Part One
Mornings are often loathed, or gloried for binging a day, do with it what ye will. But I hold mornings as an end to dreams, sweet lovely dreams, surreal movies of my life. Then there arrive the thoughts gaining tiring lucidity, telling me that I have so much to achieve now the world is real again, for all I’ve just achieved was to whet my appetite for this sham of life. I hate the mornings when I have to gather my plans for the day, and come up short. I need a reminder of why I keep living at all. Nothing ordinary could pull me through these mornings, without passion, I am the man who will happily die, so I am going to remind myself of what those passions are. In no specific order, I care for Stand-up comedy, acting, writing and singing in a grunge-hard rock band. And to start this potential series of blogs about my motives and search for a start in a life worth living I’ve put in a copy of a letter to a friend of mine in comedy, responding to a question regarding these motives I don’t speak often enough about:
You are always asking me this and I never quite have a response, partially because I have been in a bemused and lethargic state for many months, and traipsing around with Seizure diminishes my sense of self, as it's always solely about him; I am a submissive and subtly passive personality, often deceivingly so.
I have loved performing onstage since I was a kid, because I was good at it. I had a talent, that's all kids need, just to confidently believe they have a talent, it's once adolesance clears the reality seeps into those rosy eyes. and that's when I started giving up on it, but now I am stuck with it by process of elimination.
I want my comedy to be a springboard, old love, workshop, and backbone to my life/career in entertainment. I'd like to do concerts, not particularly festivals because I’m looking for a specific and loyal audience rather than your run-of-the-mill punter, as it's just not a big enough money-maker when I prefer to run against the grain. I don't have a tangible goal however, to profit a great deal from stand-up shows, I’d do them more for the enjoyment, and I’d do as many as I could, because I love being on stage and having people dig what I say, for I have much to say. I'd also like to host my own show, but I am not satisfyingly creative enough for that on my own, I think I just have a usable charisma, that is why I want that show which Rob came up with to get going. and then there's my serious writing, which would be in need of plugging. I don't particularly want to end up on radio, I know the guys who do earn big bucks, but radio sucks, not as a job, just in what's produced, it's the kind of job that caters to and nurtures the dreary 9-5 world, and I fuckin hate that.

A major dream of mine, which drove my maturing, was, and still is driving me, is to use the charisma I believe I possess to front a band simultaneous to performing comedy. I kept it a secret from my family when I was in high school and just after when it was a major goal, a part of a 5 year plan to move out and learn how to do both comedy and music, admittedly I’ve never had a musical talent, apart from basic piano and trumpet as a kid. There were many little things I was gifted at, from sprint swimming to acting, from figuring out maths to learning French, and rock climbing to writing stories and poems (albeit with atrocious handwriting still barely legible) but I never received driving encouragement from my parents. every time I wanted to quit an extra curricular activity, they let me. Easy as that. I was always free to indulge my sloth. And everything whittled away until I was 16, isolated from any substantial relationships, no talents well crafted nor passionate about, except a select ambiguous (and highly susceptible to uselessness) few. Performing. The roots of which lay in achieving respect and attention; though I wasn’t an attention seeker out for constant voyeurism. I was just always looking for lasting attention to my details. My friends loved having me around, especially the girls, the ones not paranoid about sexual attention being overly paid to them and retarded as any cliché there is of teenage girls, these were the smart, artsy, irrelevant appearing girls. But not enough to organise any parties etc. outside of school. So I spent a lot of time thinking by myself staring into walls, ignoring my family. I didn’t want to ignore them, my father was just like me, and I had all his flaws, his anger which erupted unsuspectingly, then receded behind the life of conversation, then his serious and observational side appeared when that tired. But I couldn’t speak to him still. I had no strength to explode out of my solitude, nor anyone to pull me out.
Sounds perfectly understandable to turn to rock stardom dreams then doesn’t it? But it wasn’t all a desire to be loved etc. that is a simple psychology I label it with in hindsight, because every craving was self-fulfilling, the moment I heard Aaron Lewis singing his hurtful song ‘outside’ I was flushed with passion, a desire for life, just because I felt that in him, I heard his voice, not his words. It’s well known amongst his fans that he was forced to perform that song with his guitar at the 1999 family Values concert against his will, he didn’t want to play to make anyone feel good, or bad, or aroused, or receive anything from them, it just felt like a release. That kind of desire is what I admire and claim to possess. And of course the kicker was that I hated what I saw of others in the media, and it continues when seek out new bands and see live shows, few possess that ecstatic agony and ambivalence towards the crowd, nor the kind of wit and insight into the modern world which has its eyes fixed on them, which I believe in.

