate. I used to read a lot of phantasy novels when I was young so that is probably where I got my predilection for potent people.
     Another reason I wrote this story is so that I could fictionally visit Melbourne again, where the story is largely set. I have a soft spot for Melbourne as when I was young my parents would take my brothers and I there each year to holiday. I also wrote about Melbourne in my book dealing with my homelessness, King Street Blues. I shall be returning there soon for another holiday, and I may invite God, Christ, and Death along too. Who knows?

Stranger Than Fiction

Well, g'day again, everyone, hope you too are all enjoying being back at work. Sorry I missed you all last week but I was a wee bit mentally unhinged. Nothing serious, just the effect of reading too much over my holidays. I didn't think it was actually possible to read too much, but I now stand corrected. Anyway, today I will tell you why I wrote the twenty-sixth story in Aberrant, entitled, Charles and Eve. This story I wrote to tell, again, of some magick that I had witnessed during my five years of homelessness. Basically, about halfway through those five years, I had become utterly convinced that I would find Eve's missing rib, Eve being the first woman. Yes, I know that Adam has a rib less than Eve, but this did not shake my delusion at the time, firmly convinced that I would find this rib of Eve's.
     And surprise, surprise! I actually found the rib, a few days after the delusion had taken hold. I was very surprised indeed. It was the size of an average care tyre and had a lot of meat on it, cooked well done, and no fat. It was lying discarded on the footpath in Newtown, inner city Sydney.
     I ate all of it. Quickly. Yes, I was semi-starved.
     This story then was written to show this magickal experience. I still firmly believe that this large, succulent rib was destined for my ravenous appetite, but I am sure my current psychiatrist may well be skeptical of such. Still, you never know.

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.