————–Or—————-

The Genus of Chris Bell

By Gordon Bell

First published 27/10/2026 [updated 31/10/2026]

This article explains how Freudian theory is used by the non qualified to target another for vindictive reasons. It is a personal and sociological critique that should interest all readers.

Below is the current homepage of my brother Chris Bell, a Modern Artist,  who has been telling people I am mentally ill for 35 years. It has been fronting his website for the last ten years at least.

I asked him ten years ago in email to explain it to me and got no answer. Recently I asked again, saying it was for my friends to read. This time he answered with this sentence, complete with spelling mistake;

Hi Gordon,

I will opblige you and describe that installation when I get a moment through the coming week.

Chris

———————

His “explanation” came a few days later. Which we will analyse soon. Firstly though some basic background information;

In 1972, when I was two years old, my father fell and hit his head while working on a tug boat in Sydney Harbour. It was so severe it ended his career at sea, giving him epilepsy for the rest of his life. He and I had a very problematic relationship my whole life.  And from my age of 21, I began a four year period of smoking cannabis on occasions. It was at the beginning of that period that my brother convinced my father that I was mentally ill. And they then both immediately began telling all the people they could apparently. Using the Freudian psychiatric vocabulary my brother took to.

Both our parents are now deceased. And all of our relatives were and are in Ireland. My brother has been in constant contact with these relatives, including visits, I have not. They all now believe I am mentally ill and refuse to acknowledge my emails at all. Despite no record of my ever having been violent, threatening, manipulative or socially disruptive. And despite all my emails being polite. Meaning despite me not being mentally ill, and now having a wife of 20 years and 18 year old daughter eager to meet them—naturally.  And despite my not seeing most of them since I was 14, and some since I was 10, and the rest since I was 28. I am now 56. [My brother is 60].

Now I will analyse my brother’s explanation for his home page, and after it analyse his eulogies for our parents. [The audio of both eulogies are available by writing to me at forthenursery@protonmail.com]. Then we will look at my relationship with my father. Then we will see the chronology of my life, and how this rumour took root in a fertile ground of circumstantial and superficial evidence.

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I give you below the full text of my brother’s explanation email. But it is non-required reading as far as I am concerned. It is long, tedious and confusing. And he is lying. As I will prove in the three subsequent chapters. So its your call whether you want to read it all, or partly, or skip this chapter.

Hi Gordon,

I am responding to your request for my reasonings behind the production of my installation “ Three Persuasions”. Of course I would recommend just showing your friends the image and let them interpret the installation how they wish.

I have no writings associated with it, so here it is freshly hatched.

I recall you asking me about, or mentioning, this artwork when we were both in Sydney. So there is something about this work that has you perplexed or curious.

You ask about the symbolism within it, and I’ll say that although your art holds symbolism in high regard and is rich with it, mine is not. I am the product of late 20 century art education where abstraction is king, and the viewer is invited to ‘finish the work” with their personal interpretations and associations.

Although there is only less than half of my artworks on my website, I invite you to see that my work is abstract or humorous poetry that aims to present something familiar as strange, new or magical to a viewer, with very oblique, or no, didacticism. There are certainly themes that are common to my works- Light and it’s role as agent for understanding nature and the world; the soft critique of indoctrinated systems by which the average Western person uses to negotiate things (each other, capitalism, politics, religion, etc) ; the physicality and subsequent negotiation of architectural space.

So, Three Persuasions was an installation “about’ electricity (the most epic physical system by which the West lives by). It came after lots of other investigations involving electricity (submerged lights in water, solar powered motors, kinetic video screens…) I was having a fascination with the fluorescent tube, which was so ubiquitous, and yet so ignored. I found them to be a miraculous piece of engineering where light was made solid as a tube. I used these tubes with and without illumination.

I was offered a long slot of time to make an installation at a gallery in SF. It was a store front space with no option for public access but a great position for public viewing. Many of my installations used cheap things from op-shops, and the selection of the furniture in Three Persuasions was determined by what I could find cheaply.

In this work there are three varieties of ‘trickery’ with lights. I was thinking of the poetic metaphors I enjoyed on The Cure album cover, ‘Three Imaginary Boys’ where everyday objects arranged in a group invited the metaphoric interpretation of people. I set about using three everyday objects (furniture) to maybe represent three parts of myself, and the lights and electricity to animate those furnishings to augment the characters of a self ( extrovert/ introvert/ constrined). I have to say, at the time these ideas were very much secondary to the thrill of the visual poetry. I was most excited by the cabinet in the back which has a long ramp extending back through the wall upon which small fluoro tubes are marching off into the distance.

The piece is a mostly a playful visual poem upon the miracle of electricity and the artificial lighting we live by, but ignore.  I wanted to surprise people ( like always) with presenting the very familiar in unfamiliar ways. As an invitation for people to see beyond the everyday,-  to see the wonder in the simple riches that surround us that we routinely ignore- and hence feel joy in recognizing our abundances in the simple and everyday (and hopefully that being an antidote to consumerism)

I’ll add some pictures. Namely the other installation celebrating the fluorescent tube I did in the first half of my alloted time in that space.

Cheers,

Chris

PS; I just found the old “application” I wrote for the gallery director to give some sort of idea what I planned to do.- pasted at very bottom.

[*PHOTOS BELOW]

Installation Intention

I Was Trying to Describe You to Someone

by Richard Brautigan

I was trying to describe you to someone a few days ago. You don’t look like any girl I’ve ever seen before.

I couldn’t say “Well she looks just like Jane Fonda, except that she’s got red hair, and her mouth is different and of course, she’s not a movie star…”

I couldn’t say that because you don’t look like Jane Fonda at all.

I finally ended up describing you as a movie I saw when I was a child in Tacoma Washington. I guess I saw it in 1941 or 42, somewhere in there. I think I was seven, or eight, or six.

It was a movie about rural electrification, a perfect 1930’s New Deal morality kind of movie to show kids. The movie was about farmers living in the country without electricity. They had to use lanterns to see by at night, for sewing and reading, and they didn’t have any appliances like toasters or washing machines, and they couldn’t listen to the radio. They built a dam with big electric generators and they put poles across the countryside and strung wire over fields and pastures.

There was an incredible heroic dimension that came from the simple putting up of poles for the wires to travel along. They looked ancient and modern at the same time.

Then the movie showed electricity like a young Greek god, coming to the farmer to take away forever the dark ways of his life. Suddenly, religiously, with the throwing of a switch, the farmer had electric lights to see by when he milked his cows in the early black winter mornings. The farmer’s family got to listen to the radio and have a toaster and lots of bright lights to sew dresses and read the newspaper by.

It was really a fantastic movie and excited me like listening to the Star Spangled Banner, or seeing photographs of President Roosevelt, or hearing him on the radio “… the President of the United States… “

I wanted electricity to go everywhere in the world. I wanted all the farmers in the world to be able to listen to President Roosevelt on the radio….

And that’s how you look to me.

As a foreigner, and yet a subject of the American cultural hegemony, I grew up with very strong images of the USA, The films and tv shows of California held a stronger sway for the strong parallels between its lifestyle and mine. San Francisco also held a strong attraction for its bay setting and hills – somewhat like my hometown of Sydney.

Later, through the surreal poetic prism of Richard brautigan, San Francisco was re-imagined as an exciting, liberal and creative place, set amid the character of its Victorian architecture. Since being here these positive intuitions I had of SF, have been clarified and often strengthened.

The Grove St annex of SFAC  is an anachronism amid the  ‘important’ cultural institutions of SF.

To me its humble stature, forlorn elegance, and age are evocative of Richard brautigan’s SF

To be reminded of Brautigan from a simple building, is perhaps as far-fetched as the inspirations within his own short story, ‘I Was Trying to Describe You to Someone’, but it does.

This romantically bent story has stayed with me more than any others of his.

The story within the story- the rarely voiced wonder of the electrical system- describes an often-felt wonder I have for the electrical grid as the ultimate case of applied-science for the people.

For this installation my installation-within-the-installation will be a simple, old domestic display cabinet against the back wall, closed (and perhaps containing some minor objects). One of its shelves will extend back beyond the wall and be a vanishing point into the space behind. It will contain a dozen (or so) illuminated fluorescent tubes lying in train.

These linear, obscured and lit tubes will contrast the very large geometric structure built (with spent tubes and tape), to swallow up the volume of the space. It will perhaps be Buckminster Fulleresque- mathematical, or possibly less ordered- a thicket in parts….

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So lets go through it;

His first 15 word email had a clear spelling mistake, while he now sends me 1339 words with just three spelling mistakes. And two of those being highly suspicious, as we will see. With one being exactly where we should expect it; describing the third element in the art work, the one that represents me—as I will describe in chapter 5. According to the internet his email site Hotmail has spellcheck by default when you sign up. So either he switched it off some time ago, being such a confident speller of sophisticated words—or the “mistakes” were contrived. More likely there was an obvious red line in that single sentence he first emailed to me. First communication in two years. Six days to write it. One sentence. Why check it? He went from the full stop, to clicking send in an instant? A very busy man.

All in all he had thirteen days to send an answer. To explain a webpage he has had for over 10 years. And still he can’t make any sense.

That first spelling mistake, you will recall was ‘opblige’. He wrote that he will ‘opblige’ me. Meaning this singular word telling me what he will do, he misspells. What are the odds? So if his explanation ends up being one long string of deception, then he can’t say he ever lied, can he? It was modern art too. Right? His answer had two distinct halves. One about light as agent etc etc, and the second one about Richard Brautigan. Two explanations. One is right, one is wrong. Two opposing explanations as one. What is going on?.

oppose + oblige = opblige

And so begins the diffusion. In fact this “explanation” begins with the second spelling mistake, another word of diffusion, and again the word telling me what he is going to do. What are the odds?

I am responding to your request for my reasonings behind the production of my installation

He is going to give me his “reasonings”, when there is no such word. And again there would have been a red line under it. He has “reasonings” plural, while the rest of us have ‘reasoning’. The word ‘reasoning’ refers to something singular and specific. In this case his home page. The word ‘reasoning’ is based on cause and effect. This is why the plural form doesn’t exist. It is a process involving all thoughts involved. It can never be plural. Just like you don’t say “The ball fell down due to gravities”. If you accept the term, then you accept there will be no real explanation. There cannot be. For the “thing” is no longer singular. And so he sends two explanations while also referring to other art works, and everything under the sun.

So what is going on with the art work? What do we ourselves see?

The idea of two opposites as one is most famously represented by what is known today as the star of David. [Which is a modern-era misnomer, or propaganda relating it to the Jews, invented in the mid 1940’s]. And ‘David’ is Chris’s middle name. This is why he has a triangular pyramid next to his name, Chris David Bell. Which shape is also on the table in the installation. A shape he avoided explaining. Even though in my question I asked specifically what the tables represented. And he actually says that that is “secondary” to another part of the installation. How does that work? He also sent pictures of 4 other works, as if this helped explain the homepage. They too hark to the star of David.

Even the woman’s legs and arms are in opposing triangle position. Surely deliberate.

Purple for king David.

Below I have deleted the distracting extra line on the pyramidal shape next to his name. Which is there to suggest the star tetrahedron, by merging with triangle on the table below. Which I have delineated in black.

The viewer is invited to finish the work.

Subconscious suggestion.

See below the two inter-locking triangular pyramids, helping with the suggestion.

So we have the star of paradox, with writing of paradox [two different and opposing “reasonings”]. And with spelling of paradox, two words as one. While the letter ‘p’ being an upside down ‘b’ in a sense, the sense of the star triangles.

opblige.

…although your art holds symbolism in high regard and is rich with it, mine is not.… and the viewer is invited to ‘finish the work” with their personal interpretations and associations.

And so why does he go on to talk of “three aspects of self” and even give words to these aspects, and of the three elements being “symbolic of people” ? Which is symbolism.

There are certainly themes that are common to my works

But my question to him had two elements.

1] What does the art mean. And 2] what do the two tables represent?

So why is he answering from the premise of themes in other art works?

– Light and it’s role as agent for understanding nature and the world; the soft critique of indoctrinated systems by which the average Western person uses to negotiate things (each other, capitalism, politics, religion, etc) ; the physicality and subsequent negotiation of architectural space.

That is an array of vast topics, which cover most everything you could think of.

So, Three Persuasions was an installation “about’ electricity (the most epic physical system by which the West lives by).

Why change from ‘light’ to ‘electricity’? But does it matter? Lets add it to the list;

-Light

nature

the world

Indoctrinated systems

each other

capitalism

politics

religion

Electricity

And let’s not forget “the physicality… of architectural space”.

And “persuasion” must be there too, for it is the title. “Three Persuasions”. But does he ever again refer in this writing to the idea of ‘persuasion’? No. Meaning that he uses it in the title of the artwork, but for reasons of his own, doesn’t think the concept belongs in the explanation. The explanation seems to be everything under the sun EXCEPT persuasion. Why would that be?

But, you say, he said the installation is  “…the soft critique of indoctrinated systems by which the average Western person uses to negotiate things.”

‘Indoctrinated’ relates to persuasion, right? Yes. But his sentence does not make sense. You cannot “indoctrinate” a “system”, so there can be no “indoctrinated systems”. 

But—you say— he must have meant “systems of indoctrination”. Right? But then it still makes no sense;

SYSTEMS OF INDOCTRINATION by which the average Western person uses to negotiate things.

Nonsense, because being ‘indoctrinated’ is to be unable to negotiate. They are contradictions in terms.

Maybe he meant “people indoctrinated into systems”?  No. Just as impossible.

PEOPLE INDOCTRINATED INTO SYSTEMS by which the average Western person uses to negotiate things.

But this isn’t mental illness, is it? It is art and we know nothing about modern art, right? This is some type of genius,  which we are just not keeping up with…

In this work there are three varieties of ‘trickery’ with lights.

Wrong. One is not in the same criteria as the other two, if you can even call it trickery.  There is no trickery there in the small table. It is what it is. There is the idea of hiding the light, but this is functional “trickery”, not illusion like the other two. Conceptually different. What’s more, he has a spelling mistake there at this third element, as we will see. And its another two-as-one spelling mistake. What are the odds?

Also, the other two objects rely on movement. With no movement of the viewing involved— such as in this web-page photo — the effect is mostly lost. I would have thought that after 10 years that would be obvious. So why not make a more compelling homepage? Most people don’t see anything of the trickery. The cabinet lights seems like a reflection of light from the ceiling, somewhere out of view. And the star thing is just annoying and meaningless.

I was thinking of the poetic metaphors.

Metaphors are symbolism. Symbolism for the three main aspects of the instillation.  What then about this?;

“your art holds symbolism in high regard and is rich with it, mine is not.”

I was thinking of the poetic metaphors I enjoyed on The Cure album cover, ‘Three Imaginary Boys’ … the metaphoric interpretation of people.

The metaphoric interpretation of people, is symbolism.

I set about using three everyday objects (furniture) to maybe represent three parts of myself,

Another sudden change. And “maybe” is it? Why not say “partly”, or “in some way”. It sounds like he doesn’t want to take any responsibility for himself putting definite objects in definite positions and broadcasting it to the world for ten years or more. But didn’t he just say he is inviting metaphoric interpretation, and for people to “finish the work”? So how could someone walking in the street do that if it is MAYBE three aspects of Chris Bell?

and the lights and electricity to animate those furnishings to augment the characters of a self ( extrovert/ introvert/ constrined).

“of self”? Why not say “myself”, as he did in the previous sentence;   “…three parts of myself…”.? So he did mean “the self”. Would that be the viewers?

So in the blink of an eye he changes from metaphoric representation of “people” to “maybe myself” to “the self” being anyone, to “extrovert, introvert, constrined”. Everyone has these “characters of self” apparently.

And then there is the word “constrined”. A spelling mistake on one third of the entire artwork in a text specifically explaining the art work—supposedly. What are the chances of that being natural? Not only that, this “constrined” one of the three imaginary people is representing me, as noted. As you will see. Not only that, he has already tried to bluff us about this third of the installation, saying it was trickery, when it is not. How wrong and confused can someone be about their own artwork?

So what word was he aiming for with “constrined”? Because if he had written “contained” or “constrained” it really wouldn’t make sense. To be constrained or contained is a different criteria to the words ‘extrovert’ and ‘introvert’. It is NOT one of the “characters of self”, not one of the “aspects of self” and never can be. So he has doubly misrepresented this very third of his own art work to us, plus having a spelling mistake there.

And now he will tell us not to think about that;

I have to say, at the time these ideas were very much secondary to the thrill of the visual poetry.

That is like me explaining a painting of a ship at sea with the words; The ship is secondary to the visual poetry of the sky and the sea. Ridiculous! Was someone forcing him to include the other two elements? Not according to Chris Bell.

But he thought he could get away with saying this because “visual poetry” is such an all-inclusive and yet vague term.

I was most excited by the cabinet in the back which has a long ramp extending back through the wall upon which small fluoro tubes are marching off into the distance.

Paradox. Just like the star of David. He is saying “Come look at this cabinet and this hole in the wall” it is more important than the “visual poetry” which is an all inclusive term. Its like saying “this part of my poem is all you need to think about. It is so special.” Well, if so, why included the other writing? Why not make the other writing COMPLETELY relevant. Meaning “poetry” would make sense. That it is therefore a real artwork, as according to what he just described, “characters of self” etc.

And so this cabinet has no relationship to ‘introvert’, ‘extrovert’ and ‘constrined’, and no relationship to

the “three parts of myself”

the “furnishing” [being] “characters of a self”,

and “three imaginary boys”

and “people”

Why was that ever brought up? Why use the word “three” at all?

The piece is a mostly a playful visual poem

That word again. Poetry. Writing. A different medium embodying pure abstraction. Something all in your head can never be argued with.

Why try this fake explanation at all? We are getting to that, to what he his hiding.

I wanted to surprise people ( like always) with presenting the very familiar in unfamiliar ways. As an invitation for people to see beyond the everyday,-  to see the wonder in the simple riches that surround us that we routinely ignore- and hence feel joy in recognizing our abundances in the simple and everyday (and hopefully that being an antidote to consumerism)

The artwork screams poverty to me. No colour, no hope, no meaning, no humanity, no nature. And something like a psyche ward or autopsy room. No “joy” no “abundance” and no “everyday”.

I’ll add some pictures. Namely the other installation

Why? To prove that there isn’t any meaning in the ”Three Persuasions”? So I am distracted from my own question?

Cheers,

Chris

Cheers. Have a drink, forget about it…

PS; I just found the old “application” I wrote for the gallery director to give some sort of idea what I planned to do.- pasted at very bottom.

Well, what a surprise! You didn’t think to look for it before writing?

“I have no writings associated with it...” rememeber?

So after writing his email Chris thought, “Well, why not just have another look to be sure. Who knows I might find it this time”. And voila, here it is. And just like the oppose and oblige paradox, it is a completely different explanation. Nothing at all to do with ANYTHING in that long spiel mentioning “ a playful visual poem” ect etc. and in fact it is deadly negative. As we will see.

Here it is;

Installation Intention

I Was Trying to Describe You to Someone

by Richard Brautigan

And what a total surprise! It is a total contradiction conceptually as well, being utterly specific. No “maybe”, no “finish the work your self”, no playful hole in the back to infinity. No nature, each other, religion architectural space etc. etc. No anything just mentioned.

I was trying to describe you to someone a few days ago. You don’t look like any girl I’ve ever seen before.

And so on with this poem about electricity being so great and ending with

And that’s how you look to me.

Would anyone write an installation proposal that begins with a poem, a long poem? Who would read it? Why delete or not write an introduction? That intro would be everything we need for this to make some kind of sense. And there must have been an intro.  Unless this is all a trick. Is that why he put the word ‘application’ in quotation marks; “application”? Telling me again, just like he told me with “opblige” and “reasonings” that he won’t deal straight with me? Three words explaining what he is sending me, and three grammar anomalies. What are the odds?

Then he wrote;

To be reminded of Brautigan from a simple building, is perhaps as far-fetched as the inspirations within his own short story, ‘I Was Trying to Describe You to Someone’, but it does. [sic]

So this clear statement of what inspired the art work makes no sense either. Its like saying “The book I read is as far-fetched as a movie I once saw about horses”. It doesn’t mean the book was about horses too. So we have a MASSIVE problem here.

And why not mention the content of the poem? Why instead talk of Brautigan’s San Fransico, his “surreal prism”, which is to say Brautigan’s style? The poem isn’t even a surrealist poem anyway. It is metaphorical.

Why say the art work is much to do with Brautigan himself?

To be reminded of Brautigan

Why mention Brautigan as so important when no point about him—no logical point— is made? Why set this man up as the ultimate explanation? And leave him off totally in the first explanation?

I put it to you that Chris has covered himself by writing the first part of this bullshit, and now has made everything of this man Brautigan being crucial, in order for me to  go off and research who this man is.

From Wikipedia;

At the Oregon State Hospital Brautigan was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia and clinical depression, and was treated with electroconvulsive therapy 12 times.^[8] ...

Oh yes, the electrical thing. What a coincidence. Clever. Surprising.

He died of a self-inflicted .44 Magnum gunshot wound to the head.

Would that be The Cure?…

What I haven’t told you yet, was that in my early twenties the trouble with my father became so serious he had me arrested and taken to the mental hospital. Each time let go after a few days. Something that needs careful explaining, because I need to accept some of the responsibility for those times. I had been drinking hard for two days on the second occasion, and smoking cannabis around the first occassion— for a start.

Chris knows I am suspicious, and this is why he pretended in the first line he didn’t know. Saying I am “curious” and “perplexed”. He knows I hate modern art, and he knows I hate him. And he knows I know he hates me. But I said I was going to publish his answer, so this is what he does.

Yet this doesn’t explain what the art work really is. Just what it is not. And we will get to that in the second next chapter, chapter 5, as noted.

Chris knows that anyone trying to understand his art via his explanation will be forced to research who Brautigan was, because the explanation is one big rabbit chase. The  ONLY thing left to go on is this poet that takes up one half, and the supposedly formal half, of the explanation, the ” “application” “.

And it is all the more obvious because he includes Brautigan as the reason in an illogical way. As noted.

By this point the reader is probably thinking that there could be no reason for Chris to be fixated on his brother in another country. But bear with me. There is a lot for us to unpack about this situation and this homepage.

Let’s continue;

And so what is it? The poem or the man that inspired the artwork? Because these things are not connected, as he puts it. But he wants the poem mentioned to make me feel it is all about me, about someone. And maybe the application is something he just concocted. Maybe he couldn’t make it sound realistic. It doesn’t! So he covered it in the first part, thinking that will do the trick. We see he couldn’t even spell Brautigan with a capital letter, twice. And so he cobbled together something from things he has written over the years as the first part, as the bait for the hook.

The closest Chris ever comes to explaining his work in the whole email, is in two places, and both make no sense. One because he uses the word ‘maybe’, as well as a spelling mistake and twice a mis-conceptualises a third of the work [to say nothing of the distracting bullshit]. And the other, the “application”, because it is in two, between some poem and some man and building and surrealism, which explains zero. Both can’t even be related to the artwork. And introducing surrealism —and the poem isn’t surreal anyway—is just a way to dress up this disconnection, and to say whatever he wants.

And this is why he feels he need not make one single point about the poem. The poet is describing the emotions the he felt after meeting a woman. How she seemed to light up his life, how she seemed to make his world change for the better. It is logical, lucid and metaphorical, or symbolistic. Not surreal. When people fall in love their world changes like that. But Chris isn’t interested in this positivity, he is more interested in setting up the gunshot. He can’t admit to anything positive in the installation, because there is nothing in it but CHRIS BELL.

And  here’s the thing; my father did the same to me as what Chris is doing here. This secret way of deriding, which a chapter ahead will explain. And in the last conversation I had with my father, literally, he compared his life to mine –which he had done before, often enough. He asked me what I was doing with my life, and when I said I work in a supermarket, he said “Big deal”. Saying how he had had thirty men under him when he was my age, and so on. Same thing here. No matter what I do in my life, it is never going to be as good as Chris Bell. He has called me schizophrenic for years, and schizophrenia is not something that you heal from. In the same last dialogue, my father said I was “a lune”. Yes, from a rumour he always maintained was a scientific caring for me. You can see the similarity here with my brother. As if my father was now admitting he had invented it to hurt me, to ruin my life. Same with Chris. A mocking that is done secretly to infuriate me. So he can tell the world I am mentally ill, an insult he can pretend is a caring for me. Two men, the same freak attitude to me, and same fixation on me. And much of the rest of this document will be explaining and proving this incredible claim. Yes, I know it is incredible.

And so, the art work is all somehow now about Brautigan, yet the next and only other spelling anomaly, but for one more, is Chris not capitalizing his name. Meaning not capitalizing the very inspiration for the art work. Just like, in the first half, “persuasion” having no relevance. What are the odds? Could you really miss that? And he missed it twice over, in a supposed city gallery proposal.

…through the surreal poetic prism of Richard brautigan, San Francisco was re-imagined…

…and age are evocative of Richard brautigan’s SF.

Which would have been all the more obvious to him because the very next sentence he writes after that second one,  begins with the same name spelled with a capital. Either he just wrote the proposal in a hurry, pretending it is an old application—this is why he put the word in quotation marks [“application”] or he somehow wrote a proposal for a major art work and never re-read it once. And I reckon that it too would have come up in spellcheck anyway.

This is the real mental illness people have been looking for, and blaming me for inadvertently, circumstantially, superficially and falsely. Because I was extremely insecure as a young man, and they, close family, were saying I was mad. I was as insecure as anyone ever was, I admit that. But insecurity is not mental illness.

And what you don’t know about my father is that when he began this accusation, believing in my brother, when I was about 22 and smoking dope, he was also telling people that I had thirty something demons exorcised out of me by a church group. Yes really. This was at a supposed exorcism my mother brought me to but didn’t describe to me beforehand. From which I walked out of as soon as they tried to hold me down. But according to my dad, they didn’t need me there anyway. They kept at it. And all these demons left me, apparently. And he told my girlfriend at the time this. How do you think that felt?

My father at the time of this serious trouble, the time I was committed.

Furthermore, there is one book, and only one book EVER that Chris has had me read. Can you guess? It can only be one book.  ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest’. That was when I was about 16 years old. In that book a man receives electro shock therapy and eventually has his mind destroyed in a lobotomy. One book. What are the odds? This is why I myself love symbolism. You can reduce the world to simple truths with symbolism. Why should he love that book so much?

Richard Gary Brautigan was a poet, like me. He had one child, a daughter, like me. I believe Chris knew of Richard Brautigan’s work, and he designed this email, like one of his tricking artworks. A project. A way to manipulate people and ensure attention on himself, while deriding me. Two things as one.

And Sigmund Freud, who persuades my brothers thinking, was not just Jewish, as in the star of David people, but the son of a Rabbi and an atheist too. And we will see a lot of atheism, as well as insanity, in Chris’s two eulogies. One to our mother, one to our father.

But we are far from finished with this webpage.

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Before returning to the Webpage, where I will explain what each of those figures represent, who they represent— let us see where this accusation of my being mentally ill is actually coming from. An accusation is only as good as the accuser;

Chris Bell has claimed his younger brother is mentally ill in the face of all evidence to the contrary, but for a few drug-taking years in my twenties— yet with no anti-social or criminal incidents ever. This was when he got the rumour started. But you will see, there was very fertile ground of circumstantial evidence for this rumour to spread. Going all the way back to the beginning of high school, aged 12. Not mental illness per se, but a largely unfounded accusation of drug-taking. And we will analyse this evidence of that for what it is; Circumstantial, exaggerated, and incorrect. And I will explain the syndrome I was caught in where insecurity blurred into my being perceived as mentally ill, by Chris’s artificial promotion. A life long project of my psychopathic brother.

And so he has claimed this in the face of my never taking medication or I myself believing I had a mental problem. And in the face of all my university successes and other successes. Without one word of encouragement to me about it, not one word of relief or praise for his “mentally ill” younger brother. And in fact not one word at all about it. In fact, not one word to me AT ALL for over a decade, when I was alone in China. In fact, even when I confronted him about it, asking him specific questions NOT ONE WORD would he answer.[see below]. As incredible as that might sound. How does that reconcile with Freudian science which is supposedly about helping others?

I gradated from Sydney University with an invitation to do honours, which I declined. I later attended the University of Tasmania where I dropped out to pursue making a product I had invented, with an investor contributing to the start-up 5000$. [Long since paid back to him while I do other things]. I passed with 90% credits for all subjects at the University of Sydney, and similar again for the two years at the University of Tasmania. Only a regular pass for my minor subjects, German and Law respectively. When in China I taught the History of Western Medicine at a medical university, lecturing to 300 students, from courses I researched and prepared myself.

I travelled the world twice alone, when aged 27 for  6 months, and at aged 34 for 11 years, working and supporting myself without a break. In fact I never returned to Australia at all for those 11 years in Asia, not even for a holiday. No financial support even when starting and raising my family single-handed, without financial support from my wife’s side either. [My wife’s family were Chinese factory workers].

Then there is the selling my own invented and self made products after returning to Australia. A project now on hold while I get my daughter through the most expensive school in the State [The Friends School]. And I have a  friend with a PHD in marketing, now waiting for me to make a prototype of another invention he wants in on, and which is easier to manufacture than the first.

My brother has known about all my inventions for years, about five markable inventions in all, but I have received no comment from him about them. If I ever had had family support, these inventions would surely be in the market by now—though I have never asked for that. I have never asked for anything from my relatives in Ireland either, except for their basic civility.

A real assessment of mental health though, does not need such achievements. And I tell you of them because they are convenient proofs of a rational and stable mind that can concentrate on logical tasks and solve them, spanning over decades. This is evidence to show, rather than achievements that prove. If I had been a sheppard or a street sweeper, I would be just as sane. All that matters is a consistant participation and contribution to society.

Then there are the years supporting myself as a kitchen-hand and supermarket shelf-packer. Years of stable working life. 

There is also my current gardening business, now 4 years old, the having a wife stay with me for two decades. And a child perfectly adjusted to life. A child now concert master of the Tasmanian Youth Orchestra, excelling on a scholarship at the most prestigious school in Tasmania. [Though she is on a 25% scholarship, the fees for us to pay to this school are still massive]. She is actually excelling at everything she touches; art, writing, and maths, sport, you name it. She came first in long distance running heat at her primary school. And she was captain of the school in 6th grade. A daughter as adorable as you please, a great sense of humour, my best friend. A daughter and wife that my mother adored too. Raised by a “schizophrenic” man.

Not only did my brother ignore me for my decade in China, he never replied to the letter I sent him full of jokes and the happy news of my wife and daughter from China, at the time I was returning. A letter ending in well-wishing for him and his friends and family. My mother telling me “he needs time”. WTF!?

He needs time after 11 years? For what? Why? Even to acknowledge a letter? Even to express himself in any way? But wait a minute; It was I who supposedly was under his care and knowledgeable authority. It was I who was supposedly suffering and he the expert on it. I supposedly had a reason for strange behaviour, for not writing. Mental illness remember. It was I who had suffered the years of slander, why should he be sulking?

I will tell you why. Something I mentioned above. A confrontation; 

The day before I left for Asia, after handing in my last university assignment a couple of days before, I confronted him about his rumour, and asked why he won’t say something positive to our relatives about me. I had just completed university, after all. Isn’t that something? And he wouldn’t respond AT ALL! This is how I know he has NEVER said anything positive to them about me [and for other reasons I will get to]. He believes he has the right to call me mentally ill to them. He has invested years in it. Schitsophrenia is not something you grow out of, so if he backtracks it will be to admit he was wrong. He likes to call me mentally ill, apparently. 35 years is a long time. And so in this confrontation he was sitting there trying to have me accept that I was mentally ill, and that he had the right to say so. As clear as day. Why else would he avoid discussion? That was the only confrontation we ever had as adults. If you could call it that. He doesn’t deal in confrontations. He is a coward. And it was the last time I spoke to him. Before that we had a normal passing friendship, sort of. Pleasant to each other anyway. He wouldn’t say ANYTHING in response to me when I confronted him! I’m saying it again. Just zoning out. Looking at me, then looking away. Is that mentally healthy to you? And though I say confrontation, there were no insults or screaming and yelling from me. Merely my asking him why. I then left Sydney the next day without saying goodbye to him. And he stewed on that for 11 years.

So for my brother, I am mentally ill forever. And if he is wrong about such a serious claim, such an insistence, then not only would I be accepted, he would be under doubt. He is fixated on me in a sick way, just like my father was.

And so I have done all this, lived a life of constant stability since my father died. I have lived a life without any trouble with the authorities or society around me, as noted. To be precise; Over my life; I had two encounters with the police during my time on drugs. One was about my dog not being on a leash, one was after I was rudely cut off by a car and threw a handful of dirt and tiny pebbles from the ground under a tree at it. I also had some stress in Korea while drunk, which I will explain, but I never hurt anyone, and was never charged with anything. And I counterfeited 100$ notes as a teen and was caught. Maybe I was in the wrong here every time. But is that your definition of mental illness? I was about 23 years old for the first two incidents. And drunk for the third incident, and 17 years old for the counterfeiting. In am now 56.

My mere questioning him is what offended this psychopath. And he successfully turned it into some sort of supposed attack I had made, by convincing my mother. We just saw his way with words, didn’t we? Very confident in them. And so here we need to see how my mother’s utter gullibility plays in to the scenario of my family. And how the confidence of the psychopath can dominate and control another;

At the time, to explain Chris refusing to answer my letter from China after 11 years, she told me “Chris needs time”. She also told me he refused to open and read my letter, at that time. But some time after arriving in Australia, she mentioned that she did have a letter from him now. Which I assumed he had just written. There was 6 months or so between my writing to him from China [while we waited for my wife’s visa] and our arrival.  And  so I was angry. And said it was too late, I wouldn’t read it. To which she said nothing. So she was lying one way or another. Either he had written it at the time he got my letter, in the six months we were waiting for my wife’s visa to return,  and she had lied then—saying he had refused to open it, and he needs time. Or he had written it later, on our arrival, and she was now saying he had written it at the time he had received my letter. But if he had written it then, why not send it to me? I was asking for it. Why say “He needs time” if he had written one? Why say he won’t open it?

And this brings up the central point to this writing; The Freudian Premise is the premise people assume where, once you have been labelled mentally ill, they see that they have the right to manipulate you in any way they want. And they become psychopathic in this. Just there to manipulate you. And my brother’s success had reached my friends while I was away too. And we find exaclty the same thing;

One of my childhood friends, close childhood friends, who I hadn’t seen for 25 years answered my recent email politely. When I asked for a mutual friend’s email he wrote “Next time I see him I will ask him what email address he is using these days”. Yes, really. He then sent me one of the most insulting letters I have ever received. Not one with any direct insults. But a slimy piece of garbage much like we just read from Chris. Saying things like “I hope you are having a great time with your family”. And to my question of rumours he has been involved in he wrote “What trip are you on?”. And said I was “a bully”. You see how it works. To even question them is automatically something they refuse to consider and turn it into an their haughty indignation.

This is one example of a friend I had who, since when I was last in contact, somehow turned into this psychopath that can’t be dealt with—all by himself and the Freudian premise. Yes he has the right to hate me. But why not hate me honestly?

So, by the same conceit, my brother could zone out and ignore me, insult my intelligence likewise, when I confronted him all those years ago. I am not worth anything direct, honest, sincere. Same with all my relatives now apparently. Why else not communicate? A very sorry situation to be in, and why I had to leave the country to start afresh with an honest/real family all those years ago. [2005]

Now I am here to write out the true account of my family and some of the things are incredible and hard to explain. Such as the next point; my mother actually said to me, in the context of Chris “refusing to open my letter”, that I had “ostracised him”. Yes, ostracised him. Those very words. Which is perhaps the most insane thing anyone has ever said to me. Something I wanted to leave out of this writing, because I couldn’t  properly explain it. Did she even know what the word meant? But it is explained by Chris putting those words in her mind. My mother left school at 14  and devoted her life to television and other mass media, and housework. She had the mental depth of a teenager. At least by the time I returned. But we know Chris loves his bog words and word games. We saw them above as “opblige”  “constrine” and “reasonings” and all the prancing [“my work is… with very oblique, or no, didacticism.”].

And so how do you ostracise someone while leaving the fuckin country!? I ask you, how does someone slandered for decades and with no social life for 4 years of study “ostracise” another while leaving the country? Tell me.

This, and all else in this document, has continually deterred me from trying to set the record straight. But I mention it now because I am leaving nothing out of this writing, and it demonstrates how easily manipulated my mother was. She adored my brother, and of course my father. A total and absolute devotion. And I actually said to her a few times she had been hypnotized by my brother. The power of a psychopath. Chris, confident in an isolated family. All you need is confidence. But it was confidence empowered by the above mentioned Freudian premise. The confidence of psychopathy. The ability to use utterly subjective and invented words, such as ‘schizophrenia’ to hide within and control others with fear.

My mother had the heart and intension of an angel. Everyone who knew her knows this. But that same mass media she was trapped in was full of fearful tales of schizophrenics doing all sorts of terrible crimes, of being unpredictable. While at the same time, Chris was presenting me as unstable and how I should be conceived. Just while I was taking cannabis for fun. As noted, schizophrenics never heal, that’s a given. But drug addicts do. So he ignored the one for the other. My mother’s lack of awareness and her naivety is something Chris exploited for the last 30 years of her life, at least. Perhaps his whole life. So she lost her trust in me, she lost her understanding of who and what I actually was as age diminished her mind.

But what I was, has never changed—but for a solid and identifiable influence; drugs and alcohol for 4 years. Yet even on that stuff I NEVER threatened my mother physically, mentally, psychologically, or in any other way you can conceive. I loved my mother dearly. And though I certainly lost my cool with my father, I never did so to him either. That is not me. It never will be. You really think that in the thousands of arguments I had with my dad, I wouldn’t lash out physically if I was mentally ill? In fact he lashed out at me, giving me a fat lip but I never hit back, and I was about 23 years old [my time on drugs]. I respected my parents on that fundamental level, always.

Having said that, I was and am not perfect. This accusation of mental illness against me did not come out of a vacuum. I am not here to claim such. I made much of a mess of my life on my own. But it needs contextualisation within the framework of what influenced me, and how young I was when such influences started. Including drinking alcohol which was ordained for me when I was 14 years old. In fact I was allowed to make my own beer at home at that age. And not just by my immediate family in Australian, but by all my Armstrong cousins and their friends in Ireland. All my family peers, and known relatives there, besides the Grays and Bells. The other two branches of my family.

And when I asked my mother about Israel a year or so before she died, she said “It was prophesised”, because her television and her church tell her so. And anything I might say to the contrary is some “conspiracy theory”, and proof I am not mentally stable. I might have tried to tell her that orthodox Jews themselves, and many Jewish academics, as well as thousands of Israel’s Jewish citizens, don’t accept this  “prophecy” and the government there now. And that thousands of Christians were killed and evicted in this “prophesy” by modern military. I might have told her that Israel was declared by Britain in a letter by a man who himself claimed it was to rid England of Jews as they were being attacked in the streets—-Arthur Balfour. Such attempts at such things always failed. A hypnotized woman. Perhaps you are too. The Freudian premise is shared by millions of people, and all governments of the world today. But—and this is another reason I write— there was and is an opposing premise to Freud. One written a hundred years before Freud, which we will look at later. So you might want to think again about Freud the atheist Freemasonic Jew. And about the nature of our age where people like my brother can hold such sway with such nonsense. And snatch at peoples attention with spastic “artwork”. The age is called pax Judaica. And the illness is mental.

…very oblique, or no, didacticism.

Didacticism [teaching] ended in art when the masses learnt to read. Now it is called  ‘statement’. But even so, he does claim to be giving one out with his art.

.. for people to see beyond the everyday,-  to see the wonder… feel joy in recognizing our abundances … (and hopefully that being an antidote to consumerism).

Whatever you put in front of people to interpret, you are denying them a million things to think about. You cannot interpret a soccer ball as a cloud, or a frog or a bicycle, and so on. So there is always statement in art of some kind. But by saying there is no lesson, and the viewer is “invited to finish the work” he has tried to claim it is otherwise. He has tried to trick us about that fact with talk of light, which, yes, we do need to interpret everything. But these two concepts are different.

And so I eventually opened and read my brother’s letter, which talked of racism in Australia against the Chinese, and how he hoped it wouldn’t effect us, among other things. It sounds like concern, doesn’t it? But when my daughter was in an accident and in hospital a year later [two years after arriving], not one word from big brother. Not one word or question for his “mentally ill” brother and family, even via my mother, who I was always in regular contact with of course. [Just as in my time in China, where I made a point of staying it touch with her continually]. My mother flew down to Tasmania to be with her granddaughter in hospital, and he couldn’t form a word to send with her, or a toy, or game, card or anything positive. That dodgy letter had been all. Still sulking about one conversation 11 years earlier, where I never raised my voice, threatened or anything of the kind [I never do] and he never responded.

Not only that, this trying to discount my life as meaningful and real to others regarding mental stability, is hard for him to maintain these days, so he has added a new layer, and is now saying I am hateful, a deeply hateful personality. Specifically that I have carried on some private grudges to people from childhood. I am just that petty, that damaged. Actually the opposite is true. I am the one striving against those who hate and diminish me. Striving to have some communication and friendship. This psychopathic premise has infected some of my school friends too, as noted. Yet I still write to them, sending witty writing to the group I attended school with, planning a reunion.

And when I emailed Chris Bell asking why he is on this latest trashing, with again no evidence, I got no answer. No acknowledgment. But later I will tell you what he is basing that on. For I know. Unfortunately for him it is a lie, as all parties involved can confirm.

The last time I saw my brother, a day or two after my mother’s funeral in 2023, he drove off as we closed the boot of his car, having got out our luggage at the airport. No goodbye. Because he was angry that I hadn’t hugged his girlfriend goodbye back at the house—though I said goodbye in a polite way. A woman I had met a few days beforehand. Then he sent me an apology email, explaining why and asking me to apologise to my family. It was after this that I heard he’d been saying I was holding on to past hates.

And something else happened at the airport. After he helped us unload our luggage, he said to my daughter Fay, then 16,  privately as he passed her; “I’ll see you when you are twenty one.”, and immediately got back in the car and drove off. He said this because my mother has left Fay money in her will, to be given her when she is 21 years old, and he has the power of attorney, he is in charge of this inheritance distribution. But Maggie and I had decided this inheritance should be kept a secret from Fay, in order to motivate her in her schooling and planning.  He knew this, as I had told him back at the house, just before getting in the car. Asking him not to mention it in the drive. But he went out of his way to try and tell her. And in my email back to him I asked him about this, about whether he believes he will see Fay again when she is 21. No answer. Also, I had caught him back at the house giving Fay his email address when these two were alone in the room. Not such a bad thing necessarily—but he knows if Fay wanted to contact him her parents have his email address. Most people would understand that, and respect it. So it fits in the scheme of things. He is totally committed to branding me mentally ill, and sees a dissolution of my family as inevitable. Maybe a suicide, right? Then he might just appear justified for his rumour, and have a new disciple of adoration in my daughter, as I once was. A girl, like the rest of humanity, reliant on family support. Family support he has destroyed—but for this posing of himself as being there. Waiting for her. And he is willing to get it behind her parents’ backs.

No one thinks a proclaimed mental health expert is mentally ill themselves. Its the ultimate disguise, the ultimate cover and self-excusing for a psychopath. The ultimate way to claim authority and knowledge at the expense of others is to claim a person has been proven to be ‘schizophrenic’. Where is the proof? Such an impressive and formidable word. Not only do these people not face me, they have all my thinking represented for them in volumes of writing freely available to the public and sometimes sent to them specifically. Evidence they can refer to if there was any issue. More than 99.99% of people, I put my thoughts in writing and make them publicly available. While they give out nothing. Where is my brother on all this hard evidence in practical reality? Hiding himself. Hiding himself even from me the accused. Waiting, murmuring. Hiding something from the world, hiding from the chance of solution as he attacks, enjoys the attacking in secrecy. Just like my father, as you will see.

5

Before deciphering his webpage, let me give you a quick example of Chris’s penchant for mental manipulation and secret attack. One of two examples that happened at our mother’s funeral in 2023. [I will explain the other one later]. He was in charge of the production, and he showed on the screen only one photo of our family, the whole family of four together posing for it. In it I have my head bent over to the side and it looks quite ridiculous. Insane actually. I look like an oddity. Someone trying to wreck the photo maybe. But I did that as a joke, as we had just taken the photo, so I was now kidding around. I had had my head bent like that in hugging my mother in the previous one. And the joke was that my head was permanently like that.  Funny, right? But he chose that photo over the first one. And he then stole it and others from the collection which he had told me I could have, without telling me. [He got first choice, uninterrupted. Tricky.] No one at the funeral would ever know the truth, if I wasn’t writing. If you were at the funeral, you will probably remember that photo. Same clothes, same position, same lighting, same day as this one;

He also deliberately bypassed other family photos such as this one.

So returning to the home page; the meaning of this “artwork” is to be found in Chinese astrology, and a detail of my life I need to explain.

Chris believes in Chinese astrology to some degree. I myself believed in it from way back in 1994, when I lived with an old Chinese man—which I am getting to in my life’s chronology below. And I was very into it when I last saw my brother in 2004, before going to? China, to live there for 11 years constant.

No, I am not saying he designed the homepage just for me, nor that it is all about me [I am just one of three aspects]. I am saying that he himself believes in Chinese astrology, and becasue he knows I can read the artwork in this way, he needed to send me a torrent of bullshit to pretend it is otherwise. And to use that chance to tell me, in his own way, I am a schizophrenic. Meaning to rile me, just as he did at the funeral, twice. If I had lost my cool at the funeral it would have been music to his ears. Don’t believe me? Read on. And I will explain how I became a very highly-strung young man, and he has found a sport of this over the years.

So the big table represents a horse, my brother was born in the Chinese year of the horse, and it carries something, shows it to the world, shares it with the world, as does my brother with the sophisticated trash he calls art. And the small table represents a dog, as I was born in the year of the dog. The dog is seemingly hiding that light. This is a reference to my having left my possessions under the my mother’s house when I went to China. And the cabinet with a hole off into the distance is our mother who was born in the year of the rabbit. Rabbits live in holes. The lights in the cabinet being 95% on one side are for obvious reasons; Chris got all the good genetic material from birth. He carries on the light of our mother, I don’t. I am…”constrined”. [strange, contained].

