bedlam updates

  When I was a kid I had rescue dreams that I would sustain an injury and people would have to pay attention to me properly and care for me, like a little prince who was actually an angel. Until a few days ago I reckoned I had those thoughts about being airlifted out of my childhood because it was lonely, frightening, brutal, oppressive, sucked dead dogs dicks and was utterly fucked. I needed to be saved. But now with the even more recent appearance of the likelihood of autism diagnosis in my life the situation looks a bit different. Yes, I was abused, yes, my parents’ incredibly chaotic lives and constantly changing plans inevitably resulted in devastating consequences for myself. Yes, I was terrorized by my father and even eventually abandoned by my mother. Yes, the insanity of changing schools 16(!) times set me up to be forever falling through the cracks. Of course I dreamed of some kind of powerfully focusing near fatal incident that would put me in a hospital bed and begin my jou

I was going to write something about I don't remember what, but I was just now catching waves at a surf beach and my mind has been cleansed. It feels like my loose ends have been tied up, there's nothing more to say, I have nothing to add and I’ve got all my ducks in a row. Imagine what it would be like to always be in this state of having no worries. Right now, thanks to a beach that won’t exist in five years, it would take mental strain to come up with a worry and some further effort to worry about that worry properly. No wait, that's one. As an expert in depression, anxiety, panic and hysteria, melodrama, theatrics, overreacting, overdoing it, dwelling on the past and stewing on shit that's not even my problem, I've tried a lot of things, done some drugs, attempted to expand my horizons but I have to say no mind altering drug I've ever taken has the ability to slow down time like an Australian federal election campaign. We are a day or so into it and it feels

Many ALP supporters are like footy fans, if those footy fans were incapable of tracking a bouncing ball with their eyes to follow a game, or remember what jumper their team was wearing, or make their way to a footy ground without getting lost in a dark forest, welcomed into a house made of gingerbread, to only narrowly escape being cooked and eaten because their would be murderer is old, like their old, rubbish, useless bullshit political party. Footy fans pay attention to the various capabilities of their players, the strengths and weaknesses of their coach’s chosen strategy, tactics, short term and long term planning and the ruthless decision making that is required to win, because sometimes what's going on is not good enough, and it's time to make some real changes. ALP fandom is a prize winning source of amusement that people could be that shit at knowing why their team exists or what it’s like. And are fiercely committed to never finding out. No self respecting crow would

I haven’t done much writing in the last little while, I’ve been drained by the thought of a piece of my arse being sliced off and sewn onto my classic Italian profile. Yes, I was concerned about skin cancer, most worryingly on my nose. Yesterday my doctor’s appointment came up and they found nothing wrong with me. As I suspected, but was afraid to believe, I am perfect. A surgeon’s scalpel will not slice through my butt cheek to remove a flap of skin that will be sewn onto the centre of my face. I will not be known as Arse Face. In school, some kids called me Wombat based on the perceived flatness of my nose. Accusing someone of Italian heritage of falling down on their nose game. What dogs. Though I didn’t  really give much thought to my Italianity until my father called me a fucking little wog bastard. Was I technically a bastard? My juvenile delinquent parents were not married when I was conceived. My father would be locked in a cupboard under a sink by his mother, an experience so