bedlam updates

It's the 90s all over again. Remember Sensitive New Age Guys? Yeah, it was horrible and it did nothing to dismantle Patriarchy. In the 90s dudes got sucked into the SNAG shit and became simpering, smug little pricks. They didn't become better, they became useless. When people try to deal with real emergencies with bullshit that has no grounding in anything real, you just create more arseholes. Almost any hastily thrown together protest is far better than bullshit demands of normal people that they change who they are. But, telling follks to Be Better suits a lot of people who are neither action nor ideas oriented. Or about outcomes. It's one big performance. Unfortunately we're storytelling creatures who sometimes delusionally use story telling techniques to try to force people into a new story. It has never worked. Movements can't be driven by slogans and our real stories shouldn't be compressed into the solid cube of a hashtag. We *are* better than

I started making funny (hopefully) rant vids in 2005 and huge idiots who were obviously extremely full of it were forever wanting to debate me. "Debate me Sir. Sir!" The pompousness, the transparent belief that they were intellectual giants, the stunningly dumb shit every single one said. Astonishing, total, pricks. I didn't realise this form of risk free cockishness would become a major disease sweeping the planet. We are up against millions of pissweak babies. LIKE ZOMBIES they show no sign of consciousness. They are the basest human at it's lowest ebb, it's all a game and an act and we need to snap these cunts out of it. And the only way that is happening is by massively outnumbering them in the streets.

My father treated me badly so I'd be ready for real life. I'd love to know who I'd be without the cult leader dad upbringing. He was raised by a psychotic mother, who was raised by pretty much an evil witch, which is why I'm a disturbed activist who thinks in terms of systems. Anyway, I'm gonna try get some therapy this year, not because I want to talk to a middle class dipshit who's never been slapped, but to bitch endlessly. I'm gonna bitch my arse off. When they tell me maybe I should try this or that I will bitch even harder. I will convince them I have real problems. All I want is someone to bitch to with extreme force. There is no solving the problem of me, there is only further complaining. I will become known in secret therapy circles as the guy who can whinge for 9 hours without repeating myself unless it's to power stancely reiterate a complaint. I will be the Henry Rollins of therapy. My therapist will pay to see me. They will be e

We've been working on a short horror film over the last week, trying out fake blood recipes, shooting bits of test video, developing a script, building characters, working out the nuts and bolts and all because I watched the first two Hellraiser movies and decided I want in. Yep, I want to be involved in the process of screening tales of disturbed people doing bad things. So far what I've got is a story of identical twin brothers, which is brilliant because I can play both of them. A genius solution to the problem of not knowing how to do this yet and not wanting to expose anyone else to my learning process or to my no-budget approach to doing everything, which some might find confrontingly loser-adjacent. We're doing it all in this flat because there's going to be a lot of blood. All the blood is happening in the bathroom and kitchen area because red food dye is probably hard to get out of the walls and carpet of a rental property. We've been shooting video of

An American writing for the New York Times has visited Australia and written a thing about Australia and it is as bad as can be. When we read the New York Times we of course expect opinion that causes lightheaded fucking wonderment. The only in to reading a New York Times piece or having any idea what is in it, or why, or enjoying it in any way is if you too write for the New York Times. Never has a paper had such a consistent run of opinion that is talking to itself in a language only it understands, to an end that can be guessed at but probably must never be gazed upon directly. "Who is this frigging turkey?" You say out loud with your mouth to both ask the question and re-connect with your body. "What the fuck did I just read?" You continue, speaking to feel the sound of being a soul with maybe a purpose or something. You have read a New York Times absolute steaming pile of words and yet again, as is always the case when you forget to remember that these peo

People who aren't massively traumatised often have unhelpful advice for people who are. They want to fix what they don't understand. It's hard to know what to do about one's own trauma and it's even harder when you are being pummelled about the head with very hot tips for how to get on with your day. I feel it has taken me way too long to truly marvel at just how damaged I am and that this over seemingly endless time has caused even more rips and tears in my life. When people suggest I should have a great attitude and just get on with it, I tend to sympathise with terrorists. Normal people are a curse. Normal people tend to overrate their own uniqueness and downplay the suffering of others. I mean, that's what it looks like to me, but maybe setting myself apart from "normal" people doesn't help my case. Maybe I should simply focus on the trauma and get as far away as I can from any mythologizing or romanticising about how special it makes me. A

I have very little trouble expressing myself, saying what I mean, being articulate, telling my story, sharing my tale of woe, moaning, whining, bitching and complaining. It's a gift. I changed schools sixteen times before I was eleven. It occurs to me that if you wanted to completely derail a child's education, this is a good insane way to make sure that happens. Imagine an increasingly fucked up boy being introduced into a new world of mutual incomprehension over and over. And over. That was the first half of my education, that was the extremely shaky footing and this was followed by a high school, just the one, that had no idea what to do with me. Out of a possible final year score of 100% I achieved 28. My life was already over. I'm fifty. I own nothing. I am entirely financially reliant on my partner. Every venture ends in disaster/embarassment. I am currently working on: a sculpture project that is open-ended in that I have no idea how it will make money, a b

Farkern reckon I'm gunna make a short movie and horror comedy seems the way to go. Fake blood is cheapish, darkness is free and I'm hilarious. A bloke wants to make a horror fillum, he kills a bloke to get blood for special effects and a m8 goes m8 what are you doin the end comedy gold. Coz he doesn't reaiise he could of used fake blood. Um, ah, it's about not thinking things through and about how dreamers are often arseholes. Not biographical. It defo won't be about feeling like creativity costs me everything or how it's fucked my life and wanting to kill to have a fleeting taste of raw power. Right, so the bloke convinces an actor bloke to let him tie him up for a short film about satanic bullshit but then actually kills him so he can make a- etcetera Because he wants the actor's blood for his actual short film and actors are all desperate, he reckons, so it's a great and clever plan. And when his mate arrives there's confusion along th