A “dog” and his buried bone is against the wall, symbolising my possessions which were all in a single straight row of white styrofoam boxes [actually broccoli boxes from the supermarket] against the outside wall of the house, the right hand side wall, like this installation.  These boxes were full of stuff. 10 or so boxes in a row. Represented under the table/dog by a single florescent tube. These boxes were completely out of the way, out of sight and, I thought, out of mind. But someone didn’t like them there. And they were taken out and all the contents, pretty much all books, disposed of somehow while I was in China. Stolen, you might say.

These books were largely children’s books, bought for the day I would have a child. I pretty much had a library of children’s books, and many books on history. And some beautiful ornaments for starting a home. All bought from the inheritance of 10 000$ left to me by my father. Which I had felt was a justified use of the money. My father would have wanted me to spend the money on his grandchildren and on knowledge. This was in the crawl space under the house. But there were tools too, which were left in the storeroom next to this space, under the house. A rarely visited room full of clutter. Brand new power tools I quite ridiculously bought to do projects with while at uni. Which I left there for anyone that might want to use them. They were for the maintenance of the house. Tools which also disappeared while I was gone, and also without explanation. Some of the books were new, some were second-hand. Some were expensive antiques that I had bought in antique bookshops. For example, a copy of Robinson Crusoe from the 1800’s with the most beautiful prints, which I had bought years earlier from my own earnings. Hundreds of books worth thousands of dollars. All in the larger type of brocoli boxes about 60x100x30cm. Obsessive? Mentally ill? I lived pretty isolated while attending uni, and I relieved this loneliness and frustration by buying, and by riding my bike, and writing music. I would often go for long rides, sometimes as far as the Palm Beach lighthouse or Bondi, and out to Western Sydney or up to St Ives— all on a bike in a day from Fairlight. And often coming back with books I had bought.

All my paintings were there too. Stashed up in that crawl space under the house, out of sight of the world, just like the books. And two of my best paintings went missing. My mother wouldn’t have done that.

She told me she had been going to sell the house, this is why she had the boxes and paintings taken out and disposed of. But she remained in it for the next 20 years, until she died. I believe Chris persuaded her to have the boxes disposed of. Why do I think this?

Well, firstly consider the paintings that were taken. One was a copy of a William Blake print called ‘Jesus Descending into the Grave’;

My boxes were in a grave too, something also to be resurrected one day. And the other painting does symbolise resurrection, being of an angel in the sky among the clouds.

As though the thief had an agenda based on symbolism. There were plenty of paintings of other things, such as still lifes and landscapes, not taken.

Was Chris frustrated at my being gone for so many years without issue, and so attacked my property instead? I believe so. Every year I was living successfully in China—and I was in constant contact with my mother to say so— the less I seemed to be a schizophrenic to the world. How could a schizophrenic do that? And if I wasn’t schizophrenic, why was Chris telling everyone over his lifetime that I was? What was wrong with Chris?

And so when he called this art ‘Three Persuasions’, he wasn’t using the word to connote “tricks” actually—this is just his love for doubles, double meaning—and why he dropped that topic instantly. He was meaning types of people. People who are of such and such a persuasion. Extrovert, himself. Introvert, a widowed woman in her home. And the  “contstrined”. Strange, confined, contained in mental illness. That would be me.

And so, with the Freudian premise, the subjective world where someone is impossibly dangerous potentially, Chris and his type can treat them like utter garbage. I am less than human, not really me. He need not feel guilty about the theft, about anything, because I am some infinitely damaged and dangerous thing that must be controlled and manipulated. A worthless dog. On top of that I didn’t even go to my own father’s funeral. I am a traitor in his eyes. In fact he thinks dogs themselves are worthless. Yes, not kidding here. In his eulogy to dad at the funeral he said;

A much loved institution of [dad’s] through the 80’s and 90’s was walking the dogs. He wore them out at a rate of one every five years.

Psychopathic joke. At a funeral. My dad would have groaned in his grave to hear that, and near everything else Chris said at that funeral. Our dad, so isolated from his relatives, loved those dogs, shared his life with them. But Chris made that “joke”  because walking the dogs was where dad and I were closest. We did it for years. Chris hardly ever joining us. Also, I suppose, because dogs were another distraction, along with me, that dad had from Chris Bell the all-consuming psychopathic attention-seeker.

The table is also St Christopher carrying his Jesus, the star of David. Jesus is “the son of David” as the Churches now say. [This idea was a later insertion into the new testament—by the way. See Bart Ehrman’s book ‘Jesus Interrupted’].

I am the ‘constrined’  meaning ‘constrained’ which he couldn’t spell correctly because it makes no sense as an “aspect of self” or one of three  “metaphorical people”. So he deliberately misspelled it. Just like he deliberately misspelled ‘oblige’.

To which he immediately added;

I have to say, at the time these ideas were very much secondary to the thrill of the visual poetry.

“the visual poetry” somehow being separate from the meaning of these major elements. How does that work? I doesn’t. No sense.

I was most excited by the cabinet…

Bullshitting us. To which he added that it was playful visual poetry, so we will fall off into a dream “marching off”, and forget the question and the things sitting in front of our eyes. A playful hole in the wall to infinity. To which text he added that it was all about a schizophrenic who got shock treatment twelve times and committed suicide by putting a hole through his head.

All so spooky. Chris loves to be spooky. And he told me in about 2002 his favourite painting was this one.

A painting that reveals a skull that you don’t at first see. Only when you move to the side. We never saw the .44 magnum at first either. But he knew it would be found.

And all the wordage is just manipulation psychopathic. Saying the elements in your art don’t matter as much as “the visual poetry” is like writing a poem and saying “the ideas are secondary to the poem”. Ridiculous, and a diversionary gambit of mental manipulation. A dislocation of logic. Does a painting matter more than the colours you use? Or visa verse? Is a dancer more important than the dance?

He did oppose and oblige my request for an explanation. This is why he needed two weeks in all to come up with it. He saw the email, then pretended he couldn’t answer it, he was just so busy. He did something similar to Maggie and I by ignoring an important email for 6 months concerning the inheritance. Then when he eventually contacted us, he never mentioned it. And when we asked about why he didn’t answer, he wrote, “I must have missed that one”.

How many emails have you missed?

Twice he spelled the word Brautigan without a capital letter, as noted. Is this a real mistake because he wrote the fake application just before sending, or is it something he learnt from one of his psychology books? People study psychology the same way people study economics. To get it over their fellow man.

[Well, maybe that is a bit harsh to say of everyone. But here we have a good example of how low someone can go in life.]                .

Here is the last photo of the artworks he sent as more self-promo distraction from the question.

Did I say ‘artwork’? Well, another one of “the simple riches that surround us that we routinely ignore- and hence feel joy in recognizing our abundances …”

It will perhaps be Buckminster Fulleresque- mathematical, or possibly less ordered- a thicket in parts….

So he finished his proposal with three dots, and the word “perhaps” and “possibly” and “or”  and “in parts” in the last sentence? And “far-fetched” in the previous one? It sounds to me like more of the same. Thought diffusion. His “reasonings”. A man as insincere as anyone I have ever known.

In the end I really felt my mother was confusing Christ with Christopher. Yes really. This is not a joke. And there is a strange situation on her death bed I will recount. And it is why I said to her she had been hypnotised by him from a few years earlier, on occasion.

But we are still not finished with this homepage. To understand where the inspiration came from, we need to look at his eulogy for our father.

6

And so the rationale for this “art” came  originally from the eulogy he gave in 1999 at our father’s funeral, which I didn’t attend. In it he got in the word “dogmatic” as soon as my name was mentioned—for the first of only two times that it was mentioned. He also got in the word “furnished”, as in furniture in the same sentence.

He furnished Gordon and me with a profound sense of spirituality without ever being dogmatic

For anyone who knew my dad this statement is obviously contrived for two reasons; Firstly because the last thing anyone would have thought about my father was that he was dogmatic. I don’t think anyone who knew him, despite those he saw at church [when he went less than once a month] even knew he was Christian. I never heard my father talk about Jesus or about Christianity. Never. Chris himself paints dad as utterly non dogmatic in his eulogy.

I feel you all probably have had funny stories, had a funny story or two involving Paddy.

… his most prominent characteristic; his sense of humour. …a keen sense of the ridiculous  all, ridiculous in all things. For dad laughter really was a necessity of life. He thrived on humorous exchanges with people. Particularl particularly if they were at the laughing end of the deal. He could be very entertaining. [sic]

Secondly, Chris also says himself in the eulogy, dad was into “spiritual alternatives, such as Eastern mysticism”, and so on.

So ‘Dogmatic’ was a word no one was thinking. It was put there by Chris next to my name to suggest I was dogmatic, from my time as a Christian, as well as a dog by subconscious inference. Double meaning.

After that funeral he then got to thinking about what he had said, and how he could build on it—this subconscious association of me and dogs—and salt it into peoples’ subconscious, for he believes Chinese astrology is a profound truth. And to say it more definitely to the world. Let it resonate over years and years for anyone and everyone. This is why he keeps up an artwork that relies on movement to appreciate. Something not there in a photo reproduction. It represents his family, who he is—according to him. And he knows it riles me. He knows I know. But it is all subconscious to everyone else. He hadn’t liked me being out of his reach and being successful, and with a stable family and mind. So thought up this website to try bringing me down into his perspective, a perspective he could immortalise.  Isn’t Chinese astrology eternal after all? This is his wishful thinking.

And in mum’s funeral he said that we were …kept on a long leash. For want of a better phrase.

For want of a better phrase? How about tolerant, lenient, lax, flexible, easy going, permissive, indulgent, informal, compromising, undemanding, obliging, non-restrictive, accommodating, etc.,  as well as the dozens of phrases he could have formed. All there in his pocket, called Google. “For want of a better phrase” is the same trick as “it might sound far-fetched” [also a dog joke] and much else.  To cosy up to you. In his eulogy for mum the word ‘dog’ appears too. And again in a strange way. As we will see in a minute.

As noted, there is another reason for him using the word ‘dogmatic’ around my name at the funeral; my Christianity. I became so disillusioned in my early 20’s, while on the dope, that I once bought a box of New Testament bibles [not the old testament, worth noting] to give to people. I only tried to give away 5 or 6 in the end, all to the visiting Armstrong relatives in the house at that time. You see how it works? These people are over half of our established relative contacts in Ireland. This is why he is peddling this. He introduced my name at the funeral with that word ‘dogmatic’. Dad was never dogmatic, LIKE GORDON. Dogmatic would have been spread far and wide about me, because I was a devoted Christian for a while. And its an easy slur to add to the first one, as many schizophrenics do get obsessed in religious-based delusions. Unfortunately for him there has never been evidence of any delusionary thinking in me. And I have a lot of my original writing to hand, as I have all my medical records. And I have tones of writing I have online and to hand today. No one has ever pulled me up on anything at all; ever. Writing that is all logical and sensible. And, as you will see, always was.

Anyway, that era was during my time on drugs, and I saw my parents religion as a hope for my family to work it all out. Especially my dad to learn about his problem. Which was my problem. It didn’t. Yet was that attempt so unusual?

But here’s the point; I of course couldn’t communicate with my father. He would kick away any inconvenient topic for a new go at me. So I started to believe that, if he loved me—as he seemed to at other times— his problem was one of NOT relying on words, of not believing in them for the weight they carry to resolve problems. Called logic. He was discarding word appreciation for emotional effect, and loosing sight of the solution. They had less effect within his character assassination. Things like my being “utterly pathetic”. No matter what I said, he never could seem to comprehend it, respect what I said, the points I made for what they were, for what it all was and meant. He was over-personalizing things always. And had always done so. Things were always relevant to my character. A permanent fault in me he obsessed on, rather than practical reality. And he relied on repeating strong insults over and over and over through the years. Each time—I now realise—such insults get sharper, cut more deeply.

And I realised at the same time, that this understanding of word reliance, solved everything in all social relations too! It applied to life all round. So it was holy. And that humanity, by giving a name and nature to God in the story of Jesus, was accepting a word of reference to ultimate practical purpose—to love and worship God. That loving God was a practicality called human relations. To love God is a practical phenomenon, not just one of prayer. And this practicality was borne of words. A reason to be doing and saying everything. That faith in words is a faith in resolving things, is faith in God in turn. Which is that faith in the word representing God; Jesus Christ. A beautiful circular justification, a holiness. So I became very encouraged in us all working it out in this way. And this is what Chris is calling “dogmatic”.

“In the beginning was the word, and the word was God”. So begins the bible my parents were married by. And I saw that a full reliance on words is a form of sanity and utopia. And it was the real reason for Christianity.

So you see, it was a theory that was and is all logical, all sane. The only problem with it is that some people are too muddled to understand it, let alone accept it. Just like my father. And they will never get it. Yet the principle of words being thought—which itself is enough to help anyone— was explained in a book in the early 1800’s. Being based on a concept which is actually fundamental and eternal. A book with a title derived from the bible. The book is called ‘As a Man Thinketh’, coming from the bible line “As a man thinketh in his heart, so shall he be.” Thoughts are words. But it is more than that. For this same theory is actually the anti Freudian premise. So the two camps were codified at the start of the Industrial Revolution. One says that your thoughts need professionals you must pay. This camp is spear-headed by Freud. The other says your thinking is always  yours to control. The forgotten masterpiece of James Allen. And that it is up to you to steer it in the right direction. And that that is actually easy. Read the book and you will be there. That book I would be writing now if it wasn’t already written. Albeit it is ignored today. It should be in every classroom.

So one camp doing for social harmony/God, and one doing for the money and the Jews—formed in an age when bartering was in its death throws, but still revivable. And Chris has always been on that Jewish kick because of his name. He even dressed like a Jew for a while, with a round rim black felt hat.

Do I sound anti-semitic? Yes that is another stone he has been hurling. But we will get to that lie too.

I of course didn’t know of that book by Allen then, and I was smoking pot and was making a mess of this understanding. And causing trouble in my own way. Exacerbating the deadlock which I was and had been in with my father all my life. [See below]. And I found that book in a medical library in China, of all places,  10 years after he died. But don’t bother with what Wikipedia says about this book, because they are of course misrepresenting it. But you can read the book entirely for yourself here and for free. Try telling me that is mental illness. You will only look a fool. As well.

Furthermore, as noted, in his eulogy for mum we again have strangeness around the word ‘dog’.

Her caring nature spurred many compassions for helping the needy though charity work, church outreach, and rescuing and nurturing abused dogs. Her adopted Swiss daughter Heike even got her onto Facebook where it was really just a conduit for sharing heart warming stories of puppies.

That is so freaking strange!

He mentions charities and then goes off with dogs, as if Facebook was some incredible achievement. But then it all fizzles out anyway into puppies. What is going on? “…even got her on to Facebook”? What is that supposed to mean? A life of charity and she even got onto Facebook to look at puppies? Like he is trying to make an excuse to mention Heike her “adopted daughter”. Heike did this incredible thing, oh and by the way she is mum’s adopted daughter.

But he mentioned Heike earlier in the eulogy along with Karina, who was just as close to mum and around the same age as Heike. Just as much an adopted daughter. But here’s the thing; Heiki was, like me, born in the year of the dog, 1970. And Karina wasn’t.

Meaning the word ‘Heike’ appears twice in something over a thousands words, and the word ‘dog’ appears once. And both these words are together,

nurturing abused dogs. Her adopted Swiss daughter Heike,…

And she is born in the year of the dog.

What are the odds?

If this whole paragraph wasn’t such a butcher job of logic, it might not be so obvious. But he forced this connection and emphasis.

Why say “was really” ? Was mum surprised or misinformed?  And why only puppies? Mum had no real interest in dogs, she just liked puppies? Don’t puppies come from dogs anyway? And doesn’t “heart-warming” connote charity and rescuing all the same? Where did “was really” come from? Was that just Chris’s opinion about what it “really” was? Because in that case it would mean he didn’t think there was real charity going on with mum about dogs on Facebook at all. She was just happy to stare at puppies who had already been rescued. That is what heart warming means. She didn’t participate in the charity she pretended she cared about? Meaning mum was an idiot. Distracted. This at the woman’s funeral and in the context of all her charity work. He has used her funeral, like he used dad’s, to manipulate peoples minds, including subconsciously involving Chinese astrology.

He has wildly hammered together the idea of dogs and Heike. I know she was born in the year of the dog for certain because when I first met this woman back in around 2002, I thought mum was setting me up with her. And, being into Chinse astrology at that time, I had extra reason to find out what Chinese year she was born in.

All this mangle of words in a structure of writing that again treats the human to dog relationship as some cartoon sentiment. Just like he did in his eulogy to dad, as we saw. [More to come too]. Big lovable ol mum and her dogs, just like big lovable ol dad and his dogs.

What about the “adopted daughter” part? He had already mentioned Heike, along with Karina. Why not call them both mum’s adopted daughters when he had the chance. He said people “who were like family to mum”. But wait a minute. He said mum experienced deep loneliness after dad’s death, and as far as I can tell no one came anywhere near as close to mum as these two girls, who kept in touch with her. So why appoint Heike? Karina was right there crying in front of him. Why single out Heike as the adopted daughter? I think you know. Heike is the new dog, the puppy, I am the old one. Heike is adopted to replace me. This is all for people to take in subconsciously of course.

Did mum and Heike do anything together besides sign up to Facebook? Such as mum going and staying with her in Switzerland? Yes she did. Heike even wrote a book about mum. A professionally printed book of snapshots with jokes lovingly made. Why not mention that instead of Facebook uselessly and negatively? Because it didn’t involve dogs!

If you think I am reading too much into this, that Chris is really on the ball here, and its a one-off blunder, an oversight, a fucking freak of nature. Then reconcile these two sentences from the same eulogy.

Mum’s life took a turn with the passing of dad in 1999. She experienced deep loneliness in the decades following…

…as an absentee son all those years, I was continually relieved to hear of the busy and interesting life she made with you all. Going happily into her old age.

When thinking of Chris, think of a happy mum.

Below is a picture of the lid of a box my brother sent to me in Tasmania full of things I inherited from the house in Sydney. [And though he would later give himself a salary and pay his airfares with the estate money, he had me pay for this box and delivery myself.]

Unfortunately I have a possum under my house that has been sitting on this box, making it dirty. But it is reminiscent of a coffin [which might be deliberate] and is covered in dog prints, now obscured by dirt from the possum. I don’t know how he did it, whether it was from a real dog or not, or why. But here are close-ups of some of the paw prints.

These footprints are from, or made to look from, a huge dog. How on earth could this happen naturally? There were no dogs at the house or with neighbourhood friends at that time. The house was being renovated with a backpacker taking one of the rooms. Am I to believe Chris was packing the box and lay the lid down flat on the ground? And a large dog came by with mud or ink on its feet?

7

Before looking at my brother’s eulogy to our father, let us consider who my father really was.

I have never talked publicly about the problems with my father and brother. But the rumour about my mental health now has a life of its own, as noted. I care for my new family now. I was married in 2006 and have an 18 year old daughter. And I need to counteract the rumour and get past such relatives I have that have taken to it.

Now as harmonious as my family was and always appeared, my father had a peculiar hate for me. One he expressed in secret. Going into tirades against me, though never losing his cool, and embroiling me in argument. Tirades deriding my character with repeated expressions such as my being  “bitter and twisted”. And these moments would disappear, as though he was a different person at other times. The usual times.

Hard to believe, I know. And the other reason I tell you of it now, is I can prove pretty conclusively that my brother also has a negative fixation on me. [With much more to come on him]. Yet to understand my brother and the scenario he exploited, you need to see what my upbringing was like. How this opportunity was begun by my father.

After my father died my mother said to me “You were always his favourite”. And though I said nothing, I was thinking “You have got to be f-ing kidding me!” Such was my family, this weird double life my father and I lived, and my father’s success in this.

When looking for other causes for my father’s behaviour— besides the brain injury— I would say there are a few main ones;

#  His participation in the Vietnam War, captaining ships loaded with tanks to Vietnam from Australia. And though he never showed any sign of regret, or even interest in that topic, I tend to believe there was some sort of compartmentalised guilt and shame for this war he, the West had lost. And which is now admitted freely on Wikipedia to have been deceptively started by the Americans [The Gulf of Tonkin Incident]. I have a very clear memory of a black and white photo of my dad with an army combat rifle in his hand. That photo disappeared years ago, for some reason. Ship captains are of course NOT involved in guerrilla warfare, and I always thought this photo was just a pose. I remember when I was very young I asked him—in a normal amiable conversation— if he had ever killed anyone. To which he said, “Dozens of people”, and laughed. I thought by that that he had never been involved in such fighting. And I am almost certain he never killed anyone, but for his role in that war. But still I wonder why that photo disappeared. Did he regret his participation, and that image bother him?

# The loss of status his accident caused. Seeing himself go from a master mariner to being a roofer for the rest of his life. Albeit there was again no outward proof  of this ever having caused any resentment. And he never complained of his fall in status. I just put it on the table as a possibility.

# Being an isolated family meant psychopathy could be passed as confidence, and confidence was everything, confidence protected, confidence worked…or seemed to.

# Another possible factor is the negatives of home loans, which I now fully understand. And the idea of “this house” we were living in was often in our arguing. With comments like “Don’t forget you are a guest in this house”, being a favourite of his from about my age of 15. As were “Why don’t you leave and never come back”. And in the last conversation I ever had with him [mentioned above], he asked mockingly what I had achieved in my life. When I asked, without answering, what had he achieved, he answered, “This house”, instantly and with his slight smile. As though this was the ultimate success. And that was all he said. He had his house. Why didn’t I have one? He had worked all his life very hard, yet I was astounded to learn from my mother after he had passed away, that the home loan was still not paid off. [If that was the truth]. All this accords with other expressions he often used of not wanting me there. Such as “I wash my hands of you”, al la Pontius Pilate, and “I want nothing more to do with you”. The house was base, the house was everything, like a ship. And he was captain.

Later I will elaborate on this theory about home loans, and the idea where i was sort of extra cargo, a debt he couldn’t really bear. Working for strangers, the banksters he couldn’t identify. Though he risked his life in a failed war. While I was there, identifiable, extra cargo.

Anyway, to understand how these arguments were always initiated and kept secret you have to understand that they were not normal arguments at all. His was a methodology of embroilment and character assassination. No past fault was ever forgotten and resolved, and was used on into the future. Any solid point of defence I made, was instantly ignored and a new topic, a new excuse for character assessment, brought to the fore. And this is how and why nothing was ever resolved in the practical world. And how it could remain isolated from the practical, the public world. Arguments without resolution. Never a rule set down to follow, never a solution. And never known about by my mother and brother.

Who would be so evil? But was it evil? Or was it from the tumour diagnosed before his death? He saw me as an enemy of some kind, in moods that would come over him, and then be gone. He had this split way about him. Arguments would stop when someone came home or into the room.

These arguments were a constant overdoing of expressions, and severe language to prove I was wholly “pathetic”. Can you imagine anyone calling their child things like “bitter and twisted” from primary school age for years on end? I thought not. But we will see the same hyperbole in my brother’s eulogies. Using words psychopathically.

And so I left home at 15 because of him, becoming wholly insecure as a teen as a series of misadventures and drinking brought me more and more confusion as to what my proper direction was.

And yes, I made every situation worse. But nothing of this was and is anything one would reasonably call mental illness. Mental illness was another final stage of the derogation my father took to naturally. The final victory, yes. As incredible as that might sound. As I said, he mocked me as a “lune” in the end. And no, this last conversation was not with a frail and demented old man. In fact in the conversation previously a few days, he had thrown a punch at my face while looking away, intending to take me by surprise. Which I dodged because I predicted it. One of the extremely rare cases of my father using violence.

Some readers will probably be thinking now, “well, it was only words”. Or “why didn’t you just keep silent”. But you have to understand, that when a father criticises you like that, its like God criticising you. Your very existence in being doubted as justified. It fucking well hurts. You are having your loving intentions and effort presented falsely. You are having your soul questioned. You cant stand it, you have to try and justify yourself. And as I said, I think repetition made it so so much worse. Repetition year after year of extreme phrases. It gets in. The problem was, that whenever I got a good point, the topic would change. And this would make me angrier still. The name of his game—as I now understand—was to never admit or acknowledge ANYTHING, just change topic. As if conceding anything was a weakness, as if he would lose ground. As if this was some competition or war, or sick game. And I only really have a handle on it now. Especially concerning the fact of him refusing to employ me, that is to say, solve the biggest contention, my working life–which I am getting to. Why refuse? Because solution wasn’t really ever real, it was character assassination by any means. My lack of employment being just one of them.

I was in serious trouble two times at school age. Once for wagging a day when I was 9 years old, and once for forging a friend’s name on a used lunch order bag [at his request], when I was 7, trying to get a free lunch during a canteen crisis. I was also in serious trouble at 17, when I counterfeited 100$ notes, and successfully spent two of them, and got caught by the police. But NEVER did these or similar social concerns come up in my father’s criticism of me. [And yes, these arguments started when I was very young, say 6 or 7. I remember slamming my bedroom door in anger as I left them. I remember running away and getting as far as the old garage on Sydney Road where he picked me up in his arms and brought me home.] Only other things mattered in these arguments. Not the practical world, the solution. Thing which, I see now were hardly topics at all. And as such these superficial things were constantly re-used to frame my character. Why leave out these real social concerns mentioned? Because they involved the outside world and social rules were the context. And he wasn’t into making any sort of rules. I was me, he was him, it was a comparison in his head. Not a father there to shape and guide a child. I was extra cargo that he hated.

And such pressure, I now understand, had me turn wild. Had me stumble into adulthood as blind and confused as any child ever was. But we will get to all of that in time. And I write all this with some confidence after raising my daughter, who is now a well-adjusted and successful 18 year old. Having made sure to do the opposite to my father’s ways in certain aspects of my parenting. Naturally. Including explaining carefully every criticism I made of her, and never ignoring her answers. Its called being normal.

My father and I did get along too at times. In fact most of the time by far. And I worked occasionally for him in his roofing business from the age of 14. I liked working for him and always wanted more work than he ever gave me. And no, he never found fault with my ability or effort. And this is a major clue to what my father was about. For from age 16, after returning home from my first experience of working and independence, he continually criticised and antagonised me about my not keeping that job. Talking about how I had “failed”, yet never employed me substantially and consistently in this roofing business. He always employed others instead of me over the years. Years which my employment was a constant issue for him. Whenever I asked for work, he would say “I hardly have enough work for myself”.

But my failures in working life need to be explained and contextualised. They were never quite what he thought they were, never quite what he assumed, despite my explanations to him. He would change topic or might call me a liar.

To give you an idea of the problem with my father’s brain, I will describe one of his epileptic fits. He rarely had them, because he was on medication. Which must have worked because he only had them when he forgot to take his tablets.

I was alone three times with him when he had these convulsions over the years. He was totally and absolutely bewildered when he came to. Looking around, brow furrowed. I think in every case he had bitten his tongue and was moving it in his mouth to as if to check it. And he would ask a question over and over, especially, “who are you?” and I would answer. Then more looking around, more thinking. And ask another, or the same one, and I would have to explain his whole life to him. How he had come from Ireland, moved to Australia with his wife Olga, her name was Olga, mine was Gordon, his other son was Chris. And so on. Everything asked multiple times for about 10 minutes or so. Him stopping and thinking. Then another short question. Always a short question. Utter bewilderment on his face.

And so seeing this irrationality of all I have now said about him, needs something of this context. He saw me as some sort of profound enemy, I believe. Where did this come from? Why? I have no idea, but for what I have conjectured. In fact he would say to me on some occasions in passing how I should be ashamed about “the hurtful things you said to me”. This was total and absolute reversal! I never criticised him, he was never the subject. He was imagining a war that didn’t exist. No child judges their parents, and I never did. This was serious mental illness. But he could hide it. It was a game, a challenge for him. And/or a delusion. And of course I was often compared to Chris. And yes, I know this hardly makes sense. But it is all I have.

Do you think I am lying here? Exaggerating? Mentally ill? Imagining it all? You really think I would suddenly decide now in my life to blackwash happy memories, or neutral memories of my father? I realise my father worked very hard his whole life to feed, cloth, house and school me. You really think I would turn around and give the finger to all that just for nothing? Well that is up to you. I have no proof to show you. I did record him once, which I will explain below, and explain why I never went down that road of making a case against him. But this relationship started as such when I was very young. It was a given, and I accepted it as I accepted my father, the comfort, security and the the happy times of the family too.

Yes, I loved my father as well as hated him. As strange as that might sound to you now. It is hard to explain such an upbringing as mine in just a page or two. But I will never pretend only the good happened. Especially now when so much is riding on my reputation and greater family love from Ireland. Without explaining my father, it makes less or no sense why I went wild. Why it was a wildness I grew out of, and not mental illness. Yet, it wasn’t even that wild! I was never in trouble with the police [but for what I mentioned], I was in few fights, and the fights I was in I lost badly–in every case– as you will see. [But for a single punch to a boy in primary school who ran off crying–in an agreed fight. i.e he wanted to fight too]. So we again must look into what my brother really is.

I now know how hard it is to raise a family without that natural family support. But I have done it, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, let alone my own daughter. And I am ready to move passed the blockage that has become the cousins in Ireland, and have this writing as a way to contact other relatives I have. Relatives in their hundreds. I will get past my stupider colder relatives to the more open-minded and fair ones. Open minded, open hearted. This is why I write.

And so, as I failed to find my true calling in life, my true centre, and failed to find success as a pop star [perfect escapism] in my early 20’s, all my differences to my father were ever clearer. My father had gone into cadet school for his maritime career when he was 16. There he was told everything to do, and it was one clear rise without a glitch as he transitioned to a life at sea. He worked hard, no doubt, but he understood what to do. I was told nothing about anything, and derided for all the mistakes and later failed jobs I took and left. Over and over. Failures I can and will explain as reasonable—but which he didn’t believe. All exacerbated by a lethargy I had from a poor diet. A diet I could basically design myself, with sugary food always in the house. My father wouldn’t or couldn’t see the difference of our situations. And had no idea of the dangers.

I left home at 15 because of him, because of these attacks and moved hundreds of kilometres away, and got my first job in a small towbar factory in Brisbane, coming from Sydney. Leaving home to “never come back”— and doing the most menial of the jobs in the factory. I knew no one in Brisbane, and lived with a man into prostitutes, and who I suspect raped a girl who came to visit me while I wasn’t there at home. She was one of a very few friends I had there, in my 6 months or so there. Actually I had no close friends. He was a man who had tried to hang himself near the front door of the flat some time before I moved in. But the rope had broken or something. He showed me the mark still there on cupboard near the door. He had slightly bulging eyes, which I now suspect was caused by this failed suicide. He was a bank manager, respectable with two young kids who visited. And he refused to let me stay the last night over what I had paid for, forcing me to wander around in the cold through the night carrying my luggage till my train departed the next day. Why did I leave my job? I didn’t, I was retrenched. I was told that the factory had new owners and I had to go. In fact part, or all of the reason I hated that job, was because there was often nothing for me to do. So I was glad to leave. I returned home. My dad didn’t believe me. And of course this topic never went away. And so that was my introduction to working life and independence [after the 3 months I had spent in a caravan by a river waiting to be old enough to get the government dole so as to continue on up to Brisbane to find work].

My father was a brutalist. He was the type to throw you in the deep end for you to learn to swim. Unable to distinguish drowning from learning. And believing it was the latter. He often said that he went to “the school of hard knocks”. Right. Was he ever beaten to a pulp late at night by a gang as I was at age 13, ribs cracked, a week in bed? I don’t think so. Did he investigate that or mention this beating I took ever again? No. Did he ever say after it I should not go out at night, or stay out late, or not be drinking, or do this or that about it? No. And so my confusion and insecurity grew.

I beleive that, because it was part of the world, not in his closed system, he didn’t relate to it. And I now believe he thought I had deserved that beating in some way, deserved some ‘hard knocks’. That it taught me something. Yes really. My brother never received a beating, and he often compared me to my brother in our arguments. So it must have been my fault, you see. But later I will explain that beating and how it happened in detail, and you can judge about it.

And so the seeing myself as a pop star, I now realise, is an escapism from such disembodied and deep criticism. If the criticism wasn’t so personal, then some relationship to a practical plan could be formed between us, between me and the world. It never was. He never seemed to care for that. Never a rule implemented. Never any advice. As noted, the solution was always in front of him, put in his hands by God I would say, and he threw it away. Something obvious to any father with their own business. I wanted to work for him, as I said. I could have branched out on my own with my own tools and skills one day, or stayed with him and taken over the business when he retired too one day. But I was never employed by him enough to get by, while he employed others, ever-changing, through those years. People my father employed instead of me. And one actually proved a thief, stealing money from the mantle-piece of our home. A dero of a man.

Now having my own business as a tradesman for a few years now, I see it as the best job I have ever had. I have never liked working so much, never related to a job and the community so much. And while yes, it is mostly because it is gardening, I do do a lot of handyman work, and would have been stable from the get-go if I had taken that route to having my own business. Encouraged instead of criticised.

My guess is that he cannot answer why he did this. Not a sane answer. The chance to solve everything was there in front of him all the time. And he continually denied it. If he wanted me out of the house, why not help me support myself? There is no logic here. Whenever I asked for more work it was the same answer, every time. And the only reasonable half excuse I can come up with for him, is that he was going to the pub after work. And he didn’t want to risk my mother finding out. But that is just a guess. More compelling is the idea that Chris was the template. I began drinking when Chris did, even though he was four years older. Chris got a job and was settled, I should be too already. Later I will go through all my first jobs and you will see exactly what happened with them.                   .

And when I was older, 17, we had another argument, this time nuclear. And I decided to “leave and never come back”, again —after my failed Brisbane escape. I was cooking us dinner when it was just him and I in the house. Of course. I eventually abandoned the cooking and walked out, him having the last word as I left. So I put my  hand through the window and off I went. Family over. Then my mother pleaded with me to forgive him as I lay on the hospital bed. She had often said to me, whenever she found me crying; “I know there is a sting in that scorpion tale of his”, referring to his star sign. I broke down in tears to hear it yet again. That was supposed to be the ultimate statement of departure. And here she was. She had no idea. Just blind faith, blind love, as I saw it. And I wasn’t going to damage that love. I never complained to her about my father on my own accord. Maybe partly because this might make him hate me—at the times he hated me—all the more. As much as any noble sense of loving their marriage, wanting to support it.

And so I did forgive him at that time. Though it took me some years to come back to the house. And that was probably the worst decision I ever made in my life. Forgiving him and returning to the house. All in the name of Jesus, or so I thought. I was now 22, and from this point things got very serious. We twice came to such a crisis where I was arrested and brought to the mental hospital. Both times we were alone in the house. The last time I was drunk. The first time smoking drugs. But I will explain all that happened then, how they released me quickly, what I was thinking, what I was trying to express in my writing and lifestyle, and how it was and is justified.

8

My Father’s Funeral, My Brother’s Eulogy.

After the last conversation I had with my father, he was taken to a hospital or clinic or something, I have no idea why, he seemed fine.

The war was ancient. It was a given. And this life-long fight sort of became me. Even then, aged 28, I didn’t think to just nod and smile and say I would try better. Humorung the ridiculousness of it. It had started when I was around six years old [see below].

At the time I had just come from England because my mother refused to send the family dog to me, the dog I took to, and which took to me. I only intended to stay a couple of weeks. But I got a job to save money for my return. As well as starting to see the ridiculousness of such a plan; to bring the dog to Amsterdam. It is all so sad and pathetic for both of us that we never settled on anything. It has been said that when fighting monsters you have to be careful not to become a monster yourself. But there I was, and I am ashamed of it, and see it as natural at the same time. I too have a split personality, at least on this, on the subject of him. And this monster became me at times, as some monster he was fighting had become him, and I have treated some people, especially girls, young women with a cold cold heart. Some loved me and I cut them off for saying the wrong thing instantly, and some for being the wrong race.

And it was largely because of this, seeing him all but admit he had promoted this fake mental illness scam to hurt me–calling me a lune–that I decided not to go to his funeral. Get it now? I didn’t go even though I was living with my mother and nearby the church. And so to this day I have moods of remembering him fondly and wishing him back, and the automatically following moods of praying that God will never have anyone over me as I had this man. And that if I reincarnate, God will not let this happen to me again, I’ll get a different dad. So work that out. That is the closest you may come to calling me mentally ill.

I now invite Paddy’s son Christopher to bring us his eulogy. Thank you Christopher.

So said the minister at the funeral announcing my brother. You might think it is in bad taste to analyse someone’s eulogy, as I am about to. But my brother never leaves evidence of his thinking. There is nothing he has written, no speeches or anything. His art is all subjective. His words all about his art. No matter what he might do in the fake art world, he can claim it is art, and if you disagree, well that is subjective. So what? Nothing can be proved. But in his eulogy we do have something to analyse. Furthermore, I believe he used the opportunity to demonise me, as noted. And I’m not going to stand for that.

Furthermore again, I am going to give you my own belated eulogy below. You can compare and contrast. Part of me does still love my dad. I do still have much that is positive to say about my dad. And of course it will be all positive. And I think my brother missed the mark on  our dad, on his character entire.

I give you the eulogy straight, no commentary, which I will do afterwards. If you find it tedious, as you might, you can skip it. But, as with the email, I must give it all straight, in fairness. You might not agree with my comments on it.

I have transcribed it from a tape that was coincidentally one of a few I had digitalised recently. I thank God and pray for guidance in correctly critiquing this eulogy, as with writing this article. I think this “coincidence” of having the tape drop in my lap like that, is really no such thing. But rather God’s grace working in my life. I barely remembered I had it. And why it wasn’t in one of the boxes I had stored under my mother’s house, was because it was with a bunch of tapes of all my original songs, written in the years I was at uni, and some tapes going back years before. They were very precious, and so I had buried them in the soil under the house. Along with a poem that was equally close to my heart. The most extreme precaution against two people I didn’t really trust. No, not real trust. Thank God for that.

I have typed out everything as precisely as possible. Even when he stumbles on a word, or repeats something, I write it as I hear it, for I think it relevant. I have gone over it a few times. There are no mistake by me.

I also found it difficult to break it up into paragraphs, but did my best.

And by the way, my dad’s real name was Cecil. Dad’s real name was never mentioned at the funeral by anyone, even the minister. And not at the graveside either, which was also recorded and on the same tape. How about that?

——-

Christopher;

Um, firstly, I must thank you all for coming today. Um, without any family in this country, an upheaval such as this, um, there’s a heightened potential for trauma for us, through a lack of support. But the reality has really been amazing. And we have been truly rescued by the incredible support offered by many of you since last Friday. And even for the months before hand. Mum and I will never forget this. And we dearly thank you all who have rallied around us, just as family would.

So what of our common friend, my father captain Paddy Bell? It wasn’t his good looks, his warm smile and blue eyes that made his greatness. It was his substantial and honest character. Dad had a remarkable self-discipline, and enjoyed the pursuit of self-improvement. Leaving home at 16 to become a master mariner by 28 was, he often reminded us, a remarkable feat. To start roofing, after the harbour tugs, was also a testimony to his strength of will. He loved to drink, but he kept it in check. So well, that there was scant evidence to anyone at all, that there was a battle being fought. As much as people, Paddy loved to entertain ideas. He furnished Gordon and me with a profound sense of spirituality without ever being dogmatic. His inimical curiosity gave us introductions to spiritual alternatives. Such as Eastern mysticism, meditation, vegetarianism, even palmistry. His personal quests although faddish, would form an imperative in us to nourish the spirit in a considered and gentle way. It was a gift unique amongst my generation, and one that I hold very important and dear.

A spiritual curiosity was just part of Paddy’s broader thirst for knowledge. Perhaps it was all that boring seafaring time that formed in him a need for and a love of reading. For him the real blessing of living in Manly wasn’t the great surf or beaches or golf courses. It was Humphrey’s News agency. It was the centre of his universe. I doubt that Gordon nor or I ever kicked a football or swung a cricket bat with Paddy, but we certainly had great conversational training. In fact I will always cherish the warm memories of a regular occurrence in our home, that would involve these impromptu family get-togethers in the afternoon. Where conversation and wit would spin around the room. With Paddy all the while prodding it along with questions and wise-cracks. It was a simple and happy phenomenon. The television was defeated, and visitors were entertained. This natural good cheer of dad’s would be taken out into the world just as readily. A much loved institution of his through the 80’s and 90’s was walking the dogs. He wore them out…at uh a rate of one every five years. In this domain he would get to meet strangers and swap dog stories. And find out about who they were and what lives they lived… or were living. If they were foreign he would invariably astonish them with stories of their home countries, that he had read or experienced himself. It was a natural and uncomplicated affability.

When roofing with him I saw again, that any time was a good time for a chat. Paddy would often strike up a jolly conversation with the house owner from above, while I would be hanging over a deathly drop by the seat of my shorts, holding the awkward end of a length of guttering, all the while being fried by a 40 degree sun. But even at the end of such hard-working days, dad would find a reason to laugh at the adversities and bloom into a generous boss. Sprouting 20s and 50s for all who made it through. This generosity was an ever-present result of dad’s profoundly un-materialistically attitude to life. He was far more interested um in the substance of people, than [“sational”? Sensational”?] possessions. He would take half the neighbourhood to the Royal Easter Show, and let us run amok. He would look out for his loyal roofing crew, on washed out days. He would love the double-whammy of not having to cook, by buying the family and any army of guests mega quantities of takeaway food. I feel fortunate to have worked with Paddy. Although I hated it at the time. I learned [?]  much to see him working so hard in such hellish conditions, and keeping his good nature with his clients.

By this experience I came to an acute appreciation about what dad did since 1973 to keep his family comfortable and happy. He did very little complaining and even less holidaying. I also realise how lucky we were that gravity didn’t claim his life many years before now. Dad had a manis a magnificent resolve. His layed-back demeanour and strength of character would keep him cool and collected as he rose to a challenge. Of which the family had its fair, or sometimes seemingly unfair share. But underlying all these noble features of Paddy is his most prominent characteristic; his sense of humour. It would have been impossible to have known him without experienc  experiencing his smart and sharp Irish wit. He also had a keen sense of the ridiculous  all, ridiculous in all things. For dad laughter really was a necessity of life. He thrived on humorous exchanges with people. Particularl particularly if they were at the laughing end of the deal. He could be very entertaining. He could be very entertaining with fantastic truth-is-stranger-than-fiction stories. Included in his repertoire was his passion for ‘kooks’, as he would call them. As much as Paddy sought to engage in lofty conversations with intelligent people, he also thrived on eccentric characters. Oh how he would love to lend a learned ear to anyone abducted by aliens, or developing a perpetual motion machine. He liked the kooks of this world, I think, as he was close to being one of them. As a child I was often cornered into embarrassing explanations of Paddy’s behaviour.  For many years I ran the risk of arriving home with, on a weekend evening with a buddy, to find dad in the dark in his favourite chair meditating in the lotus position. They’d sometimes ask if he was O.K. I’d say of course he’s o.k. He lived on a miracle diet of sardines and porridge. Or people would find the secret room. Where of all things he hung upside down at the end of the day. “What’s that noise?” a visitor would say, and peep in to see dad dangling in this contraption having an electric shave. It was straight out of the Adams family. But he claimed it gave him a closer shave.   Even Paddy’s manoeuvre from sea-farer to roofer was an indication of his lateral nature. I’ve joked in the past that this transition must have exhibited a deep-seated aversion to land. I feel you all probably have had funny stories, had a funny story or two involving Paddy. And its been wonderful for me to think that in these past few days he might have been reliving them, in admiration and good cheer. I’m confident my upbringing was the best a boy could wish for. Paddy was a wonderful role model. Particularly in his respect and affections for mum.

Their love provided a home beautifully  devoid of tension. A real sanctuary. And solid in emotional security. Provided of course that he was continually provided for with cups of strong tea. If all this eulo eulogising sounds too good to be true, the chances are that he was. I am filled with an unshaken pride to have known Paddy, a father and friend. I shall miss you infinitely dad.

9

Chris top her. Chris top heir. I just saw that.

So let’s go through it. If you don’t agree with me, have the balls to let me know. I could be wrong, I could be over-thinking this. I could be nit-picking.

Um, firstly, I must thank you all for coming today. Um, without any family in this country, an upheaval such as this, um, has a heightened potential for trauma for us, through lack of support. But the reality has really been amazing. And we have been truly rescued by the incredible support offered my many of you since last Friday.

Why the word “offered”?  He didn’t take the support? He owes you nothing. He is “rescued”, the danger has passed?  And so you might expect jokes. Which are on their way.

…And even for the months beforehand.

Why bother making this distinction? It is making a sort of issue out of this support. Like support is measured by time.

Anyway, I happened to have been there living with both mother and father in the months beforehand, unlike my brother. My dad was caught in mid rant against me— even though I was working and paying board—  as my mother entered the room. He stopped his voice suddenly. Busted. That was the second time he got caught that I remember. If you can call it ‘caught’.

[The first time—by the way— being with the tape recorder. That was when I was about 8 or 9. I played it to my mum in the kitchen when he was standing by. And he suddenly got all coy, as if he had realised what he was for the first time. And he was extremely nice to me, offering me this and that, it was embarrassing. I think this was just from the tone he was using, rather than the words. You might wonder why I didn’t commit to recording him. I sort of wonder too. But I think it was impractical. Tape recorders were big in those days. Have one in every room? Expensive too. Anyway, he was a control master, a strategist. His ship, remember. And I was a child. All this started from very young]

Anyway, our  father was never frail in those last months. And his mind seemed lucid. Or as lucid as it ever was. I saw no support or a need for support of the kind my brother mentions here. He was in hospital for a week or two before dying. The suddenness of his death really took me by surprise. And this is partly why I didn’t go to the funeral. I was still in mid-hate for him. Now of course, I know I should have gone.

…but what the fuck would I have said!?…. Well, I will give you what I should have said soon. Hindsight is a great teacher. I have 26 years of it.

And so what is Chris talking about here? People thinking, “Well Paddy, you might not know this but you are about to die..”.

Mum and I will never forget this.

Its unnatural to go from “us” to “mum and I”, and should be the other way around. But if he had begun with “mum and I” it would have been too obvious that he was making the point of my not being there. Nothing was going to stop him from pointing out my absence, so he hid it down a bit into the text.

I was not one of the “all” he will now use, unnaturally.

And we dearly thank you all who have rallied around us, just as family would.