Part Two
This must be about the pending reality of attempting to realise my dreams or more accurately my desires, the process of elimination that I felt as I became somewhat of an adult. The years at newtown, where I really took on the belief that I would have to be something in the entertainment industry.
I almost fucked up my life when I was fifteen, but I was very ignorant then. Now I have no excuse. Happy birthday to me. I could really say so much, and that makes me wish I had a program to transfer what I say onto a word document. By the time the thoughts reach my fingers they’re cluttered and I’m buggered. Ohhhkay.
Something happened when I was fifteen, probably puberty, and 3 years of social mishaps in the adjustment to pending adulthood. Going through puberty is like waking up and that is the age where my alarm clock started to really piss me the fuck off, so I wanted to break it as you do. I think the radio alarm clocks are the worst; blissful silence, floating adventures, and then dated pop music crackles in. but I did have a really bad alarm clock at that age, the reception was shit and it was a clunky little box, so it was always a wake up to loud static. Meh. Suddenly I realised how much talent I had and there was a word for me I held above all others, especially ‘potential’, that never feels good, always accompanied by a sigh it is. This word I bore was ‘charismatic’. And I soon bore the alternating “ants”, ignor and arrog. Therefore I lost interest in everything but Drama class and Media studies, and English I suppose (my ability therein snuck up on me the year before). That was a real problem seeing as I had seven other subjects to endure. I became lax in all of them and failed the exams, then blamed the uncharismatic teachers on the papers themselves. I handed in exams with my name at the top, one or two questions answered, and a boarder of insults and nonsense, lyrics amongst it. I didn’t want to get expelled, I had no foresight, and in the last week of the second term, right in the middle of the school year my parents were told I was not to return. Fuck them! I had a play to be in at that school and a couple of rich friends, one of whom lived near a bevy of partying, and possibly slutty, big-breasted girls whom I’d started to hang out with. I determined to talk my way back in. I was ignorant of the world, but I could reason very well. It worked like a charm, there was never any doubt, nor resistance, but I would be finding another school for my final two years, that was definite. That was also more terrifying than leaving school completely to try the actor’s life, because the latter was intangible, a fantasy, an idea impossible to speak of without upward inflection. A few things fell into my face as I pursued the fantasy in my mind, mainly the results of my parents (obviously, they may never have prevented my abandoning numerous extra-curricular activities throughout my childhood, nor persuaded me hard enough to engage in the most sorely missed opportunities of all; a children’s acting troupe, but they were damn adamant I’d finish high school . All my ‘potential’ was still festering) and the school councillor. I kept being sent to her throughout high school, she was a qualified psychiatrist, which left an impact on my self-image and growing reputation for rebellion and clowning. However it made me face the reality of true issues, having now vague memories of childhood psychiatric sessions, I may not have left childhood behind, and clearly it’s common knowledge that you never do. The shame of that is still lingering, for I had much to hide from, and only more disgusting memories to be made; no experience ever feels as it appears to feel to others I observe. She never delved too deeply into my psyche so I never broke the hardening façade, I just had an excuse to leave classes for an hour , but she cared enough, and her correspondence with my parents yielded a catalyst for this lengthy gestation of an artist.
The luck of not only that prevention