This doesn’t make sense grammatically or logically. He has strained to say it. Why? Try these;

We dearly thank all who have rallied around us.

We dearly thank you who have rallied around us.

OR

We dearly thank you all.

These two groups of sentences have two different meanings. He should have used one of the first ones, but that would leave people out, so he tried adding the second one, and made a mess. He wants the ‘us verse them’, or rather ‘us verses Gordon’ context. This is the language and technique of inclusion, of psychopathic manipulation.

But there is a sly wording here, isn’t there? For what is the premise he has asserted? Well, let me finish it for you;

Mum and I will never forget this. And we dearly thank you all who have rallied around us, just as family would.…if we had family. Yes, Gordon is a non entity, as we know. Gordon is schizophrenic. He is not himself, not anyone, not any more.

So Chris is claiming quite literally that I am not a part of the “family” which is “mum and I”.

So what of our common friend, my father captain Paddy Bell?

Compounding the above. Did he need to say that? Was there anyone there who was wondering what this was all about? Who Chris was, who dad was? Why they were there all dressed up sitting there? 

Also Paddy was a nick name. Why not begin a eulogy with the man’s real name? You might say that no one knew his real name. Well isn’t now the place and time to tell them? He right then and there was being sent off to the after-life, to be with his ancestors in the world of the dead, whatever that is, including his parents who ALL called him Cecil. Chris went through mum’s life as a chronology at her funeral. For reasons of his own he didn’t do that with dad. Well I will give you my opinion of why he didn’t do that. But the minister did give a chronology, which would have been given him by Chris and or mum. Where he should have said “Cecil Eakins Bell was born in Down Patrick Northern Ireland in 1936. He would receive the name “Paddy” by English shipmates when he began working at sea.”

Because actually, I have a real problem with “Captain Paddy”. It sounds cheap. Captain Pete? Captain Dave? Captain Mike? Captain Andy? But it fits in with the ‘let’s be friends’ we are ‘rescued’ vibe of the eulogy, and Chris’ making dad into the lovable eccentric, to better frame his attempts at witticism. But the man was a captain of a massive war ship, then a tug master on Sydney harbour. Then a captain of a bulk carrier in later life.

Dad had a remarkable self-discipline, and enjoyed the pursuit of self-improvement. Leaving home at 16 to become a master mariner by 28 was, he often reminded us, a remarkable feat.

Are these two facts related? His career was enjoyable self-improvement?

What is enjoyable self-improvement?         

Yes, it is true that dad did often remind us of this. But Chris is negating it’s worth and sincerity by saying dad himself was saying it was remarkable, and saying it “often”. It sounds like dad was being boastful.  “Remarkable” is Chris’s word, not dad’s. But Chris is trying to make a fun and lovable eccentric dad, and a Chris who was really above it all.

To start roofing, after the harbour tugs, was also a testimony to his strength of will. He loved to drink, but he kept it in check.

Did I miss something? He is now negating this will-power with the very next sentence. But worse still, it implies dad left captaining tugs because he had a drink problem. WTF is going on here? Well, I know. He dare not mention the accident that forced the change. Why? I will get to that in a minute.

Dad left the tugs for a very legitimate reason that should have been mentioned somewhere or other at the funeral but is not. An incident of top significance to his life. Dad fell and hit his head while working, and after a very lengthy court case that consumed a good 10 years of his life, itself a great achievement of his life—and he often said with pride that he had been told there was no hope of winning, but he persevered— he received compensation for company negligence. This gave him money to start another great chapter in his life, the rehabilitating an old gold mine. This new episode was likewise never mentioned in the funeral. Incredible. But the two events are connected. He dropped the first event, so he can’t mention the second. Why go to this trouble? I am getting to that.

This fall makes the transition to roofing a triumph of will worth celebrating. So there is a big and obvious omission. Read it again, it sounds like dad left because he had a drinking problem. As clear as a bell. He was the captain of a tug, as he had been the captain of a war ship. You think he just decided to start roofing? Taking to roofing from tug master is a massive step down. He had trained his whole life to be at sea. But oh, why not become a roofer? And so where exactly would be the “strength of will” Chris is talking about? Something is seriously wrong here.

But it all makes sense when you realise there was a reason Chris didn’t want to mention the accident and the head injury. Can you see it? Because if he mentioned the fall and head injury, then dad’s own mental health would be somewhat in the picture. A serious fall,  a head injury serious enough to end his career in an instant. A son who he fought with all his life. He doesn’t want to mention that because the same man was accusing another of mental illness. And you know who that was.

This jump is the most severe in the whole eulogy. And I reckon that Chris worked out the eulogy with mum, of course he would have. And the fall was put in and read to mum. And then he decided to skip it when reading it out. That is his style. If mum noticed he hadn’t mentioned it, he could just say “I must have missed it”, like he said about the email I mentioned.

Again;

To start roofing, after the harbour tugs, was also a testimony to his strength of will. He loved to drink, but he kept it in check.

These two sentences are diametrically opposed. Opposites. No one has a triumph of will and an addiction at the same time.

Busted. He is high jacking the memory of his father for his own ends.

And the assumption is compounded by him roofing in “hellish conditions” and being “fried by a 40 degree sun”. [and who says ‘hellish’ at a fucking funeral?]. Less of a reason to leave the cool sea. But he did. Just for fun… and a drinking problem.

The minister likewise never mentioned the accident. But the minister only read a chronology of dad’s life events. And as such, these would have been given him by either Chris or our mother, as noted. Let’s suppose it was Chris. Both the fall, the court case, and the gold mine, representing the overall bulk of dad’s life and concerns, omitted. This was not a fucking eulogy at all. But Chris couldn’t mention the gold mine because he bought it with the money from the court case, from the accident. Yes the gold mine was a failure, but this doesn’t mean dad was a failure in trying. Only someone like Chris would think so.

While on the topic, dad eventually returned to sea, technically a river, at aged 59 or so. This impressed me as much or more than anything. This was an amazing triumph of will. And not a small ship either. He was captaining a bulk carrier on the Fly river in Papua New Guinea. 4 things, the 4 most crucial events in dad’s life omitted, along with his name.

So well, that there was scant evidence to anyone at all that there was a battle being fought.

Dad went into roofing because he lost his job by being on the piss. Chris may as well have said that.

Dad about to enter his mine.

He was proud of starting roofing yes, and he was proud of the court case too. He talked—never boastfully—about how he was continually dissuaded from pursuing the court case. 10 years that court case took. I remember the night he won it, he was on cloud nine. In fact I remember the exact words he said as he went out late to walk the dogs that night. Standing in the hallway saying to us with mock dramatic comedy, “I’m going to gun up the big six [referring to his six cylinder Volvo], and  sashe along by the sea”. Exactly those words. I have a precise memory on some things, and this has always stayed with me. Largely because of what my brother said to this, which was a light-hearted comment that dad had been drinking. Dad was joking, he was just so happy, drinking or not. In fact it is the only time I remember him happy with his own particular concerns. And the only time I considered that he might have been drunk. Though I didn’t think so myself.

And then there were the 5 years or so on the mine. I remember telling people whenever I could, and including teachers occasionally, including the whole class when I could for morning News, that my dad had the richest gold mine in Australia. Yes, my dad apparently believed that. And I told it at school for literally years, at least three years. Dad had told me that. Often with “this time next year” or “in six months from now” and so on, “we will be millionaires”. Because the ore was that loaded. The records said so, according to dad and his partner David Doyle who got him interested. The mine was an ancient one and had been flooded when there was not the technology to pump it out. Now there was. But there was no gold.

He furnished Gordon and me with a profound sense of spirituality without ever being dogmatic.

Dad read esoteric books. He meditated. He went to church less than once a month, though it varied. But I know my brother’s angle here. He is ingratiating himself to the parishioners in the church. Don’t worry, he is saying, I have a profound sense of spirituality. But again he negates his point with the next thing he says, blunder style.

His inimical curiosity gave us introductions to spiritual alternatives. Such as Eastern mysticism,

A profound sense of spirituality… and spiritual alternatives too. There you go.

The only thing Eastern mysticism is an alternative to, lets face it, is Christianity. Not what you want to say in a church at a Christian man’s funeral. Not that there is something wrong in mentioning these things per se. Just the use of the word ‘alternative’. But it reveals Chris the atheist for all he is worth. Clueless.

meditation, vegetarianism, even palmistry.

Vegetarianism is spiritual?  Our dad never subscribed to the Eastern religions on vegetarianism. Why imply it? Many Christians are also vegetarians. Many non Christians are. Hitler was a vegetarian. Where is the “spiritual” relevance here? And meditation is a lot more understandable when you consider the man had a brain injury. And not him being some type of “kook”, as Chris later puts it. Saying his meditation embarrassed him in front of his friends. [Incredible. And no, I am not making this shit up].

His personal quests although faddish,

So we have gone from “a profound sense of spirituality” and “the pursuit of self-improvement” to his personal quest being “faddish” in a flash. Meditation was not a fad, partly because of what I just explained—called a brain injury—and partly because he did it for more than a decade. The same with vegetarianism. I remember dad saying how he was a vegetarian for so many years [I forget the exact number] when I was around eight or nine years old. And as for palmistry, he was friends with one of the most respected graphologist in the country, called Humphrey Reeves, who was also a palm reader of renown, and someone dad respected a lot. The name was said by him often in the home. I think they had a lot of phone calls with each other. I would take messages for dad, and I remember Humphrey Reeves calling. I remember it for a particular reason, which I am getting to.

Dad had taken me to meet this man once when I was about 7 or 8 as he took me to a lot of people he had befriended, often through working for them on their roofs. This man read my palm and dad was very impressed with what he was told. I remember getting back into the car and he telling me how I had an exceptional palm, according to Humphrey Reeves. I must have wandered off while they were discussing it, for I remember hearing this news firstly in the car driving off down the driveway. And dad repeated it over the years. I was only about 6 or 7 or 8. And that is how I remember this man phoning. Because whenever I spoke to him I felt a bit of pressure. Wondering whether I am living up to my palm or not. I didn’t want to come across as a fool or something.

So this life-long fascination with palmistry —and dad was reading my hand over the years after that—was for Chris something ‘faddish’. And it might just be because of this memory, this belief that dad had, that I had good or great palm lines, that Chris called it  ‘faddish’ . And when you listen to the audio, he pronounces “Even palmistry” with a tone of surprise, like its the most unexpected and outlandish thing in the world. Just as he will soon be dismissive of walking the dogs, which was something dad and I did very often, without Chris, as noted.

…would form an imperative in us to nourish the spirit in a considered and gentle way.

Weird. Why not give an example on such a dramatic statement? Leaving it in the abstract like this is a great place to hide. Freud’s bottomless pit. But we can see through it because “nourishing the spirit” is not something you can do alone, unless through prayer. Which is a word he couldn’t use because he is secretly an atheist. No way is he going to bring God into the equation and detract from his moment of glory. Chris Bell a life of being a genius. So he flung it out into the world of abstraction. As if you can “nourish the spirit in a considered and gentle way” by yourself. Sounding, to himself, spiritual and thoughtful.

It was a gift unique amongst my generation,

Insane. More abstraction where he feels he has no limits.

and one that I hold very important and dear.

People who say such things don’t have them. It is said to replace the lacking. Its like saying “I am an incredibly humble person”. At the very least he would give an example. And it would be of dad being this ‘nourished spirit’ that inspired him.

A spiritual curiosity was just part of Paddy’s broader thirst for knowledge. Perhaps it was all that boring seafaring time that formed in him a need for and a love of reading. For him the real blessing of living in Manly wasn’t the great surf or beaches or golf courses. It was Humphreys News agency. It was the centre of his universe.

Dad loved to be near the sea. Always had. Spent an hour or two a night walking dogs by the sea, sometimes walking along the water’s edge. He was formerly a mariner, from aged 16 to aged 36. He sailed small boats from even earlier. He had taken me out sailing on my small sailing boat. He returned to captaining a ship at aged 59.  And he had always lived near the sea. His whole 63 years, but for his recurring weeks at the gold mine in Condoblan.

What makes it such a travesty here is that Chris mentions “All that boring seafaring time” in the same breath. In order make his joke work.

I doubt that Gordon…

I have a problem with the word ‘doubt’ here. My name is mentioned twice in the eulogy. Once with “dogmatic”, and once with “doubt”.  And these are words everyone would have been thinking about me, via Chris’ rumour. There is some ‘doubt’ about Gordon. He was ‘dogmatic’. Remember, he could not say outright “schizophrenic” or “mental illness”. He wants people to “finish the work” themselves. These are subconscious affirmations of what people were already thinking/suspecting. The real give-away here is that he later uses the word “confident” in his love for opposites—here the opposite of ‘doubt’—about how he feels about his upbringing. Which is to say how he feels about dad. One and the same thing.

I’m confident my upbringing was the best a boy could wish for

You see what he has done? Remember, ALL my quarrelling, ALL my trouble was with this one man, our dad.

I doubt that Gordon. I am confident [dad was right].

But let’s look at it from another angle. Does he really need to use the word “confident” here? It sounds unnatural. Its as much a stretch as “dogmatic”. You use the word “confident” usually about something about to happen. Not how you feel. Does one say “I am confident that I love you” ? It is ridiculous to say ‘confident’ in a eulogy about how you feel about the deceased. When you use it about something which you believe or think, it calls that belief into question—unless it is naturally unsure, as in a future event. It is calling dad into question. Its the ‘thou protesteth too much’ phenomenon. Why use the word when there should have been no need for it?

I’m confident my upbringing was the best a boy could wish for

So he has gone out of his way to put that word in. You don’t get up in a eulogy and say you are confident.  This sentence is the crux of the whole eulogy too. Its about what dad was as a father. But Chris’ focus for the eulogy was me! And he has contrived it to get off a shot at me, by stealth. Because this is his way. Cowardice. Calling dad’s parenting into question inadvertently. Like with the whole eulogy, it is the most ham-handed arrogant piece of toxic garbage anyone ever wrote.

He finishes the eulogy with “I shall miss you infinitely dad”. That is grand assertion, with the solom tinge of “shall”. Why not “I am confident that I shall miss you infinitely dad”? Because he has used this hyperbole [‘infinitely’] in this last sentence to counteract all the jokes and tricks he has been playing, including that one. Who can argue with infinity? Much like he did in his ramble on “light”. You cant argue with the importance of light.

So let’s get this straight; he has used ‘confident’ for himself and its opposite ‘doubt’ for me. And yes, these are the only two places these words appear in the eulogy of over 1200 words . And along with ‘dogmatic’, also profoundly relevant. And they appear at arguably the most major concerns of the eulogy; what dad was like as a parent. On top of that, funerals are never the places for half-hearted sentiment. Especially on the most crucial of all topics, your upbringing. Chris has overplayed his hand here.

Furthermore, if he is so confident, why leave me out?  Remember, he had already included me. But there again he dropped me out of it in the conclusion;

He furnished Gordon and me with a profound sense of spirituality … Such as Eastern mysticism, meditation, vegetarianism, even palmistry. His personal quests … would form an imperative in us to nourish the spirit in a considered and gentle way. It was a gift, unique amongst my generation, that I hold very important and dear.

Remember I said that “unique amongst my generation” was insane, and infinite abstraction? Well he has obviously added it to give some distracting words between “us” and “I”. Otherwise the change would be too obvious. Why say I had this imperative right before saying he, only he, has it now?

Likewise with our upbringing. Was there one child in this upbringing, or two? It should have been.

Our upbringing was the best we could have wished for.

That is a natural and loving sentence. A sentence that praises dad. But he didn’t want to go with that. His mind was on me, that I never turned out right, on conditioning people about me. And so dad copped it yet again.

Well, you say, the meaning is not to doubt you. The meaning is;

“I doubt that Gordon nor or I ever kicked a football… with Paddy…”

Yes, but as I said I don’t think that is the game he is playing. He was limited. He had to just plant words next to my name, he couldn’t speak plainly. He believes in psychological manipulation and plays these games as “artist”. Dad introduced us both to a book about subliminal advertising when we were children, as it had pictures we could look at. And then, as noted, he got interested in psychology in order to wield it as a personal empowerment tool. He knew what people were already thinking, because he had planted that, been planting that for years. And here he is just affirming it. “I doubt that Gordon”. It is all he can do. Which he would go on to affirm again with his webpage. And you can see how his homepage grew out of this funeral project in many ways. We will see similar things. Such as his mention of “her saviour” in mum’s eulogy which looks like this;

….her saviour. I believe….

His only time in mentioning the saviour. His only time in saying he believes. Cunning stuff. And we will see more.

The other word with my name was “dogmatic”. And doesn’t Chris come across as just the opposite of dogmatic!? So so casual and steering clear of any sadness/solemnity. He had been “truly rescued” by “you all”, after all. And dad is a big lovable bear. He even goes on to say dad was “close to being [a kook]”. Yes. Everybody lets not be too formal or religious about this funny eccentric. No mention of God or Jesus at all from Chris, son of a Christian, the Christian he is there to talk about. The eulogy, like his art, is about Chris Bell. Not a eulogy at all.

I’m sure you all have funny stories, a funny story involving Paddy.

As if dad was a blundering eccentric.

The star of David, the star of divide and conquer. Doubt as opposed to confident. Dogmatic as opposed to fun-loving and friendly. Brautigan as opposed to

-Light

nature

the world

Indoctrinated systems

each other

capitalism

politics

religion

Electricity

the physicality… of architectural space.

no didacticism

antidote to consumerism

And so on…

Also, I am mentioned by name once in mum’s eulogy, and again there is a word of uncertainty. In fact two words of uncertainty. The only words of uncertainty in the whole 1100 words.

They [mum and dad] settled in Manly, what a stroke of good fortune, and raised two boys, myself born in 1966 and Gordon in 1970. We were possibly the reason they extended their experiment to a lifetime.

..and the experiment of the possible of Gordon failed…

I doubt that Gordon nor or I ever kicked a football or swung a cricket bat with Paddy, but we certainly had great conversational training.

[He means soccer ball. We never played football]

Sorry, but “conversational training” annoys me too. Another one of these constructions that just sound unnatural, strained and sort of EVIL.

In fact I will always cherish the warm memories of a regular occurrence in our home, that would involve these impromptu family get-togethers in the afternoon.

And I have a problem with word “impromptu” here. If you run into a friend at a cafe, do you have an “impromptu chat” with them? Are you performing something for others? It sounds insincere, like a performance. Just like this eulogy.

How about you stop reading, find your loved one right now and say;

“Darling, I’ve never told you this. But I do appreciate you giving me great conversational training. I feel our impromptu conversations at the cafe are well received.”

“Well I am glad you mentioned it darling. And I am confident that I love you. I was wondering infinitely about it. Shall we go to SF? There are mega-quantities of gay marriages over there.”

The truth is that we generally all did our own things. Whoever sat and chatted was random, and it was always casual. Similar a chance of 1,2,3 or 4 family members being present at any time. With 4, the family, being the most unusual. And what is he basing “regular” on? Other families? How would he know?  If they are “warm memories”, why call them regular?

This natural good cheer of dad’s would be taken out into the world just as readily.

What is this supposed to mean? The long way to say dad was a cheery fellow? And did he not suffer realistic moods like everyone else when meeting people? What about his private “battle being fought”?

A much loved institution of his through the 80’s and 90’s was walking the dogs. He wore them out at uh a rate of one every five years.

Psychopathic joke. Trying to be funny and cute at the expense of the funeral.

As noted, it was this regular activity of walking the dogs where dad and I were so close,  unlike my brother. I used to love these walks. And so Chris is here belittling this idea, smashing the concept to pieces to make a joke of it. It was nothing, he infers. No, it was the true pleasure of his life along with reading. But Chris is implying the dogs weren’t precious to dad. Something like shoes you wear out and throw away. Dogs were a major part of dad’s life from about 1980 to his death in 1999.

You see that picture on the wall of the dog’s head? That was our first dog called Wolfie. A dog that followed me home from school one day. [We had another similar breed later]. He went to the trouble of getting a professional artist draw a picture of it, or maybe my mother had it done for my dad as a gift.

In his domain he would get to swap dog stories.

Dog stories?

The same. He is transferring the idea of talking about dogs to “dog stories”, as if dogs were characters in a cartoon, rather than a part of the moment, a part of his life. A real relation of living sentient beings created by God who dad loved. Really, what is a “dog story”? Just what he did at mums funeral with “was really” about puppies. Chris is above it all. Again.

And find out about who they were and what lives they had lived or were living.

Right. But I think Chris means dad loved to meet people and chat.

If they were foreign he would invariably astonish them with stories of their home countries…

This is hyperbole and it was also a trait of my father. Remember who was a “bitter and twisted” child? That was me.

When roofing with him I saw again, that any time was a good time for a chat. Paddy would often strike up a jolly conversation with a house owner from above, while I would be hanging over a deathly drop by the seat of my shorts, holding the awkward end of a length of guttering, all the while being fried by a 40 degree sun. But even at the end of such hard-working days, dad would find a reason to laugh at the adversity and bloom into a generous boss. Sprouting 20s and 50s for all who made it through.

Compounding the idea of “hellish conditions”. Why?  In fact dad told me occasionally how glad he was not to be working in an office. Sometimes bringing up my godfather as a comparison. He detested my godparents.

Anyway, was dad risking the lives of his employees, including his own son?  Was he negligent, easily distracted, Chris hanging over a deathly drop by the seat of his pants? No, its a joke, haha. Well done Chris.

This generosity was an ever-present result of dad’s profoundly un-materialistic attitude to life. He was far more interested um in the substance of people, than [“sational”? “sensational”?] possessions. He would take half the neighbourhood to the Royal Easter Show, and let us run amok. He would look out for his loyal roofing crew, on washed out days. He would love the double-whammy of not having to cook,

I don’t think Chris knows what this expression ‘double-whammy’ means. It means two unfortunate things happening at once. You cannot “love” a double whammy. I suppose he thought is sounded cute and fun, so he assumed the meaning. Also is he trying to say dad compensated his employees for rainy days when there was no work? Ridiculous. No boss in the world would or could do such a thing. Maybe he lent them money, but that was all.

by buying the family and any army of guests mega quantities of take-away food.

Army of guests? Mega quantity? I cant remember any particular large number of guests. We knew three large families pretty well, but the most of those family members that visited was three or four. And if others popped in that might take it to 6 at most. But this was not common at all. And does he really expect us to believe dad would order takeaway for his guests? I never saw that. But in a world revolving around Chris we can see these guests were Chris’s friends when he was young, maybe after soccer or something, and so takeaway might happen. So not sure what he is on about by the word “army”—but for inclusion. The same ploy as with “…thank you all who…” and “half the neighbourhood”, which also never happened, not to justify the expression.

I feel fortunate to have worked with Paddy. Although I hated it at the time. I learned much to see him working so hard in such hellish conditions, and keeping his good nature with his clients.

..to see him working IN WHAT WERE AT TIMES hellish EXTREME conditions.

…But underlying all these noble features of Paddy is his most prominent characteristic; his sense of humour. It would have been impossible to have known him without experienc  experiencing his smart and sharp Irish wit.

What is an Irish wit? Meaning what was his most prominent characteristic?

He also had a keen sense of the ridiculou  or, ridiculous in all things. For dad laughter really was a necessity of life.

I don’t think so. He was not a comedian. He was as much into serious discussion. 

He thrived on humorous exchanges with people. Particularly particularly if they were at the laughing end of the deal.

What the fuck is this supposed to mean? On with the anti-eulogy. Its all upside down.

He could be very entertaining. He could be very entertaining with fantastic truth-is-stranger-than-fiction stories. Included in his repertoire was his passion for ‘kooks’, as he would call them.

Big problem. These are two different things. A passion for kooks is not something in ones “reptoire” of stories.

Second big problem; Chris is pretty much saying that dad was just stringing these people along. Behind their backs he would call them kooks. That isn’t my memory of the man. This sounds like the eulogy from hell to me.

As much as Paddy sought to engage in lofty conversations with intelligent people, he also thrived on eccentric characters. Oh how he would love to lend a learned ear to anyone abducted by aliens,

Hyperbole in a eulogy is just sickening. And it is also what dad had for me, insults wise. So the eulogy does have a purpose in some way, after all; this document.

or developing a perpetual motion machine. He liked the kooks of this world, I think, as he was close to being one of them.

Why not go with “open-minded” ? Because then Chris wouldn’t look so above it all. Maybe Chris was the real head of the family!

As a child I was often cornered into embarrassing explanations of Paddy’s behaviour.  For many years I ran the risk of arriving home with, on a weekend evening with a buddy, to find dad in the dark in his favourite chair meditating in the lotus position.

Who is to say this wasn’t a help for dad? I put it to you that Chris is playing to the Christian crowd here. And didn’t he say before that this was part of “a profound sense of spirituality”  and a “spiritual alternative”, that formed “an imperative in us to nourish the spirit in a considered and gentle way”, which was a “gift unique among my generation, and one that I hold very important and dear” ? But now it is all Chris being cornered into an “embarrassing situation”.

Or people would find the secret room. Where of all things he hung upside down at the end of the day. “What’s that noise?” a visitor would say, and peep in to see dad dangling in this contraption having an electric shave.

Again, this is not such a big deal. Nothing to be embarrassed about. But Chris doesn’t say dad was hanging upside down in a store -bought exa-gym, not really “dangling in this contraption”. This practice has been popular for decades, it is called inversion therapy.

It was straight out of the Adams Family. But he claimed it gave him a closer shave. 

Well, maybe it did. And I remind you, dad had a brain injury. Is flushing the brain with blood like that not a good idea?

Even Paddy’s manoeuvre from sea-farer to roofer was an indication of his lateral nature.

Where is the connection here? A lateral nature is eccentric?

I’ve joked in the past that this transition must have exhibited a deep-seated aversion to land.

Oh, I see. It was setting people up for Chris’ wit.

I feel you all probably have had funny stories, had a funny story or two involving Paddy.

Not getting it.

And its been wonderful for me to think that in these past few days he might have been reliving them, in admiration and good cheer.

If it has been so wonderful, why not tell one of these stories. Where is your “funny story or two”? If everyone there has one, you should too.

Chris exacerbates the suggestion dad was kooky [Suggestion? He all but says it!]. Meaning dad was an eccentric with his own strange laughable ways. That the funny stories, involved dad blundering along in life. The opposite of what he really was. A control freak.

I’m confident my upbringing was the best a boy could wish for.

MY UPBRINGING WAS THE BEST A BOY COULD WISH FOR.

As I said, an anti eulogy. Maybe the worst, most offensive eulogy ever written.

Paddy was a wonderful role model. Particularly in his respect and effections for mum. Their love provided a home beautifully devoid of tension. A real sanctuary. And solid in emotional security. Provided of course that he was continually provided for with cups of strong tea.

Has Chris been reading ‘The Art of Comedy’ or something? That after a serious line, surprise them with a joke. They’ll love ya! Well, dad’s loyalty to mum is one of his strongest points for sure. And Chris can’t help turning it into a joke. Winking at the end of it, in the context of jokes and kookiness. Ripping down something that dad’s friends there could meditate on, for the sake of keeping the mood light. Incredible.

If all this eulo eulogising sounds too good to be true, the chances are that he was.

What the fuck is this supposed to mean!? This whole thing is one spinning mess. Deraigned.

I am filled with an unshaken pride to have known Paddy, a father and friend. I shall miss you infinitely dad.

Why “unshaken”? Did dad do something wrong? Is there doubt here? Or yet another reference to me. Gordon may doubt Paddy, but Chris is unshaken by that, you see. And why “infinitely”? Does anyone have a sense of infinity? He is just blinding people here. Having the last word. You can’t doubt or question infinity. Just like you cant doubt or question Light and it’s role as agent for understanding nature and the world…politics… religion, etc etc.

—————-

It is said that psychopaths learn to mimic emotions and the right things to say. Well we now know that effort is not always success.

So what would I have said, from my other half, that half of my split personality?

10

It is hard to describe my father, for I have realised now that he was incredibly dignified, while at the same time having a keen sense of humour about the ridiculous. I never saw my father do anything goofy, or fall or stumble or anything. Which is ironic as it was a fall, a single fall which changed his life so drastically. He was dignified but he loved the peculiar and found things like the Adam’s family and Tiny Tim very amusing. That sort of wit. Something that ridicules or shocks social sensibilities. But he was never a clown. He never mimicked or assumed a pose to get a laugh. And I never heard him swear in frustration. I never heard him swear.

[This is close enough to the truth. I never heard him swear but for two times I heard him say the f word only. Yes two times only in his whole life!]

I remember him often passing by as I watched The Gong Show. Remember that T.V show? A show of all amateur and oddball acts, and a host playing at dramatic despair. He would stand there for a moment with a big smile or a chuckle and move on. As though he had more important things to do than watch television. Stand there for a moment, and move on. And for that matter he never watched anything frivolous on television. He saw it only for its important information. Like a ship’s captain learning of the weather or of a war somewhere. Something to learn, more to learn. While passing. On his pay to the books he often read in bed before sleep. And the same with cinema, he went to the cinema three times with me, and one time with my mother. And one time I know of with my brother. That, I think was all, at least during my lifetime. So it was always only the nightly news or the current affairs shows or a documentary, things like that. An hour or so before he went off to bed to read and fall asleep, or there was no T.V at all for him. Falling asleep before anyone else, to be up early and gone to work mostly before anyone else had woken up in the morning. An army discipline of early nights he only broke for special occasions. And I don’t think he ever slept in. Ever.

Even when something really began to crack him up in laughter, those rare occasions we all have in our lives where we are taken with something inescapably funny, where we might slap the table or wilt around wipping tears from our eyes, my dad would seem to catch himself, to keep it in check, and pause for a moment, his head back, watching you, wipe his hand over his face, as if to wipe the smiling and laughter off. Until it caught him again. I saw the smile and the checking himself at his wedding in an old film footage. The smile would diminish be gone for a moment. Like he had wrestled it down by a force of will, and was scared of looking flippant. He was just so happy, beaming, as he stood there with our mother, and he tried to keep himself in check, he was always the captain on board something important, some great responsibility. And this accorded with his life. He never shirked responsibility for our family, even after that tragic fall. A fall where no gangplank was provided for him to disembark his tug boat, forcing him to jump. Where he fell and hit his head severely. What dignity there is in accepting that fate and building up a business in roofing. Like the lines of the Kipling poem he loved, that go;

And so he began serving the community as a roofer, and rising to the challenge. And fighting the long battle for compensation. Mastering it as a sociable and interested  friend to so many peoples whose homes he repaired. That is a triumph of will and responsibility, something that was, in the end, a part of his profound dignity. For my dad dignity was hard-wired. He never lost it, and he never lost his cool. This is for me his most wonderfully inspiring trait, or set of traits of my father, as I now think if him. To keep these two things that benefit those around him; to never lose his cool, and to keep strict self-discipline,  even after that great fall gave him epilepsy, and forever disqualified from the life he loved, the life he had bravely committed himself to from the age of 16, the life working at sea.

To quote a poem by Kipling that he loved;

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,

And then to win his court, vindicated of blame, a case that took more than 10 years, and putting most of that money, or all of it into rehabilitating an ancient gold mine out west, and loosing it all. And taking it all in his stride. To quote that poem again

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breathe a word about your loss;

So my father did this twice in his life. what an amazing strength of will. He never moped, he never complained about his life, the world he had to deal with. He just did what he had to do. An impeccable self discipline, that was a sort of isolation I was in awe off. And is only explained by an inner resolve to serve God. Something, an inner light that was expressed in his free and open sociability. For when I say ‘dignity’ I am not meaning snobbery or stuffiness or being aloof. I mean something more profound, more subtle more absolute and more constant. Something that never lapsed. An acceptance of responsibility and a way of moving and speaking. A way of serving God, a presence. And he told me on a few occasions how everything we do is being recorded. And when we die we are judged by God for this record. Nothing is left out.

When my father moved or talked with someone it was not something that ever really appeared to me as a separate event, if that makes any sense. He was just there, totally natural, always with a purpose. And I only realised it after he was gone. And he met people as though this was perfectly natural for all concerned. As one would on a ship to hear a report of the weather or exchange some other information. He always had perfect questions it seems to me now, and always natural questions. And there was never any awkward silence, never an “um” or and “ah”. Never an awkwardness at all, always a strong and solid purpose. I think now how incredible that is. I think that people must have felt that air of dignity and found it refreshing, sincere. Like they suddenly had to try their best. Even though there were often jokes as well. This is how he could talk to who me might call oddball characters too. He was sincere. Meaning that as I said, in this dignity he was never elitist, it was holy, some social good will. He was ready to consider your life, no matter who you were.

Yes, this might be hard for you to understand. But if you knew him, and think back about him, you will realise it.

He never struck his boys, though I remember him once just reach down to undo his belt, having me stop in terror, when I was a boy about 8 or 9 misbehaving and ignoring him. This is what I mean. He was in control. There is no dignity in violence, and he never used it. The threat was enough. He used words, he used intelligence. He pre-empted, because he was in charge and required to know the important information. He read, he studied everything, nothing escaped his interest. And his sons knew he was in charge.

Alone from mass media, and alone from any sort of common fads, alone from his relatives in Ireland, and a man who never returned there, to that country he was born in and left for the rest of his life around the age of 28. And alone in this weight he carried, this responsibility, and this crushing disruption to his life from the fall. He took it, and he never complained. And he cherished the woman he married so perfectly. Never raising his voice at her, nor she him. He was the perfect example, the ideal of a husband, and she loved him in total devotion. What a perfect wife. Indeed God gave me the perfect parents in this.

I remember three or four times in my life he would recite that Kipling poem to me, called ‘If’. The one I just quoted. Always without a pause, always the entirety, he knew it by heart. And I may read it to you now. It was last read to me on a walk near Manly wharf as we walked the dogs. I must have been old enough to appreciate it more by then, for this memory eclipses all the other times by far. Though I remember them too. And its last lines rang in my head forever. Still there in memory as if it was yesterday. The way he said it, where we were, a bell chime that will never leave me. I thank God for that. As if saying “now go off, and be a man my son” spoken with love and a slight smile on his face. A loving smile. That was probably when I was about 12 years old or so.

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;

If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,

And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son.

we would often see this resolute dignity just disappear as he joked—though that might sound so odd to you to hear it said like that. As he saw the ridiculous, saw a crack in the social propriety he seemed so natural to represent. As if he loved to see it fall away. As if he more loved that holy dignity of family happiness, like sunlight through clouds it captured him, of people relaxing, and he would kid around as much as anyone. But he knew too it was maintained by his demanding effort from himself to keep the family together. To keep our lives on course. My dad was very sociable, but amazingly this never became him. He was always his own person, always his own man. He was never drunk, I never saw him drunk. And never thought much, or even at all of the concern my mother had for this aspect of his life. That to me is truly incredible as I think back at it now. He could drink without getting drunk apparently. How many that struggle with alcohol can do that?  And I remember him saying to me as a child of about 8 how he hadn’t had a drink for so many years. I forget the exact number of years. It meant nothing to me, because to me he was always sober, always in control and always dignified.

And it was so moving to see him laugh, so infectious, I could only ever laugh with him. He would laugh or joke and I was automatically there, laughing and smiling, sometimes even against my will, such as when trying to finish some important point or self defence in some minor argument. Something, a logic he would carry on to the ridiculous, suddenly out of my control, sitting their making sport of me, somewhere it was never meant to go, and turn everything into a circus in an instant. He could do the same with guests. I remember family friend Alistair Christy telling him of a man who tried to commit suicide by jumping off a building but the wind blew him back onto a lower balcony. My dad said instantly, “And so what did he say. ‘Gee that was lucky. I’ll never do that again’”. Breaking Alistair up. In fact Alistair was one of many people who adored my dad’s wit and even chose him to write about him for a high school project. Unfortunately I only remember patches of this wit. I often connected with my dad on the absurd. A shared sense of humour.

But this over-all dignity, this impossible standard in life my father would uphold, would sometimes list. This great ship would sometimes suddenly be hit by something, like a torpedo below the surface, and my dad would be suddenly something mortal, something not my assumption, not another part of me which I took for granted, something suddenly human, a man, a human being there on the floor suffering intensely one of these epileptic fits. And he would come back to consciousness like a totally bewildered child. As though he had died and was back to re-learn who he was, who I was, everything.  Looking around, wondering where he was, wondering about everything. Asking the most basic question. Where am I? As though he had been to some other world that had effected him profoundly, effected him to the depth of his soul.

Am I being too poetic in this eulogy? I never meant to be, but it reminds me of one of his favourite writers, Joseph Conrad. Who also became one of my favourite writers to this day. A writer who took the time to frame his characters so they were as three dimensional as possible. If only Conrad could write this eulogy for us. He was just one of the people who might indicate to you my father’s great intelligence. I used to go for walks with my father, with the dogs of an evening, and I could ask him anything at all. Anything at all. I think we enjoyed these walks so much because we were a sort of match. As though he could exercise all his knowledge and I could find out everything I would need to know about life. These were golden times for us and we did it for years. So peaceful by the sea sometimes. I think he was perfectly at home, walking, by the sea like this. And sometimes he would say to me “gee you ask a lot of questions”. But we both enjoyed this time so much.

I am going to stop this now. I could go on and on. On and on crying. I would probably talk about the book by Conrad called  Lord Jim, and how dad took the name ‘Jim’ for himself. A masterpiece of work about a man likewise establishing himself away from home, from all he knew, and likewise totally independent who faced profound disasters with profound dignity. An inspiring tale written in the richest and most beautiful way.

I would mention how he never cried. Never saw him cry. And so on and so on. And I would read something by Conrad, and I might recite some lines of a Kim Taylor song. Of course in reality I could never do any of this, probably not even get up there for crying. Crying for him, crying for myself. Crying for so much loss.

I am tied by truth like an anchor

An anchor in a bottomless sea

I am floating freely in the heavens

Held here by your hearts gravity

All because of love

All because of love

Even though sometimes, you don’t know who I am

You and me, we’re charms on a chain

Linked eternally by what we can’t undo

And I am you

All my reasons tell me just how strange it is

Coming home to a place, that I have always been

And its all for love

And its all for love

Even though sometimes

I don’t know who I am

You and me, we’re charms on a chain,

linked eternally to what we cant undo.

And that would be something of my eulogy. Leaving out all I am otherwise saying in this writing. The hate, the pain, the disaster of a young man I became. And if there is a problem with it, it is because I refuse to go over it again to check it. Every time I do I start to cry. I have cried more in writing that eulogy than I have cried in the last few decades combined.

And so I hope you can see perfectly clearly now just why I have never bothered to write all this down. Or ever even tried to think it out in depth.  I have always hoped it would go away. Always hoped, assumed, there would never ultimately be a need. I love my father and I hate him too, even now. Nothing is settled. Nothing ever will be. Should I really try to work out this paradox here? But the fuckness of my relatives and some of my childhood friends proves that people thrive on a good story, a good rumour, on fear, on hate, like jackals they gossip and howl around my camp in the dark. Getting their sense of superiority, of having made it. Made it to what? I don’t want people I would naturally love to hear something about me from them first! To make them fear me so I can never even meet them. My brother his doing his best for that. So spread this writing on. And this includes relatives in Ireland I have never met. Any Irish people. More the chance of it getting to them, right? Especially any Bells, Thorntons, Armstrongs and Grays. You have seen that the hate my brother has for me is profound, and private. If it is private is it deep, limitless. Something probably begun the day I was born.

And my brother will only ever be stoking it, working at it. Enjoying it as a sport, the trickery. As my father did. I suspect my brother has said some pretty bad things about me, things he has invented. I have no proof. Are my relatives just that scaredy cat, or has he said I am a paedophile or stalker or something. Well actually I was accused falsely of online stalking which is just ridiculous. This was by Marita O’Connell. That would have been music to my brother’s ears. Unfortunately for him I have written a thorough article on it. I took it down because I learnt who and what Marita O’Connell is in the greater scheme of things. And written about her and her family specifically here . But I will send it to anyone who asks for it. So ask, you pansies!

Would relatives really just abandon someone, abandon a whole family because what, because I didn’t get the vaccine? Because I had a wild youth, took drugs? You see all my writing is lucid and logical. What is eating these people? Or are they just that cowardly they dare not look up, dare not think for themselves?  I can make no good excuse for them. Hypnotised by my flash brother. His runaway confidence …tricks. Deluded into the arrogance of the Freudian premise. Psychopathy incorporated. Zionism ultimately.

11

This chapter is the theory of where the hatred for me has come from. Its a little deep. If it is not your thing, you can skip it.

I have never hated anyone like I have at times hated my father. Not by miles. A whole different level of hate. He seemed at times bent on destroying me. To be deliberately wrecking something that if left alone would certainly work out. He would often say how I was on  “a  colossal ego trip”. I must have heard that one more than a hundred times for years on end. My whole childhood. How many children do you know who are on colossal ego trips? None? Well I was one. Likewise with my being “spoiled rotten”. My father was like something under my skin. Like something I wanted to vomit out. But only at times.

I tell this to you plainly for two reasons. To remind you after that eulogy of mine that these two emotions, love and hate do live in me side by side. And that I do blame him for all that went wrong in my life, even my brother turning on me. He gave my brother the lead, and made the hole in my self-esteem whereby my brother could parasite my reputation. He was the seed of turmoil and a constant derogation of my efforts to make sense of the world. He had a system, one of stretching me between two points. One of an impossible pressure and an apparent delight in hating me, provoking me, tiring me out with hate, embroiling me into hate. Calling me “bitter and twisted” was a circular logic, a self-fulfilling prophesy. Whatever a father calls a child, so will that child become in some way.  And he did this for years on end. And from a young age. I myself would find this article hard to believe if I had known him from outside of the family. And this was part of my pain, my insecurity. Fortunately for me though, by brother has revealed himself for doing the exact same thing; secret antagonism. That two such personalities exist is divine justice for me. A final reckoning, and balancing of the books. No one, I had always assumed, would ever know this relationship I had with my father. A changing of the world into a personalised war for me. But as the bible says, nothing shall remain hidden. As does the Koran.

Theory

Before moving on to the chronology of my life, which is as much an explanation as the above, I want to give you the scenario as simply, as theoretically as possible. Just one page of metaphysics. Bear with me.

Firstly, what is the difference between mental illness and insecurity?

I would say that;

Mental illness has no explainable cause other than the brain. Mentally ill people have some problem with understanding and participating in society, and therefore a sense of purpose and function within it. All stemming from their brains.

Insecurity is a reaction to a certain personality or set of them, and or the effects of drugs. The insecure are in a situation they can potentially explain and find their way out of.

But when someone insecure finds that they are labelled mentally ill by THE CAUSE, by that certain personality or set of them ,it compounds the insecurity infinitely, because it hides the cause. There is no way out. The insecurity can grow until they do appear for all the world as mentally ill, as they have been labelled. Add to this the drugs. And then what have you got? A diabolical syndrome. And who first promoted drugs to me? That’s right, my dear brother.

The cause [my father and brother] use another [me] to deflect real analysis of themselves [the environmental reason for my insecurity] in order to negate responsibility/participation, and appear unquestionable, authoritive, and normal. To be devoid of any responsibility as a younger child/brother normally provokes in people. Does my brother have any sense of responsibility? He contributes nothing to the world at all as far as I can tell. Just self promotion. No children and a partner devoted to legalising gay marriages, un-productive marriages. [see below]. He left his widowed mother alone in Australia to move to the gay capital of the world. How does that work? Is San Francisco so different to Australia for a modern artist? Of course not. 

Anyway, the criteria is changed from insecurity, where the victim might be questioned rationally for the cause, to a brain problem where nothing can be proved but for the subjective trickery of the controllers of the situation. Trickery with complex theories such as ‘schizophrenia’. Isn’t my brother delighting in trickery? Their efforts to alienate ARE their efforts to convince others of their status, superiority, lack or responsibility and accountability. So it is all so easy and satisfying for them. And to deflect others from considering their victim correctly, as well as their own lacking. The cause is hidden. Which we saw Chris do at the funeral by omitting the central event in Dad’s life [besides marriage], his fall and head injury, where the evidence [the brain injury] might be considered in reference to me.

So what was going on in my fathers mind that caused this to be pinned only on me? Why was I the victim here, and not my brother?

I believe—and you might not agree with me—that it all stems from three inter-related reasons. Two fo them being how my father lost his job while he had a home loan to pay off. He was having to earn extra money to pay of some anonymous people he didn’t know. I was the extra burden in the home, the second child. At the same time he had risked his life for a war that killed many people just going about their lives in villages, which was lost.  Meaning it was tantamount to just plain murder and a massive failure. People killed with tanks he had brought into the country. He had been tricked in this profound way. Now his soul was in question. Something he couldn’t face. He was his whole life paying, working extra for some anonymous people, after he had done something, again for some people he didn’t know or really understand, the politicians, a situation he didn’t really understand.

And this was a darkness he refused to face which was an ongoing burden of guilt and of physical labour, bringing anger. And I, being the extra cargo, was something he resented for existing as just that, the extra cargo. He transferred his sense of injustice and impudence,  from the invisible controllers, to me, the visible burden. This is why it was a sort of sport. He was feeling his way along blindly to blame something. He had to blame something because the unfairness of his life was real. And this unfairness, this emptiness produced in him a balancing over-confidence, a psychopathy that seemed natural because he was the head of an isolated family. There were no limits, no perspective. and the power felt good.

His sense of being in control was threatened by my being still a free spirit, still a child. Not having a burden, a duty.  It was all he could do because he couldn’t understand the principal of a home loan [a home loan literally means ‘death pledge’ in Latin. ‘mort’ means death, and ‘gage’ means pledge. Mortgage]. He took out his frustrations on me. All from his sense of being utterly powerless, clueless about what this dark force was. Just as my brother took out his frustrations on the inert objects sitting under the house. My father could, with me, be almighty, powerful again, as opposed to that clueless dupe. And so he goes from being a captain of nothing but misery and death in Vietnam, reduced to a labourer for all that misplaced effort, to now the god of a young child. Having been tricked in life, without knowing how that trick ever worked, he needed to bring me down to his level, life was an impossible pain, to feel normal, in control, justified, relevant. Like someone on a sinking ship hates to see people laughing and playing, not doing their bit, even though they have no idea the ship is sinking. And this is how he got to “colossal ego-trip”.  The sinking ship was my fault. Being happy— and I was definitely a sunny child— was an insult to him.

Just as Chris attacked those boxes because I was out of the picture.  And so the extra burden, me, becomes the problem to his whole life. The boxes become an insult. It is no good that they are out of the way and I am out of the country, as long as I exist, as long as i can exist as something Chris can’t achieve, as a comparison, I become, remain the problem. And you see the abyss between us. The man is a fucking mess .

And it is just because the extra burden is never doing anything wrong that it becomes a sick sport that must be kept secret. A finding petty faults, an attacking in secret, in a syndrome. Oh, Gordon questioned why I never say positive things to the relatives. How dare he. That was WRONG Gordon. Chris has his Petty faults and suspicions to believe in, to account for his natural lacking. Hmm, maybe there are body parts in those boxes. Or terrorist bombs. Better look. Oh, they are books. Ah ha! You see, children’s books. Gordon is holding on to childhood. He has psychotic regression. How pathetic. Let’s chuck them. That is for his own good…

That is probably another excuse/delusion for him now saying I am “holding on to past hurts from being bullied as a child”. And will be explained below.

Another factor in dad’s life is the changing of his name. This speaks for itself. My father was a confused actor in life, never understanding his situation. And getting grounded by focusing on petty things about me, the extra cargo, as if they mattered the whole world. Delusion. Oh, the extra burden is out to usurp, it is out to steal the house. The extra burden IS the dark force. And this is why I was kept there in this syndrome.

Otherwise why not send me to the army or a boarding school as threatened, if all this was real? Why not send me to my god-parents over in Pymble, an hour or less drive away? But most of all, why keep it secret? Helping in this way was the type of thing god-parents were supposed to be there for. Maybe that real possibility was another reason he kept it secret, made it secret. That would have humiliated my family to the relatives and friends in Ireland. Humiliated my mother who he did his all for. Maybe that was why he even decided to hate the godparents. He would have lost the war and the family too. The Bell parents failing would be the news. My godmother was Irish too, an old friend from my mother’s youth and of my grandmother. Of all my mother’s friends, he hated my god mother way beyond them all, if not singularly. And used to mimic her voice in jest. Which he never did on anyone else. Never seeing them at all for decades. I omitted that point in my eulogy, saying he never mimicked people. But he mimicked her, and only her, and for decades. She had a peculiar drawled way of speaking, and had apparently said something to my dad or about him, that upset him, according to my mother. And for all Chris’s painting my dad as a cheery happy-go-lucky fella, he never forgave people who offended him. And my mother admitted this to me in those words, more than once. Anyway, If we had ever had things discussed in the open, I would have been far better off going to live with my godparents.

And this is why my father never solved anything with any type of rule or condition or practical advice. Why I was continually drifting off into wildness. Because I wasn’t really doing anything wrong. I was extra cargo he was fixating on. And my brother picked up on this and it melded in with his sense of being impinged upon. He was having now to share parental attention with me, in a world where parental attention was everything. No other relatives. And so, Chris has devoted his life to securing his claims on relatives at my expense. He told me himself he would make Ireland his base when he toured Europe, more than one apparently. Chris was the master mind. Things would fall into place. He ruled the world too, you see. He was a captain too.

12

And so I drifted, and came close do death at  age 15 in pursuit of escapism, which topic we are getting to like everything else. That event showed me there was something wrong, something deeply amiss. I could die in this situation. I could wish to die in this situation. I had no guidance, no understanding. I had followed the pitch of my brother about how drugs were fun some time before, and ended up in hospital, closer to death than I can explain simply. Unbearable agony. Profound wonder at how I could nearly die, and indeed why I was still alive. And so I moved out to try it alone at 15, just months later. To my godparents? No. Back to the man under whose care I had taken the drugs. A hippy type. More freedom for me, total freedom, more unravelling of any realistc plan for my life, more the living in music, more the allure of becoming a pop star.  Albeit I never took such drugs again. But they, other types, would return into my life eventually. And alcohol was always there. Alcohol, as noted, was ordained for me at an even younger age,14, by friends and relatives, my parents included. I even made bear in the home at this age. As for my brother, he gave me his old driver’s licence to get in to adult drinking venues from age 15. And it worked.

Now let me add an anecdote that is emblamatic of this situation, this refusal of my father to think things out. His form of  psychopathy. And a  sort of symbolism that I think I picked up on at the time. And I wailed for the pain of it;

As some point, and I cant remember the year at all. Some time between my 7th and 13th year, we had a nest in a tree in the front yard. And I was on the balcony and saw this magpie or crow swoop into the tree, and knock the nest to the ground. And I went down and found there one just-born bird alive, and brought it home with the nest, and nursed it. Feeding it water, and I think, a mixture that the neighbour had given. I am not sure on that. But I did it with an eye dropper. I had the nest in a towel and kept it warm with a lamp. When I tapped on it, its mouth would open eagerly and its head raise and I would drop the water in.  And maybe covered it with the towel, keeping the lamp on at night. Anyway, I had it for a few days. And as this went on it was the absolute centre of my world. And my neighbour told me I should never give it honey. That this would kill it. And so when my dad said I should put honey in the water, I said no, and how the neighbour across the street said this would kill it. But he kept at it, over and over. I resisted for a long time. “long time”? Well, as much as I could. But he was breaking down my resolve telling me the honey had all the nutrients and so on. That he knew. It was perfectly natural and all that. He himself was a believer in honey for human health. And had at least one book on it. And so eventually I put some honey in the water, or let him do it, I cant remember. And a few hours later, after he had gone to bed, the bird got weaker and died. I remember that moment like it was yesterday [and I am wanting to cry here as I write it] where its head was resting at the side of the nest, and Chris was lifting it and he said it was dead, and yes, it was true, and I broke down and wailed. I couldn’t breath for crying. I saw it for what it was. My father had psychopathically interfered, he wouldn’t back down, he wouldn’t comprehend, and he wouldn’t see the result either. He would be off to work the next day, he was sleeping already when it died. I am sure my mother would have told him about the death, but he decided not to think about it, to face me, to apologise. He won his argument, didn’t he? And maybe the fact this neighbour was, we assumed, a lesbian living with another woman, might have played into it. I don’t know. I just knew my father controlled me. And I hated it.

And I think I thought—though I of course didn’t think this with my mind, just with my heart—that I was doomed. That anything I tried to do would fail. That my father would commandeer it, and trick the world. And this is indeed what happened to me ultimately. And this is a factor in why I was so reluctant to let him or anyone in my family know anything about any girlfriend I had, while I was in primary school. As you will see. I didn’t really feel that I had a family. Yet I wasn’t preparing for a life in the world. I was confused between these two impossible situations. Addicted to sugar I was also become lethargic, exacerbating all my problems. Part of what i will soon describe as the perfect storm. The whole story of how and why I got to be tagged with “mental illness”.

And all the bad decisions and mistakes I made were all under the category of escapism—including the sugar addiction [think ‘comfort food’]. Of escaping the confusion I stumbled into. An escapism, whether sugar, or music or television, or alcohol or drugs, all stemming back to this damaged man, and each one resonating, exacerbating the other. With a weakened body and a over-defensive mind, I wasn’t happy with life. And what does that mean? More escapism

Some years later I was on a fairly high roof with my dad, and we were attending to a guttering problem and found a nest in the gutter, and of course we were going to leave it alone. But he accidentally dropped a piece of tile into it and broke the eggs and he immediately said “those eggs should have hatched months ago”. 

And from an early age this problem first started. From the time I began to think and question, you might say, 4 or 6 years old, I saw a problem. And I remember running away, down the street I went as a 4 ,5  or 6 year old, and began up Sydney road. Eventually my father came up to me [I had gotten as far as the garage on Sydney road] and I clearly remember him trying to pick me up, reaching down for me, but I was running around, and he laughing because I escaped him continually. This is what I base that age on, I remember the scale, the size of his body compared to mine, of him reaching down to grab me, picking me up carrying me home. True, many children try to run away, but I remember this was only to do with my father, and I remember how determined I was. And in fact nearly every quarrel I ever had at home, a good 99% or 100% was with him rather than my mother or brother. Is that how your family works? I cant ever remember him quarrelling with them either. Always only me. You might say that this could mean it was always my fault. Well, that is what I am here writing for. I remember how our arguments, at first not all private, had me going to my room and slamming the door when I was very young. I did it so much that he would pre-empt it saying, “O.K, now go off and slam the door”. The problem was that infuriating changing into new points of criticism, never acknowledging my goodness, my defence in any shape and form it occurred. Never seeing the path to resolve things which needed the staying on the topic. Why my mother never comprehended this I don’t know. But after I returned from China in 2015, I said to her once how we argued a lot and she never once stood up for me. And she was indignant and said oh yes she had, and how she remembered once saying such and such a thing. And I just thought to myself ; ‘You have got to be f-ing kidding me! We had a thousand arguments!’ And that event just might have been a big reason dad took it all underground. I don’t know I cant remember her intervening. As noted, she also said to me, around the same time, not long before she died, that I was his favourite. She was defiantly the most tricked and gullible person I have ever known.

How can two such personalities as my brother and my father be in the same family? Good question. But another fun fact is that my father also cut off his younger brother and only sibling. Also for reasons no one can explain. He did this around the time I was born. And when I asked my mother about it over the years, including quite recently [before she died in 2023] she said, “His brother inherited everything, while your father got nothing”. As if that was a reason. I had heard that before of course, but this last time I told her there was no logic to that. And to this she said she didn’t know. As if she had never really thought about it. My father too would tell me about this over the years, how he got nothing, how his brother “gambled and drank it all away” often. And as it happens, inheritance was also an issue between my brother and I. As you will see.

And, let me remind you, we were all good friends as well. My father would sometimes say to me “let me show you something I learned in Texas kid”, as he tied a ladder, showing me one of the seafaring knots he knew so many of. He was a very pleasant and charming man most of the time. And I liked being with him. And this, asking you to hold these two worlds as one in your comprehension is why I have never even tried to set about on this massive task. But my brother being so visible for once, has inspired me in the context of my doing all I can for my daughter, my wife and I. A family we are, a stable one, and no one is going to interfere with it.

13

Here I present the events and ideas, often through books, that had me go this way and that, all the way up to this point in time from aged six, in explaining my thinking and beliefs.

But first a disclaimer;

My use of the word ‘Jew’ in this writing is the precise meaning of the word, and not the misinformed idea of a separate race. All anthropologist know, and have always known that what is called the semitic people are a broad group of people, including the Arabs— eternal enemies of the Jews. This has been confirmed with modern DNA analysis. The Jews are a belief system and a collection of familial lines only. Not a race, even though they themselves often use this idea to suppose racism against them specifically concerning their beliefs. Yes, there might be racism against the Jews, but it is as semitic people of which they are a part. I reject the belief system called Judaism, not the race. And the reason there is this confusion today is because the word “Semitic” was introduced to Europe as a derivative of “Shem”, a supposed “Jewish” ancestor of these particular people, the Jews [albeit they were not called “Jews” then, but Hebrews]. So ‘semitic’ is a sort of misnomer.

To be clear, I don’t care what anyone wants to call God, I don’t care if anyone wants to worship a book, or an ancestor, or a chair, or their hair dryer.  And I don’t care what people want to eat, their customs, their language, or even their beliefs on their supposed superiority. I only care about that which effects me and my family, and which I now understand to be banking. A double-standard secretive and manipulative banking as formulated by the Jews from history, from Egyptian beginnings. And which gives anti-governing and anti-culture its power. And which is written into their scripture—called the Halikhah—in order for them to help only each other. And this topic I have studied more than most. If you haven’t heard of that book, you have less understanding of who these people are than me. This book is studied by non-secular Jews than than any other.

You will not find any irrational hate in my writing. So put your stone down.

————

Without doubt the first influence on my life—beyond my parents— powerful and consistent through the years was my brother. Not an unusual thing, though I believe my version was more intense. As we know , there was no other family, and he seemed to me like everything to follow and emulate. Have you heard of the children’s book ‘My Brother’ by Anthony Brown? I remember reading that to my daughter when she was very young. Every page is just a drawing that seems drawn by a child, with the picture matching the sentence. For example a picture of a boy scoring a goal with the sentence “My brother scores the coolest goals”’. And on and on it goes. “My brother draws the coolest pictures”. “ My brother reads the coolest books”, etc. And then on the second last page the picture is just of this brother with the sentence being. “My brother is so cool. And guess what?” And when you turn to the last page there is this similar though smaller version of this brother pictured with his arms stretched out and the sentence is  “I’m cool too!”. I couldn’t help but chuckle at that. A pure devotion to one’s older brother was exactly what I had. Trying to emulate him in every cool way, because he is just so cool.

But my devotion was also a learning, a learning about what the world was, and how to engage with it. He was the master of it, he had blazed the way. Funny and clever and with great physical autonomy, surfing, skating, soccer. 4 years older, that is quite a way foreword. Before I started school I used to wait at the end of the driveway for him to round the corner into our street. So happy to see him again. Later we walked to and from school together for years.

Having said that, I had hints that my brother had something amiss in his attitude to me. But it was only really clear in the presence of my cousins, the Armstrongs and the Grays. Partly because I was sort of trapped there in Ireland then, and even in Australia when they visited, which made it possible for Chris to belittle me in subtle or obvious ways. And partly because, for some reason, some people in these families took to it, unlike his friends in Australia. Especially my cousins Stuart Gray and Gary Stewart. [Well that is a sort of joke for the fun. His full name is Gary Stewart Armstrong]. And the only time I remember ever physically attacking my brother was to do with this, when we were in Ireland. It was the last of two visits to Ireland, when I was 14, and I began screaming at him when we were alone, and actually trying to kick him and punch him, saying he was turning these people against me. It was so upsetting, and I felt like this holiday was being destroyed for me. Yes, this is the only time I remember ever physically attacking my brother. I felt so helpless, so humiliated and powerless. I was trapped in this situation. I had no friends to escape to. No doubt about that. He would mock me to make Stuart laugh. [Stuart now ignores me like the rest]. And so I lost it one day, and I was there trying to kick my brother and he is holding me back and laughing.

Here is Stuart tattooing himself from a video he has up on the Facebook page for his recording studio. One of my sane relatives believing I am mentally ill. I wrote to him a couple of times after decades, in about 2020, but he never answered. When I asked my mother [who he did communicate with] to ask why, and to ask him to answer me, he wrote to me a short note saying that though he doesn’t answer me, he is reading my letters, and for me not to worry about it. There you go. He is some sort of god now. Mine is not to question why. Just to offer up my words.

Otherwise there was little sign that my brother was formulating a monster against me as I grew up. And so throughout childhood I did emulate my brother. I thought he was so cool, so fascinating. And we did love each other and joke around a lot. It was just that I loved more than he ever did. Just like I did with my father.

One clue I had about my brother was in an exchange I had with him when his friend committed suicide. Another Richard, as it happens. We were talking about it and I asked the reason and he said “He was too aware”. This boy had become a punk rocker, and jumped off North Head cliff. I was about 14 then too. That has stuck in my memory as strange. He was too aware? My brother also said on occasions “ignorance is bliss”. An attitude I see roughly as the root of all evil.

If I could have talked in front of the class each morning about my brother when growing up, i would have impressed you too. It was my brother who worked out we could cut open a golf ball and unwind this long thin elastic band and use it to pull our toy cars through the house, to hit a ramp and fly. It was my brother who worked out we could stretch thread from the bay window of our house down to our neighbour’s house, get a figurine, stick a pin in the top of its head, bend it over and send it down the thread to our neighbour. It was my brother who used my dad’s pully and rope to make a flying fox between two trees in our street. My brother who showed us how to put cardboard from my dad’s guttering boxes over our skateboards to make something like hovercrafts you could sit on, and control the speed by pressing on the cardboard with your feet and hands. As far as I know he invented that. And called it ‘cardboard drags’. My brother and his friends who made a B.M.X track at the vacant lot at the end of the street, complete with hills, table tops, berms, and all bulked up with branches and undelivered newspapers under the soil. It was my brother who could fire an air-rifle some kid had at the same lot after school one day. Just like in the movies. My brother and his friend who organised the neighbourhood billy carts into a train, the front wheels taken off and each cart attached to the one in front, 10 or so billy carts long, in the days before public liability. Something that ended up in the Manly Daily with a photo. My brother and his friend who invented an unreal game where you kick a tennis ball through the grave yard  on the way home from school, with some scoring system I forget, but clever and unreal. Many such invented games. It was my brother who actually made a pinball machine with a board and nails and elastic bands with clothes pegs for flippers that actually worked. It was my brother who—according to him—started the yearly marble seasons in Manly West Public School. My brother who could make bombs out of firecrackers and destroy letterboxes. It was my brother who painted up his own T shirts and clothes as a teen, mastered roller-skating at Skate City. Much of my idea of the world, of fun, came from my brother. And I was always ready to tell you about my brother. Because guess what? I was cool too!

So my brother gave me one take on life, or one aspect of it. And my father gave me another.

The first problem with the evolution of my thinking as a child, was escapism. Not just the normal kind of natural childhood play, but pop music and television. I used to watch television with my mother till quite late at night. Unlike my brother. Maybe some of you can remember me running in late to class—way more than anyone else ever did. This because I had slept in, because I had stayed up late. So my thinking of the world was largely based on television, as much as on schooling and whatever my brother said, and the information I got from my father.

With music gaining a hold of me in particular, as well as junk food, as I see it now [ “comfort food”]. And this last point cannot be stressed enough for it brought lethargy, which I believe helped fuel my father’s criticism. A syndrome, or part of the syndrome. I wasn’t as physically strong as my brother, becoming “like a wee drowned rat” as my cousin Gary, Chris’s age, once put it, by the end of primary school. Junk food only had brought this, because I was devoted to sport. Late nights and junk food, something it never occurred to my father to stop. For my father would often say I ate too much of it, too much sweet stuff, yet he was always reliable for giving me money to buy it when I asked. Also my mother was always bringing it into the home. Something was always there at home. And in those days school canteens sold ice-creams and packets of sweet things.

As for television, no we weren’t allowed to watch in the morning, but it was fine after school and my father would often go to bed early of an evening. At least two hours before I ever did. So my television habits were out of sight for him, and so out of mind. Like the junk food, and everything else, he criticised these bad things, but never took any action at all. They were more for him ammunition in character criticism, and points to explain me. As I said he saw me as my own separate person, a comparison. And so I took on my mother’s addiction.

The influence of music began at a younger age than most who get lost that way. Maybe that has something to do with my being one of the first to grow out of it today—as far as I know. And one of the quite joys of my life these days is when I start humming or singing a song and think, “what is that? I like that”, and then I remember it is one of mine. This is why I often promote this hobby of writing your own music. I care not for fine production and performances any more. You should too, it will only deter you. And in fact I believe most music is better ‘unplugged’. And I now believe writing music it is a wonderful and natural therapy. Music is wonderful, but seeking it in corporate constructions is a dead end. Worse than that, it is programming. Which I will relate to my thesis on the Freudian premise and and James Allen’s book, the opposite premise in my conclusion.

So I was into corporate music before I ever got to thinking, and before I got the television habit. And in fact before we had a television. And it was Suzi Quatro who jump-started it. But hers was a curious introduction into music, I now see. You might even say ‘indoctrination’. Hers was the first music I ‘came alive’ to, and that song in particular—Devil’s Gate Drive. I remember dancing around to it, yes before we had a television. [By the way, I still remember the day the black and white television was brought in and switched on and the first thing on it was Planet of the Apes, which was a very frightening experience for me. Frightening on two levels. And how is that for symbolism? Nothing devolves the mind like television. Nothing ruined my life as it did. I must have been about 6 years old]. Anyway, this song came out in 1974 and we had the record. So I reckon I was 5 years old or so. And there I was jumping around in front of my family to this song. Our house at that time had a sort of bay window with a window-seat [later knocked out for a balcony] which doubled for a child’s stage. My family, for some reason found this entertaining. So this was all the more natural for me. I had arrived, I was all entertainment pre-television. I was cool too. Albeit this was something my brother never did. All the more natural again when you look into what this song was saying and how it was performed and presented. ‘Indoctrination’ was the word I used. Let’s see;

Firstly the song begins with a deep voice, as in a father, speaking the words,  “Welcome to the dive”. Yes, not “drive”, but ‘dive’. Secondly her voice sounds exactly like that of a child. Thirdly she is singing about five and six year olds, which was what I was when “performing” it for my family. She was also baby-faced herself. And I would have seen her picture on the record or on television when we got it. In fact she is short and somewhat sexless, like a child. And even the video of the song comes across like some version of Playschool. She is playing a full-sized bass guitar, again making her seem childlike, and there is this idea of the audience getting up and joining in. Like playschool or a class activity. Suzi asking for participants. See for yourself.

Do you want to go down to Devil Gate Drive?

Yeah!

Well come on!

So it begins.

[In this video they flash the word “BIBA” on he screen. Why would that be? I don’t know, other than it suggests baby speak]

Baby faced, a child in sound and appearance, and lyrics telling you 5 and 6 year olds are jiving, and you should be too. “So come alive!”. Yes, that’s a pretty good reason to participate. To come alive!  And the song is much like an anthem. It drives, it contains you. There is no letting go, no counter themes, and no empty spaces.  Just the words, the melody and the heavy captivating swing of it. Now I think her voice sounds too much like an air-raid siren. But you can see how it forces you to dance, to do something. And I did. It was either during this song, or the later ‘How’s That!’ by Sherbet that I learnt to mime the tennis racquet too. I was clearly a natural musician.

I was just going to write “I bet you it [Devil’s Gate Drive] was written by a Jew”, because of the lyrics. Sure enough on a quick check, it is true. This Jewish mocking of Christian sensibility and parental control is all over Tasmania, and what I have been studying for years in the world too. Alcohol [escapism/theatre/profit] and pot-shotting at Christianity and those who abstain from all that, is always in the thick of it. Any problems are all in your head, so says Freud. Anything goes on this Freudian premise. And so the song couples the lyrics about a child, sung by a child with rebellion against Christianity and parents. It also plays on two similar words, ‘dive’ and ‘drive’ in an insidious way—psychological manipulation. The song clearly written to exploit and enhance Suzi’s small stature, small to no breasts, her image and sound, and full-on rebellion. Just like the song ‘I Want Candy’, was written by four Jews [called the Strangeloves. Yes paedophilia is strange love, and ordained in Jewish scripture. See the Sanhedrin]  and eventually sung by a 13 year old girl in Jew Malcolm Maclaren’s band Bow Wow Wow. The girl having been basically plucked off the street.

“Bow Wow Wow has quite a strange and troubling history behind it…”, so begins the narrator on that video.

That young singer says she was a latch-key kid. What does that mean? Not the usually strong parental control. The Jews got to her.

Anyway, here are the lyrics to Devil’s Gate Drive to be sure;

Welcome to the dive.

Well, at the age of five, they can do their jive
Down in Devil Gate Drive
And at the age of six, they’re gonna get their kicks
Down in Devil Gate Drive

Well, your mama don’t know where your sister don’t go
She go down to the Drive, she’s the star of the show
But let her move on up, let her come, let her go
She can jive down in Devil Gate Drive

So come alive (yeah!)
Come alive (yeah!)
Down in Devil Gate Drive

So come alive (yeah!)
Come alive (yeah!)

Down in Devil Gate
Down in Devil Gate
Down in Devil Gate Drive
Down in Devil Gate
Down in Devil Gate
Down in Devil Gate Drive

When they reach their teens, that’s when they all get mean
Down in Devil Gate Drive
When I was sweet sixteen, I was the jukebox queen
Down in Devil Gate Drive

I lead the Angel Pack on the road to sin
Knock down the gates, let me in, let me in
Don’t mess me ’round ’cause you know where I’ve been
To the dive, down in Devil Gate Drive

A dive is a place for drinking, right? And I would certainly get into that one day.

This rebellion schtick of Devil’s Gate Drive is the same as Dark Mofo and MONA here in Tasmania. Which involves heavily the top psychiatrist in Tasmania. The one who accused me of stalking. [see here ]. You find it everywhere. Prizing religion and any hope of deeper thinking out of the minds of people in fake alcohol-infused sociability. Of corporate events pushed as rebellious and edgy. My brothers ethos, though that corporation is Zionism. It is always there in western culture. In Tasmania too, and Dark Mofo is the supposed festival run by one man, also called David, David Walsh. What are the odds? Tasmania the triangle. All designed by the banksters to be taken as culture. All these people are as fake as you can imagine.

Bringing me to how I think these days! I am not saying we should all be religious. I am saying there should be intelligence in dismissing religion, and intelligence in trying to understand the things that make us happy, and the things that entertain the young. The things that form stable relationships. For that is what life is about. And intelligent in comprehending “the secular Jews”. [As if religion didn’t matter after all]. And there should be romance in what we prescribe for our youth. Fucking and abortion is what they have now, and almost only that in Tasmania. The doom chic of skull, snake, etc. tattoos, all tattoos, piercings and the gothic. The fake rebellion, the tattoo as statement, and defeatism pushed as something edgy and intriguing. Oblivion cynicism as youthfulness. The lie as truth. Degradation- oblivion as inevitable, the only way. Ignorance as bliss. It all resonates. Life is fleeting, make a performance of it, resonate with the superficial, the media, grab all you can. Rebellion from religion/thinking in a bankers regime, is identifiable, and it is there for you to study. If you care to look for it, that is. And if you are a parent or warm-blooded at all, you should care.

The band that took Australia by storm —incredible marketing investment. Fake rebellion sold for profit. Chaos and tapping the frustrations of the youth. Thankfully, I largely avoided this stuff but it swamped media around me as a child. Absolutely. And these four Jews have probably broken more Arian hymens than nearly any others since absolute monarchy, including in Australia of course. Something they boast about.

• The Claim: Simmons has stated in multiple interviews that his count reached nearly 5,000 women. He often cited a specific number around 4,800.

Which is for 1948, the year Israel was established.

I just watched the first minute or so of the Kiss concert in Australia on Youtube, and the lead singer has the crowd cheer when he announces, as his introduction, ‘Let’s tear Sydney to the ground!’

Why I am going off into this tangent is because it is to look at that dark matter that befuddled me, media. And which also had my father in its grip, sending him off to a ridiculous war. Same people. Zionists. Pax Judaica. “God’s chosen”. So it is not a tangent really. It all relates. And I will eventually link it all up in a conclusion. For now know that I believe that if my father never got that bank “loan” maybe we would have worked it out as a family. And he got it to support the Jews. The principle of the Jews, the thing about the Jews that I care about—nothing else. Our family got nothing. Just loss. As incredible as that sounds. Not racism, and not conspiracy theory. But for another article.

If you knew how unnaturally this band Kiss were promoted from he beginning—and I have researched it—you would understand more my attitude here. For a start each of the four members put out their own LP record in the first two years they were formed. Each one, at the same time, including the drummer. Each one with the kiss makeup on head on the cover, for you to collect the set. With Gene Simmons the above mentioned fucker singing his version of Disney’s ‘When You Wish Upon a Star’ on his. Because? The Star of David, the flag of Israel of course.

Every face in that picture above, but for the one on the left looks full of self-pity to me. Must be that persecution throughout ALL OF HISTORY.

But let’s return to the main road;

Now why I am thinking Quatro is significant in shaping or influencing me is because of that anti-Freudian concept of James Allen. He didn’t invent it, he just explained it. Where words=thoughts=destiny. Words make your mind. Your mind is yours to control. The opposite to the Feudsters’ premise.

The next song that took my fancy was Sherbet’s, ‘How’s that’. This song especially, but the whole L.P record this time. I was now doing set performances, even if only to Ringo and Toby, our cats. This music was more transporting, the whole show more involved and complex. Musicianship and production which, when correctly mimed, could entertain anyone glancing into the room on their way to the kitchen or the bathroom, or have you purring in your chair. And by this stage I had learnt to play individual strings on the tennis rachet, both plucking and neck-fingering, so lead guitar parts were well within my ability as well. It came out in 76, so I was 6 or 7 years old.

But even this more sophisticated music paled in comparison with the next that came my way; Two albums, ‘Crime of the Century’ and ‘Breakfast in America’ by Supertramp. Which came my way from my cool brother, not my mother this time. My brother had recorded them both, by setting a tape recorder next to his friend’s stereo. And it just blew me away for whole years afterwards. This was superb musicianship, and I could listen to it in bed through headphones a thousand times, and did. It was more than music, many of the lyrics were stirring my heart and mind,

Won’t you please, please tell me what we’ve learned, I know it sounds absurd, please tell me who I am….

And try this one;

Don’t arrange to have me sent to no asylum. I’m just as sane as anyone, its just a game I play for fun…

In fact this song is about a man’s sanity being questioned by some prim and proper foil whose name is Jimmy Cream, and my father went by the name Jim Fitzgerald for his business. Which might be another incite to the situation. He was twice living by names that were not his, ‘Paddy’ and ‘Jim Fitzgerald’. In fact three times, as I found a document of him being “Patrick Fitzgerald” too. [He almost certainly chose the name Fitzgerald from President JFK.]

Things just branched out musically from then, but all of it seemed to be introduced to me by my brother from then on.

14

Love, the perfect escape. Denied.

The next major influence in my primary school age I must mention, might just sound absurd. And it is hard for me to explain it even to myself. I fell in love with a girl in 4th grade, so about 8 or 9 years old. I had been in love before at school many times, but this girl just captured me totally, even though I never had a conversation with her. Even now I love her. The intensity of that love never left me, I just have to recall those days. She was a girl in my year called Fiona and I think she was in the right place at the right time for me. And the right person. She just appeared, new at the school. I was growing up as I was at home, with that stress, and here was this walking invitation to marital bliss. As cute as anything I had ever seen. I would marry her, everything was set. I knew she existed now. And then she left the school, just right then. What three months? She was gone. And had left the area too and I never saw her again. She was never mentioned to me and I never asked.

Yes, this might be hard for you to understand, but there it is. And I carried on in life as before, but I feel this was a major factor, one of them, that would have me running headlong into drugs as an escape, after they were recommended to me by my brother—when I was still in primary school. Nothing was working in life, nothing was going right. And no girl could match that one. She just disappeared, she was right there, and then she was gone forever. Nothing was reliable. My only escape had proved to be an illusion. And I have wondered more recently whether she was something to do with my calling my daughter a similar name, ‘Fay’. But I did of course have many other reasons to like the name. And three of those are in it meaning “faith” in old English, “fairy” in German, and “to fly” in Chinese. All resonating with the idea of being free. I never wanted her to feel anything like I did. That was a given. To never be held down in something she didn’t like, as I had been. And I have told her often in her life that I gave her that name because of this. Explaining it to her, so she will protect her sense of freedom. To never feel trapped. Including the false freedom my brother waits to offer her; America. And this is why I write. My brother’s vortex of tricks is lurking out there, and she needs a document to clear her way in thinking, in associates, and in family. It will hover around her.

This feeling that the girlfriends I later had were never reaching this perfection, melded with not wanting to bring any girls into the home because of my father and brother. I dreaded them finding out about my first true girlfriend, Nataley, one I sort of loved, one who I spoke to. I knew my brother could make such teasing snowball. Pushing my buttons when he found I could be effected, enjoying to rile me. You know the story. But that was not my dad at all. My dad wasn’t that insane. He had a rationale, as I have explained above, or tried to. My theory. A real delusion. Not outright evil like my brother. So there is a difference between them. It wasn’t my dad’s nature to rile me just for nothing but my pain. He had a store of reasons, petty though they were. But it was definitely so with my brother. And I will give you examples of this now; Once we were at Manly Dam for a picnic. Lots of kids around and Chris and I got into a blow-up dingy and had paddled out. It was a beautiful day and a beautiful place. But then he starts letting the air out. And I start screaming at him. And he is laughing. Stopping and starting the deflation. The more I scream the more he laughs and continues. And the boat starts sinking and it is all wrecked. And later my mother asks me why I was screaming when I knew I could swim. She thought I was just being a bit of a pansy I suppose. But I was screaming as much at him enjoying it, enjoying destroying the moment, and enjoying upsetting me—as the ruining of something enjoyable. I think I might have felt some sort of terror in having to face psychopathy. Another memory, similar, was when he took me on a ride called the Octopus at Many Fun Pier.

I was very young. I don’t know 6 or7? It takes you over the water. And I was petrified the whole time. The carriage we are in was spinning—just like the others— and I thought it was broken or could break loose. These cars spin in erratic ways. And I never expected this, hadn’t studied it before getting on. And Chris is laughing  at me, at my fear. Real laughter, hands off, enjoying himself.

I also remember when we visited my friend Christy in the countryside. I had brought my bike, I was about 8 or 9 and I convince him we should take our bikes up the hill paddock and ride down. And so we do, and Chris is with us. And Christy starts going down and he doesn’t turn to the side to slow and stop himself, like I had just done. He just gets stuck in this straight down momentum, trying to slow himself with his feet on the ground. And I am screaming at him “Turn to the side!” again and again, but he keeps on down straight, and Chris is laughing hysterically all the while, as Christie goes over the edge into a dried creek bed and breaks his arm.

Yes sometimes things like this can appear funny. But this was hard-wired in Chris. I remember him laughing at things on T.V like that. Which made me wonder.

Christy in blue.

Christie on the left. And my lifelong friend Adam on the right.

Interestingly, I remember Gary, on his second visit asking me “Do you still have that friend with the big eyes?” with a sort of giggle, asking about Christy.

Now the reason I tell you all this about Chris is not because I ever resented any of these things. Nor that such things were common. They weren’t. But because it reveals something that would develop into what have been studying. That delight he takes in un-nerving me. The idea of being a  schizophrenic having shock treatment would un-nerve most people. And he knows I have read One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest, and seen the film. And he knows they got me into the hospital twice before. And so he aims at this old wound. It has been the deepest yet.

My brother knew I became a very highly-strung young man, for never feeling a sense of family, true family, and a particular incident I will describe, the EVENT, let’s call it. What he doesn’t know— or might now if he has read this— is that my new family has healed me of that insecurity. Which has stopped my believing in him like a cult devotee. He has invested his reputation in me having a bad end, ideally that would be suicide apparently. Then he will be top heir. Yes, I truly believe this.

Before the funeral I said to Maggie that Chris will do something to make me angry at it. That if he can make me lose my cool at the funeral and look a fool, a mental patient, he will try it. We already saw one attempt, the photo where my head is bent to the side. The other went like this; I  arrived later to the church than Maggie and Fay, because I was helping my 94 year old godmother into the church from the car. Straight away when I enter, Maggie comes up to me explaining how no photo of her was on the program hand-out, which was otherwise full of photos of mum and those she loved. A program which my brother had concocted. It was an accident, according to his girlfriend who approached me later. He forgot Maggie, even though we were living in the same house as him at the time. And even though Fay and I were pictured with mum in photos he elsewhere used. Even though, of all people, he would know how much mum adored Maggie. And I had several people tell me so at the funeral. If her friends knew, Chris knew. And mum told me so herself too. And she even wrote it down. Here is what she wrote, in a letter to me to be read posthumously;

I mentioned this omission of the photo in the program in my eulogy, noting how my mother adored Maggie. Still there never came a word from him about it. And at the reception his girlfriend, who seemed to have been drinking, came up to me saying it was an accident. As if she knew Chris better than I. As if she was his publicist in damage-control. So it seems he has found something in his girlfriend that he had in our mother. A devotee to the Chris legend-making, the make-believe.

I wrote to her recently, after Chris wouldn’t respond after six days, through the place she works. Asking if she knew why Chris wasn’t responding. No answer. No acknowledgment. She must work there still because her name  and photo is listed on the website, or the Museum would answer that she wasn’t there. So she got it I assume. Just ignored it. Meaning she has a grudge against me too. Nothing like bearing grudges forever because you didn’t get a hug goodbye, right?

Speaking of her, I had wanted to present the family photos at the funeral and Chris said that was fine. Then I got word that this girlfriend, called Apsara who is a museum curator, had a problem with my idea for it, or suggestion or something. So I dropped it. I said she could do it all, no problem. I wasn’t going to wrangle with her about it. What she did was take one of mum’s ancient photo albums, the only ancient one actually, and ripped out photos to lay them on a table. This was not an album designed for taking photos out! It was most unsettling to see this beautiful old photo album, photos going back to the early 1900’s, returned to me half empty. Something that had been lovingly put together and was perfectly complete, now brutally raped. Things ripped out to leave massive blank spaces or blank whole pages. 80% or so of the pictures gone. The placings and order of ancestors and friends which they and mum had made, now lost forever. With handwriting announcing photos that are no longer there. So what is this woman a curator of, a butcher shop? No, its the Nevada Museum of Art, and she is a senior curator. That would be Modern Art. All I received back is a bundle of loose photos, with this and other albums also half empty, blanks on pages or whole pages blank. And many photos missing.

You can see in the top right she even tore some of the photos. Or, below, she tore a piece of the page out of an old album, the photo being stuck to it.

Chris’s partner or wife. My mum called her his partner, he called her his wife to me. They seem like a good couple anyway.

——————-

Before leaving this chapter, I will finish on the point about my fear of my family knowing I had any girlfriend.

At aged about 10 or 11, I once stopped classmates Leah, Heidi and Brooke from coming inside my home which they had been in before, because my family was home this time. They had visited two or three times previously on a weekends, always with an empty house but for me, and always with much clowning around and laughing. And no, no kissing. Over the years I have felt embarrassed about this refusing. [Refusing entry, not kissing]. They never came back. So pass this on to them. The full explanation. If you have any love for me. I knew my brother would tease me about them afterwards, if they came in.

Another example is when talking to a friend called Jarrod one morning when we were by the lounge room heater, also when we were 10 or 11, and were talking to my dad. [10 and 11 was my last years at a co-ed school, after that there were very few girls in my life. And none as close as this one, Nataley. Partly for reasons I explain below]. This friend mentions how I had taken Nataley to the movies. And I denied it, saying , “No I didn’t”.  “Yes you did”, he said. “No I didn’t”. “Didn’t you? “No!” “Didn’t you go with her to see Rocky or something?” “No”. I could have slapped his face! My blood went a little cold at that. Suddenly nervous. I didn’t want my dad to have this information. And I, when thinking this over in order to write about it here, have found it hard to explain. My Dad would never seriously mock me for a girlfriend, as noted.  But I was so sensitive, even an innocent teasing from him could crush me. I think my lack of this sense of home was the problem. And this came from my dad. And if I felt like I was extra cargo in the family, I had no confidence there was a place in the his heart and mind for any girlfriend I had. And I was right as “you are a just a guest in this house”, would become a favourite of his. But really, do I need to explain it? The fact I felt like that is evidence enough. I should have been over joyed to bring my girlfriend back to the home. I was so insecure I needed someone to say “Gordon. It is O.K to have a girlfriend. And my never hearing this, left me all at sea.

This might take a moment for you to appreciate. It is so unusual. At least I have never heard of such a dysfunctional family. This girl Nataley was right next to my heart, I didn’t want either my dad or my brother to even know of her, let alone know her. And going to the movies with her was up to then one of the highpoints of my life. I hope she can remember it—because I know she hates me now—how happy we were for a couple of hours. And that it is really one of the happiest memories of my life. It was another and wonderful world I had stepped into. Separate, perfect, happy. Such teasing was a cutting at something way too precious and delicate. I had to pre-emp it from happening. It couldn’t be tainted, embroiled.

I knew my father had a problem, and my family wasn’t really working. I am glad to write all this down now, as with the whole article. I have never enjoyed writing anything as much as this article. Like loosening a belt that was cutting into me. It is a therapy to think it all out. But I like writing this point especially, because it is one of the things that my friends can verify. I have a photo I took of these three beautiful girls, so lovely they are, which I will keep to myself here. I must have gone in to get the camera or it was on the porch. So I sort of added insult to injury by taking their photo and never giving them a copy. But here now in this article I can offer it to them, as well as the complete explanation. …if they ever want to communicate. Chances are they don’t.

Furthermore, Nataley can corroborate how, when we were “going round with each other”, as was the expression at the time, aged 10 or 11, such going would end at the street-end of my driveway after school. After walking the kilometre home together happily, we would sit there talking after school. But I never invited her home, actually inside. Just to sit on the public path at the end of the driveway. My mother used to say “Why don’t you bring her in?”. I remember the questions but not the answer I gave.

As I said, I have made many or every bad situation worse. And I hope to give you examples of that in fair quota. But that was my later, teen years. I, like most  children, was not something particularly problematic as a young child. Not on “a colossal ego trip” actually. In fact, of all my friends, I was the only one I knew of who said his prayers at night. Praying for family and friends. Some of these friends now hate me, like my family. Two of the biggest betrayers of me were my close friends since 3rd grade, they became step-brothers when I was 13. I wonder about them a lot. One of them sent me the most condescending and insulting letter I have ever received. “I hope you are having a great time with your family”. That is Nigel who we will meet again. Nigel from the Freudian premise, son of a nurse. And telling me he doesn’t want a part of any primary school reunion I am organising , because he wants it to be “organic”.

So what happened to Nataley, my first real openly acknowledge and spoken to girlfriend? Or semi-openly acknowledged. Well, how to say this….?

It was in the last year of primary school or maybe the summer break before high school. And I was with her and her friend in a giant bed we had made out of the sofa, or fold-out  sofa bed. Blankets, pillows, comfortable. And we were in it watching the film Endless Love. There was no one else in the flat. [No, this is not a joke. Literally. Sofa bed, alone, Endless Love.] Now Nataley is very interested in this film and I remember looking at her gazing at this film and being, disappointed. I thought I really can’t have someone like this. Remember, Fiona had showed me how perfect a girl could be. What to do? Well, my penis had what seemed like a good idea at the time. And that was to go for her friend. And I started to feel that her friend was keen for that too. We were all in this same bed and so it was not really like I had to ask her with words. When I realised this [or when we realised this] I just had to kiss her. And of course my poor girlfriend caught us and flew straight into her friends bedroom and locked the door. Well, I decided to go home. But I pleaded with her to open, saying I was so sorry. But she wouldn’t open it. And so I kissed my new girlfriend goodbye at the door and went home. Despite my penis wanting to hang around. Well, maybe “hang” is not the right word.

And I think this event, just as I am leaving primary school, became some great evidence that I was not really a good catch, as they say. And so I was never friends with any of my former primary school female friends again. The last I heard Nataley is now into gay rights and the LGBTQ thing. So the moral of the story is? Trust your penis.

15

So let’s look for a moment at this cigar-sucking Jewish atheist Freemason, Sigmund Freud.  Sucking even as his throat gave way from cancer and killed him. That means addiction. That means personality disorder. Freud is from where this LGBTQ swamp has oozed into our society. Famously claiming we all want to fuck our parents, and we are all bi-sexual. My brother’s hero, over in San Francisco.

Ominous! Note how he insidiously sets up the premise that your emotions are necessarily ugly. They can only get uglier. Much like his premise that mankind is naturally sexually deviant. There fore we all, according to him need psychiatric help. Neat.

What he has done here is just change the idea of expressing one’s thoughts and emotions, which has the criteria of practicality, to ‘emotion’ only, which is all subjective and something he claims to be an authority on—which you can never prove or disprove. He has corrupted the notion of “failing to express yourself brings frustration”, which is obvious to every human being on earth, and changed it into  the idea of “emotions” so as to suppose some ominous, almighty, unforgiving, non-humorous world  you live in where he is the master you must pay respect and money to. God’s chosen people, remember. This is the son of a Rabbi we are looking at here.

But it is far worse than that. He has given it a dark turn. How about the unexpressed desire you monetarily had to kill yourself? That was ugly enough, right? Is that always going to be festering in you until you get around to doing it? No logic, no sanity. Sigmund Freud.

Why do they have to colourise his words now? Do Freud’s quotes need help? Freud is the premise of millions of people, and it is so because it is the government/media premise too. The premise of the modern banking world regime which is largely a promotion of Judaism, people as “chosen” by “God”. And a fake Jesus who is “the son of David”. Bullshit.

This second quote up on the internet search, sounds noble, doesn’t it? But Freud’s whole politico business model is that the mind is the big matter, the thing that you will need him/them about—because you don’t trust it. So the quote is an expected a con job. Don’t trust your mind so much. You will need Freud and mates for that. Like a drug dealer talking about “feeling good”, he here talks about the heart to con you. For when your mind is working, it is no matter as all, it is called life. But when it is not, that’s a big matter, and he tells you here that you shouldn’t trust it. Convenient, right?

3rd one up. Are you kidding me? Pathetic! The quote is saying that you are what you are, and to find out more, call your mental health expert. Your your Chris Bell or Marita O’Connell. [see below].

4th.

Yes, change the word  “mind”  to his own invented one of “subconscious” and you can sound sophisticated and deep. You have insight into the unknown.. This idea that we are all a harmonious part of the universe is as old as Adam. What he has done is pin it to one of his own words again, here “subconscious”. Then stand back for a photo with his cigar. But again we have a paradox. Choice and randomness are contradictions. You cannot “choose randomly”. No logic, no sanity. Just like your head and your heart are connected and interact. As in “As a man thinketh in his heart, so shall he be”. He is just pushing the idea that he knows things that are deep about life and humanity by framing a word he invented. God’s chosen people. This is a son of a rabbi talking here. With his people to later promote it in pax Judaica. Jews ruling the world. Electro-petro banking being out of mind for all of us.

Translation; I believe in you! [Sign up, pay up, revere the fake intelligencia].

This is mind control. And it was Freud’s nephew Edward Bernays who invented mass mind-control, called advertising, which came out of the Tavistock Institute which employed it during World War I. The Tavistock Institute was the old intelligence arm of the British government, of which Bernays was a member at the time. He invented the word ‘propaganda’ and is famous for his book ‘Manufacturing consent’. Not admitting that this was applied to manufacturing consent for World War I in Britain. He is now referred to as ‘the father of public relations’, rather than the father of mind-control, deception and advertising.

The Israeli intelligence agency motto. Who could be proud of such a way?

16

Highschool;

I remember a conversation I had with Chris some time in the last 2 or 3 years of my primary school, when my brother was in high school, where he mentioned marijuana. Which to me, 4 years younger, was a word I commonly interchanged with ‘heroine’, not knowing the difference. Something intensely evil. And he said in the course of conversation “You are so naïve” and that yes, some boys at his high school had tried it, and yes he had too, and that I would too one day. I remember those exact words. “You will too one day”.  It was prophesy. It was ordained. And I remember this so clearly because it was the day I learnt what naive meant. He had to explain it to me. I loved my brother as much as I loved anyone. He told me how he had taken something called magic mushrooms too, which he said was interesting and fun.