Part Three
I believe sex can save a life sometimes, because apparently teenage suicide is ridiculously high at the turn of this century, though such a term drips with exaggeration; how can teenage suicide not be ridiculous? And it's probably never going to be 'ridiculously low', any spokesman for "Ropes, Razorblades and Poisons 'R' Us" putting an ad out, "Get out of the rolling green hills and rowboats, get some Fallout Boy and The Cure Cds at 50% Off with any 'What really is the point of it all?' Self-Euthanasia-Pack purchase, Our suicide rate is RIDICULOUSLY LOW!" But honestly, when I was younger, as I explained, I hated life, I had a relationship with psychiatrists, and they would assault me with the suicide question as often as they'd greet me. But probably just so they could gauge how closely they needed to pay attention; if no thoughts had occurred then I just needed to get out more and stop wanking myself silly, and they could zone out while I whined about my angst. But that wasn't my the course of therapy.
Sure, I courted the taking of my own life like it was a semi-infallible destiny, but they'd give up once I conceded the non immediate nature of those thoughts. Suicide was a distant task because I wouldn't want to die until I'd burned some lewd experiences into my brain; then I could blow it apart. No bloody way I was killing myself until my twenties man, I'd have to try all the positions and have a hundred blow jobs; make an impact on the world of acting and then take a never-ending nap.
So the lack of sex saved my puerile life. I doubt I was alone in that. Still, this admission wasn't enough to slide back into the ranks of high school, I was put into a series of weekly group counselling sessions for 10th graders with 'social issues' there was a wonderful euphemism for the "course" but it's faded from me now. Like the disguised label for this troubled assembly, the actual course was light-hearted, and those with true depression based issues were left out, a guy my friends were closer to, had his mother's fatal struggle with a series of cancers to shroud his puberty. He wasn't in the group. He's actually a contented dude, but still, fuck me that's hard. And his dad was a gynaecologist. Anyway, it wasn't a very intense group, none of us walked around with dried tears, eyeliner, or death in our eyes, we were just fuckabouts and standouts. we did a bunch of silly social games and lessons for an hour every Tuesday morning. I guess the mood was light because we missed a class or two of school, and the meetings were held in the faculty booth by the footy fields (I did mention it was a private school right? Crashing professionalism right here, I've admitted it, I'm humble, can't hate that can you?) which had a canteen and kitchen attached, and no locked doors. The only occasion in that school where it couldn't have been better to have been Rugby season.
The first few weeks, we were all late and slightly ashamed about being there, despite the joy of escaping classes, and the counsellor rewarded us like children, with lollies and chocolates. Eventually we knew each other and some arrived early by a few minutes, excluding me, as I subconsciously loathe waiting, and can rarely avoid lateness. I found the others eating melting ice creams, and imploded with jealousy and excitement. Free shit! They'd noticed the thin door provided little protection from the forbidden kitchen, and it was hardly a bold move for us "misfits". The freezer was right by the door and all they'd done was lift it up and sneak a handful of ice blocks out and wolf 'em down before the counsellor arrived. I became kindreds with another "misfit" using comedy as a facade and friend-getter, and conveniently we also shared a lack of fearful morality. On one of the last sessions we arrived a good 20 minutes early and slipped in subtly then ravaged the kitchen/canteen as unnoticeably as possible. They could write off what we stole. We'd been building up to it for a few weeks, grabbing a Coke or a Moove and Doritos as well, but on that day we both brought an extra bag to add to our massive private school back packs, and I fit in a case and a half of cokes, half a dozen mooves, a few bags of chips and a coupe of ice blocks to rot atop my breakfast. I beamed with pride for a week as I had a stash inside my locker, and for a month there was always a coke in my hand. Ah to be 15!

Part Four
I feel like I should fast forward to the present, the pulsating moment, if you will; but please don’t. I need to re-state where I am at this moment, as I try to find my motives for being here. I don’t even feel myself anymore, no one surrounding me gives me any comfort and I‘m amazed at how false I can be, most of the time I‘m guessing at what they want from me, or just fucking about because I don‘t care enough. And this is not who I used to be, or maybe it is. Remembering the past, is the folly of the weak-willed, and the rightful hobby of the dying. I feel like I’m dying whenever I focus my mind’s eye, because all I desire is unconsciousness. These days I don’t even take notes as the memories happen, my words have grown saggy, I’ve been spending too much time with other people. I miss my meaningful solitude. When friends tell me others don’t like me it astonishes me, but then I recall that I left the façades on, what a fright they must have gotten. It is too unnatural for me to be amongst people, our conversations flail about like loose hairs pricking my eyes in the windy streets too crowded for a joyful thought. Who’d understand what I want to talk about? This is why I’m disliked, perhaps even hated, I don’t dignify society with what I truly feel, I spin altruism like a wisp of a scent, my convictions are illusions, and I’m just never myself, not amongst others. Now I feel free, now I am alone, in this moment, not this time, but right now. If I have to be around another person, I’ll affect a lie, a false fool even I wish to avoid, and I don’t know why, I am trying to understand, to kill him, all I want is William Wallace’s cry to encapsulate me. So for now I feel like I should revisit some old thoughts

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