And so I eventually start high school, an all boys school. All the girls had disappeared as I began this rough-and-tumble school. Fiona disappeared, then them all, thanks to me. A fricken saloon of a place sometimes. With dead wits teasing me because I had sleepy eyes, saying “drugs!” and laughing as they passed by. And one of my brother’s friends used to call out “Gordy!” in a parrot-like high-pitched voice every time he and his friends passed me, my brother included. Even from a distance he did this. Always grinning at me. Where did he get that from? My brother. Why was he doing this? I don’t know. But I didn’t know who he was for a long time. And this teasing will become relevant in this story later on, much later in my life, just before my mother died.

Here is how I looked in 5th grade, my last year of primary school. So you can see I had a sleepy look about me.

And here is how I was by high school, even more severe;

And look how white and sickly I look.

I believe now this sleepy-eyed look was from all the late night television and junk food. No one in my year ever teased me for this though, or teased me at all. I was never the victim of a bully that wasn’t a year or more older and bigger than me. I was never particularly a victim. It was very very rare, but this supposed drugs association, was on-going. Bullying where they can hide in the crowd. Story of my life. Though my brother wants you to think I was a victim. And is now saying I am “holding onto past hurts” because of it. Yeah, he means past hates. That is the image of me he promotes. A passive, simmering, schizophrenic. That fits all his jawing about me over the years becoming respectable at the end. This teasing in words—and the ”Gordy!” I could handle. But Chris says otherwise. And we will see eventually that it is one of his lies.

I soon tried alcohol and got beaten up by a group from another school or no school. This was my first or second year at high school. I was attending a disco run at night called a ‘Blue Light Disco’ which occurred regularly in multiple places across the city, being that it was a no alcohol event run by the Police Association. Blue light.

I was obsessed with growing up to be exactly like my brother. This night life he had moved into long before. I remember him coming through my bedroom window of a weekend a few times, jumping over me, sneaking in late. It woke me. I had missed out on something. He was out there doing things. I was missing out. Which feeling was the desire for escapism, and soon would bring me to drugs. The final solution. But for now alcohol was on the cards. A given.

I can’t stress enough how stressful life with my father was for me at this time. Time has given you evidence of that. For while I never finished high school, going off to live in a caravan in the countryside, then Brisbane, I later took to academia like a fish to water, as soon as I had the chance. And that was immediately after he had died. He died in April 1999. I began a university entrance course in July, and started my degree in 2000. I had a place to call home, to sit and think, and that was the moment of the tide of my life turning. I was 30 years old. Before that, for years I had supported myself working, and visited England and Ireland on my own, working for six months in England and a kitchenhand. I could take care of myself with physical labour and with mental labour. And this has only ever increased. I can explain more of the world than most people, and I haven’t been to a doctor in 28 years.

So I am in the first or second year of high school and there I was in a park a kilometre or so from the Blue Light Disco. I think it was the first time I was ever drunk. Ever. And I had gotten drunk this night with three fiends, two of whom, Colin and Nigel, now shun me. Why shun me? Why shun me when the last time I saw them, in 1995 or so, we were usual friends? Yes, I cant get over that. It is as hard for me as my relatives in Ireland is.

It was on bourbon whiskey we got drunk. I remember clearly us all taking this stuff, downing it as quickly as possible, and my surprise at how I suddenly felt. I remember saying “I feel dizzy” and one of these mates laughing.

Now I don’t blame any of them for this turn in life I was taking. And I am not saying they led me into it or anything. I was all for it. I was just as for it, maybe even more. I am just saying these friendships had become infected with this escapism with alcohol, and one of these friends Colin, was a music lover too, and we both began learning to play the guitar at the same time. He was a second brother to me from way back in infants school. One of two lifelong close friends I had, the other being Adam. And right at the door to this new era I had been beaten up to a pulp. Clear symbolism to stop. WRONG WAY. GO BACK. Which I ignored. Another of these mates that night, Nigel had become Colin’s step-brother, as noted. Yes, I had two close childhood friends and they became step brothers. And so visits to their home, became a sort of party for us. And a common event was getting as drunk as we could before going to one of these regular discos across the region, or a party.

So how did I get beaten up? I sat on a couch inside the venue between two girls. Sitting there sort of bored and wondering how i could have done that. Sat there. Being drunk is obviously the answer to that. I was really very shy with girls, as noted, I never even talked to the love of my life. But here I was between two of these lovely phenomenon. I eventually stood up and as soon as I did there was a boy who stepped up to me, beside me to take my seat. I took offence at that, this pressure to vacate the seat, so I stood there a moment. And he pushed me foreword. I immediately pushed back and it exploded into fists and we were soon separated and I taken outside. Not him, for some reason. I suppose he was being questioned inside. Anyway, I decided to go home. But the next week I was there and had heard from someone he was going to ‘get me’. So when he walked passed I asked him whether it was true. He said “I’m not going to get you. I’m going to bury you”. He was of course larger than me. This struck me hard, psychologically speaking. He was there in front of me saying he was going to kill me, with a smile on his face. It hit some primal chord, probably related to my dad’s bottomless hate, and being drunk again, I lashed out at him, feeling humiliated that he had answered like that, and hating anyone who could use this to turn it into an ongoing war. My talking to him was obviously a show of friendship, and he just threw it on the ground. Soon I was outside again explaining what happened to one of the off-duty police who ran these things. I realised that going home this time wasn’t going to solve anything. For I had tried that. I talked with two mates, well not close mates, just school associates. And they encouraged me to fight him. I remember one of them saying “look how big his hands are”, to the others and me about my hands. [One of these boy would die young, aged 15]. Yes, I had slightly large hands. And I had seen lots of T.V. All those Burt Reynolds fights. Clint Eastwood, a professional illegal fighter in the film ‘Any Which Way But Loose’, which I had seen in the cinema with my mother. Men standing in a circle cheering and jeering around two men fighting. Punches in the face. Over and over. Boxer style.  No gloves. So many of these on television as I grew up. A standard trope of the 70’s and 80’s. But fights don’t happen like that in reality. Even when it is two people. There are no rules kept.

And so I decided to fight him and sent word to him that I would be waiting down at the oval for him. And so there I am in this oval at night alone. An oval within a botanical garden. So it was a massive area, huge and dark. As it happens this was in front of the church my family attended, the church of both my parents funerals. Off in the distance 200 metres or so. And so I said a prayer as I am there alone waiting. Waiting for them to come from along past this church. Asking Jesus and or God to help me win this fight. And then one of my mates called Gavin, comes down. And so we wait. And then we see a stream of boys pouring down the path. We should of ran, but I was in a movie. Soon we are surrounded. And its a weird tension. Some words were said that I forget. I think I told him that it was he who wanted to fight, so here I was. Nothing was happening. Then someone, one of his mates, punched me from the side, and my ear is ringing. I tried to make something of this, I was scared, now suddenly knowing this type of thing wasn’t beneath them.  And it was this weird situation. And someone held a lighter flame to my ear and it was inspected as though they cared about me. As though there were rules. Fight cancelled due to ear damage. Soon the punches started though, I cant remember at all how, and straight away they were coming from all directions as I fought back in all directions, and I was on the ground soon, and now there were kicks and it went on and on and on and I thought they were going to kill me. An endless nightmare I couldn’t wake from. On and on. I could here Gavin screaming somewhere. They had got him too. There were about 8 to 10 boys. These were street kids, in the sense of wild kids, who lived in Manly, from broken homes and such. I know this for sure because when Gavin and I finally got up and into Manly, in the light of the shops, another kid, who was 18 or so, so maybe technically a man, but the ultimate mongrel of a human being you could hope to see, an overgrown kid with a jutting lower jaw— and who I had seen around*— talked to Gavin and asked him “which one of you hit [such and such]”. I don’t know how this boy was identified, maybe his died blond hair, maybe just because of his little stature, or maybe Gavin knew his name, but Gavin stupidly said he had, and this fucker immediately without warning punched him in the face. Saying “That’s for hitting little cunts”. Will never forget the words. Gavin of course was a mess at this, emotionally and physically. But he wasn’t beaten as badly as me, and was at school on the Monday, I needed a week in bed with cracked ribs that took months to heal. Or so it seemed.  A group of my friends came and visited me when I was in bed. That was nice. Gavin now has issues. He has changed his name to Harley. Territorial, failed marriage, impossible, hyper defensive, and hates me. Saying “You blew your mind out on magic mushies”. Which episode—not quite like that—we are getting to.

* I once once with a friend who knew this mongrel boy. We passed him in Manly Corso one morning and he excitedly recalls how he had bashed a “Westie”, being one of the people who came to Manly on a weekend to enjoy the sea. He was laughing and it was quite sickening. So I know the calibre of the crowd that got me that night.

This boy I fought was larger than me, taller, bigger. I was, as noted, much on the thin side due to my diet. This boy is now a successful business man in America with his own fitness gym. He posts  fitness and body building advice on Facebook. Lots of mates around him in photos. Also with a gutting lower jaw, an underbite.

And so I would visit Colin and his stepbrother Nigel’s shared home, and it was all about going to the Blue Light Discos after getting as drunk as we could. The WRONG WAY sign getting further off in the distance behind me. I would appear at their home in Cromer with some random alcohol, whatever I had pilfered from my parent’s alcohol cabinet [used mainly for guests] in things like mayonnaise jars, as if I had tunnelled from one part of Stalag 13 to another. Contraband.

Prince took hold of me then. The courtly life. The answer to everything. Escapism par excellance.

Baby I’m a star. You might not know it now, you might not know it now. But I don’t want to stop, till I reach the top. Baby I’m a star…

Here is a screenshot of Prince [second from right in high heels] winning an award, his first major award and his coming to stardom. Looking much like a boy of 13 years old with his dad. The age I was at the time. This is significant. Fine, easy, palace life, palace clothes, and hyper sexuality. Just where I felt I belonged. He came to me through my brother again, who took me to the film Purple Rain. Which was Prince’s high point in song writing. I was now fiddling around with real guitars. This new, or rather ever renewed avenue of escapism seemed promising.

It is weird though. Because while I did think I would make a fine prince, I had gotten there from Pink Floyd, and was now also obsessed with their new record called The Final Cut. So there are these two sides I am caught between, caught as. The thoughtful, intellectual, socially conscious music of this album with its utter bleeding heart lyrics. [I deserved that]. And the funky utter egotism and celebration of females and dance with Prince. Being a calling to have a party for and about girls. [I deserved that too]. There was other music going on with me, but these two sort of grabbed me. Distracting me from thinking just who I might really be and what life was all really supposed to be about. Two opposing worlds, twice as much room to escape into. A man who chases two rabbits catches neither. Rightly so, for it neither was really me. Roger Waters of Pink Floyd fame, who became my hero has recently been caught li-syncing. Prince went on to produce yard and yards of the most empty soulless music there is. As if music was about quantity. Dying of drugs like everyone else.

Then my brother, mother and I returned to Ireland and the pressure to drink was amplified.

Drinking in Ireland officially—or is it unofficially?— started with my cousin Stuart, a couple of days or so after we arrived. Stuart is two years younger. I will tell the story, because it is typical of the ridiculous world I would then inhabit for so very long.

For one reason or another, Stuart and I were alone in my grandmothers private wing of her nursing home. When I say ‘nursing home’ I don’t mean a hospital or clinic type of thing, I mean a stately mansion with surrounding “grounds” with over a hundred rose bushes. [I know this because my mother once counted them as a chid and told me, but I cant remember the exact number].

So this plush private living room we are in. And he tells me we can drink some of the spirits there on the side table. He does it all the time. You just add water and they don’t know. And there it was, the sherry or something in crystal cut bottles [yes not in regular store bought bottles], with cut crystal glasses beside it. And so I start drinking with him like a lord. And I do have this memory of singing things from Pink Floyd’s latest album The Final Cut. Yes, this memory sticks out from little else. Being there singing in this fine room full of antiques a song about World War II was incongruous enough I suppose. With him, I don’t know, somewhere or other. And for one reason or another we went out and we are walking down the street. I cant remember at all why or anything about getting there. And he was swaggering wildly, and soon I was having to hold him up, pulling him up and around by his clothes. And so, here we are, two well-dressed boys drunk in mid after noon. And I realised I would need him to concentrate to walk correctly on his own, for I was physically unable to carry him home. So I begin whacking him on the head a little, but to little effect. Which made me more angry with him, whacking some more, as he sits on the footpath slumped against my leg. What the fuck have you got us into you little shit. This is all on a busy Belfast road some ways from my grandmother’s gated private road of mansions. And then this man comes and asks me if I want help, if I want him to drive us home. I say yes, thank you very much, that would be great. And he says he will go and get his car. And so I am there with Stuart who is still not standing, and trying to pull and twist him over to the side of the path to wait, and he mutters something like  ‘Where is the pervert?” Or at least something with the word “pervert” in it, and I think, ‘oh shit!’. I don’t know this country at all, and if a blind drunk can be saying that, perceiving that, then we are in some sort of trouble. I was surprised Stuart even knew I had spoken to someone. So I drag him across the road and go down this back street. And it is this weird corridor between higher ground and the back of the row of shops. But they were houses too, two story houses, with the shops just on the other side. And people are looking at us, and I have some vague sense of distance I need to go to align with the gates. But I cant remember anything else until we get home to the mansion. And so I bring us round the side and I sit Stuart on a step, and find the door is locked to this private wing. And I have to knock on another door, and a nurse comes and I explain in as sober a way as I can, probably smiling as I did it— because I remember she was smiling and very friendly— that we were locked out. I remember us looking over to Stuart sitting there like a bag of garbage, and I can’t now recall what I said, maybe ‘He’s not feeling well’, or maybe nothing. And maybe I went in and opened it. But she was not the problem, it was my Nana and the other adult relatives. By this stage he has vomited over his clothes and I drag him into the bathroom and get him into the bath tub and take off his clothes, and get him into new clothes. I think it must have been he threw up on his pants, and I must have given him pants from my luggage. And I must have used the shower on him because the only other thing I remember about it all was him asking me the next day in front of my brother whether I had given him a shower because his underpants were wet when he woke up. I felt like slapping him in the face. The nightmare he had just put me through. I cant remember what happened. Just how he got to face the adults or what. But we never got caught somehow. And I know the adults never knew because I clearly remember my grandmother commenting to my mother some days later that she thinks the drink has been watered down, but not suspecting me.

And there was music too. We watched Live Aid in Ireland, at my Armstrong cousins. Their dog, called Brandy in the back yard. Yes, that is not a joke.  And so Live Aid was the world admitting that music was everything. That pop starts were the only people who could get things done, save the dying. And though they taught music at school, I could not associate formal training with what I was seeing. Prince, though not participating in Live Aid, played his guitar like he was all emotion, like it was a part of his body. So all I needed was a backup band. I had plenty of emotion.

At one time in Ireland my Nana had a big party for us.  I had been drinking everywhere we went with the Armstrongs, including nightclubs, even though I was 14. And at this party I worked out that mum didn’t mind me drinking. It was formal recognition. She knew I was sipping Bailey’s Irish cream. I had asked her if I could. And so there I am mingling with everyone, with Bailey’s Irish cream and milk mixed because I couldn’t stand the taste of it straight. In hindsight she would have been well aware I was drinking with the Armstrong boys too.

I remember, during these weeks in Ireland I felt trapped all round. I really didn’t want to be there some times, but imagine me voicing that one! Never. I had attacked my brother for the first time in my life, as far as I can remember, as noted. So you can see just how I was. And the pressure to start drinking. No one cared at all.

As for women, this little prince had a princess of sorts. This was a beautiful girl up the street from my Nana’s nursing home called Victoria, or ‘Tori’ as she was called. This tree-lined street with mansions only on it.

Her mum had been a bridesmaid at my my parent’s wedding. Which will become relevant in a moment.

My Nana was pleased to see her sent down one day to get me, and we walked gaily back to her house in this wonderland of a street with giant trees, going about a kilometre up the road to her mansion. I think she hoped we would one day be a couple. My Nana I mean. And we walked up the road to her house talking about each others countries and so on. And up at her house I met her neighbours and some friends. This neighbour had his own Packman video game machine, but wouldn’t let me play it. Typical rich kid. And days later Chris, mum and I went for dinner at their house. About which I have only two memories. One of making an ass of myself with a joke at dinner. The other of Victoria showing us her knickers. Which needs some explaining.

At dinner someone had said something about something on their face. I cant remember who or what, I think her mother, maybe about a mole or something. And I held up a cutlery knife and said “I’ll get it off”. It was hilarious up to the point I finished saying it. Then I realised it was way too faux par for these people. This girl Victoria was exquisitely beautiful. She had a wonderful cute smile with protruding front teeth. All in all though she still didn’t capture me as Fiona had. All in all though, she was the most reasonable friend there in Ireland for me. And all in all I would have married her if I had to. But my brother went to work on her over the years. She wont communicate now. No communication since I was 14 and the year or so after where we exchanged letters [She liked the song ‘Take my Breath Away’, and I always think of her when I hear it in some shop. Such is the power of music]. Anyway, she hate/fears me now. Never again. This is what she looks like these days.

After my mother died—  39 years later— I found I had inherited all her paintings. And one was a painting of my mother showing her wedding ring to her bridesmaids, including Victoria’s mum— done from a photograph. The middle bridesmaid in the painting is Victoria’s mum Edith [who I will mention later];

Chris told me that Victoria had asked him whether she could have that painting, which my mother did around 1980 to 85, I suppose. And I told him to tell her that if she is sure she is going to take care of it, and it won’t end up in an op-shop one day, of course she can have it. And Chris later answers me that she said she is going to put it in her bedroom. Now I was a little suspicious of that. Is that the information you would offer to someone you are too scared to send a thankyou note to? Did Chris offer it to her, knowing I would give it to her? And would this painting really have been on Victoria’s mind ot begin with?

I have other evidence of Chris playing games about this woman. I went to Ireland for a micro visit in 1998, seeing only the Grays. And Stuart tells me Victoria works for Saachi and Saachi. But Stuart never knew Victoria, so Chris must have told him. Chris told me the same thing in Australia. But I asked my mother about it once, and she said Victoria never worked for Saachi and Saachi. And mum was in contact with her over the years. And on looking Victoria up in Linked In page, there is no mention of Saachi and Saachi. And it smacks of Chris’s word game cleverness, doesn’t it? Search and Search, you see. Anyway, the ball is in Victoria’s court whether she dare communicate with me and stand up for Chris or expose him—whatever the case might be.

I have another reason to believe Chris was controlling Stuart while I was in Ireland. Stuart kept showing me films while I was there, and two I remember were also liked by Chris. What are the odds? One so much liked that he took our father to one of them. Which is probably the only time that ever happened. My father saw very very few films at a cinema, or on television. Of course that was a film of strategy and clever deception. ‘Reservoir Dogs’. Where a man invents a fake bad guy as a diversion from the crimes he has committed. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?  And the other film just happens to have had a lead character that reminded Chris if me. As he told me years earlier, ‘Withnail and I’. I thought so too. Guess how that character is in the film? Highly strung. [actually both characters are sort of highly strung, but the one Chris thought was like me was the “I” character, the one who was sexually accosted by the fat uncle].

The other memory that stands out from my dinner at Victoria’s was when standing with my brother in her stately home and she ran passed and upstairs in her flimsy pink dress, and we could see her white knickers through it. We both looked at each other, and I had this vague thought of “What were you looking at brother. She is my age not yours”. I add this into the mix of possible reason’s my brother has tricked her into a life of hate and fear. Pretty obvious.

The Armstrongs were just as rich as the Grays [Stuart’s dad and grandfather were Freemasons . Stuart who I was told virtually never worked in his life, now owns his own recording studio.] And we stayed with them in their town to introduce me to nightclubs and water skiing. It was at the Armstrongs place too that I watched Live Aid, as noted, and of a weekend night went dancing and drinking. The world was made of music, I was a prince of some kind, it was all a great release form Australia. Or so it seemed. Escapism worked.

Soon I was on the stage in highs-school back in Australia. A crowd of about 300 students. All wating to hear me begin the show. To begin what was actually the first talent quest for the school. I was on drums, and the song began with drums, being ‘Do You Want To Dance’ by Cliff Richards—his version that began with drums. But the version we did had a very enhanced drum intro. So I, as my brother pointed out to me, had made the first sound at the first talent quest at my high school. Musically speaking I was ahead of my game. The song finished, and the whole school went nuts! It was a wonderful feeling. We had delivered. We had bought happiness and joy from years of pain and sadness to that school.

Ireland had been a compounding influence to drink from the other side of the world. Matching my mates and all the parties, all the social life offered in Australia. I soon began making beer at home. Cooking it up from scratch, and not using concentrate as most people do. With an old library book as my guide. Riding up to Balgowlah to get the ingredients, such as hops, from a delicatessen. My plan was to sell it to my school mates. And I made a whole garbage bin full.

This, all this, by the way, is largely l why I was eventually attracted to Islam and its abstinence from alcohol, after my daughter was born. And I went to a party of Muslim a few years ago and it was about the best party I have been to.

And so we returned and I copied my brothers lifestyle, out into the nightlife, to drink and dance. Never with him, but he gave me his old driver’s licence to use it to get into drinking venues.  I didn’t ask. I would have never of thought of such a thing. He offered,  and helped me learn to copy his signature.

It was about 7 months after Ireland that I would nearly die by chasing the escape of drugs.

I developed another friendship during high school, with a boy called Jade. He was a strange mix of poverty and intelligence. And he became like a doorway into the wild life for me. He stopped going to school regularly in primary school, and hardly ever went to high school at all. His mother was an aboriginal, his absent father was Dutch. He was one of the funniest people I have ever met. And we were so like-minded on critiquing the world with a bit of wit, with acting out things for each other, and mimicking. Just two clowns. Lots of kidding around but we could also talk of deeper things. And with him, I ventured into the night life in all ways we could, so often chasing parties, walking miles at night under street lights talking. Searching for girls, searching for anything, searching to be adults. I will give you two examples of Jade making me laugh. I think this writing deserves some humour, don’t you?

Here’s a quick picture of me telling a joke in the hospital when I was born;

Jade and I were friends for years, long after high school too, and this first anecdote takes place in the old East Sydney Tech. on a Sunday afternoon when I was about 18. We are there in this colonial architecture of this old former woman’s prison, now an art college, just chatting on this bench.  And one of my classmates called Emma from this deserted tech campus [being a Sunday] comes up and starts talking. Standing there in front of us, and she was so full of energy, that we are both sort of speechless, and she raved, and lead the conversation. And she very soon starts talking about her nose, and how she would like to one day get a nose job, and raps about that for a good while—yes she did have a large nose—and then she says she must go, and we say goodbye politely, and she is gone from standing in front of us. And so we get back to talking, and in the course of it Jade says, “ And that’s what I was saying before old eagle nose interrupted us”. It broke all the ice so completely I could not stop laughing. But jade could keep me laughing, and added “She sort of gave herself that name”. A very funny bloke. And he was a great story teller. In fact I think that might have been because of his aboriginal heritage. Just a thought. And he once told me this story of how his class went to an old people’s home when they were about 6 or 7. And they are there in front of all these old people. About five or six boys from the lowest class of school. And they were asked if they wanted tea, and were soon handed hot cups of tea full to the brim. And they all start to giggle because the cups were spilling over. More so the more they laughed. The tea starts scalding them more, and this makes it more funny, just cracks them all up. And soon one of them says to these old people, by way of explanation, “We are just happy to be here”. And that of course was funniest thing they had ever heard. I always laugh when I remember that story. I hope you did too. It is so typical of how funny school life could be with all this adult pressure. And I was always kidding around, looking for a joke. And my fifth grade report card said I am a keen worker, but have to learn to control my impulse to call out. I loved to make the class laugh if I could.

We always had a good stereo at home, and we eventually got a better one. I remember often on a weekend turning it up extremely loud and prancing around to some song or other. Have a Cigar by Pink Floyd or something. See that album cover. Sophisticate art that my brother took to, and I followed—of course. Wanting to become an artist now. He would go to Sydney College of the Arts eventually. I would go to another art college. He lead, I followed. The more outrageous, the more arty, the more we were impressed. Setting up the ground fro the rumour he would later push me into, where insecurity=mental illness.

Don’t arrange to have me sent to no asylum

I’m just as sane as anyone

Its just a game I play for fun

Yeah I’ve been trying to fool everyone

And I’ve been living next to you my friend

But what kind of friend are you?

Oh, is it the beginning, or the sorry end.

Will I ever see it through?

I’ve never been insane.

Oh, what’s the game?

From Supertramp’s ‘Crime of the Century’.

I hope you are seeing how the perfect storm is brewing here…more factors will come into play.

17

During high school death was stalking, always. I had found the door to happiness suddenly slammed in my face with the Fiona event, then the highs cool teasing which was by itself a sort of blackwashing. “Drugs!”. And I had the lethargy from a sugar centred diet, quite extreme and mysterious to me. And I had my father at odds with me, to say the least. I had the baby bird killed. I had my brother…whatever. And the cure to ALL of this had been announced by my brother. Marijuana and magic mushrooms, a year or two before I got there. “You will try it too”. So it was with Colin and some of Colin’s lower-class mates from high school— that we wag school one day and sit around in this nearby bushland and try to smoke marijuana. Well, I tried and they smoked. I couldn’t get it to stay in my lungs, or even past the back of my throat, while they were already cigarette and pot smokers. And so I never felt anything. I just clowned around a lot, and made everyone laugh. But to these boys on the stupid side of life, I was off my head on the drug. And of course they all went to school giggling and raving about me, about how stoned I was. The perfect storm. The rumour my brother would eventually make his own, calling into it the Syd Barret story [Syd Barret from Pink Floyd, became schizophrenic after taking too much LSD]. Remember, part of my brother’s success is in this perfect storm of circumstantial evidence I am inadvertently making in my youth.

And so I had been teased for a year or two for being stoned at school because of my sleepy eyes, and I have now unwittingly handed them something on a platter to gossip about. And many kids really believed I was getting stoned and coming to school. Which was utterly ridiculous. But this rumour now had substance, and it even got to the teachers. And one day a teacher in the playground calls me to him, and tells me how my name came up in a teachers meeting as one of the boys suspected of taking drugs. My blood went suddenly cold. I felt like I had been sentenced to 10 years in jail. My reputation was ruined.

WRONG WAY. GO BACK.

And on I go. I sort of felt like I had been cheated out of any experience with the marijuana. But had a reputation for it all the same.

So obviously the solution to all this stress was to take out my friend Adam’s stepmother’s car at night, and drive around freely. To be adults for a while. And this is what we did, aged 14. My great idea. I met him in the middle of the night and he got the keys. And off we go, the whole world asleep. And he drives it gingerly to this promontory of bushland called Dobroyd above Sydney harbour, not far away from his house. Which has a circular road going round it. Just like a race track. No houses, no traffic. And so it gets to my turn and i start showing off and Adam is saying slow down. Gordon slow down. Gordon… Until he realised no works could change anything of what was now happening, as we had left the road at speed, and began sliding through a playground [between everything miraculously] and over the other part of the road and into the bushland a meter or more drop. Stopping with a crash, a tree banch through the window between us, glass all over us. I ask him if he was O.K, he said he was and we scramble out, all adrenaline and we are off and I remember I left my woollen knitted jumper with my name on it in the back seat, I run back  the 20 metres to get it, and we walk briskly home listening out for sirens… Telling each other how we agree that we know nothing. Yes, we know nothing. He would put the keys back.  And there I am eventually sitting in bed knowing nothing, listening to a helicopter and thinking it is a police helicopter and the sun comes up slowly, second by second, and I think I might go to jail, my life wrecked, what am I? 14 still. Well a boy’s home first, then jail. I get to school and am at school asking every one who arrives if they have seen Adam. Oh, just wondering. Have you seen Adam? And then Adam comes and he sees me first and breaks into laughter. My God, how could he? I love Adam. No annoyance, no hate for me. And he says things that calm me down a tad. But I have another layer of stress to deal with for a few weeks until it blows over. I think his parents suspected what happened. It was a sleepy neighbourhood, actually pretty upper class. A car gets stolen from the house of a teenage boy. Hmmm. Gets stolen by someone with their own keys, apparently… But somehow it was let to slide.

18

Wrong Way. Go Back.

My Near Death Experience. My Deathly Experience.

I don’t believe in the term “near death experience”. I have heard a lot of them recounted on Youtube and all are nothing like what I went through. Though I know for sure I was near death. Whatever they had, it was different.

And so then this same friend Adam invites me to stay with his real mum and her boyfriend. Both really layed-back, you might call them hippies, and they were once. Adam’s mum was obviously the polar opposite of his dad who was some CEO or something. And so, unlike with the alcohol, it was me demanding to have the mushrooms. The pot did nothing, it was lower class and criminal. Mushrooms were medicinal. Right? They would cure me of everything going wrong in my life.

His mother and her boyfriend’s house was in beautiful Bellingen. This was my first experience in something you might call paradisiacal. [Besides my grandmother’s street, walking next to Victoria]. Adam and I always got on well. I think we quarrelled twice in our lives, once in 2nd grade, once in third grade. He was my soul brother. Something like Colin but more noble, more honest and reliable.

And so I catch a train up there, first to the station of Coff’s Harbour, which was a small city, an hour’s drive from Bellingen [Adam’s place was another good half hour into the forrest from Bellingen]. I am re-introduced at the station to an old friend of ours called Jarrod, who I mentioned above. Not a close friend, but Jarrod was often witty in an anarchic way, and could tell a wonderful story sometimes. He was definitely on the rebel side, and always in the lowest classes. But he was vibrant and healthy and energetic and not criminal. His health struck me as much as his new new-wave punkish, 80’s look. He dyed and painted his own clothes and was  heavily into fashion and pop culture. I mention him in detail because I think he represented to me freedom, this anarchic free and healthy opposite of what I was. I was just so under-developed, I was just dragging myself along, and he had this extroversion, an attitude—albeit with little intelligence. And, as I now realise, all superficially based on mass media. I would soon emulate that superficial cultural stand somewhat, of non conforming clothes, and getting my ear pierced and such. As if that changed anything. It was all of course because I couldn’t play the fool for my dad any more. And I didn’t know why I was going to school to yawn and stare at the clock while older boys mocked me.

And so after a week of this paradise Jarrod comes and stays in the forest house with us for the last day and night. A neighbour in this forest [where neighbours have hundreds of metres or a kilometre between them— is going to bring the magic mushrooms.

This was my second Christmas holiday time up there. And in the afternoon we are swimming and climbing up on an old dead tree and jumping back in the river. The whole holiday was fun, and I had even ridden a horse;

Note the purple pants. That shirt was one of my brother’s which I took to. Pants be damned. This was the day before the event in question. Hours before the most monumental event in my life.

And so it was during this process of climbing out of the river that afternoon that something bit my hand. It was painful and I found two puncture marks on my hand. Whatever had bitten me had vanished. I looked for it but never saw it. But if it had been a snake, it was a very small one. And so I didn’t think much of it. It might have been a spider too. The reason this is important is because I would eventually get very very sick, and I think this bite contributed to it. But I didn’t immediately get sick. It was many hours hours later. So it is not conclusive. But either is the other reason, the mushrooms being “magic” ones.

And so we take this stuff, ragged bland raw mushroom in a private secluded cabin that evening. The two other boys fall asleep early, and it is just me and Adam talking, joking and trying to eat this tasteless floppy mess of giant mushrooms, toadstools, other rare poisonous fungus, who knows what was in there. I think we were drinking alcohol too. And had maybe had some cannabis earlier, again to no effect for me. Not really smoking it. But poisons are strange things. See here about this woman who got two drops of dimethylmurcury onto her latex glove before people new it could penetrate through latex. And died 6 months later. Even though at the time she had no pain, no sign that anything was wrong. Three months later were her first symptoms.

My memories of that night all end about there. It was nothing special. Adam and I had a good laugh but we always did. And there was no effect on my mind. Then when we were up and about the next day, I knew something was very off. Something was wrong. I was getting ill, I was ill. And it kept getting worse. But I am faking it as best I can. We have a long car ride ahead, and then an eight hour train trip. And I am just getting worse and worse. And the train trip was pure fucking pain, a sickness fever pain. And by the time the train got to Sydney, all I could do was tell my mother I wasn’t feeling well. Like straight off the bat. Like before hello. Something like that. And I remember I lay down in the car, in the back seat. Feeling fear and death. I knew this was far worse than I had ever felt.

Now I have often wondered what it was all about. And I think it was not just the chemicals, but the change from paradise to dystopia-come-hell with my father, and this farce of my schooling. Just two polar opposites of lifestyle. Just to be there at school playing a disinterest part like an actor, and with no real, no realistic direction in life. Like Fiona disappearing, it was all a cosmic cruelty, this returning. This being dragged back from paradise and the chance to be healthy and free, and to be expressive like Jarrod, and swim in rivers whenever I wanted, as we had. Dragged back to this life that had only really gotten worse since I was born. Did I take way more of the mushrooms than Adam? Was I trying to force an escape? Yes. I was trying. Did I take loads more than Adam, and that was what this sickness was? I don’t know. But if they were sickening mushrooms, they weren’t the psycadelic kind. So it is a mystery. Adam and the others never felt a thing from those mushrooms. And I never had hallucinations. They never got sick either. Was it the bite then? But I was bitten hours earlier. To this day I cant properly explain it. The closest I can come is to say it was a combination of the bite working with some toadstool or another type of rare poisonous mushroom mixed in that I alone was lucky enough to eat. Plus maybe something in the pot that exacerbated it, got the poising in deeper. Plus the psychology I just explained. I felt like I was dying in that car ride. And in fact the shaking of it I think returned, resonated in me, as you will see.

And so, as far as I knew, this was just the worst fever I had ever had, many times worse than any before. Incredible yes, but it would pass like all fevers would. Wouldn’t it? Oh God help me. And so I got myself into bed at home, was put in my parents bed and ate a tuna sandwich at my mother’s coaxing. Then I went to sleep.

Now I have never tried to explain what happened next. And I tell you this as an intro. It was that severe, that indescribable. And for a long time I could not even think about it. Literally. Even up to now I have never tried to explain it to anyone in any sort of detail, because that requires thinking it out, thinking a lot about it.  Whenever my mind went close to thinking about it for a few years after, I would get agitated, scared. If anyone came close to the topic I would suddenly get agitated, changing topic or maybe leaving the room in as natural a way as I could. And I don’t know if words will ever do it justice. But I will try.

And so I woke. And I woke as though I had just caught myself, just somehow woken myself a split second before death. Like I had been tricked into something all my life, and it was such a long and clever trick, and now it finally had me, or almost. Like I was at the bottom of a well and the boards were going over at the top and I had to get out now somehow or I world die. And it was an Olympic event to try. Oh why not just die…Only waking was going to save me eventually. Oh just die…I had to do something, I had to move, I had to not fall back asleep. As much as a feeling of being tricked, I had realised that I had made an endless series of mistakes and bad decisions in my life, because my voice, my attitudes, my hatreds were all clear, and on a perpetual loop, all melded as one, like static on a T.V, for they had become me, I was dying. And so something, something I had annoyed for too long, life or God, the world, whatever you want to call the noble and all-powerful, was now killing me because I had offended it. I had thrown away all good meaning, all truths I was given as a baby, a natural love of life, and I had become fake and hateful, a winging trying to be heard was all this screaming and hate, a deep suppressed hatred—which now ruled over me. I had treated life like a joke, my body, my brain as a toy, and pushed on, pushed on something and it suddenly snapped. I had been embroiled in endless hates and pettiness and now was out of sight from God, for I was hateful too. The pain was telling me this, the pain was this. But is pain the right word? I didn’t “have” pain, I was pain. I had slipped away from God and was lost. Lost forever. That I was about to die or was in hell, this is how I would always be. And it felt like I had to move, that if I moved then I would not be near that sleep I had just escaped from. For it was a black thoughtless sleep, like a hum of darkness, if that makes sense, and if I was there again I wouldn’t know it, I would finish dying. It would all be over. There had been nothing mental in that sleep, it was like some hypnotism, then there was all this painful hate, homogenised with the physical sick fever pain, and an incredibly severe sense of shaking. And I had to get out of this massive trap, to identify it, and the first impulse was to get out of the house. I had to go and lie on some grass, to jump in the sea, or something, to see the sky, anything but this house, and so I walk into the hall and pass my mother, just turning and saying I was going for a walk. Faking it, talking and walking by muscle memory, by mimicking how I usually am, Pretending to be normal, so as not to have her worry or follow or try to stop me, even though I was probably in my pyjamas or underwear, yes would have been, but I had no choice. No choice to stay around, to slow down.  Just acting how I should be acting, as if I had no pain, no mental agony and physical pain/sickness. I didn’t want her to freak out, and I wanted space, space from all people, space from the house. And I cant remember how exactly, but I end up on the path outside the house and though it is cool, it is just a new type of pain, a new version of it. There is no relief from this dizziness, a sort of shaking of me on the inside, but so radical it defies description, and feverishness, the utter terror that I was loosing my body. I have seen an old photo from he 1950’s of a baby with small pox sitting on a steel bench, covered in welts, and a group of doctors standing around it in their white coats. Sometimes I see an image which sparks a memory back to how I felt. My skin, my body was a blaze of energy pain. And I was way outside life. I thought that I was losing my soul because I had gone away from God into this utter hate. This shaking, and my heart was going so fast I thought it would break at any moment, any second. How on earth wasn’t it? I was amazed about my heart. I had never had it go so fast, not by half! [I now think this was part of the shaking this dizzying shaking I was having.] Why do I say ‘hate’? Because I was feeling all the sarcasm, all the sarcasm, all the arguments and insults, and all the fakeness I had become, all the media, all the nightmarish media had seeded something in me. And all the endless arguing with my father, it had tired down my soul to this. There was no hope. And it was as though I, my soul was laughing and crying at the same time, but it wasn’t fun laughter, it was some opposite, if that makes sense, sarcastic fake drunk laughter that never stopped, perpetual, even though it was a forced and fake, and as much can be called screaming at the same time. It makes little sense in writing, I know. Like a sick breathless forced laughing/screaming that was really me now. There was nothing supernatural about all this experience. It was all me. No voices in my head, no hallucinations, it was all somehow me. No excuses. All the worst sides of me winning against me, winning against the me I was born, against who I was originally, who God had intended me to be. It was my new fake and destroyed self, and it had won everything, I was dying. All the acting I had been gorging on for years, all echoing resonating as one mass of my own hellish energy. An incredible and vast super-energy. My heart was going so fast I was in awe of it, why wasn’t it breaking? When would it do so, the final dying. When would it break, I was so so terrified with every second. And then my father put down a bowl of water on the path, exactly like we put down for the dogs, same type of bowl [which we clean in the dishwasher]. And I felt offended in the depth of my soul.

Now I have struggled with writing this point for a long time. More than any point in this article. There is no way this didn’t happen, and I have tried to find a logical reason that he would have had for doing that. I remember it, and I there were no hallucinations, none, and no voices in my head. And no devils or angels. All that was in my head was my own, was me. As much as you do in a nightmare. Exactly the same, squared. I remember this clearly, what my father did. But I have wanted to doubt it. Why? Because no one would believe me. But I have now thought of a reason. As I said, I have avoided even thinking about any of this experience all my life. So I just chalked it up as something, another aspect of him, and put it out of mind. But he certainly put it there to want to splash water on my face. Well of course he did. Maybe he even had a sponge or towel in his hand. But I never saw such, never looked for such, and never felt such. So I thought he was treating me like an animal. And I panicked and got up and I ran…I ran straight into the wall my head hitting it, [so my mother told me afterwards,  and I have a vague memory of it. And the words ‘head injury’ is a small note on the medical record].

The the next thing I remember I am inside, in the lounge room,  and my body is failing, it is all so incredibly mysterious to me, what is happening to me? I have very serious pins and needles, but heavy thick nightmarish pins and needles, like whole fucking chainmail, like my skin was twisting up and breaking open, or something, but the pins and needles also went deep into my muscles and organs, and numbness coming to different parts of my body, inexplicable, like my anatomy was new, like I was a functioning of anatomy, rather than a whole thing, but all twisted, twisting and painful anatomy. And this hellish pins and needles and numbness [numbness?] was including my tongue, all down my throat, I was dying, and I am thinking urgently —but had been thinking this all through this experience too; what is life and what is existence, and what is the world? Why any of it? For I think that I might be in hell and all the past, all the family and the happy time was not the normal state of the universe, but just a momentary relief, a freak of mercy no one can explain which I had had. A dream I had had, and this pain and hate was real reality I had “woken” into this endless pain, and I was here forever. No words do justice, and I am thinking how my friends will wonder how I could die when I was such a happy and sunny child, they would not believe in life any more. They would think it is hopeless, because I who was such a joker and always smiling and playing, had died so out of the blue, it would traumatise them. But this thought was coupled with the thought that I was becoming a spastic. My limbs were not just feeling this death, these pins and needles pain was real pain but it was also numbness, though I know that doesn’t make much sense, my muscles were seizing and twisting, not doing what I wanted, my arms were being bent like you see in spastics. [I have since learned that this happens to people who die of certain toxins.] My friends would be coming to see me at the Spastic Centre. So I am trapped between these possibilities. Would death be better? And I wondered why my parents weren’t doing anything, thinking they were just there watching me die, and I tried to say ‘ambulance’ but I couldn’t at all. I tried over and over, and I sounded like a spastic. And they were talking to each other, and I thought they were letting me die. They didn’t want the shame of people seeing me. And I eventually somehow got into the car. Really cant remember getting in , must have been carried, or I think I got up and walked my legs with help, anyway we were on our way, and I only remember next being on the table in the doctors surgery, on the table, and this nice young doctor talking to me nicely, and I vomited up all the tuna sandwich and the doctor is saying, now Gordon, you’ve had something, haven’t you? What did you have? And I admitted it. The first words I can actually speak ‘magic mushrooms’ I admitted this secret with something like a sense of liberation. The first glimmer of hope that I might live, I said ‘magic mushrooms’ and with that and the vomiting, I knew I had might have passed the epicentre, on the way out maybe, passed through the ordeal, the doctor was so good, he was saying “Its O.K. Gordon. That is fine. You did nothing wrong”. [And i cry as I write this, just at this moment]. It was this kindness that saved me. Why was this doctor so good and I fearful of letting my parents know so much. Why did I do it? Why was there now a space between my parents and I? Where did it come from? What is it?

And there is something else I need to write. My father had a nickname for me for a few years. It was ‘Puddlesworth’. Yes. I have never told anyone this, not then and not as an adult now I understand the ridicule buried within it. He called me this when he was happy, not when we were fighting. And so, though I do see his putting the container of water down, in the light of him wanting to splash me with water, there might have been something else behind it, something subconscious. An attraction to it he had. Something deep and very very dark. I mean what are the chances that he would choose a nickname for me that resonates pretty closely to “Worthless”. Answer that one. It is a form of disowning for a father to give their child a nickname, at least one not derived from their name. But what to make of a derogatory meaning such as “Puddlesworth”? He didn’t want me to become a man. I was a threat from birth for reasons I have little or no idea about. He took the word from the television, from a T.V show on at the time called “I Can Jump Puddles”. I remember the moment too. How could I forget? He heard the mini-series title announced from the T.V, and said he would call me Puddlesworth. Another aspect is that this was about a crippled boy. It aired in June 1981, so I was 10 years old. But don’t forget this sense of disownment was coupled with his actually disowning me in sentences like “I want nothing more to do with you”, “I wash my hands of you”. Over and over year after year. While at school another Scorpio —yes if you want to put it down to star signs—was calling out “Gordy” in a high-pitch parrot voice and grinning at me. Whose friend was he? One of my brother’s best friends. [Note that I don’t believe in astrology in the cosmic forces sense. Rather I believe people identify with their star sign and the actions manifest. Two people with attacks coming from out of nowhere, both Scorpios. What are the odds?] And so my dad called me that for some years. How my mum sat back and accepted that I don’t know. I believe consciously my dad saw nothing wrong with it. But subconsciously it was another poison arrow. A good one. And I feel it was part of the hate that weighed in that day to hold my head to the floor for the count. That some darker part of him was in control of that, meaning the water in a container on the ground was something similar. This I can’t deny. And of course such a nickname would have been heard often by my brother.

And so I got home from the hospital. I live. But it didn’t end there. For a week constantly after that I was truly spooked. Like truly truly spooked. I couldn’t stay at school that first day back. I had to tell the teacher I wasn’t feeling well. I remember one of the boys in my grade later mocked me for leaving school that day. That, I think, was symbolic of the split world I now inhabited. People really have no idea who I am, who they are, and they don’t want to know. This is borne home by my former friend Gavin, who coincidentally enough, was a close friend of this boy all his life–trumpeting that I blew my brains out on magic mushies. Because that’s what friends are for. Conformity. He now hates me with a passion for a comment about why he shouldn’t live by an invented name. His son also with serious problems, he told me.

I had now this massive question; what had just happened? Why did I live? How did I fall into that? What was making my heart beat now? Why did the next heart beat always arrive? Why did something bring me so so close to death, and then change its mind? Why did my parents let or make me drift off that way? Many questions as one. From then on I was one of the most insecure teenagers in the world.

Here is a photo of me and Adam after that EVENT. I was spooked for a long time. Maybe you can see how I was from then on all nervous energy.

And here is a couple of pictures of me before the EVENT, just seven months. The first of me and family friends in England on my way to Ireland, the second with another family friend in Ireland. [No one liked my hair and I had to get it cut].

19

Above I used the term ‘the perfect storm’. So how do you think I now looked to people from afar, when this news of my nearly dying on an hallucinogenic was spread around? Do you see the fertile ground my brother has sewn his thornbush seeds into? To surround and imprison me. “Surrealist poetic prism”.

But I had some faith in God. Both my parents had given me that gift. That perfect gift of life and love. Both had given a lot of good examples too. I knew I wasn’t going to kill myself. I knew I wasn’t going to get addicted to something, and kill myself that way. I knew I was going to work it out. And there is one thought I had in the midst of that EVENT ordeal that I didn’t mention. And that was my telling God “I will find it”. Meaning I will find out how I was lead into the trap. And, as I now realise, the meaning of my life from that point on has been to explain the world to this younger self I was. Though it took me until recently, really till I read Miles Mathis’ work in about 2018, and used his research to reach my own conclusions, to really find that last piece of the puzzle. Being what the Jews are and were [Egyptians]. But I had surely gone to uni to study history to find it. I was so so insecure for so so long, and it took decades for that agenda to even show itself to me, that agenda of conscious commitment to study. And it took my father to die as well. I want to guide a child away from all the bullshit and deception. To guide all children. To see and explain the deception for what it really is. And that statement, “I will find it” happened in the worst of that ordeal, in the being on the loungeroom floor trying to say “ambulance”. That was actually a sort of turning point I believe. That was a single drop of hope I had, that very very slowly brought another drop, which was the doctor’s words and attitude in the hospital.

And ironically, for all the jawing about me being on drugs in high school, the one truth and direction I did have was to stay away from drugs. At that time I had thought it was the mushrooms alone that had caused this. And I kidded myself into the belief it was a certain type of drug that included trips, cocaine and whatnot where measuring dosage is hard or impossible. Not so marijuana. Which I thought I still hadn’t tried, as described to you. Even though I was the most renowned marijuana smoker in the school among the older kids. To this day I have never taken anything like chemicals or mushrooms. And it was only that marijuana had some sense of scale that I went there. But, believe it or not—because it is way beyond reckless and such extreme bad luck—I would find myself in the same nightmare once again. Which is something, a recklessness I can not explain to myself at all.

As I said, I have all my medical records, and I remember it, but am astounded to see how close was my going back to the hospital, this time for drinking. But this is not the event I am referring to. Yet it is significant in this point of my recklessness. I was in hospital again a week later, for having drunk half a bottle of wine and feeling an uncontrollable dizziness. This, as I see it now, is evidence at how harmless I saw alcohol. That it was a given that I could drink. The notes say that I was scared I had a permanent dizziness. I remember, I did have a sense of dizziness after the mushroom event anyway, and with the wine it was exacerbated extremely. So I wasn’t drunk, I had gone the other way somehow, into this hyper nervous energy and fear. The notes also say I said I feared I would get a brain tumour. Which is interesting. After that I remember tipping out the garbage bin full of fermenting beer in my back yard in front of my mum voluntarily.

So now I will tell you of a second EVENT. But how did I ever again fall back into it, into the one place, the one shaft in the face of the earth I was devoted to avoiding? A devotion which was just an extension of the nervous bewilderment about existence I now had? Again it was this stupid concept I believed in that different substances were different. Rather than the whole shaboo of drugs being a direct calling card from Satan. So back for another go at marijuana I went. Which must have been a good year or so after the mushrooms. A good year to become myself again, from the fear and confusion of what life was, how tenuous it was.

And that happened after I visited my friend Jade. He had been given a block of compressed cannabis from his dad, the type you rarely see, as though made by professionals for smuggling. His dad, I would later learn was also taking heroine. And so would Jade eventually, but years later.

But before getting to this experience, let me explain another one. One just days before but which will become relevant to it;

I had recently started gravitating to Glebe after my brother had got me into going to the artsy cinema there called the Valhalla. And he always had one of their posters on the wall showing some offbeat film being screened at some point in the year. So I start watching things that weren’t really good for me, such as Pink Floyd the Wall, Eraserhead, A Clockwork Orange, and Liquid Sky. Which are all R rated I think. So I was drifting into this art world, which, is all just pretentious, as we have seen. And not what someone already socially unstable, awkward and insecure should be setting off for.

And here’s a memory I look back on with some melancholy. It is when I  went off to a film one night, a school night, to see a film Chris had recommended. It is a long way from Fairlight to Glebe, but I convinced my mother to let me go, explaining the time and when I would be back. So there I go off through the night, just a child of 15, a ferry ride, a long bus ride right through the dirty city to Glebe. [30 minutes by ferry, 20 minutes by bus one way]. What made this so sad, is that it was my 15th birthday. This is what I mean by my mother being so hands-off. And it was maybe for this birthday reason that I found the courage to talk to two girls my age who were outside the cinema talking to each other, who had just come out. Meaning I felt sorry for myself. And one of them was very attractive, and guess what her name was? Fiona. And I asked for her phone number and she gave it to me. And I would call her but she wasn’t home. Her mum took the message but for some reason she never got back to me immediately. [No I don’t mean within the hour, I mean a few days].

And so I am at my friend Paul’s house, with this gift from Jade. And we go about trying it, and we are laughing and he said ‘wow this is so strong’, and I must have really got it into my lungs this time for suddenly, at that very moment when he said that, this laughter was switched to the opposite. Really that quick, an instant. I was in the exact same hell of hate/fear/crying/screaming. When I say these words, it is a mood, not really actual voices or anything. A mood of sadness but so intense it contains you. An intense hopelessness that can only mean death. Like your blood is all falling down to your feet. It is so hard to put into words. Like a letharfey so strong you feel your body is dying. The same laughing/screaming/crying that was really me, like when drunk you later hear the music and voices in your memory as you lay in bed, after a night out. Just like that, but nuclear. The same, the very same as I had felt in the mushroom event. But this time my body didn’t fail, and I was soon in the bathroom, and I lay on the floor and I don’t know about Paul, for it was such powerful stuff. He was probably totally stoned [It wasn’t just simple marijuana. And you might be able to guess what was in it. Which I am getting to]. And Paul eventually comes and talks to me and says his parents or older sister will be home soon, and I can go to the garage and lie down. And this is what I do, and I am waiting in this hell still, but I am talking myself through it a little. Which I hadn’t done before at all [except for the thought “I will find it”.] And I start to visualise an angelic being  dressed in white and with white around his head, like a turban. I think now this was from images of Muslims I had seen. This is just something I am imagining, and I know I am imagining, but it was helping all the same, so I kept at it. It never got clearer that I might imagine it now, or I might have imagined it before that day. It was just imagination, I know it, and I knew it. But it was a visualisation that connected me with God and it was working. And then Paul brought me some vegimite on toast. I had some , just a small bite like a taste, and I think the salt in it did me a great lot of good. Maybe the vitamins too. And I nibble more after periods. And I soon came out of it, keeping my mind on this angelic being. When I got home my mother said a girl had called me. It was Fiona. And that sort of flipped me back to feeling normal. I have often wondered if God arranged this. Or if Fiona somehow got some psychic inspiration to help me. Whatever, she was all loveliness. And I saw again that true escape. That her name was also Fiona is just something too incredible to be chance. A hint at some divine plan and order to the universe. To this day I have met just say, three or four other people called Fiona in my whole life.

And so I invited her to Manly and she came. We were both still in year 10. I was doing my year 10 final exams that day. Which of course I could concentrate on so much. Hardly cared about actually. And went excitedly to see her around midday. We spent the day around Manly and walked to Shelly Beach, kissing on the beach. It was one of the happiest days i have ever spent. I brought her home, so happy to have her meet my mother, which I told her I might do. But my mother wasn’t home. No one was. I was so extremely disappointed about that. It just gutted me. What was my mum doing at that time? What was my brother doing at the time Fay was in hospital? These things speak volumes to me now. I don’t believe in luck any more. I just think I was doomed. My mother would always be looking in the wrong direction.

But Fiona rejected me anyway. Either because I was too unsettled, what with the nervous energy, and or she saw through me to the dysfunctional family I was the product of. Are these two things really  any different anyway? Or she just say an under-developed male.

Fiona would be short and cold on the phone. I was trying too hard, it wasn’t mutual love. I became annoying for her, and I had to let it go. I have been rejected very rarely in my life. In fact this is probably the only time. And her name was Fiona, the same name as the girl who disappeared, my first great love. How about that?

Years later when I was in art college, I was looking at an exhibit in a gallery with my class [even remember the exhibit] and other classes, and came face to face with her from a few metres. I still don’t know if she dodged me or I dodged her exactly. I think it was both. And we left each other alone. Years later again I was in her hometown in the Western Suburbs and looked her up from the phone book. Big mistake. It is just that I felt she needed to see me, rather than the phone. To remember how handsome I was. But she wouldn’t open the flyscreen door. I felt like the biggest creep in the world. She then became nationally famous, actually a world famous classical musician, and one of the most beautiful women in media. Which I found out recently, 2021 apx. I looked her up during the Great Panic, as I call it, when I was looking everyone up. Which was, their reaction to me, part of the reason for my writing now. But I wont give you her surname. She might not like that. We all live and learn…eventually.

Some time later at school, one of my friends told me how Paul had told him how I was sweating a lot and laying there during the new INCIDENT. And so I reckon this new part of the perfect storm was brewing. More fertilization for the ground my brother would call his own, call his home.

And as I said, I could never talk about this with anyone. Too scary. So I never asked Paul about how he felt on this stuff, his experience. Also I never resented him telling others. It was natural for him to tell people. I would have too. He was only ever concerned for me.

Some time later I am talking to Jade and I didn’t want to say anything about what he had given me. For I thought that that was what all marijuana was like, and I was just sensitive to it. And it was so much like the first experience, as though it tapped some memories, some sunken state of me, that got relived—and nothing to do with the actual drug. A catalyst, in other words. But it was not as severe. Well it was as severe but not as long. And Jade mentions to someone else in the room, just in conversation that that block of marijuana was “opianated”. Meaning it was laced with opium. What are the odds that the first real experience on that stuff would be the most hardcore stuff? But there it is. I was definitely thrown in the deep end. And I never touched the stuff for about 5 or 6 years. And that was when I was 20, 21.

20

The next chapters are various events in my life that shaped my thinking. I have thought about skipping them and just getting to the showdown with my father. Being that time he had me committed, twice. But really you need to know all the next years to see how it all happened. How this perfect storm manifested. How I could contribute to my own demise in this way, this way of reputation. And yet not be wholly to blame. I think I became as bad in a way as my father was in another way. I became as apathetic as he was antagonistic. I knew he could never really be reasoned with, and I sought some reckoning in religion to bridge the abyss. The perfect storm would just take a drastic step. Now howling. No turning back. Religion just made things worse, even though, as noted, there was and is clear and reasonable logic in what I was trying to do. The concept of words being thought. So to correct the one, you correct the other, I had thought. To correct the thoughts of my dad, I propounded the holiness of words. Something I have now realised doesn’t need religion at all. But you can see why it relates to God. And it does need a sense of God, and a devotion to prayer. Which I have always had, though not as strong as I have it now, and not since I was little.

—————-

And so I went off, back to Bellingen, or actually that paradise off some way form Bellingen, dropping out of year 11, to a remote part by a river on Adam’s stepfather’s property.

So I set up in a caravan in winter in this space, this God-given space. I would have to go into Coffs Harbour, a small city, to get my food voucher from some charity, St Vincent De Paul or the Salvation Army. As I said, I was too young to get the government dole. The only other option for me had been to become a ward of the state. Yes, I had looked into finishing my schooling in some government paid rental room or something.

I remember chatting with this homeless man in Coffs Harbour about how to use these vouchers. What to buy to ensure you had enough proper meals though the week or whatever time it covered till you got the next one. As though we were chefs on a budget television show or something. I had three months to wait it out like this. And it was at this time I stole a novel which would become a book of significance in my life. And one I would later rave about to my brother. We would end up making a deal that he would read this recommendation of mine, and I would read one of his. This was how I got to read ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest’. My book was more than just a good read for me, as I now see it. It was called ‘The Stuntman,’ which was of course what I had wanted to be when growing up. As well as wanting to be a musician. Escapism. It has a profoundly clever plot I could relate to. And it is one of the extremely rare cases of my reading a book twice, which I did after arriving in Tasmania. [So high was my opinion of it, that I had tracked down a copy of it while I was at uni, after I lent it to my friend Colin years earlier and he never returned it.] A modern masterpiece. To loosely describe and butcher the plot for you; this man is on a bus after having been drafted into the army. He is reading a break-up letter from his girlfriend. The bus breaks down and he is sent down the highway to get a mechanic. He decides to go AWOL, leaving into the brush, and eventually finds himself in a movie set on a newly made highway, where he blunders onto the scene and the stuntman is killed. He is then used as the replacement stuntman, and the director is sort of mad, but a famous avantgarde director, making it up as he goes. And there is this weird tension throughout where the stuntman is thinking all the stunts are getting harder and the director is trying to kill him. But he cant escape because he is being looked for by the police for being AWOL and thinks he will be blamed for the original stuntman’s death. It all sounds far fetched as I explain it but there is much more to it. A lot of psychological depth. I see that I related to this scenario, with the director being of course my dad. This razor’s edge between protective power and harm from madness. So after I returned I explained this whole book to my brother. Like went through it excitedly from beginning to end.  And so I convinced him to read it. I think the only time I ever tried to have him read a book. But of course he did this with a sort of begrudgement. For I remember that after he read it [if he really did read it] him saying to me “You think the Stuntman has poetic description, you should see this book! It is so rich in metaphor.” Or words to that effect. A ‘my book is better than your book’ sort of thing.

I was a great reader in my caravan. Mainly Roald Dahl. As reading is all there was to do in this caravan which had no electricity. But it was all I needed, just what I needed. That and go up and watch the news with Paul, another Paul, who was Adam’s stepfather [I call him that but he wasn’t married to Adam’s mum.]. The deal was that I would work for Paul to earn my keep. Paul was on the dole himself. And selling dope too, but I don’t know how much he got for that. That is a secret I have kept till now. Glad to be rid of it. He was a bit of a character actually, but he was good to me, and never overworked me. I remember him taking me up into the hills behind his property and pointing to vast stretches of bushland,, all undeveloped mountains and saying it was all his land, his property. We came across a logging track and he said he agreed to let them have the logs in return for them making a road for him. Haha, I believed him.  But we got on well. I remember him saying to me once that I was unusual. He didn’t say it in a bad way, just a matter of fact. That I was “a strange sprout”. The words he used. I understood why he would say that. He had no idea of what, who I was, like near everyone else in the world. Or actually everyone else in the world literally. I had been through some sort of death. And I was a baby again having to work everything out. My mind was no longer so superficial but it was vibrantly wary, over wary. And this is what I mean by my becoming a highly strung young man. I lived for avoiding that shaft, that pit, that nightmare of thoughtlessness I had woken from in my parents bed. If I had gotten there once, actually twice, how was I to avoid it when I didn’t know how I fell in the first place? But I also gorged on music and lived as utter superficiality in another sense. I remember once walking along this country road where whole hours could go without a car going passed, listening to my walkman, ‘Lovesexy’ by Prince, and dancing in my outlandish clothing —self made, died, just like Jarrod’s — and being surprised by a traveller walking the other way, straight out of a Bango Patterson poem. Things like this stick out in my memory, giving me perspective on just how lost I was. We chatted. He said the squiggle of ink tattooed on his arm was “a cougar”. I think he had done it himself.

Don’t arrange to have me sent to no asylum

I’m just as sane as any one…

Crime of the Century.

And so I got up to Brisbane 3 moths later, when I was now getting the dole.

Rudy’s on the train to nowhere

Half way down the line

He don’t want to get there

But he needs time

He aint sophisticated

Or well educated

And after all the hours he’s wasted

Still he needs time

I became a newspaper corner-boy for a pittance, for a couple of weeks. Standing there in the sun watching the business people come and go. Not such a bad job actually. But the pay was impossibly low. Then got a job at a tow-bar factory. A shit-kicker’s shit-kicker, as the older boy called me once in good humour. Which had me in tears of laughter every time I remembered it. The impossible disaster of my life was just unbearably funny.

One memory from that time which recently came back to me was of when I was dipping the towbars into the black paint, as usual, and hearing the INXS’s song ‘Never Tear Us Apart’ on the radio, and liking it, especially the sax solo. And for some reason that song and that moment stayed with me as a pair. Maybe they played it often for those months I was there. I always thought of that moment whenever I heard that song over the years. And it came back to me when my daughter recently asked me whether I had heard of the song, and she said that she had played it, this sax solo, for the school in her friend’s band performance. [Yes my daughter also plays saxophone, and guitar as well as violin]. And so I answered that I did know it. Thinking to myself, “Oh yes, I do.” I remind you, she is at the poshest school in the state on a 25% scholarship [which leaves us still with a near impossible fee]. And that job had me for a time under a car getting all sorts of grit in my eyes as one of the workers there showed me how to install a towbar one day [which came to nothing]. He never gave me goggles and I think he might have done this deliberately. Hating my casual air and my laughing and joking with the older boy, the shitkicker proper.

I knew that towbar job was never going to be my place. I would have quit sooner or later but the business was sold, or at least that is what I was told as they fired me. So to me my father was one of the cruellest people on earth as he mocked me at home about this failure, insisting I had given up by returning home. How I struggled, how I tried, and how freaking isolated I was up there. Which brings me to an episode where I show the traits of this cruelty of his, and the naivety and gullibility of my mother. The worst of both worlds bringing down hell on someone, a young girl who fancied me.

I used to shop at a supermarket near by my flat in Nundar, then a working class suburb of Brisbane, which now, I am told, is pretty up-market. My flat was one those one story things, each flat with a garage under it. It was owned and lived in by a bank manager. He asked me in the interview whether I was a poofter, based on what I was wearing, so this was sort of encouraging. He wasn’t a poofter. But he also told me how he had tried to hang himself and pointed to some damage or mark near the front door, telling me how the rope broke or something broke, as noted. Now this was in the era when much police corruption in Brisbane was getting exposed and I saw him one evening trying to get a prostitute on the phone, trying to get through to “Lovely Ladies” and whatnot. Yes, I remember that name. Then he told me “they’ve closed all the whore houses down”.  This is all background information on this man’s character. And so one day I befriend this checkout girl. I don’t think she had been to the flat before, but she somehow knew where I lived. And so one evening I went out to emulate my brother, looking for nightlife, and that failed. [It was so pathetic! I was so pathetic. There I am alone in this place. Probably looking like the child I was. I had rounded cheeks for a long time]. And I get home and this girl is laying on the floor just in of the doorway. I was aghast, but Russell, his name, immediately starts telling me how she came in drunk looking for me, that she was so drunk she was swinging on the door and bent it. And just fell there on the floor. And so get I get her up and  into my room [I cant actually remember, did we carry her?] and she comes around or something, but I really cant remember it clearly, and I immediately start criticising her, how she has embarrassed me, and who the fuck did she think she was and so on. I now see I was the perfect example of my father’s askew tirades and my mothers perfect gullibility. I think she was now on my floor and she eventually said something, her first words, “You are schizophrenic”. And that is all I remember, and I think she immediately got up and walked out. I’d shown her. Hadn’t I?

And it was during my time at uni, 13 or so years later, when my brain was a bit more developed, that I am lying in bed one day thinking, and it occurs to me how odd it was, what Russell told me. Predominantly the door. It was a metal flyscreen door. And it had, apparently been bent, so as it didn’t close properly. Can a somewhat slight girl, as she was, really bend if from leaning on it drunk? Also she is there on the floor like she is dead. You have to be pretty freaking drunk to be like that. In fact that doesn’t suit being completely drunk either. Although at the time I thought she might have been acting. And for her to step in uninvited is beyond being drunk. If she was sober enough to stand at the door she was sober enough to hear Russell tell her I am not home. It defies all believability to think she came to the door, opened it, swung on it, staggered in and fell there to not move again. Which is exactly what Russell told me. So what I suspect happened, is what you have worked out already. That Russell, unable to get his whores, had had this girl come to his door, just like one of his whores would, and he opened the door to let her in saying I was inside, or just to talk to her more, and grabbed her, and she had clung to the door. This man made me pay for that door, and I think that convinced my stupid self  further that Russel was innocent, that there was no crime. Just some stupid drunk girl.

Russel, as noted wouldn’t let me stay another night over what I’d paid for. And when I went to get my bond money back from him at the bank he said he was keeping it or some or most of it for a new door. I said “I want to speak to the manager”, and he said “I am the manager” with a smile.

So I return home after Brisbane, and guess what my next first job was. Well, I mentioned it in Facebook. Sitting on a bus for hours twice a day getting to Chatswood in peak hours in order to walk between two points delivering and picking up photo reels for a small advertising company. Was this to be my life forever? To be fair it was again, like the caravan, probably just what I needed—though not the bus ride. And over the years I would find walking one of my greatest pleasures and times for thinking. I believe I have walked multiple times more than anyone else my age. But the bus journey of  over an hour, or two hours or  something each way was impossible.

I was eventually given a bike, and a top quality one too. But this just meant I waited around feeling like a third wheel more of the time. I started to chat with a very homely girl who was the front receptionist. And it was like two escaped prisoners meeting by chance and comforted in how we both felt the same. She had to sit there all day with mostly nothing to do. And it took me years to work out that this was the WORSTE type of job. You are caught in this weird world of having to look purposeful, which is a real type of stress, and of course not perfect for me in my new life of living on nervous energy. A paper boy was not so bad, because there was no pressure to work. And I feel this sense of unbearable pressure was again attached to my dad. As though sitting still was automatically bludging, and I would be told I was “utterly pathetic”. Now I am older and wiser I would confront the bosses, whoever they were, and say I want to read or study or something while I wait for the film delivery and pick-up moments. In fact I was thinking of becoming a writer. I had been taken by storm with the Stuntman, and was nearly as impressed with the book Marathon Man, which I had read in Brisbane, as well as with Roald Dahl and Rod Serling and his Twilight Zone phenomenon. Which in hind sight was apt for my life. I was in a vary strange one.

And so I left that “job” which was just two forms of torture. The bus and the frustration/boredom. Boredom being the common denominator. An amusing detail though was one day—and I was quite friendly with the draughts people who worked at their drawing boards—one of them asked if I was looking for a new job. I said no. And she said why have you got the positions vacant page in your pocket. Yes it was sticking out of my top pocket and she could read it. I did feel bad about leaving that job, because they were all so friendly, and because my father of course loaded and re-loaded the facts at me. But now, as I said, I see things the other way around. When my father asked why I left it, I hardly had an answer. For it took me forever to work out how having nothing to do is worse than any job you might have to do. And of course this added to the mystery of what life, my life was supposed to be all about. And so this and other jobs, and all the girls I played around with were never right for me. Nothing was working. Nothing.

The next job I had was just as farcical.

I worked at Misha’s restaurant as a kitchen hand. One of the chefs there was once my brother’s girlfriend, way back in 6th grade. She was nice and we got along well. But this job would get so freaking busy and mountains of plates would start pouring in, and it was all for me to deal with. And everyone would leave and I would finish in the late night or maybe even after 12, and ride my new motorbike home. It was tough work actually. But it also denied me the night life, the chance to be with my friends. Selfish maybe, but I was a teenager. And one day I am home with the beautiful Lisa Smuts, a girl who I regret not marrying, another one, and she says I can phone in and say I’m sick. And I did. And it felt the natural state of affairs. And I think from then on I realised how much I didn’t like the job. I wasn’t fit enough too, and my mind not equipped to zone out on other things, as I do today with menial jobs like weeding or mowing. [I am now a gardener]. Please pass this on to Lisa if you know her. No, I don’t want to marry her, but I did treat her like garbage, throwing her away. I really don’t know why.

In this job, and here is the farcical part. I realised a lot of the food coming through that little square was untouched, or virtually so. So I began feeding myself the odd bite. The odd bite. So it became a sort of nervous game I played with the mafia that owned that place as i took a bite of some lobster or whatever.

The next job I had was just as farcical.

I decided that rather than being a slave come kitchenhand, i was really a chef. And so I got an apprenticeship in a new fairly upmarket and upbeat restaurant called L’Express in Cremorne. This sort of hotshot American chef was employed to make this new restaurant work. He would send me into the cool room looking for something, or down to the garage storage space, and I would stand there saying “What fucking [thing]? There is no fucking [thing].” Until he would have to come and find it immediately, there in front of our eyes. I was just so mentally unsettled, I think I over-looked for things, if that makes sense, Over searching. I was on nervous energy. And I over did things, over-thought things, so I wasn’t really efficient. I wasn’t really there. It was the Clark Kent stage of my life. And there was this owner, this Jew I reckon, who would come in and sit at the back and looked over the kitchen, which was an open kitchen the diners could view. This put me way off. Every time I would look up, he was there staring at me. I was hyper self-conscious, and I felt like it was all a performance I was having to learn on the spot. Like a dance and you have to fumble one foot here, one foot there, and copy what is done naturally and beautifully by the others, but your mind is not in it, it is on the version of dad in the shadows. And I am always thinking, “do I really want to do this for the rest of my life?” Always. Like I was my own critic of the job.

My feeling of incompetence reached its zenith the evening my parents came in. My mind was just not on anything at all. I remember this waiter showing how to make a  certain dessert, in mid-flight, so to speak, the restaurant bustling. And I wasn’t paying attention, and a few moments later the chef asks me to make the dessert and I can’t do it. So he turns to the same waiter and asked him to show me, not knowing he had just shown me. And the waiter says he has shown me, and the chef gets annoyed, saying well ‘he doesn’t know how to do it,’ and the waiter snaps, “well he’s an idiot, because I just showed him”. That might have been the night my parents were there. It was one of the worst working experiences I have ever had. [Oh, but wait till we get to Korea!…]. I was drowning in the deep end. I should have been gardening. I hated every moment of it intensely. But an equally real reason I left was because it denied me night life. I was by then my own entity, going out and drinking and dancing. And being a chef you can’t do this. The times clash. So I reasoned that I was giving up this only thing that I thought was meaningful, which was of course the way to meet young women, find a wife, which i thought was everything. Always have.

I had had a girlfriend, or would have a girlfriend from one of these nightclub places called Annaliese, whose real name was Karen. But I dumped her brutally of course. All part of the dance. My style of dancing. She lived over at Balmain, and so I was introduced to that area. My brother was at Sydney college of the Arts in Balmain, and so I started to gravitate to there while I was with her. And it wasn’t far from Glebe, and I was still going to arty films over there.

The next job was just as farcical

This was delivering sandwiches for a sandwich shop called Jaws in North Sydney. By this stage I had my motorcycle so the ride wasn’t so bad, especially as I could sneak through all the traffic, as motorbikes do. And so even though it is nearly as far as Chatswood [but I swear that last leg to Chatswood took a a good 20 to 30 minutes in every morning traffic jam] it was fun to transit. The sandwich shop owner/manager had just bought it. And my job was to deliver sandwiches to offices in the buildings by foot carrying a basket. And off I went and no one was buying. And I was so worried about it. People were not buying from me. I was wrecking his business. And he was so nice. And he says he will talk to the girl who did it previously and the previous owner and we were given buildings and floors where there were established customers. But nothing changed. But then good news came. He wasn’t getting as nearly the amount of customers in the shop either. When I found that out I was so relieved. His whole business was failing. Seriously though, this owner, and I forget his name now, was a really nice fella. And he cracked a joke that had me in stitches, breaking all the ice and self suspicion I had had. It happened when we were all out in the kitchen and talking, and someone said there was a customer and so we all move out. And he says, “Look at us. A customer walks in and we are all out there, saying “Hello” ”. And he put on this big blank sort of  idiot’s smile on his face. One of the funniest jokes I had heard. Or THE funniest joke since shit-kicker’s shit-kicker. And so he had to let me go. And my dad was getting quite the arsenal now. And he didn’t believe what I said about the business failing. In fact this owner let me go reluctantly and I was reluctant to leave. I liked the job a lot. It was actually the first one I liked! Going around meeting all the business people. Feeling like I was one of them. A mover and shaker in the business world.

I went back some time later to say hello and he told me he was taking the previous owner to court, that he had been lied to about the sales. And had all the records from the companies that had delivered foods to the business. Being not large enough quantities for the financial figures he had received. [Financial figures?]. I reckon it was Jews who had owned the business, as I have found the film ‘Jaws’ is full of jokes on Christians. [For example the first victim is called Christina]. And the owners saw the jokes in the film, and made one of their own on that kind good-natured man.

Around this time I went to Brisbane with a friend and that was pretty pathetic. I cant think now why I went there again. Oh that’s right, my friend Gianni had relatives up there. That is the reason. Not that we visited them, we didn’t. And I met a girl called Tiffany, who’s real name was Linda, which I only found out about years later trying to find her and talking to her mum. She was of course all messed up like me, and she became my girlfriend. And along with Gianni we were all lost souls not knowing what on earth life was supposed to be about. And then Tiffany comes to stay with me, at first saying she is going to stay with a friend but that doesn’t work out, and I have to invite her home. And of course that goes wobbly pretty soon, my dad not liking her and keeps prodding with clear irritation “How long is she going to stay?” With a slight emphasis on the ‘she’, as if she was dirty or something.

I had another fiend called Megan, and her and Tiffany get on great, always laughing and its all good fun. Tiffany and I are walking home from swimming in Fairlight pool one day and she has an asthma attack. I need to rush into a place and knock on the door to get help, an ambulance called. And the medics help Tiffany. Later after Tiffany goes, Megan tells me her real age, being two years younger than she told me, and that she had faked the asthma attack.

That was when I was going to art school. She wouldn’t let me photograph her here, which was in McDonalds. The only photo I have of her. And emblematic of how I finally treated her, defeated. I won.

Having said that, I relate all this to not having a sense of home. No home physically and mentally. But that is insecurity, not mental illness. I hope she is doing well and I pray for all these people I have hurt over my life.

I remember when the song ‘All the Girls I’ve Loved Before’ came out and my mother said how the song always reminded her of Chris. Said it a few time. It was uncanny, she said. THe way she said this was a sort of admiration. Eulio Englaisius I suppose. Women who came and went in Chris’ life with perfect romance…

One episode happened which I must confess, also at this time when I was 17 with Tiffany. We were with Jade and a friend called Michael. And we had just left Oxford Street after some nightclubs and drinking, stepping into Hyde park, just at the entrance. And we heard this screaming behind us, and it was a fight going on in the medium strip between two girls. A physical fight. And though I knew one of the girls vaguely, it wasn’t of much interest, and it soon stopped anyway. And so we keep walking and one of these girls, who I didn’t really know, comes up and joins us. And she is raving angry, and saying how her enemy is such a bitch and she did this and that and…to paraphrase the bible, Satan then entered unto me, and I Judas betrayed mankind… Meaning I realised that this pleasant walk through the park of Gethsemane, where we would otherwise be joking and laughing— and Michael too was a great cynic and we three were a veritable circus together sometimes—was being hijacked by this girl with her hatreds. So let me explain exactly what went on in my mind, before I apologise. I thought to myself this is all the talk of hate to have us join her in her perspective, her hate for this other girl. She is using this pleasant relaxation we were in to rope us into helping her feel better and safer. She is a coward and needs a lesson, that she has no one here to help her. And so I turned on her as she ranted and pretended, half-pretended to be her sudden unexpected enemy, as though she never really left the fight and came crawling over to us. None of us really knew her. She needed working on. And so with a loosely held fist I struck her in the face, to shock her and pretended to be all for it. She of course screams and runs off, Tiffany turns to me and yells “Gordon!” in anger and off they went.

I saw her a few weeks later where I apologised. She accepted the apology instantly saying how drunk she was. And we talked for a while. Still, it was an evil thing for me to do. And if she is reading this, though I forget her name; I apologise for that here again. I will always regret doing it, and always have.

And for Tiffany’s stay, the house was like something I had to steal time in. And I remember a  friend called Rachael, who reminded me of that feeling years later in 1998. She was friends with another girlfriend I had when I was 16. [Rachael died of a heroine overdose a couple of months after telling me this]. And she told me of how once, when I was 16, we were at home and my parents came home, I hear the car come up the driveway. And I am panicking and rushing them out the back door,  and around the back and they are laughing and so am I, it was all pretty hilarious, and then we snuck away, and they wondered what sort of parents I had. So ridiculous. It is not that my parents would have minded. No they would have been happy to meet them. It was just me. You know.

Speaking of heroine, I saw an old school friend call Justin around this time, 17 or so. We had fallen out in high school, but met outside a pub in Manly one night, all quarrels a world away. He stayed the night with me and one of Jarrod’s friends I knew from Coffs Harbour. I spent the day with Justin and, at one point we go to Kentucky Fried Chicken in Brookvale. Coincidentally right near a party we would go to that night. He says he only wants mashed potatoes. He then start putting satchels of pepper into it. Again and again, enjoying surprising me— as I soon found out. For he couldn’t eat it. He had just been showing off. I mention this because it is sort of symbolic for me where his mind was at. Soon overdosing on heroine. Very soon. He also had tried to get me interested in the angel trumpet tree we passed, one of the most dangerous hallucinogenic plants in the world. He was one of the first friends I knew who got into smoking pot. At least he talked of it. He had become a punk years ago. And his beautiful skin was now covered in tattoos. He was also once a great athlete, in wrestling and long distance running. We met in Balgowlah later that night to go to the party. I lost him at the party as I had a very strange encounter with two boys/men at the party. One was much older and I think as a joke to his mates claimed I had insulted his sister called Jenny, and insisted on it. Ridiculous as Jenny was a good friend from school who I had known since kindergarten. Adam was laughing at the whole thing, so I wasn’t sure it was to make Adam laugh at first. But he didn’t stop, he seemed deadly serious. And he had me sort of pinned there with fear and confusion. Saying threats. One of which was  “If I hit you, you will never get up again. When I hit people, they don’t get up”. He repeated that a few times. I think he was about as old as my brother. “So tell me why you insulted my sister?”. And so on. Then immediately after this, like 10 minutes, another boy called Richard Ellis, a year older than me at high school, did almost exactly the same thing. He was a lot shorter than me and had a plaster caste on his hand. I don’t think I had ever spoken to him in my life. Nor his friends. I didn’t want to fight either of these people. It was the most bizarre party I have ever been to. What was going on? Why was there all this hate, this fixation on me. Because it just seemed insane provocation. Yet if it was provocation, why didn’t either push me. That is the way fights are usually started. Why so mental? What the fuck was going on? And these two never touched me. And Richard is saying “Come on then, throw the first punch”. I remember this clearly because I remember my answer; “If I throw the first punch you’re going to hit me with your plaster”. So fucking ridiculous. A bit like the ear thing. But that incident unnerved me. Just what I needed. A party where everyone might suddenly turn on me. I have never been able to explain it, until just now re-thinking it. I reckon Ellis, seeing me a few feet away suffering this bully– who I will have to ask Jenny what has become of him, for time reveals a lot– and not fighting back, knew I was now unsettled, scared and, yes, not fighting back. And so he decided to take advantage of that, like some wolf or something, and appear so much taller to everyone at the party, especially the girls. Who knows, boys too maybe. I saw his image on Facebook during the Panic, with one of those rings around his head saying how he got vaccinated. Well done Richard. And the party was even worse for Justin. I found him and he was in mid fight with someone, an actual fight. A vicious one too, and of course with a much bigger boy. I must have touched base with Justin after that. His girlfriend was there. But I cant remember that, weirdly. Him leaving, I think maybe his girlfriend took him home. Adam called me a day or two later saying he had died of a drug overdose. Coincidentally—I just realised— that phone call was brought to me with a cordless phone when I was sleeping in my parents bed, exactly same side of the bed as the EVENT. Symbolism. A language beyond language.

We both went to the funeral. His mum seeing me and the tragedy and pain in her face as she recognised me was total. Justin and I had been friends since third grade. Not as close as some,  but we had our laughs, and stayed a few nights at each others homes over the primary school years. It was, I later heard from his mum who I contacted in the Great Panic, the first time he had tried heroine, just like Rachael 10 years later.

21

17 continued;

And so I was working for my dad occasionally. And it was during a job in Glebe, as it happens one of our biggest jobs ever, for Russell’s Health Food Shop [yes, another coincidence of names]. And I went into the shop in my lunch break and browsed their health books. And bought a couple, including one on fasting. And this represents a significant change in my life. [Interestingly it is the only time I have seen a policeman walking along with a drawn gun. Some fugitive in the area.] A book that influenced me heavily, changed the course of my life, actually. I had read some health book of my dad’s when I was in high school, after the mushroom incident, trying to figure things out. It was called Life Energy

Which was influential in that it got me off the sugar to a large degree. But the two books in this later year, when I was 17, really changed my life. One on nutritious food, and one on fasting. Not that the books themselves where so incredible or impressive, but they introduced me to two fundamental principles of good heath. One I have carried through my life—though I went back to old habits for years on end. It is really a slam dunk that fasting is good for the health. I will tell you why. Two reasons actually;

1] Jesus did it. It is the only physical way we can emulate Jesus, and it is totally ignored by every Christian on earth, pretty much. Obviously because they have him fast for 40 days. Enough to deter anyone. I think it was probably originally 4 days, but they were making a god of him [and also “a Jew” of him. A word [Jew] that didn’t exist at that time]

2] After the EVENT I was certain that I would age faster than anyone else. To me that was a given. I was bearing sort of maximum stress. I say this from comparison with my previous and later life. I was all at sea all the time, I was floundering in everything and every situation and every new person was its own universe I had to negotiate. Yes, every new person always is, but I was alike a cat that had been roughly kidnapped and placed in a new world. Which I now know was from the inability to trust my father and brother, and ultimately my mother. My mother because of their influence on her—definitely. No, this feeling about them was not apparent in my conscious mind, just a feeling, an intuition, and in the fact I had drifted so so far off into danger. In my opinion I came within a heart beat of dying. Put it that way. And it was no “near death experience”. Closer than that. What they say on Youtube is so ridiculous to me, even though they themselves see it as near death. And so when I read the Koran, with its talk of hell in real terms, I found it as a wonderful and grounding sincerity. THAT is what death and hell really are. It is real, it is there, and you have to avoid it.

If my parents didn’t know what life was about, I was on my own. No family at all. Playing by ear, winging it. Which I can only say now in hindsight. For at the time I was too busy working things out, too busy wing-ing it. Believing this was natural life. Trying to play a part like all teenagers, the centre of the world too, like all teenagers, I was very significant. But why exactly? I was more interested in the why than most anyone else I have ever met. Maybe my friend William comes closest, or even exceeds me. One of the best friends I ever had [see below]. I don’t care much now for my friends and relatives satisfied with media titillation, and basing their reality on it. And, as noted, I now know the question is worthwhile. And my relatives would be far better off knowing what I know, instead of being in lockstep with each other, trusting a criminal government as their head, getting injected with what is ADMITTEDLY kept a secret from them. THAT, to me is mental illness. An inability to care for your own welfare, and that of your children—by demanding the minimal of respect from the controller class, the Zionists. Fauci, Bourla, and nearly all “achievements” in vaccines have been Jewish. [Fauci crypto]. Like Freud, the premise is your own LACKING. God, they would have you believe, made you lacking, made you needing them. Well, you do if you do. That your biology is something you need leave to others, like your mind. But try me, and thigs like this if you care, instead.

I chased my relatives for long enough. And the last thing I said to them was that I believe it is in an insult to God to cut family off. But they aren’t interested in talking about God. Why would that be? Well, because it is my clever camoflage for me to worm my way into their lives, to get myself invited to dinner so I can burn their houses down, of course. Here is my cousin Neil Armstrong below. Who I haven’t seen since he was 5 years old. He has his own dairy and farm equipment business. I wrote to him telling him about cold-pressed milk, an Australian invention now taking off big-time in Australia. No acknowledgment.

There he is on the left. He has been eating beef every day since he was born, but hasn’t the balls to communicate with me from 17 000 kilometres away. Not about God either or anything. Why? Because he is busy opbliging the cow god.

So we will see what time has for each of us. Which is a good segue back to the original point I was making. Unlike these people, I have kept myself fit. I have no grey hair, and all of my hair, and no need for glasses, and no need for doctors. You cant even call them doctors any more. They themselves don’t even know what half their stuff means and is. I talked with a young doctor, a client of mine, who didn’t know thimerosal contained mercury. One of the most toxic substance in the world. Injected into babies for decades.

Which brings me to another point. Being anti on some of the establishment, is also easily framed as mental illness. So convenient when you don’t have your facts. In fact it is the go-to reaction for factless people. Well, that goes without saying, for establishment is based on Pax Judaica and the Freudian premise. But here I give you a relevant example; Cancer has existed throughout all of history. And ancient Egyptians addressed all illnesses, including this one. But it is the only one they neve prescribed treatment for. “Do nothing there against”. Why? Because more damage is done trying to treat it. And this is why the young who get cancer are more likely to die from surgery. Their bodies can’t handle the shock of the surgery. But modern medicine doesn’t conclude that. It has all types of excuses for that. And this is what the Freudian premise is too, actually. You alienate someone by insisting they are mentally ill, and the more they suffer under the charge, the more convinced the psychopaths become, it is their wishful thinking.. My brother knows this full well. But he wants to be king of something. Some atheistic conception of life where he fakes his way along. It is the same principle of exorcism, in those cases where the ones being exorcized were actually killed. They conclude the devil finally got them. They are never to blame. Same in the witch hunts. A sorry part of human nature. The “cure” is actually the cause, but it gains momentum via human agency–the psychopaths at the heart of it. In my case this syndrome is 35 years old.

So, getting back on track it was at this point in my life when I felt that things were sort of coming together. Things were slowly working out and I was finding my feet. I was 17 and I remember meeting my good friend Nathan Stuckey by accident in the music instrument shop in Brookvale, as he now worked there. Nathan was really my closest friend in high school, or equal with Adam and Colin all during high school. I joked and laughed with him in class, to the neglect of all my studies. It was great to see him again. And I recall it now because I felt sort of proud of myself. I looked healthy and somewhat robust, and I was working and so was he. I think this new turn to healthy food was having a great effect. But my  sense of scale was of course a bit unrealistic. I had been so lost, so so lost, and so anything I found that I believed in I took to with a fanaticism. In fact this trait of mine went back all the back in my life. Suggesting the frustration there, all the way back. And my dad used to call me ‘the instant kid’. Whenever an idea took hold of me, I needed to have it instantly, according to him. The way I see it now, this was because it was an answer to life, the pressure I was under living with him, some enterprise, something to do away from T.V. And when I broke down some wall with the EVENT and all my own complaining inner voice came up to me, this urgency, it was all me, all this striving to be heard. A winging that was also screaming for help. In that EVENT I was like a speaker that had been turned up so loud it starts to shake itself apart. But this time, the fanaticism was in the right direction. Something was working.

And so it was I was with cooking healthy food. And I made the most absurdly complicated things, messy things, such as almond milk for goodness sake. No pun intended. But of course I always cleaned up afterwards. And I was living and working well occasionally for my dad, and looking good and feeling strong, everything was panning out. I was living in the store room under the house, in order to have my own space, headspace. It was dank but I could deal with that. I had some space, but not really off course. Because he did come down to that room, which needed you to come round along the path at the back of the house— and rile me. Once so badly I threw my ghetto-blaster at the glass panelled door just after he closed it. He would have heard that and seen the glass smashing as he was a couple of metres gone. But he never came back. And so not long after that—and probably with the idea of smashing glass still in my mind— I am cooking some exotic healthy meal for my dad and I. We are alone in the house—of course— and he comes into the the kitchen and starts on. Smashing the sacred and beautiful potential, which was obvious even to a blind man. This fledgling of a new life , something potentially healing for both of us. But he is talking of failed jobs, of course, and telling me to leave and never come back. But here’s the thing. Here’s the thing that made it so freaking infuriating; My father never EVER said it like that. He insidiously always framed it as a question. Why not say “you must leave”, and be done with it?! Why!?  I have speculated in that over my life. And believe it was is because that would be evidence I could give to my mother. “Dad has told me to leave”. That was his game. His strategy. To damage me away, you might say. To insult me away. To torment me out. I have said above that he never lost his temper, ever. It was anger and annoyance yes, but never losing it and screaming or slamming at something. Or saying it outright. Strategy. Cleverness.

I remember him once telling me of a film he saw as a young man, saying how he was transfixed by it from beginning to end. Now my dad virtually never saw films, so such a statement always remained with me. I went thrice in our lives to a film with him. And he never watched them on television—but for one time, which I will tell you in a minute. And this film that had impressed him so much in his youth was The Hustler. A psychological suspense film. And the film my dad and I watched on television to the end, staying up late to see it finish—perhaps the only time that ever happened with us—was The Vanishing Point. Another psychological suspense film. One also based on direct competition between two people, a car and a truck playing one upmanship on a desert highway. Both films about strategy and competition. Not only that, the one film my dad and brother saw together—as far as I know—is the same; Reservoir Dogs. Another mental strategy film. And of course we know my brother is nothing at all but mental strategy. No confrontation, openness, honesty, or sincerity at all. A coward’s coward.

So I think this idea of it being a sick game is what empowered my dad. Sometimes I thought about suicide. I knew I would never do it, but I knew this is how it happened in families. And I often thought of how it would have been if I had died by the mushroom event. It would have been proof that I just couldn’t cut it. I was a disturbed child. Chris the champion, the same conclusion. Chris the winner. Chris top heir.

Anyway, my dad would jab and embroil me, and we began this night while I was cooking. But this time, for me, with real understanding now that the potential was being realised, this attack was starkly obvious, was purest evil. In fact I believe now he was drunk. And he had formulated this attack back at the pub. And from that I believe he resented my working for him because he couldn’t go to the pub after work. That is the only thing that makes sense to me here. It was clear to me that he was deliberately killing it, killing the family. He might have been pissed at the time, but I never perceived any drunkenness in him. I never saw my dad drunk, as noted, but it doesn’t mean his rational mind could not go missing more than usual. More absolutely. The fact that he apologised, through my mother later, tends to suggest it was unusual drunkenness. And so I decided, trying to ignore him; NO MORE! I will take the suggestion to leave and make it absolute fact. And so I abandon this complicated cooking and I went out the back door. He got in some last word to my back as I left, and on the way around the corner and down to my room on the outside path—and by way of answer— I put my fist through the window. Being the exclamation mark to the main idea of leaving and never coming back. Something that would be felt beyond the prison of hate that the two of us occupied.

And of course I am in hospital and word comes that dad is sorry. Which had never happened before. As if—I now see it—this was new strategy. That obviously I had been extremely angry and he couldn’t properly account for that to my mother. Someone who is cooking decides to abandon it and destroy a window and his hand? How can that be explained? So this was damage control. He had to say something. The man could kill my bird and sail past me, but this was different. Mum could see deliberate trouble being made from nothing, even from her great distance, the shopping mall, the café, the tea party of some friend. And so mum says the scorpion tail thing, and to forgive him. I break into tears at that, and at that very moment Paul, Adam’s stepdad comes in with some chocolate finger biscuits. Even crying has been denied me. And so my exclamation mark is thrown in the trash. I was being crucified in this limbo state of existence.

Just to note; I had surgery on my hand and a steel pin put in. When I woke from general anaesthetic a nurse told me I had been singing Purple Rain while I was under. I cant imagine who I was singing it to, one of the shattered young hearts behind me I suppose.

I never meant to cause you any trouble

I never meant to cause you any pain

22

Chris now offers me a place to live in the Blue Mountains [Blackheath], an empty house he uses of a friend from his college. And up I go and live alone in this big old house in freezing Blackheath. And Jade who has been in a serious car accident some weeks before—which I of course never heard about— comes up to visit me. It was up there that I have my first conversation with my dad on the phone. Its all about him wanting me to look at the Sydney Morning Herald. In it is a picture of Giann smoking a cigarette, in a story about under age smoking. Citing how he has smoked for years, and how the youth of Sydney are today. This era saw the counterfeiting I mentioned too, which was a few moths earlier. Dad is excited to tell me this. A note of victory in his enthusiasm, I suppose. You see, this boy was bad.

Because you are interested; Giann and I had photo copied two sides of the new black and white 100$ note on the Manly Library photo copier, stuck them up and spent a couple. Jade got involved and spent another. But we were knocked back too. The more we continued the more ominous I felt it all was. I told them we have to stop this. We part ways, but Jade gets recognised and caught in a massive operation. He says his grandmother told the police my name. The police are after me. Jade was roughed up at the police station. Not badly, just pushed against a filing cabinet, grabbed by the belt and his pants pulled up his arse. I suppose that was something worked out by the psychologists. The police were all out for us, apparently. Jade says a helicopter was involved. This is a federal crime. Just short of killing someone apparently. Eventually Giann and I hand ourselves in. My dad comes with me to children’s court. Its over. Never mentioned again. A few days later I am on my motorbike with Giann on the back and something goes wrong and we are skidding along the road and it was literally at the back of the police station. Soon enough a police car stops. The police woman asks why I am carrying a passenger when I only have a learners permit. Adding; “And don’t say that you weren’t”. I tell you this to show how I was just so reckless and clueless. I felt emasculated by my dad’s presence, I was “pathetic”. Told me every time. Still seventeen. The booking policeman notes how I had been on his wanted list a week or two previously.

[I have theorised about crime a lot. And I see the allure of it as a man having his own enterprise. The world is extremely unfair in wealth distribution. So this is another from of emasculation for a male. And so one’s own enterprise becomes reasonable in the overall balance. Especially if the government are criminal [is it really crime in that case?] such as in Tasmania, which has high crime. Not because of the Jews per se, but because the average Joe keeps them, and their class system and media stocked up with money via usury [now called interest banking]. In crime there is a fleeting and illusionary dignity. One’s own enterprise. As I said I felt like I was stealing time in the house with Linda [who went by the name Tiffany], and I was getting the same feeling in the world at large. Which was exacerbated when on drugs, chasing the sensual life. The land was beautiful, but some fucker built a high-rise in the middle, or a fence or,  or a highway, etc. Who were these people? They were invaders. They were soulless. Aliens. They were the enemy.

So roll up and see!

How they’ve gone from bad to worse

How they rape the universe

Crime of the Century.

And I have done a lot more crime than I am letting on here. But there is also context. As you will see in my first try at Tasmania—where most of it was done. The big stuff.  But I have now had plenty of things stolen from me over the years, in both China and Tasmania. So I think that balances things a little. But that is for another article.

And so Jade comes up to Blackheath. He had been hit by a car and had metal rods in his body and great long scares. But we laugh and joke and go over memories as we always did. We nearly get beaten up by some wild kids up there., but Jade talks his way out saying we met in hospital [my hand was bandaged still]. But it was a close call.

He leaves and soon I have to find my own place. Which I do in Katoomba, the Blue Mountains. I have a rod in the my finger, and go to Sydney one day to get it out. The surgeon is panicked and says I left it in too long. Not my fault actually. No one told me. I was at the appointment as planned. A danger of the muscles seizing. He takes it out and sits me in a storage room, telling me to keep bending it, no matter the pain. I start going to the hospital in Katoomba regularly where a woman holds my hand in warm wax and bends my finger. She is a few years older than me and very attractive. the most romantic thing I have done in years, or ever, but for the excruciating pain. This woman was a few years older than me and quite lovely. Very lovely.

Speaking of older women, they too made my life a confusion. When I was in high school, say 14, I was on work experience at a major music shop. This pretty French girl comes in and she cant speak English and we need to direct her somewhere and I volunteer to do that. I take her downstairs to the busy city street, and communicate we should meet at 4 o’clock for reasons neither of us understood. I end up kissing her in Hyde park. She is 22 years old and she invites me back to her hotel for the night. I sort of freaked out. I thought I have no guide here in life. What sort of trouble I am getting into . How long can I resist this type of thing. I had this fairy-tale prince conceptualisation of myself that only I believed in. I never saw that girl again. She spoke zero English anyway. But my cock didn’t know that.

The closest I got to any sort of talk about girls was my mother asking one day whether I had any questions about sex, also when I was in highschool. I was totally embarrassed, and just said no, hoping she would drop it. And she did. But it wasn’t sex I was needing guidance about, it was how to avoid it, to respect a female and plan a realistic life.

My brother never had an interest in starting a family, while for me it was all I ever wanted. We are two different species. That now explains almost everything for me. Though only now, not then. I naturally wanted to emulate him. I remember when I was in primary school and he in highschool—he is 4 years older—looking into his school bag one evening when everyone, including him was out. I found a bundle wrapped up heavily in cling-film. I opened it and found some condoms. I knew what they were, and was crying about it when he got home. Yes, really. That might seem quaint in this day and age. But that was not the course I wanted my life to take, and I emulated him in every way. I knew my brother was my hero, my example, a demonstration, and this was something so strange and unexpected. He said someone just gave them to him at school, he wasn’t going to use them, and that I could have them for water balloons if I wanted. I knew that he said this just to cheer me up. Recently, 2023, when I saw him in Sydney I said that this path I took to fooling around with girls in my youth–from about 18 I regret. He couldn’t understand it. “But it was fun wasn’t it?”.

So, back to my 18th or 19th year, I resume my East Sydney tech art course, which was the first thing I did out of school. It was a foundation year, and I deferred a year. But of course this was for my dad a big problem to add into the mix of big problems.

And so how I was eventually coaxed back into the house has several stages. First my mother at the hospital bed, then the friendliness about Gianni’s infamy, and now, as I see it, my moving back to Sydney. I should have gone the other direction. But there are a lot more reasons, coming up to my going back to that house. So so  much misery would have been avoided if I had kept my head. But how to keep your head? Health and nutrition. So I got devoted to that. In the beginning… First I lived in Rozelle, sharing a house with an artist, a receptionist, a scholar at university, and a Japanese man in some import-export business. So far so good. But soon we were evicted because they were knocking down the old house to build apartments. And so the ever so slight tilt begins…and down I start going, picking up speed…

Before that eviction though, I had a friend from art school called Saul and he had a girlfriend called NAME WITHHELD, or N.W for short.  She and I would become a couple a year later when she came to see me at my supermarket job.

While still living there, I would pass a house on my way to work in Balmain. And out the front would be these wild looking people. I always thought of them with disgust. What low-lifes, what ferals. I will return to them in a while.

And so I got on with my life. I was nuts about nutrition—no pun intended— and was becoming more interested in esoteric knowledge with a bookshop for that nearby. And here’s an important point; Because I had been to Hell, I was far more interested in this question of what the meaning of life was. Whereas other people were discomforted or scared or just disinterested in these deeper thoughts, I was needing them. And this could be seen as something “out there” by people, I suppose. Strange, and so be melded with the RUMOUR when it eventuated. And when this was eventually linked to Christianity, as we will see, and drugs, as we will see. It all became an explanation for me. I saw it that God has spared me, and I have this take on the importance of being honest, the importance of God in your life, the importance of Christianity, the story of the perfect king.

But fortunately for me, I have taken this study to its completion, and it all revolves around banking. Yes, as if that were a joke. Its not a joke, and its a certain type of banking, now called interest banking, which has evolved in modern conditions from the value of energy. Money today falsely pegged on energy. Meaning it is constantly manipulated. But ask yourself why money is not permanently pegged to energy, say electricity. So many watts for so much money, and it never changes. Think about it and get back to me. That is for another article. This is the final phase of the evolution of my thinking. And it is completion, because it is now not about what I know, it is about how to express it in simple terms. That above question is a start. But I will explain it in very simple terms in a future article.

But actually there is a more final phase to the evolution of my thinking. This one a bitter pill to swallow; Even when you can express things clearly most people don’t want to know. Like you enter a burning building and people huddled in the corner think everything you say is a trick to drag them into a burning room, rather than to the front door and out. Hypnosis is not too strong a word for it. Once you damage history, you damage who the people think they are. We are all products of history.

Anyway… That is where I am, who I am right now.

So I have jumped way ahead of the narrative to the end here. My point is that I was setting myself apart in this way without the referencing, vocabulary and  grounding of historical knowledge. I could have focused on tennis or factory work and weekend barbeques, but my mind was too active, wouldn’t couldn’t sit still. Why was society so fucked up that I thought it fun to skirt death? Why are school kids now getting tattoos. Its getting worse. Who cares? Why did my friend Justin and then Rachael actually die along the same road I was seduced to take? Why didn’t I?

Also my dad had always an interest in such things, anything and everything ‘out there’, not in the mainstream. Which is a good thing got from him. And I still wanted to emulate my dad as much as possible. In fact the first book to really grab my thinking and steer it on a certain course was one I had always seen laying around the house, called Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Coming up soon.

I was far better off here than in Brisbane and made a lot of friends at the supermarket job. It was the success that Brisbane was the failure. I liked my job and the community, and had friends, and was living with good people. There was great comradery with me and the weekend workers in Fruit and Veg at the supermarket. All high school boys. I bought an electric piano, an expensive one with weighted keys, and was pottering on that for fun and education in music notation. Thinking I would …write the songs that make the young girls cry. As Barry Manilo put it.

All this time though, I was occasionally going dancing in Oxford Street or Kings Cross. Sometimes by myself, and I would feel ridiculous if I didn’t find anyone I knew, or spent too much time walking in city streets at night.

I started fasting more and more, and continued going for runs, which I had started years ago. I was fasting for sometimes two days, once I did three. So again it was a split world I inhabited. Nothing consistent.

I found a girl in a nightclub and brought her home for the night, and flung her away like an old shoe the next day. One of my severest regrets in life. She was Asian and I think I was some sort of racist. She was dainty and beautiful and I pray she is O.K and God takes care of her as I should have. I should have married her. That to me is the real mental illness I have had. Make no mistake.

All the people I live with are older and responsible people and I like them all. Then we all got evicted as noted. And I find a room in a house in Balmain. It is perfect, just a stroll to work every morning, An old federation house. The woman there is called Michelle and her boyfriend is called Jose’, who is full Chinese, despite his name. He and I become pretty good friends, but it is—as I now understand it —a massive turn for the worst. He is intelligent and used to work in the post office, but he had been in prison  for embezzling money from the post office he was working at. Caught, he said, only because he told someone. So he was a bit of a scammer, scamming by to pay his rent from week to week.

I was getting into petty crime myself. Mainly health food things that were always too expensive. But this got more severe now with this new era. I was taking things from Woolworths in my school case for art school, which I had resumed. Nuts and such expensive things. This became farcical two times. Once when I discussed with Jose how one could potentially throw things in the industrial bin we wheeled in to fill, and left out at night. Then go and retrieve it that night out of the bin. Jose was instantly interested. He had been scraping by since I had met him. Michelle said he sometimes had to win pool comps at the pubs to pay his rent—there are so many pubs in Balmain you can enter a pool comp every night of the week. He had his own professional pool cue.

And so one night Jose comes in to the supermarket and fills up a trolley with things. I mean the trolly was absolutely full and weighed a tonne. As we had agreed, he left it in the time and place, where I was to wheel it to the back, and flip its contents into the giant bin. But this was, I now saw, pretty hard core theft. And it was quite ridiculous. Hundreds or thousands of small items too that would need an hour to fully retrieve. So I backed out of the plan. I remember one of the girls, Shelley, had the job of putting it all back on the shelves. Sorry Shelley.

But I would go through with the plan with another tenant who joined later, after Jose had left.

And then one day Michelle and Jose have a massive quarrel, and she moves out, emotionally scared I would say. And Jose says don’t worry, that he will find new tenants. And viola, here are the ferals. And so things start to get wilder and wilder.

At some point before or after this I for one reason or another, give up all the health pursuit in one decision. I think I decided that with so much fasting I then deserved to eat what I wanted, and in fact do what I wanted, if that makes sense [it doesn’t] including eventually smoking cigarettes. One of the ferals was much older, older than my brother and I think I started to emulate him, and smoked the same brand he did. And this would lead to the you-know-what burnable substance.

So I realised these people were really nice and genuine, though on the wild side, the more I became like them. This same elder of the tribe lent me the book Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. So these people weren’t actually stupid. Just on the anti-establishment side. This book was a famous book from the 70’s. I became obsessed with it of course. Very basically it is about how you can enjoy your work, your work as your life, enjoy the menial things in life. This was a revelation to me. It was a wonderful realisation that life wasn’t about status, it was about relationships and a joy of quality, of making quality. No matter what the job. This is actually a profound truth of life. The evil ones today pushing a life without work, of transhumanism and such really are evil. Work, with the correct attitude, is the meaning of life. And why the usurers are indeed evil, making their life of leisure, and putting overwork on others. They have chosen a life of not working, of parasiting on others. Anyway this idea of doing even the most menial and mundane of things as best you can, was the correct way. You might say this book was the first one to influence my thinking as regarding my life, my view of the world. It can also be said it was a sort of affirmation about what we all intuit. An affirmation I had been needing someone to say to me all my life. Something my parents weren’t up for. My father gave me the impression that a job was like a battle. You won it by staying at it. It was you and the job for the money. Rather than the relationship and purpose of the community. The book also opened up the idea that our beliefs are never new. They can be contextualised with historical and ancient thinkers, here in this book with the Greek philosophers. Haven’t I just been referring to a thinker from he 1700’s James Allen?

So I start taking more care in being tidy and making the displays at work the best they can be, the floor clean, the whole thing ship-shape. A religious devotion to my work…when not clowning around with my mates of a weekend. That this book influenced me a lot is, for me, best represented within a nuclear quarrel the three ferals had. With the Elder at one point saying “The only one who ever cleans up is Gordon!!!”. This quarrel was not about me, I was just this incidental point he was making. But I thought to myself ‘I have escaped this whole mess, all this arguing, I am a better person for having read that book!’. Ironically it was because of this man throwing a porcelain teacup into the sink, which broke off the handle leaving a sharp shard of porcelain, that I—washing up like a Zen master after my huge and wild party—slashed open my thumb and needed six stitches.

Jose had mentioned a book he had read which intrigued me a lot, called The Dice Man. I ordered it from a bookshop. Its about a man who decides to role a dice to make all the decisions in his life. A fiction pushed as being fact. Something I of course believed was fact at the time. So the book was the polar opposite of what the Zen book was all about. And so I start doing this. And I get the household interested in this concept and its all a great sport. And all my mates at Woolworths too. We play dice-choice games to do with work and such. These boys I was going drinking with after hours too. They were bringing back to me the high school mentality, along with the drink, while the ferals at home were doing something similar. Both groups into smoking cannabis.

So things are falling apart. I had been so good, so austere. Why did I push  the fasting and nutrition to breaking point? Fanatical. The whole era, both eras, were a massive lesson for me. Something I finally intellectualised in about 1997 when I saw the Shawshank Redemption at the cinema. And the narrator closes the film with the moral of the story; Time and pressure. You can achieve anything with enough time and just a little bit of pressure. I was too intense about everything. It was either the way of enlightenment and needed utter and urgent devotion, or it was not. I was the instant kid. And this new way of free-falling became for me the correct way of living. I grabbed it with both hands. And the pot smoking was on the cards.

And so though I think I am happy and its all a big party, I knew within me that I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t getting any closer to having a home and a family, nothing was happening, I had no hope in being happy in Woolworths forever, despite how good, how Zen, I did my job. Or had done my job. Those days were gone. When the manager talked about me becoming the section manager one day, I started to get even more disheartened. Even though the manager was a really nice man. But this realisation I had been denying. I was partying along. The household itself was like a party. And the realisation was still unconscious.

Another tenant moved in called Mark. And for my 20th birthday I decided I wanted a party. And I told Mark about the potential catering solution. This time I just chucked into the bin some boxes of foods. Meaning the boxes that the supermarket gets boxes in. Things like spring rolls and such. On the agreement that Mark would be the one to get them. I remember sitting in his car as he went fishing for them. It was one of the funniest things I have ever seen. Because Mark was over conscious of people walking past. He was educated and not a born criminal at all. And he, from inside the bin, would explain to them how there was actually food in this bin, as if he doesn’t normally do this type of thing, and had just discovered it. That it was justified. But he couldn’t find the boxes and so he kept having to do it. There he is telling a couple of passing Japanese girls how there is good food to be found in this bin. Absolutely hilarious!

And so he found the boxes eventually and we had a giant party. By this stage I am back in contact with Jade and he has moved in. He is going to acting school and he invited me to his performance, some play he and others write themselves. It s quite amusing in itself because Jade’s character in the play is so much Jade’s personality. I can see how he wrote himself up. Just youthful egotism. And there is about 5 or six young women who start to visit regularly from this theatre. One became a famous actress. Well I saw her in an advert on television and she has her own short Wikipedia page for soap operas.

I watched that play with an eye-patch on, as I had been seriously hit by a man in the street one day. Like double my size and weight. He mistook me for Michael, the boy I mentioned, who was very criminal and was actually at the time facing certain gaol time. He had stuck his finger up at this man or something. The man called me all sorts of names and pushed me back, I stupidly lifted my fists and assumed the Bruce Lee stance, and in he got with a punch instantly, so hard I had blood in my eye and Michael is telling me to go to a hospital to get it checked. I told him I wasn’t feeling well and needed to lie down and went to bed, he went home. The last I heard from Jade was Michael had been killed by his girlfriend with a broken bottle, but I have reasons to doubt the story. He definitely became a junkie though, as did Jade, who got over it eventually.

And it was at this time I began trying marijuana. All my Woolworths friends were into it. As were the ferals, as noted. But I never smoked until after the ferals had left my life, which came with the inevitable eviction. At first I just had slight measured amounts. In fact, one of the first times, maybe the very first time since the EVENT, was at the plush home of one of these Woolworths mates also called Mark, and another friend there called Nick. I just took the smallest puff, and I do feel something and I want to stop. I am getting nervous. But these two are both nagging me. Like I am a coward or something. So I get up and walk out. Surprising them totally. And avoided the stuff from then on, for a while.

Now the reason I have spent so long telling you the above details is because I need to explain exactly where I was. I had lived this scene and I knew I was really acting, and that the real me was bored, worried, frustrated, sitting in the wings, waiting for me to grow up. I needed space and direction. I had no sense of family and this new social crowning that was at first a wonderful relief from loneliness, had solved nothing for me. It was totally superficial, self-destructive and dangerous. My cutting my thumb had spooked me badly, and I knew this course would only have another and more serious consequence ahead. Either an accident or the prison. I got very depressed at times, and would walk sometimes back to Manly at night. YES! Walk through the night back to Manly and then return. A couple of times I walked to Manly and wet my feet symbolically in the sea, or twice I think I stood as the bottom of my parents driveway, and then walked all the way home. If there is a shade, a tinge of mental illness, this is it. But even this I can rationalise. It is the painless version of getting a tattoo. I was doing this so as I would never forget how isolated and estranged from my family I was. How clueless they were about my life, my sense of hopelessness. I knew when in years to come, this reality might change in my memory—and my brother is doing all he cant to bring that about!—and I might be persuaded to take on a fake idea that it had all been my fault. That I had rebelled against them. I wanted a token to remind me this was definitely not the case. So it was a symbolic marker of my lack of direction and the hopelessness this brought.

But it was also some sort of destination anyway. A destination I had to invent. It is 18 kilometres distance, done twice. The walk was a weirdly pleasant one though, through houses and really often just a looking at peoples gardens in the North Shore. A whole night’s walking. And it was actually a great therapy. I did a great amount of thinking, and it got me away from the people who wanted my participation in that hopeless  doomed living. [One of the ferals was murdered by her boyfriend 10 years later]. I slept all the next day, I missed out on a whole day and night of the monkey barrel home I had. I locked my door and slept. I felt I had tangled with something impossible through the drink. Which was the main vice. I had time to myself on these walks. And I did about five or six of them.

To tell you how bad this was, one of these ferals, also called Jade, realised I would occasionally lock my door. This was because I had a four-tack tape recorder, and I wanted to keep that to myself. I was experimenting with my electric piano on it.  I had had my acoustic guitar stolen the day I moved into the house, [an omen!] so I was wary of letting people know about this expensive thing. And then one evening as I am working at it happily, I hear this tap on the window and it is Jade II, and he has climbed up to see me above the curtain, of this high tall federation era window from the veranda, and he has his tongue out against the glass. This is just a snapshot of the anarchy I was in. These people were under my skin. Elder and his girlfriend would shoot up drugs in the kitchen occasionally. All sorts of things that were the worst things someone as highly strung and confused me could have in their lives.

And so this depression was a sort of realisation that I was no better off than I had been in Brisbane. Though in a different way. In fact the other Jade, my friend from childhood, would have his cousin come over called Shane, who was as much in prison as out of it. Just a day of drinking, which I kept away from. As though it wasn’t really my residence. This young man was the brother or “bruva” of the boy who had hit Gavin after our beating, those years before. That mongrel monster. So I was one degree away from entertaining the people who had tried to kill me years before. So for all this art and all the new faces I was in utter insecurity, still. What the fuck was I to do? I didn’t want to end up in prison, nor on heavy drugs. And these people were now climbing into my head. So I was formulating a plan to move to Tasmania.  A quite state of two small cities, and much forest.  In fact to give you an idea of how extreme this was, a friend of this man Shane came to this house straight out of prison. Yes, really. He was in prison—I don’t know for how long—and he comes to my house as the first port of call, invited there by Shane. And he is a freak of danger. Tall athletic and bloodless in parlour. So Jade and I take these two for a walk. We want them out of the house and away. A ploy to shake them off somehow. And we are walking down the street and this big brainless devil is saying how he used to force some shopkeeper to make him a hamburger a karate kick up to his face, and then just walk out with it. And as we are walking down this row of shops he kicks over a shop sign, a standing sign, of a shop, with a karate kick and a crash. And Jade and I look at each other, both with the wide-eyed expression. What should we do? This was serious. That was life at this house.

Another anecdote I have; As noted I was heavily into the book Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance for a while, and I used to tell Jade about it. And our mutual friend Michael, mentioned above, too when he was with us. He once came around with a square piece of painted wood with the word ‘Zen’ written on it, in black over a red circle on while, a Japanese flag. A gift for me. He had taken it from the local high-class Japanese restaurant. I had to politely decline and took it back one night late, hanging it back on the sign post.

Adam, God bless him, came and rescued me for a while. We drove up the coast surfing and camping. That was a positive. And I should acknowledge so many of my old school friends for their loyalty to me in coming to the party was far from the North Shore. That party was the ultimate anarchy. Besides those friends, I had my new younger friends from Woolworths, Jade had all the young actors associates [mostly girls for some reason], and all the other people of the neighbour on the feral side were there. There was no order, no theme, nothing. A party for absolute joy. I think about half the people didn’t know why it was happening, who it was happening for.

Tonight I’m gonna party like its 1999…

Prince.

I think that was in 1990

This thread of a hope in getting away somewhere quiet was linked to another one—another false one— that appeared around the time we were all inevitably evicted. This time evicted for being feral, not for some owner decision. This hope was my new best friend Simon from work. He was a musician and we began making and recording music. I had immediately found a place just  50 metres away to live. It was a new start. Everyone sort of disappeared.

The feral girl had a baby from that 2nd Jade, with the tongue, at this time, but refused him to see it. And she was the one years later murdered by a new boyfriend, as noted. The only person I have ever known to have been murdered. I read that news when I was attending uni, in a newspaper on the Manly Ferry. She at first called her baby ‘Israel’. There you go. She showed it to me in the street one day. I was holding the basket it was in for some reason, and then the Elder saw us and came storming up demanding the 20$ I owned still owed  him. I gave the baby back to her as he spoke/threatened me angrily. Israel. And her name? Gabrielle. I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried. But she must have changed the name to Jarrod, as per the internet when I researched the case. Jarrod is closer to Jade, so perhaps she reconciled with the father at some stage.

Another thing—and why I see Jade II brought this estrangement on himself; He had had a threesome with the Elder’s girlfriend and her friend. I don’t know if Gabrielle knew of this or not, the house was disintegrating at that time. Naturally, you might say. But by then I had my life buoy, a girl. N.W.

That one was a house from hell. And some time later I read in a fengshui book that houses that have a corridor straight down the middle to the backyard, as did this one, attract a lot of spirits. And before you say ‘coincidence’, the next one I would live in, years later in 2004 in Adelaide, would see a murderer enter my room while I was sleeping. Yes, not kidding. No real harm to me, but wait for that one.

Simon and I made some nice music. And I now had a nice place to live, a nice fairly stable new friend. And N.W was coming around too. But Simon was heavily into smoking pot when he could. He would preach to me about it, how safe it was, that no one has ever overdosed on it, you just can’t do that. [Well I had!]. My brother moved in, and he too once gave me a bag of the stuff. So it was again ordained. And so slowly but surely I got into the stuff along with my new girlfriend and the music. I began to visited my parents, and was on speaking terms with my father again. The first visit I had there had been to go and watch Roger Water’s televised Wall concert in Berlin, when back at the feral house. For if anyone needed a wall, it was me. That concert was in 1990. So, discounting my visits to the end of the driveway it had been about 3 years of staying away.

Still I wasn’t happy though. Simon was still in high school trying to do his HSC. So nothing was moving fast enough. Then, on top of this, one day my brother told me how he knew or met two young men had written the song “Break in the Whether” for the singer Jenny Morris, which was all over the radio. I found this a very hard fact to bear. I hated that song and a lot of radio music, and how and why could they get such a break with such a ham-handed song. The song is credited to Jenny Morris herself on the internet. So another joke on me. It seems.

I remember there was this big dead-head butcher apprentice at Woolworths. I tried to be friendly to him but he was an overgrown pig. And then one day I am on the bus with N.W, a beautiful summer’s day, and a friend I knew just vaguely from work starts chatting with me. And he says, in all seriousness, “So is it true you are a devil worshipper?” That is probably the most insulting thing anyone has ever said to me. Some insults you can contextualise or prepare for. This was just out of left field. And there is my new girlfriend sitting next to me. And I am just winded by the question. I thought about how wild, how misunderstood I now was. I had drifted so so far from my Christian up brining that someone could say that too me. I tried my best to find out why he would say such a thing, and asked him a few times who had said that, this thing which he “had heard”. But the fucker shut up. He wouldn’t name anyone and wanted to drop the topic, and he got off the bus soon.  Of course it was the big bloodless pig of a butcher he was friends with, who I traced it back to intuitively. How many other people believed this in that drunken town? I had had enough.

23

And so N.W and I have some nice times falling in love. She herself is a good guitar player and lovely singer. I am more inspired with the idea of writing good music.

…but…

I want out of EVERYTHING, of the city and of her too. I realised I didn’t love her. She was sweet, she was innocent and childlike, but we just didn’t meet enough in the minds. She was not cynical at all and so my jokes didn’t work so well with her. I think a shared sense of humour is crucial in any loveship. So I would have to tell her this. That I was going to Tasmania and I was going alone. But when I did, she broke down crying. And I decided to let her come with me.

Great. A homeless man with an orphan to take care of. Just fucking wonderful. And she was just so naïve it sort of became me too. We could make our lives with a good song and enough pot. Life was about finding the right music, setting up the right incense, and making a pretty picture of being alive, a pretty room, all there in nature.

And at this impossible situation I began to rebel inwardly. Like God had given me an impossible burden. Of course I now blame myself for all of this. But then being so clueless and so poor I didn’t understand life, modern life. I changed my name to ‘Jude’ because it was the closest to Judas I could come. And I wanted to be someone else. I felt that if I was going to be blamed forever by the world, never be given a home, I would just call myself Judas. A sort of “fuck you, now what do you say?” sentiment. “You can’t insult me any more World, I am at rock bottom”.

Then at this very bottom, and almost this very moment, a coupe of weeks later, I stole a bible from a church, and read it in our stolen tent, and there was the name Jude. The last book in the bible before the apocalypse. Perfect! Saying ‘Brother, build up your faith’ and so on. Which I will return to.

So we were touring Tasmania hitchhiking with a stolen tent and stolen money. It was all so ridiculous. And what quietly pissed me off was N.W raving at how beautiful it was all the fucking time, and oh see the wallaby , and oh a kookaburra, and how we can go to this place and that place, just like tourists. Like she had no care in the world, and it was all a big fun holiday. Inside I am worrying myself to pieces. And there is quite a lot of serious theft I got into in Tasmania, keeping us afloat. And only by the grace of God did I not get caught and put in gaol. But it was an impossible situation. It was doomed from the start. She had wrecked my idea, my chance to break free. Selfishly being too thick-faced and needy to take the fucking hint, and here we were. Doomed in Tasmania. Freezing wet Tasmania. Yes, we did this in the middle of winter!

Maybe that is all a bit harsh on her. And this is why I don’t give her name. I don’t actually know how much she is to blame , if at all. I certainly do not hate her. I think there is a factor of fate, or karma here for me. I had always been able to cast off a female, break their hearts and move on. This one was clinging, and she was like for me a homeless child. She got my heartstrings. Where is your family little one? What are you doing in the city little girl? And in fact her father was very old, she was the fourth child. And her eyes were like black saucers needing light. On the other hand, she said she used to go to the park when in high school and dig into her wrist with a sharp object to cause herself pain, to punish herself. So she had some sort of issues going on too. She would occasionally say to me “I may as well kill myself” or “I may as well become a lesbian”, things that of course riled me, made me furious. She was in some effect a version of my father. It was a toxic relationship—no doubt at all. We quarrelled a lot. And soon I would be living with both of them. There you go. The pits. The apocalypse.

Or maybe she is my soul sister. A female reflection of me. With the same insecurities the same as me, no differences to harp on about in writing years later as if I am blameless. That is more like how I see it, at the end of the day. There is so much good about her to remember too. And if I had had family support—call it head support, mind support and guidance—we might have made it. But then again [remembering the quarrelling] I wouldn’t have chosen her in that case. You see! Impossible for me to settle upon.

And so after this big stupid fantasy failure—which I now see as partly the fault of the Tasmanian government, the most corrupt government in the world [see my article on it], I am invited by my father on the phone back home. The most natural thing in the world, or so it sounded. You can surely see the doom now coming. I was pushing myself back into the evil scenario because I had nothing else to do. Just starve in Tasmania, or let the cold get us first. Or the prison. Or try again at the home. But try what? But there was a reason to try again. Jesus. Have ye faith. And so we go there back to Sydney and I am still set on the music industry. And I am smoking with a Colin who is as serious a musician, and as serious a smoker as Simon, but with his own recording equipment. And all the while nurturing the music and fighting the battles with my father. It was all hopeless. Drugs always are. And I never even asked to work for my dad any more. In fact I think I even denied it. I just hated him and knew his game by then. Just another form of controlling me. All this sealing my doom. Furthermore, unlike Tiffany, he adored  N.W. For some reason. Sealing my doom again. Why he liked N.W and didn’t like Tiffany I think was in Tiffany having attitude. N.W was pretty compliant, pretty passive. As I said a lost girl, a big baby. At least compared to me, the clueless adult.

Another factor played into it. As my brother got to his master-plan, my mother organised for me to get a pension. Meaning I didn’t need to work at all. I hadn’t needed to sign anything or admit to being mentally ill in any way. So it was just free money for me. Why not? Finally being treated like the prince I had always believed I really was. So everything was now set, the perfect storm had crossed the horizon…

24

Then N.W has an abortion. She had become pregnant because I told her that God decides when people get pregnant, and God wouldn’t send us a child, and she need not stay on the pill. Which I thought was bad for her health. But she is at my parents home now with me, NOT MY HOME, and she is pregnant. What a surprise. And so I asked her flatly whether she wants to have it. Saying to myself that if her answer to this is a negative, then we shouldn’t have it. I sort of put the ball totally in her court. And her answer was “Well we cant afford to keep it….”. A clear negative. And from that I believed that if we had the baby, there was a definite chance this child would suffer resentment from N.W. Of course she would probably have been an excellent mother. Not as bad as my father, resenting me all his life, anyway. But that is where the idea came from, that was the environment I was in. For me to be arguing over my own child with my father—and our types of arguments—was never going to happen anyway.

Two toxic relationships always breaking down into quarrels, was no place like home. I was in the realm of my father, and constant problems with this woman and continually betting everything on the failed promise of pot and the music industry, and that is where my mind was. Whatever I had of a mind. I thought that the negativity in that answer was a sign, and it might be heaped onto the child through its life, adding to whatever friendly fire was in the air from my dad. I wasn’t a pop star yet…

And so that is how about we came to murder our own hearts. Something I can only forgive myself for by reason of loving my daughter and seeing her succeed, of doing all I can for her. In fact I recently heard a woman give her near-death experience on Youtube, saying as much. She spoke of how she was told by some angel light being things that they had kept the soul of her aborted baby for her, and given it back to her as the son she now has. Youtube is great for solving all your problems here on earth. Jewtube. But I also blame my father. My father always said that a foetus is not a person until it takes that first breath. So definitely not my fault. N.W also has had a child now. I hope she can forgive herself in this way too. This practical positivity. And for a while my email address was ‘Positone@…’ as a shorthand for positive atonement. That ultimately we, though we will never meet again, can still remember the love we had for each other, and direct our lives to this old love realised, somehow as our children now representing. That we learnt a lesson. That it didn’t kill us and now we are morally stronger.

Right about that moment the Armstrongs, my cousins come to say. I feel so lost. I have just killed myself in a sense. My big stupid dad will never know this. Never know how he helped kill the family tree, making life impossible, a home impossible and giving me no direction of any consequence. OR its all or less my own fault. I don’t know. When I was a toddler I loved gardening. Why hadn’t they suggested that ever in my life? Why not insist on it. Why not insist on something? Starting with staying home at night. My dad, like N.W was so passive. Yes passive in the sense of a plan for my living, in the sense of the real world, just not involved. Just hammer strikes every so often. That was parenting. Not a parent in the sense of some intellect. Any fucking idea at all. Chris never had the drive for a family. He was not relevant, but for them he was the template. This is why I have devoted my life to understanding the world. Where do all these confused youths and this abortion system come from? It is not natural. But their parents complacency and trust in the media hive-mindlessness perpetuates it into new parents.

Anyway,  I am now a gardener and it is the only job I feel truly cut out for. In fact I could write for hours and hours on society and the meaning of gardening. But lets cut to the chase.

So when the Armstrongs arrive I am in an utter funk. Totally lost and totally apathetic. Chris has been dancing around in shadowland with his rumour, and I know it. I buy a box of bibles anyway, and start writing letters to people about the idea of words being the vehicles of understanding, and solution— and therefore utopia, holiness, and in full circle a name for God/purpose. And this is where Jesus really comes into our lives. Basically the consciousness my father never had, but needed.

So now my Irish relatives come across as psychopathic, the same, shut down. Stone cold. The same thing they fear, is actually them. A new baby into the world, and young woman to meet them, Fay and Maggie, but they cling to Chris’s picture of me. And fear outweighs their moral sense of duty and love. Fear of what? Their own imaginings stoked and controlled by Chris Bell and the nightly new. They dare not investigate for themselves. Remember my cousin Stuart?  YOU MAY OFFER ME YOUR WORDS AT THE ALTER OF EMAIL. Who the fuck would think to get away with such arrogance? No one. Not in real circumstances. I am not a real sentient being to him. Just someone waiting to jump at him at dinner time with a fork in my hand. Fear and hate are always bedfellows. My cousin Gary was asked by my mother to let me write to him, what is his email address. He told her “We’ve all moved on”. Wait a minute. My mother hosted him two times in Australia with perfect love and hospitality. All she is asking is communication. And I have never harmed him or anyone physically. Nor—since my youth— emotionally. He is 6 or so years older than me. I am my mother’s son. But some monster he concocted around me from his own hate rules his little heart. So he tells my mum as much as ‘fuck off’.  What is he scared of? Speaking for the clan he said “We’ve all moved on”. He can’t even speak for his own family because he divorced decades ago. But he has his trumpet. It seems he has been at the the clan with his premise, maybe as much as Chris. 

Gary, left, and our parents , and his brother Mark.

Armstrongs happy in Australia. Hosted by my parents.

The last I heard he was divorced with two young children. Maybe he should have tried communicating. Yes, you can’t even provoke these people. People? So cowardly they are. Hiding like mice while pretending they are concerned for society. They are not concerned for society. They are not a part of society, real positive society, real positive family–for it all relies on communication. I’ll take Gary the fuckwit on in anything. Fist fight? Sure. He spent his life on his muscles, but where is he?

And, back on track, things just got worse and worse. I started not bothering to answer my dad any more. I would just sit there, giving out the occasional answer. Things came to a head  when my mother was in Ireland and N.W living with her sister or in her own place in Glebe. He at one point pushes me back on the mantle piece, and my shoulders knock down a photo of Edith, Vitoria’s mother. [That was when he gave me the fat lip, as mentioned above]. A few days later he called a medical team and I said nothing. Then the police. And I was carried away. I stayed there for a a couple of days, and then they said I could go out in the day and come back at night. I did that a couple of more days. I saw the friend who I had denied entry to my home so many years ago, Heidi, in Manly and she said she was getting engaged. I wished her a happy marriage. This girl doesn’t want to know me any more. Something happened between that moment and now, without me involved. What? You know what, and you know who.

Later back in the home, dad and I are on friendly terms one day and he says Edith has died, and shows me with amazement how the photo of her was down, thinking it was supernatural. In a sense it was. For what are the odds of that?

25

After that I move to Glebe too where I start living in a house full of boarders each with their own room. It is a big old Victorian number, two stories and I befriend an old  Mongolian man, ex martial arts master, and ex criminal called Sefu. ‘Sefu’ is a Chinese title meaning ‘master of martial arts’. This is a name he made only me and another young man call him. To others he was Alan. This is the man I mentioned before. He would occasionally lose his cool with me and my clumsy and uncouth attitude. And I would sit there in his kitchen terrified. His voice, his anger would rise slowly, very slowly and you start thinking ‘Jesu, where is this going?’. Almost like he was becoming possessed, like he was relating it to  all the evils of the world. And I sit there saying ‘yes Sefu’ to every question. And his voice filled the house, echoed through the wooden house and—if in the middle of the night, which it often was—the neighbourhood too. I wanted to cry, but I never did, and it would pass and he would settle and so me and the house and the world were not destroyed, but there had been a moment of doubt there for sure. He was a former chef, 76 years old  but people were amazed how young he looked. Not a wrinkle at all. And the only reason I believe the age he gave, besides knowing he never lied, was he had no teeth. Knocked out in fights maybe. He was a bit overweight with a bit of an old man’s spread, but otherwise he would pass for 40. And he lectured me on eating, giving me wholesome peasant food that always tasted like the best food in the world. No need for expensive things to be healthy after all. I finally got it. And he told me how he had improved me, and how sick I was when I  first came to him. And I did his shopping, and he told me things like “O.k now we have done the work we can relax”. Little things like that which meant the world to me. Encouragement, reward. Scale and proportion. Solid words, solid ideas. A reliable and wholesome routine. While for my dad it had been a constant draining from the shadows. A randomness. No clue as to anything. A keeping me off balance. A constant negative state of mind concerning the world, even though we might joke around most of the time. So, with Sefu it was no longer the nervous energy, it was a place, a home, this was a real father-figure to me. I loved him more than my father of course. He was real. He was excellent. A friend. And then one day my brother appears. He gives me cigarettes made in Papua New Guinea, sent from my dad, made of newspaper. Dad had gone back to sea, or actually the Fly River in Papua New Guinea where they would employ an epileptic. But dad had always hated smoking, almost religiously. He told us he would never have married mum if she had smoked. He actually would note people who smoked to us, as if they had some disease. And here he was sending cigarettes. The Freudian premise. Do what you want. You need not treat another like yourself, as Jesus suggested— once you have this psychopathy. This being another example of our relationship being not father son. I was some sort of already made entity he was not responsible for. And I hated anyone who could drop their principles like that, especially with a son, and not even be aware of it. I had recently given up smoking and this broke my will eventually. Cigarettes of character, raw New Guinea tobacco there on Sefu’s kitchen table at every meal. After every meal, when the craving was strongest. In fact all the time. I would sit at that table feeling, in this humble kitchen a great sense of home. He would have the radio on the station for the blind, where books and news and documentaries and all sort of things were read. [An interesting side note to that is that years later when I was living in the Blue Mountains again, I worked for an old woman a couple of times as a handyman, clearing her yard and such. And I recognised her voice and confirmed she was one of the speakers on the radio I listened to every afternoon].

This kitchen had a window onto the public footbath and Sefu would always be meeting people through the window. So I got to meet new people there all the time. He was a real presence. Sometimes, very rarely, say less than once a month, he he would venture outside and we would be going from one place to another to buy things, and as much from one pedestrian to another for him to chat with them. He was like a community event, a parade unto himself.

At night we would then sit watching SBS though the night. Some film from some foreign country. Some of them were excellent. In fact it seemed all of them were. Surreal. In out own spaceship, high on Chinese tea. He had this chair near the door to the kitchen, and I would sit on a milk crate with a pillow on it next to him. He would be constantly filling my cup with Chinese tea, and I would be just so relaxed and into these foreign films. I remember once he asked me a question, I forget completely what it was, he was so impressed with my answer, he had us change seats and had me sitting in his chair, with him on the crate, for the next week or so. Or sometimes he would lie in the bed and let me watch the T.V. Sometimes he was talking to the television. I remember once him saying “kill him! Cut off his arms and legs and put him in the market place!” Most of the time though I just sat in the kitchen. Soaking in the security.

He had a daughter who would come to the window in sunglasses occasionally and they would speak in Chinese. I think she would give him money. He always had quite a lot of it. When he sent me shopping he would take out a big roll of notes and peel one off. He carried around a square trowel, of all things, tied to his belt. Apparently as a self-defence weapon. Or a weapon anyway.

Upstairs on my floor there was a junkie from England called Dennis. He was sort of lower middle class. Not like a career criminal or anything. And I was on friendly terms with him. There was also an islander up on this floor, from Fiji or somewhere. And Dennis did something that upset this Islander. I can’t remember what. But I think Sefu logged it and everything else he heard about the house. It was sort of like he was the master of the house. He liked to know about all the people in it. And was always inviting the tenants in for a cup of tea, and a meal too. Anyway I moved out and I told Dennis I was coming back for my stuff. But Dennis told the landlady—who was about 80 years old, that I wasn’t coming back and she had the room cleaned out and my stuff dragged to the front yard and left there, where my guitar was stolen. [second guitar stolen. A good one, bought for me by my uncle Wesley] I was now living up the road and I told Sefu about this. And then one day I found his window closed for days on end, he was no longer there. I found him somehow. He had had to leave suddenly because he had finally lost his cool. Or inevitably, you might say. And there was some trouble and he needed to avoid the police. And so I returned with him to get his stuff into a taxi one night. I think we did a couple of runs, he had lots of stuff, mainly cooking stuff and wholesale bags of ingredients from Chinatown. I eventually caught up with Dennis and he had stitches all over his face, which was all puffy in places. Obviously scared for life. When I asked what happened he said Sefu had attacked him with the trowel. I think Dennis had tried to fight back. Big mistake.

Sefu had moved in with another character. A man called John King, who strangely reminded me of my dad, but in a good way. …who later cut off some of his fingers. Then a month or so later I go to see him and am given a new address. It is in the top floor of a Glebe mansion. A wonderful house, with a better class of tenants and surrounding gardens. Adding to the mystery of who Sefu had been in past. He had his own kitchen again, and it was quite excellent. But he didn’t stay there long. Probably because he didn’t have society. He was probably the most sociable person I have ever met. Sociable in a good way, a positive way. Albeit there was attempted murder in there too. Possibly actual murder too in his long past.

This man was my inspiration to go to China. But yes, though he was all the opposite of my father, I wouldn’t have turned out too well as his son, I imagine. Fanatically violent I suppose.

But it couldn’t last. One day, when I was living with Sefu, he had sent me down to a house of someone he had met, for some errand. To deliver some food I think. It was down near the water, an old charming place quiet, excellent. And this man my age answers the door and we start chatting. He invited me in and he is there with his girlfriend and he asks if I want a smoke. I hadn’t smoked for a year or so, but I needed to be polite…

Coincidentally this house was two doors away from my Jewish friend Ruben. Who I knew from Woolworths some years earlier. I bit of a nerd, I supposed he balanced me out a bit. I had gone twice to his plush home for a meal, his dad was a psychiatrist. I went camping with him. At that time I was crazy to climb a mountain, as had the narrator of Zen and the Art. And we went and camped under Pidgeonhouse Mountain, but it wasn’t challenging. Pathetic really, I thought, with tourists, and a lookout place with lines pointing to different places. It reminds me of a mountain in China near where I lived. It was a lovely walk up there but at the summit there was this rock sitting high, so it was the peak of the summit, with a fence a round it and a camera pointed down at you. 

And so me and this young man Julian would become close friends. He was studying drama and was sort of like a handsome version of Alice Cooper, dressing in a theatrical way. And there is so much to write about this era, this drifting around on this drug in Glebe but it was all a superficial adventure. A wasting of about three years. Yes I had highs and terror and flirted with pretty girls when I could. Still in a sort of limbo with N.W. I never thought of marrying her. It was just I was on the payment, the free money, and was educating myself in life, or thought I was. Educating myself on life while getting dumber.

And of course I could see it was going nowhere and twice I set off  up the coast. The first time I made it to Darwin. I somehow stole rides on coaches and trains. For the coaches I paid as much as I could or wanted, and when it was time to get off I just stayed on. I again saw Tiffany/Linda, just meeting in the mall in Brisbane. She said she had called in on me and my mum had told her I had mental problems. My mum never told me that. In Darwin I found a man willing to consider taking me to Indonesia, but it was the wrong time of year for sailing, and I would need to wait six months and get myself a passport.

I returned to Glebe more of a mess, and after a few more months set off again. This time I got only as far as Lismore where I stayed with a friend I had met in Balmain years earlier. He had a piece of paradise out way out in the middle of nowhere like Paul. He gave me a smoke and I really sort of had a meltdown, just overloaded with vulnerability and some suspicion of this man’s character. He took me on a walk just after this, and I got it into my mind he was planning to kill me. I soon left this world of his. His utter private domain. But I wanted one of my own. Society was this constant stress. I was more and more seeing myself as an aboriginal. Every car I had to wait for to cross the road was an inconvenience from a world I didn’t belong. And it was one I was starting to resent. A brutal, noisy, deadly, selfish world run on money.

So these years are only relevant to this article, to the shaping of my mind, in my mind dissolving into feeling more and more apathetic regarding society and finding my place. The ever-confusion I was in regarding direction.

I soon returned from Lismore but in all Julian wasn’t so compelling an intellect. It was only on the weed that the theatrical, the superficial becomes intense. Years later I worked out that two things, education and having your own business, is the minimal that I need to be happy, truly happy. With having my own home a very close second. How to get people to see this as a realistic achievement when they have nothing but rent to, pay is what I have studied my life for. I do have the answer, it is just the putting it down in simple terms which is the difficulty. But it all started with Joseph from the bible. He was half Hebrew and half Egyptian royalty. He began the banking machine that no one has been able to turn off. He was the son of ‘Israel’, though that was not his real name. A name they don’t want you to know the meaning of; Isis, Ra, El.

Anyway, on the weed every experience, a knock on the door say, becomes a biblical event. I remember once Julian took me to his back large yard at night [he, like Sefu, always seemed to be rich, below the surface, but I found out his parents were middle class, even though he looked like he just came from the grave, with a Dracula flare ]. And he was showing me his garden plants with a torch and said “these are the succulents”, and there were these succulents among all these bones. I freaked out, internally, and he sensed in. I don’t know if they were human or not. And in those days I didn’t know succulents were plants. It sounded more like “These are the human bones I have sucked all the flesh off recently”. I saw the bones, not the plants. So I got sort of quiet suddenly and went inside. And he looked at me and said with sincerity ‘Sorry Jude’, a couple of times. So he was a character for sure. I met his parents who were middle class and stable just like mine. I liked him and counted him as one of my good friends. But this was all part of the lost years. You change your name and you are in some sort of painful adventure. Another time I am sitting in his next house with the window open on a fine sunny day—and mind you this man was a dope dealer in educated circles. There is a plot of vacant land next to this house, and I hear this helicopter, and the sound keeps getting louder. And soon I just have to go to the window and look up and this helicopter is landing right in the vacant lot a few metres away. And so I turn to Julian and said in the most understated way “A helicopter is landing”, while thinking the world is ending, and a swat team will start descending on ropes, as the front door is smashed in. And he says, just as calmly, ‘yeah its for the hospital’. There was a hospital nearby.

Then I met another man my age called William, one of the most incredible characters I have ever met. A man a year older than me. And we become best friends and we had the most fascinating conversations. He was in and out of mental hospitals but it was hard to say when talking to him if he was not the only sane person in the world. Chuckle at that if you want. What would I care? [And I will get to how mentally ill the mental staff at these places are, in a minute.] He was, as I have described before, like a furnace with its door open. The effect of being near a lion. He would sort of make me nervous a lot with the things he would say, his take on reality. He saw media, a film a character, as representing a profound reality. No real distinction for him between real life and mass media. He had these bright sky blue eyes and would just contain you with them when you talked to him, as though he was taking everything in, and it sort of made you nervous and comforted at the same time. Like sincerity but you never knew the implications, how he might be interpreting things, and connecting them to something else. He would talk about people…how can I say this? It was a mixture of famous people, alive and historical, mixed with words that seemed invented and strange. “Chuchoirus” was one I remember him saying a lot. “Trois” was, according to him, my wife, who I hadn’t met yet. And so on. He talked about his past lives as famous people. Told me I had been a pretty impressive angel [who he named], and, another time, a certain prophet of the old testament. People seemed to either love him or fear/hate him. He was well built and strong looking. As though he could do real damage…at any moment. I assume he had done a lot of working out. He said he had been a model. Very handsome man. And he looked a tad like Marlon Brando, who he talked about occasionally. I first met him in the Glebe church yard. He came up to me wearing all light blue, matching his eyes, asking for a cigarette.  He seemed like someone who was shedding off all of social conditioning. And it was like we spoke to each other in some deeper language, multiple meanings. Multi-level conversations, so fascinating. He was my best friend for a few months. He really was the intellect and love that my brother wasn’t. We had some adventures, much to do with that same substance. In a trip to the Blue Mountains we both had on these post-nuclear type of ponchos made of Victorian-esque blankets. And a young man came up to us and said , “I thought you were the disciples”, and William, in all earnestness [he was only ever earnest, beyond earnest] says to him “We are”. It was all just too intense, and we are lost and catch each other here and there over the months, until finally I settle into a job in the Blue mountains.

I mention him because he was someone like no other friend I had had. He was so non conformist he wasn’t really functioning in society. He was much a reflection of me I suppose, in that way. But there was a sanity and humanity to him. We were both being crushed in a loveless world without a woman, a wife.

What I had was not a relationship with N.W I ever really took to. It was just all there was and I was increasingly frustrated, and she was so with me. She hated me on site if she sensed I had been smoking. She moved to the Blue Mountains and I soon followed. We had split up I suppose, and so , yet again we are getting back together around 1994 or 5. And we get a flat, and typically it is all perfect, a picture perfect flat—she had excellent taste in things— but it is freezing cold. Down in this gully. Damp trouble too. So so typical.

Of all our break ups the one I can’t remember is the last one. And though our relationship was one of love, it was luke warm love. We certainly had our happy times and high points of loving each other. But it never healed my head…in the sense of giving me a rational plan in life. I think back through all my years, all my pain [and pain I caused her], and wonder why my dad or brother never said; ‘Hey, all you need it cheap ute and some cheep tools, and you can start your own business as a gardener’. Why this is crucial is because it allows you to set your own pace. Work was always an all-or-nothing which I didn’t like. And, as noted I was defensive. I was easily embroiled in petty things. The idea of taking on a job was monumental, it was taking on all sorts of people. This is why I stayed in the syndrome of getting free money, which of course looks for all the world that I am uncapable of getting a job, that I am mentally ill. So in this sense there is much for me to blame myself in this. My dad didn’t believe in me to start my own business, or even participate in his. So I didn’t then believe in myself any more for that. But now I have done it I scream at the sheer loss of it all, this state  I was in. Like Burke and Wills camping over their food supply buried beneath them as they starve and thirst to death. Like those two young men you got a job on a cattle station and while driving through the desert had their car break down. Dying of thirst because they never thought about the water in the radiator. Whose to blame?

All my experiences of home had been lacking. The one I was born into, the one in Brisbane, the one in Blackheath [alone and cold], the one in Rozelle, which though good, we were evicted from, the one in Balmain, criminals and ferals, the second one in Balmain, with my brother and friends giving me pot to smoke, the cold tent in Tasmania. And then back to the worst home of all with my dad, and then to Glebe where no matter where I was, I wasn’t home in my own skin because of the smoke. And now in Katoomba N.W and I started to get settled. Things seemed hopeful. But N.W was now having mental trouble of her own. She was developing compulsive obsessive disorder and was counting things and so the break up was as much her needing her family for support, I believe. So there was no Crisis, as there had been with me bringing back another woman back in 1993 or so  [I forgot to mention that].

The ideal work for confused young people like I was is artisanry. But guess what? That doesn’t exist anymore. Its been hunted down and murdered by modern art, the art of the industrial revolution. And people, imposters like my brother appointed instead. Modern art starting as an evil weed after World War One, on the back of the Freudian premise. The Freudian premise of appointment over community. And there is no one allowed today with vision to make the therapeutic environment where the artisans may contribute. This is another reason I am attracted to Islam. They derive their art from nature, and from geometry. All the ADHD and whatnot disorders today should be treated this way. Artisanry and gardening, which are related. Artisanry is derived from nature. Meaningful and rewarding contribution that can inspire and hold the attention of people, giving them a sense of contribution and self worth, via meditative work, co-operative work. Better than T.V;

From both should be sought social contribution and self-respect for the victims of the Freudian Premise, the media appointment system, the Jewish banking alienation. Mediative work. [And stopping “vaccines” and other things Jews have excelled in over us, including Hollywood and CIA]. But no one has the vision for that. People like my brother and his woman are instead appointed in this pax Judaica, and paid small fortunes for towing the line, bowing to mammon. And the world is more ugly, more alienating, more confusing for our youth, than it has ever been since the dawn of time. Meanwhile my brother’s partner is putting out statements like this as a curator of her museum in Nevada;

The museum already had the Center for Art + Environment and had already been looking at art’s relationship to the environment for over a decade.

You can read her being interview here by

Vivian Zavataro

Who is

… a museologist who specialises in contemporary art, community engagement, and audience-centric curatorial practices.

There you go. Just like me writing this here reader-centric article.

More from Apsara—this time on her exhibition promoting same-sex marriages, which were then illegal.

I wanted to do an exhibition where I gave artists the opportunity to weigh in on an important and urgent civil rights issue as it was unfolding. … I was in San Francisco, so, if it couldn’t happen in San Francisco, it couldn’t happen anywhere.

There were two times in my life where I woke up crying in the middle of the night: one was when Donald Trump was elected, and the other time was when my apartment burned down.

And this is interesting for another reason; Chris told me he met this woman online. That he found out about her before they actually met. He clearly said this, for this is, according to him, the benefit of online meeting. So its an incredible coincidence that he could meet and be compatible with a modern art curator, while he is a modern artist. And they both live in San Francisco.

Did Chris really met her when she was in San Francisco calling for participants for her exhibition, and he contributed to the exhibition of gay marriage? And didn’t want mum and anyone else back in Australia to know about it? And while on this suspicion, what are the odds that Chris would move to the gayest city in the world?

Now, having said that, I have no evidence that Chris is bi-sexual. But he did defend these people once to me, saying “You have to be more tolerant”. And put it this way; People with multiple personality disorders often have this one among them.

So anyway, I cant describe how N.W and I separated , but it was amicable. Not the screaming and crying that it was in the past. I tried to get back with her some weeks later but she was wiser than I by that stage.

So I am alone now in a place in the blue mountains. The first time to have my own place [but for a few weeks in Blackheath] I had been visiting my mum and dad. I was attending a pastry course at TAFE in Sydney, and would stay there for convenience.

One day I think it is a good idea to destroy the televisions. Thinking that my parents will start to meet each other for the firs time. So to speak. So to speak. Chris is living in Melbourne. Because that is what you do when you want to tell the world your young brother is mentally ill, and live in a different city to your aging parents.

This was, along with the drug-taking and along with my having accepted my mother organising me to get payments from the government to support me– and have no more dole obligations—a way in which I myself participated in my being committed the second time. Let me put it to you this way. You will find plenty of people on Youtube who now regret getting their tattoos. Some of them covered liberally. They were obviously not doing so well mentally at the time they got them. But do you call them mentally ill forever? No. We all have periods of not doing the best mentally. But those on the Freudian ship are the cruellest mother-fuckers you could know. They leap up over you to pin you down, and  claim some status and sophistication, having you need them, having you branded for their own fanaticism. Never did anyone countenance the idea to me, that this was probably a phase in my life. That I need time to work things out. Never! They are invested. Much like the witch-hunters were. Or those into exorcism. With many a case of people being killed in pursuit of demons they are inventing from their own short-comings. These are the self-righteous psychopaths. In fact that book Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, the first book to influence my thinking, begins with the writer telling us how he was at a party and drank way too much and ended up in a strange room. It turned out to be a mental hospital and he describes how the doctors there were just needling him with questions and presumptions until he has to admit things so, admit he has a problem so they will let him out.

And of course this new tangling with my dad was all still to do with him not being happy about my life, myself, me. Why the hell not? I was living miles away, working and attending TAFE two days a week. But we know it was all the same ruse or secret attacks. I honestly believed that by destroying the two televisions my parents would start to think, “this is great. Why didn’t we get rid of them before. Why did we ever have them?” They would be like they were early in their marriage, even after two children for a while–without the mental filth.. It would have them know, really know each other. And then I would be visiting with two complete minds to deal with, and the family would enter a golden age. But no. And so one weekend or so I started drinking vodka, from the confusion of going there I suppose. No excuses really.

I think I stayed there a couple of nights. Where I continued drinking. Going to Tafe drunk. I knew my dad was after me again. I knew it was all disintegrating. My hate for him was in my marrow. Saturating me. Here I was, another fledgling bird, I was working, I was going to Tafe, I had a career planned, I was only visiting two nights a week or so. But still he wanted blood. After all these years, he still couldn’t work it out. Still couldn’t be the minimalist of fathers to me, and leave me the fuck alone.

And so while my dad and I are alone in the house I just lose it and start holding up pictures form the wall and saying cant you fucking see, and really I was, even to myself acting insane. It was either do it that way, or finally kill the fucker. Finally give in to violence. It was like I wanted to smash that window again to break through with some evidence of this private world, to the world of ignorance that was my mother. I was beside myself with rage. I saw my father as this vandal of all that is stable and normal and loving in life, a vandal of all piece of mind and inner serenity. This destroyer of  all good moods and potential for the human spirit. Like he hated my very soul. Only ever wanted me to commit suicide. No blame would come to him. He had to do it that way, rather than raise a fist or make a solid statement. Niggle niggle jab jab. And he wouldn’t accept blame either. I was just ballistic this day. Overrun with this hate, this mutual hate we had, and then my mum comes home. Of course she is way too late. Its all me, my insanity, in her eyes. He has won his little game again, pulled his trick. He had some cosmic upper hand, some vastly unfair advantage in life. In fact he was getting money from the government for his war effort all the time, which I think is somewhat symbolic, linking us to the Freudian Premise. Delivering tanks to destroy village life in Vietnam is not mental illness, is it? My mother knows nothing, and she sees I have taken some of the paintings down and that is of course “violence” too. [She had called the breaking of the televisions, when no one was home ‘violent’.]

And so the police come and I go with her to the hospital. And I am drunk and really I have lost it. If there was a moment you might want to call me mentally unstable it is this day, these few hours from reacting to my father when I got home, to in the hospital now. But it was as much the drink and the anger, and the years of drugs. And I call one of the orderlies a lesbian, and I attempt to leave, and this other orderly grabs my hands and our arms spread out, crucifixion pose, and I am eyeball to eyeball to him though he some inches taller, and others grab me and they put me on the table as someone prepares a needle and I tell my mother “Don’t let them take any blood from me”. And she agrees. And of course, while I am out, she agrees to let take blood from me.

I told them, look, I said

I’m not the way, you’re thinking

And so I have to struggle a bit harder to get out this time. I find it hard to explain how this hate for my dad just over-came me, rather than my not just staying away. What I said to them reads ridiculous to me today. That I was trying to protect my mother. But it was sort of true, and was there instead of a direct answer. My mother was deceived her whole life, is how I saw it. Do you really think they would believe me telling them that my father attacks me only secretly, that it is really he who has the mental problem? In fact I hardly even thought of it like that. I thought more along the lines that he was just a fuckwit.

But I think I kept trying, kept returning for my mother’s sake. I was drinking this time. My father had gone out of his way year after year for some sadistic pleasure in destroying my self-esteem whenever he could. He had no ideas how to be a father really. Just a spectator that marched down to destroy, and then congratulated himself that he had done some parenting. No idea. I was either his friend, or I was his enemy. No gradient of reasonable ground in between. No fucking reality. No, “we are on the same side, tell me about your life, your problems”. It was just he got his reports about some sailor who was measured with the other sailor. No idea to guide, encourage, understand. No encouragement in my whole life. Zero. And I know all this with certainty, having raised my daughter as my best friend. I got more and more lost as I was misguided and discourage. “Pathetic”. And it all played out to those two days when I was on vodka and eventually arrested. I was melting down.

I wonder all the time about my mother finally finding out about her marriage in the after-life. But now, writing this out, I am having some hard questions. Puddlesworth? Really? But you see how much of his style it is. It is an insult which leaves no trace. Like his method. All the damage on the inside. All will be well. No one will ever know. Just like Chris and his Brautigan and over the horizon gossip, and silence on my direct questioning. Strategic, political only.

A few years before she died I told her of this Euripides play The Bacchae, which is my all-time favourite play. In it—to spoil it for you—this woman goes off to worship the god Bacchus, in drinking and partying in the wilderness with other women. She sees a lion and all the women chase it down and they cut off its head. And she comes into town parading this lion’s head, holding it up proudly. But when the effects of the alcohol wears off she sees that it wasn’t a lion, it was her son, her son’s head. I relate that somewhat to my mother. Always measuring me up against Chris. Becoming a tool for something sinister, bottomless, she never understood. Zionism, if you need to put a more rational word to it than ‘evil’.

26

I give up the pastry course and work in kitchens to save. Here is where I start getting on my feet. I worked in several kitchens there in the mountains. I had a friend called Paul who was 12 years older than I, and had been a maths academic, and still did tutoring. He actually did calculus for fun. He and I had some laughs, and we went camping together which was excellent. Walked all through the Blue Mountains trails. He was grounding for me, again a brother I should have had. I was cleaning myself up with this clean stable friendship and other social normality with working life. Hours that weren’t too heavy, too many people for me. I think fondly back on him today, but we were both easily annoying to each other, and both sort of working out our lives. We both treated each other as something of a joke. He was amused at my philosophising and my take on God and the nature of reality. And I was always treating his social acceptance of gays and Freud as mental illness. I actually referred to him as ‘Patient X’, someone I was there to help as his psychiatrist. All this was quite funny sometimes. He had a cynical sense of humour too. I actually saw him recently in the State Library here in Tasmania. He looked at me from across the room and I walked behind a shelf. Not sure if he recognised me.  He was sort of in that class of people I don’t accept, and I knew at once he was in Tasmania for Dark Mofo. We actually had an expression I invented “clear” based on computer language, which was our way of saying goodbye. Meaning our relationship was just technical. It was all part of the humorous way we saw each other. He would quote Freud to me, but still he had some soul about him. His humour would win out a lot. I would treat such things he would say as mental illness, it was often hilarious. I also saw him when I was in Sydney University [which was three or 4 years after this time in the mountains]. Again avoiding him.

Soon I live in a sort of luxury in Leura with this upper class, childless old couple. I work extra for the woman in her garden. They give me a glowing reference when I leave for England.

I meet a young man from England at the Sydney airport check-in que, and we chat. And then I meet up with him again at Manchester, which was as close I could fly to London. And I would have to catch a coach to London. He introduced me to the young man he had been sitting next to on the plane. This other man was Asian-Australian but was the editor of the expat newspaper in London. He said he could give me a place to stay for a few days, and help me get a job and I could have one of the rooms. Yes, all like that, and I believe God was helping me along. And so I move in and he is of course a storehouse of advice, helping me in every way. He moved out after some weeks, and I take over the lease, and bring in a French chef who I get on well with too. This area, by the way is a neighbourhood of orthodox Jews. I mean the most concentrated in London, Finsbury Park. Every house, except ours was this orthodox Jewish State. My next and also negative impression of the Jewish people after meeting some in Australia. One example to share is of two of them asking me into their home one day. They have a favour to ask of me, and lead me to their thermostat. They want me to turn it on for them as they are forbidden to do so on this particular day. They saw me as a tool. I refused. My only encounter with them, but for taking my money at the shops they all owned, which again they never did personally. Had other tools for that.

Summer comes to England and I go about the galleries when I can. I attend a Victorian fairy painting art exhibition, after just stumbling across the gallery in London. And it was a sort of life-changing experience for me. I still have the program for it, having held onto it all these years. One of the things my mother and brother didn’t give to oblivion, for some reason.

This gallery, like many in London was huge. The most stately building I have probably ever been in. And it is swarming with school children. And these paintings were just incredible. All fantastic, and all with detail within detail. As though finally finished off with a hair, a single hair in the paint brush. It is all astounding and the mood so happy and playful in the whole gallery and I realise—and here is where the life changing comes into it—that works of art need not be large. That you can paint something as small as your hand and fill it still with as much detail as you could ever want. Meaning you never really needed to have your own studio or anything to be an artist. Also you could incorporate grotesques and fairies into anything you may want, and this is natural for the setting is nature. They are spirits of nature, of humanity and of you, your subconscious. And that the best art was always this strong referencing of nature. And the best of the best art was on the positive side, the side where children may run happily amok in the ideas and freedom and beauty of nature. This was the first stage in a realisation I have written out in a manifesto on art and life called Spontaneous Utopian Symbolism, which I will publish one day, after proof reading it. The second stage occurred to me in China. Which we are getting to. Painting is profoundly therapeutic, and in fact one ancient Islamic writer correctly called it a spiritual phenomenon. When you have the right approach—being Spontaneous Utopian Symbolism.

After a while I become ground down with this kitchenhand work for 4 pounds an hour. People were sort of surprised that I seemed so intelligent but was doing such a job. I was too. And so I decided what I should do was move to Amsterdam, have my dog sent to me and marry someone, and become a chef. Again. And so I wrote to my mum, in these day before the internet, and remember racing to the post office excitedly before it closed, and finding the letter telling me she would not do that, as it was unfair for the dog to put it on such a long trip in a plane. I was gutted. Gutted and angry. And so I eventually, in my frustration and naivety thought, well I will outsmart her. I will return to Australia and get the dog and fly off with it myself. Coincidentally, at this very moment in history, England was about to started to permit dogs being brought in. Which I took as a sign. I knew about this before anyone else because I had enquired at the embassy. I was told unofficially that it was about to happen, three months earlier before it was announced. But it would be 6th months or so. But I could wait it out in Amsterdam. An incredible coincidence. But this ridiculous and childish pipe dream faded for three reasons. One of them being my father’s demise.

And so I decided that instead of spending all my savings to get my dog and arrive back in Europe broke, I would go to Ireland—which I had been reticent to do because I knew my brother had long since hypnotised the relatives about them—and have my rich Nana pay for me to get back to Australia. One of the problems was I didn’t have an Australian passport. This is because I had dual citizenship with the U.K., and I had left with only a British passport, committed to “never come back”. At the airport coming out, I was in the boarding line and a woman came up to me and asked to speak to me. She took me into a closed room and her and another questioned me on why I didn’t have an Australian passport. They told me I would not be able to return to Australia. To which I assured them I was never coming back. [A curious thing which I had to explain to my new friend in the boarding line. No it wasn’t a drug search]. And so I arrive in Ireland, picked up by my aunty. I talk about how the clouds are different in Ireland to Australia in the car. I sense she is weighing that up suspiciously. I knew I wanted to leave ASAP. But I helped them along in their suspicions.

Just when I’m down,

I’ll play the clown

I’ll play the fool

And this I did in this interview with these two elderly uncles, who were there to test my mentality. I talked all about fairies and wanting to build a castle and whatnot. Not sure why exactly I did that, probably because I knew I was in an impossible situation. Chris, like my father had this unfair cosmic advantage over me. Anything I said would be misinterpreted as something else anyway. So I may as well go off with the fairies as a lark. Right? They were all so highly strung inside, I thought. Especially my host, my Aunty Dorothy. On one occasion I stayed with a friend of my mother’s who was a quadriplegic. I very nice woman called Margaret. We got on very well, and if fact she had once wanted me to marry her daughter, I believe. So did her daughter. Anyway, back with Dorothy I relay what Margaret had told me about the plane accident. Telling her and her son Stuart how the pilot had had a problem with one of the engines, but had turned off the good engine. I said this with a sort of little laugh. And then my Aunty says , “Yes but is was a terrible accident wasn’t it? Many people were killed”  As though I was really laughing at poor Margaret at the time. So this is the pressure I was under in Ireland. And of course it would be far worse with the Armstrongs, Gary’s clan. So I didn’t go and visit them at all. This of course was for them another sign of mental illness. Anyway, my plan was to go move to Amsterdam and then come back to Oireland over the years to visit these relatives. I regret not going now, but as I said, I was committed to a plan. Do I really regret it? It has revealed something in the long term hasn’t it? I wasn’t actually there in Ireland for a holiday anyway. That would come later. I had to retrieve my dog. And this love for my dog of course is something my brother has read into and tried to exploit as my Chinese astrology sign. If he accepts a love for a dog is natural and healthy, he has less ammunition against me. Even though his own father had the same devotion.

27

And so I return to Australia, to the home for incurables, me included. And decide to get a job for a couple of months and earn money to help me settle in Europe. That is the first reason my plans start to dissolve. The second is my father, in this short time, is taken to hospital and never seen again. The third is that I realised that better than working in a kitchen for 4 pounds an hour, I should get some qualifications. And I was even more into art because of experiencing the galleries, so I did an entry course for the University of Sydney. And the upward momentum of my life begins. I have the head space to study, the heart-space to exist in my own right, and nothing has stopped me since. I almost immediately changed to History proper, and to German, still intrigued with living in a German country and speaking the language.

University was of course a great great windfall for my starting to understand the world. I was just lapping it all up and it was one of the happiest times of my life, even though I was now confused and hesitant about getting a girlfriend. Any girl I met would be told of this certain diagnosis made by Tom, Dick and Harry. This was a huge fear a huge suspicion. One proved to me by my mother as founded. When returning to Australia from China, I told my mother that I don’t want her telling Maggie anything about the drugs and the mental hospitals. A promise she forgot to honour.

I could easily go off on a great tangent here about university. It was a revolution for my mind. Out with the old, obsolete donkey and cart, in with the helicopter. Albeit I was ultimately lead astray on a lot of things. One professor, Dirk Moses, claiming to be a Lutheran, took a great swath of subjects of history, including the holocaust. I had him for a subject and he told us that the Jews suffered all sort of belittling laws in Europe and were often forced into banking. There you go. Why don’t you start your own bank!? I bet you never knew the Jews were banned from digging ditches and such things, did you? So university is alas, something you have to get past these days. And would Mr Moses really be Jewish? What do you think?

And the next event worth a mention is that last conversation I had with my brother, one I tried to have with him, after I had gradated, and was a day from setting off from Sydney for a much much needed rest from academia. I had really impressed my mother with my finishing university. She, always ignorant, was astounded, actually. She was just as astounded when she met Fay. How could I have ever become a good parent with such a fine daughter? Hmmm. What a mystery!

I remember I showed my mother an essay where I had received a high distinction, and she then went and told all her friends who brought it up like some sort of miracle. I had been invited to honours, as noted. And I was very much tempted. I loved the life there, and found the professors to be great friends. In fact I had one “hit on me”, as the Americans say. But she was not so attractive I thought. I had some students send me messages too, but I deliberately avoided temptation. I was very fickle, and as always shy around them. I did find one that was just so cute and lovely, working in a Indian clothes and incense shop. I turned to her as we looked at the scarves, my second or third time on meeting her and said I thought she was lovely, and would she want to go out for a coffee or something. She smiled slightly and sort of shock her head looking down. I now think that if I had pursued her she would have agreed. I think she might have wanted me to pursue her, is what I am saying. But I think I was so so easily dissuaded because I knew my brother and mother would pounce on her, tell her I had been in a mental hospital and all the news from their agitprop world.

And so I leave my mother in my brother’s hands. But he decides he belongs in America. And so off he goes leaving her alone. Watching her from America go “happily into old age”. Well done.

My mother was an angel during my uni time. I lived with her alone for the few years I went there. We got on perfectly. Had good chats and normal mother-son love. I never took drugs, but some ripples were there to do with the ethanol spurges I went on. I took ethanol one day and thought I had found some elixir of life. And I was perfectly happy about it until one day I am there in my Medieval Europe tutorial in a mediaeval-esque building in Sydney University. And I am so happy, so loving all the other students and the light is so clear and my eyes shine clear and then my adorable professor Jannette asks us for our weekly assignment. And a cold water streamed through my blood. Not that I hadn’t done the assignment so much as I had forgotten all about it! How could I have done that!? I was at university for goodness sake, there to learn, to do assignments, take them seriously. Was this the beginning of the end?  And so I stopped that.

My mother knew I was defensive and cynical, a bit bitter and twisted about some things, you might say, but we got on very well, perfectly, almost. And she gave me unlimited space, understanding I was finally buckling down. I had that large house to myself often, sometimes for weeks or even a couple of months as she travelled the world. Even when she was home she would leave on most days for the greater part of them. To return in the afternoon, as if she had some job. Visiting friends and charity work, I suppose. Anyway, she was perfect but for the fact she listened to everything my brother said. My brother indoctrinated her to this idea that there is this endless illness of the mind, and it  can never go away, and it can rear up in wild ways at any moment, even after years. My mother had this impossible fear going on, maintained by T.V news and Christianity [I have found Christians are really the most fearful people in the world, though they claim otherwise.]. And my brother, for my mother, was perfect. As perfect as he had once been for me. As noted now multiple times.

My mother was pregnant when the Charles Manson caper happened. That being the supposed murder of pregnant woman, stabbed by some freak on drugs. So this was a bedrock sort of trauma for her I believe. And so when I discovered Miles Mathis and read his deciphering of that lie, I was excited to have her read it too. But she was so fearful, so suspicious, that she had shut down to anything but the supposed authorities—who where the people who had created that hoax. So what she did was look up ‘Miles Mathis’ on Google where—-because those Jews hate him—they have a picture of a different man smoking and ugly. And that, just that, dissuaded her. She didn’t want to know about it. That, one might say, is a from of mental illness. Such a closed and fearful mind. That was as far as she would let herself venture into anything that might represent me, the real me, the real world. While my brother held the stage for her. Yes, I sent her the article but she wouldn’t read it or couldn’t. Maybe her mind wasn’t grasping long involved ideas by then.

But my brother and mainstream media are the same show, at the end of the day. This is why I see and make correlations about his name being David, why they occur to me. He is playing a role of ego based on his name. King of the Jews and all their disruption and lies. Don’t get me started.

Anyway, I have friends, or former friends now in my mother’s shoes. Friends I trace back to my former adopted brothers Colin and Nigel, mentioned above.

Between uni and Asia I went to Adelaide. And I will tell two stories of that time, one humours to balance out the negative one. The humour happened first when I bought my train ticket to Broken Hill, y’know, where Mad Max II was made. being desert and brushland. I had decided to ride my bike from there to Adelaide as the most unprepared camper in the world. I was so glad to be out of the city. I had been taking camping trips on most summer holidays for the previous three years but this was freedom like no other. And so I ride the first day and find an old concrete drain tube to spend the night, setting up my invented tent against the insects. Cooking my meal is me excellent ethanol burning stove. As happy as anyone on earth. Then I do the second day, further out into the dessert. Cars are very scarce of course.

That night I find a dried up river and set my windbreak up under the railroad bridge. Using my bike, by jamming it against the underside of the bridge to hold the tarp. I go to sleep in the most peaceful part of the universe known to man. But have you ever been woken by a freight train going over a few feet above you? Well I have….

Never mind. I knew by the length of it that there couldn’t possibly be another one, and went back to sleep. And so I woke to another beautiful sunny day. I packed up and then got my bike out, noticing there was now a flat tire. The bridge had pushed down on the bike and flattened one of the tires. I went to the highway and noticed a truck by the side of the road some way. He had a pump and I got it pumped up. But I didn’t know what to do. I only got it pumped up because it was the only thing I could think of to do. I really didn’t expect the air to stay in it. I thought is was broken. But after half an hour it seemed still pumped. So I decided to ride back to the town as far as I could, then ditch the bike and hitchhike back. And I rode all the way back, two days ride as one, with the tire holding up the whole way. I still don’t understand it. But I wasn’t taking any chances and got the tube replaced.

Now the incident where I again stay in a house with a corridor down the middle to the back yard, like the house from Hell in Balmain. As I said I had read it attracts spirits, whatever that was supposed to mean. From my experience it meant BAD spirits. And I was hesitant on taking the house for this reason. It too was full of misfits, this time middle aged and older men. It too was ancient. But the landlady was very nice and I took it. It was a great big room. And so I meet everyone in the kitchen and we all chat quite well, and I meet a man covered in dust called Peter who is a stonemason and he said he used to have the room I now have, but is now in a new one. This man is very muscular and with thick round John Lennon glasses. And then the next day I buy a mobile phone. This was 2004, so they were sort of new, and this was my first one. And after the day of riding around trying to find work, I get home and go straight to bed. There was only one thing unusual about this room. There was a round table with a red one of these on it, under the table cloth;

I don’t know why I ignored this. but you are about to see why I shouldn’t have.

And so I am woken in the middle of the night by someone opening my door which I hadn’t locked. and it was this fucker with the glasses. And he was switching the light on and off. I tell him he is in the wrong room. But he ignores me, still playing with the light which wasn’t working for a specific reason. Being that this house was so old it had a light system where there is a chord by the bed, and when you turn it off to go to sleep, it stops the wall light from working. You can only turn it back on by the same chord. And so I get up and, thinking this man if drunk, and say ‘Come on Peter, you are in the wrong room’ , and he turns and grabs my arm, saying “Don’t even think of getting out that way”. but I twist out of his grip and run to the table and get my phone, and walk back over to the bed, where it is darker. I just wait there. I am too adrenaline to start working out how to switch on my phone. But after a while he stepped into the hallway, just near the door, and I snuck up, slammed the door and locked it. And then I made the first ever call on the phone, to the police. They came and they knocked on his door. He flung open the door, thinking it was me I believe, and the police asked him what was going on. He denied it, saying he had been sleeping. They asked his name and he said “Peter Phelps”. Now I, because I knew everything that ever happened on television in Australia, recognised this name as the actor from Sons and Daughter. But when the police asked for I.D he refused to show them. And so I am there in the kitchen talking to these two police and I am annoyed, telling them this is assault. They agree but say it is just my word against his. hard to bring to court. And then while we are talking, Peter’s door opens again, and the cops say to me to wait here in the kitchen. This is when they insist on seeing his I.D. [His real name was Peter Jenkins]. And they come back to the kitchen after a few minutes and I am talking to one while the other is on his radio. And then after a minute or so someone answers the radio with the word “murder” in it. And the policeman says to me that he can’t tell me what he was in jail for, but if I heard something over the radio, then that was a different matter. He asked whether I had heard anything. I said I had. He said he suggests I move out. That I gather my stuff and go. And that they will be outside, and will call me in a few minutes to see if I am O.K. And that was the proof of fengshui for me for a long time. But about three years ago I befriended an old couple in their 70’s, who live in the same type of house. They have the most fantastic garden I have ever seen in Tasmania. Their yard suffers water drainage problems and so the woman has everything in pots. And it is just a kaleidoscope of plants and it is all laid out beautifully, and there are fruit trees and these two are really now like parents to me. The man does his all to help me in ways I can’t even start on. He is a retired carpenter so he gives me his factory to work in, his trailer, all his tools, anything I ask. And I work for them once a week and we always have a chat and tea and snack afterwards. Maybe the spirits are happy ones there. I’m one of them.

28

I meet Maggie in a university library in China, a story of fate worth repeating; This university had just been built. And it wasn’t quite finished. And it is typical fake Chinese grandeur. Hugely high ceilings and granite faced columns and like some major courthouse in New York or something. Here is a picture of it from behind where the giant lake they made is.

That is it on the right. That is my apartment building on the left.

And so I am in there studying Chinese one evening, and it is dark and there are still workmen doing things off in dark places in the building. And one of them comes and tells me the library is closing. I sort of understood [though some Chinese people don’t speaking Chinese very well. In fact all the workers are former peasants with their own dialects]. At the same time a lovely student tells me in English the library is closing. I am instantly attracted to her and we walk out together. I get her email address by the time we separate after a 10 minute walk, which was out near a small town I was going to for dinner. I write to her but get no reply. One day I am walking past the students playing badminton or something in the evening and someone called out ‘Hi Gordon’ and its this girl. But I didn’t stop and mention the email I had sent. I just thought she didnt want to help me learn Chinese, which was the plan. And then came graduation day, and I had a very good Chinese student friend called Jenny. She was my regular teacher. We once went to another city together for a holiday. But I was never attracted to her romantically. But she was a very good mate. And one day I am taking Jenny to the graduation ceremony in a giant or full-sized sports stadium, also on the campus. So Jenny is on the back of my bike and realises she has forgotten her I.D card. So I take her back to her dormitory building, she gets the card and we go to the stadium ground, a beautiful sunny day, thousands of students in the ground, apparently in their classes formation or trying to find them. Jenny couldn’t find hers, so after walking around for about ten minutes she just says , “Its O.K., we can just sit here”. And so we sat down. Guess who was next to me and sang out my name in her lovely voice? Yes, Maggie. I asked about her getting my email, and she said she still hasn’t checked it. I tell her I am thinking of moving to her city for the next year. She says to give her a call and she will help me when I am there.

At the same time I had a girlfriend called Chen Xi, As cute as anything, and as mental. And feisty and clever. I liked her a lot. I liked her style, her biting back. Her practicality. I remember having breakfast once with her and I am talking about this and that. Just letting my mind idle on and she snapped. Why say that? Does this make you think of this, make you think of this? She had an excellent point. I was talking for the sake of talking, jumping topics. Nervous energy still. And she gave that reality check. I needed that in a wife. N.W was so so passive. I needed that element of scale, that bite back, that Sefu had given me. It was really why I was in China. Maggie certainly has it. Call it practicality to avoid a long digression here.

And so in our topsy-turvey high energy on and off relationship, I follow Chen Xi to her city after leaving on unsteady or negative terms. She is happy and impressed to see me, that I had followed her. We finish our quarrel first but she wins me over. [I had met up with a male student, and stayed with him. So I wasn’t reliant on Chen Xi to get by]. So I had to settle the quarrel with her. She won me over by starting to cry while she was explaining, not crying just beginning to. And anyway, we were just too intense all the time. We loved intensely and quarrelled too. But nothing like the toxic endless rolling quarrelling I had done with N.W. More like a sudden ping-pong match. And so I made another regret of something beautiful I cast aside for no real reason. And I look back at my doing this in my life and see it is much the attitude of my father. Yes, why not blame him for that too. That relationships I was in were not there to help and guide each other, but these women were a product fully formed I was there to judge. All too easily when you had no sense of home life where practicality grounds, or should ground everyone. But I am confessing all these sins, and will send them to the people I describe. Maybe they will forgive me. So I broke off from her. Having her walk off in the soft summer rain to her house in that city. I wasn’t just too critical of her, I now think I mis-interpreted something she did into the bargain, which was that very last quarrel, or part of it.

I recently read an excellent book called “Orphans of the Living” a sociological study of children who grew up in orphanages, in the 50’s, 60’s and 70’s. And it notes how some admit the experience messed up their lives. They never could have a stable marriages. I think I got something of that. Which is not to say stress in relationships was all my fault. It is as much to say I chose the wrong ones for me to begin with. I didn’t approach it from the right state of mind. When N.W came along, particularly, I was so lonely I would have taken any pretty girl at all. I was all for prettiness. Nothing for depth. That was the only criteria for me, actually. Having said all that, I recently found Chen Xi is now a successful lawyer. I was so happy to find that out. So happy she landed on her feet. No permanent scares from me.

Anyway I now find myself alone in a strange city without her. What to do? The thing about Chinese cities is there is nowhere to go. There is no park, no gallery. Well there might be parks, but they are always fucking over-crowded. And no cafes. Yes, Chen Xi had been an exciting and fun romp for most of the time. [No we never had sex. And this is partly why I wanted to have a child there. Family values] but now I started to get really depressed and worried that I was going to fall into a vortex of lust. Chen Xi had definitely excited some of it in me. I was alone in this city, and I was basically alone in the world. I never got on with the American other teachers. So I went to the phone the next day and called Maggie in the other city.  I would go there just to see her, and check this city as one I would want to live in. My criteria for a suitable city being basically if there was an attractive woman in it. We had a great time. She was everything I needed. So level-headed and good humoured, also feisty and principled like Chen Xi. I wont compare them no. Its like my regret for all the females I wish I had married. If I really did have a time machine, I couldn’t marry all of them could I? And Maggie has satisfied my heart, and produced a daughter more perfect than I could have ever imagined after it all.

And so we marry and both move to South Korea. After a year there we return to China for the baby, and for another year. Then back to South Korea for two years. Things aren’t so bad. But the Chines people are increasingly irritating to me. I had a student called Wolf, yes really, and he and his friends came to the top floor of my private hotel [all the guests had gone home for the winter] and knocked on the door when a pregnant Maggie was in there alone. She didn’t open of course, but this really upset me. After the baby was born, six months or so later, I was gone to Korea, to wait for Maggie to get her visa. Our second time in South Korea.

My job in South Korea is to sit in this big room with desks in a big empty square, the vice-principle on one side, all the chairs empty but for teacher meetings about twice a week, where I left the room. I have about one 50 minute class a day often days with nothing. I was the first foreign teach they had ever had, a country school. I mentioned above about jobs that don’t suit me. This was a perfect example. It was so like my time at school. Why were they making me sit there to just feel time go by? It was some power thing. Yes, I was fairly disciplined with my study of Korean, but I was again playing a part. I began to resent it. I began to drink ethanol. I mentioned how I did that for a while at uni, and i started again. It was not like my intellect was being challenged, as it had been at uni. So there was nothing to stop me, I was soon drinking it like it was water, proving to myself how fake this life really was, that no one could ever suspect me. And then one day I made a huge mistake. I decided to go onto a building site near my home and ask about borrowing or hiring some tools. Ridiculous I know. I had made a baby’s cot in the top floor of my hotel when Maggie was pregnant. Yes really. And it was a sophisticated project I painted gold and was very proud of. I had also made a rocking horse back in the apartment in Korea, that sounded horns via pumps in the base when Fay rode it. It also had strings being strummed inside that really I never got working properly. But Fay loved riding it, and I was very proud of it. And so I decide to make her a harp. But I needed some tool or other and I stupidly thought I could get it from a worker. On some deeper level I think I wanted to start helping them build their building. But the worker I spoke to sort of pissed me off with his attitude, as you might expect… and tried to usher me away. How dare he. And things got sort of physical though no punches were thrown. Anyway, the police were called and the school was called and they understood, not to worry just a misunderstanding. But I made the big mistake into a HUGE mistake of telling this builder, who had said he just wants me to pay for his damaged glasses, that we all need to watch the CCTV footage. I was really an arrogant asshole. I watched that like it was the worst of horror films. My own self testifying against me. There I was obviously in the wrong, and making trouble on this building site. I could have sailed right past all this but I stupidly perceived, arrogantly perceived that I had been treated wrongly. Things really hit the fan then and my contract wasn’t renewed. It was inevitable. I hated the job, and I hated all the formality, and I hated being a mannequin. But for my family’s sake I tried to bear it. I couldn’t. I am embarrassed about it, but I did learn something. To really solve my life, I need to feel useful. I think it is the same with everyone to various degrees. Except my brother, obviously. Copying a machine is not going to get me involved either. In fact I am about to introduce another book which formed my thinking, which I read back in China a year or so later called ‘Useful Work Verse Meaningless Toil’, by William Morris, of Arts and Crafts fame. Excellent book! He was all about the dignity or working. Something largely lost from a lot of modern jobs where you just mimic a machine. Work should involve society, and sitting there all day like a fucking mannequin who cant communicate [none of the Korean teachers where I was could speak much English, and I couldn’t use them to practice Korean ALL the time] was not a life for me. I sometimes wonder if I have lived out elements of my father’s life. For me this was the big fall. My reputation, until them so resounding, was now permanently damaged in that part of the world. And I had to leave. The school would never back me up for another job somewhere else. Just the opposite.

In China the crowdedness and the lack of healthy real food now started to get to me. Why not try marijuana again?

The food in China is basically healthy, but only just. Yes lots of rice and cabbage and some probiotic foods, but all pretty basic. I could never get, for example, virgin olive oil. I did find one day, a farm at the edge of the city in China where we lived. And would get fresh milk. The only cow in the city, everyone else there was too dumb to see the value of. [Milk in China is the worst in the world. More like what we call long-life milk] Thanking God for this gift I could give to my little girl, and take myself. I would have paid half my salary for a pint of the stuff. For years now I was educating myself on the internet, including on the topic of how pasteurisation destroys any goodness in milk by killing the enzymes, which means destroying digestibility. Which is what my dear cousin Neil has devoted his life to and doesn’t want to know otherwise. The only reason pasteurisation was ever introduced is that is allows the farmers to be less clean about it.

One day I find marijuana growing wild by a busy road. And pretty soon I become my own drug lord, though I am not selling it, just reaping it. I am my own mass market too then. Maggie and I had been having some quarrels, and this of course was going to relieve that. I had as much of it as I could ever need. I would collect whole bails of it and strap it to my bike. Sit my daughter on top and take it home to dry. I would even smoke it in public, as no one knew what it was. I would even smoke it at the uni I was teaching at. And low and behold our marriage started to break down. And so I decided to let my mother meet my daughter, with a view to moving to Australia. But I did it by inviting her to Shanghai and bringing Fay there to meet her. Complete with my weed, done up as candy in my luggage. I had a terrifying moment at the airport, where I was called aside and told to walk through another way as my Chinese mate Shane was left with Fay [Shane didn’t know anything about it, the “candy”, no]. And I was just left there by the security guard alone in a vacant area. It was so confusing. I stood there not knowing what they wanted. I was of course stoned for the trip. And so I just got my wits together and calmly walked back and got through the baggage inspection like something straight out of Midnight Express. I still don’t know what that was all about. And on the plane I was having fits of terror too. I would hear the engine change pitch and be sure we were falling from the sky.

I should note at this time in my life I was also finding some excellent books. Before and during this drug lording. I had found the book As a Man Thinketh, in the library. This is the Freud antidote. This should be in every school in the world. But then the people would be helping themselves. I had found On Art by John Ruskin, same thing. And On Meaningful work Verses Useless Toil by William Morris. I was also now an expert on Medical History from countless hours of research. And the book ‘Walden Pond’ by Henry Thoreau changed my life too.

“Think for yourself, or others will think for you without thinking of you”.

I was also painting. But I realised that without something to paint plein air I had better just paint from my imagination. And I realised this is the purest form of mediative therapy for all of modern life’s ills and woes. Because when you make a mistake with the paint, your mind, you thoughts interpret things, [much like ink blots were used by psychiatrists] and you can tease those things out into being from the paint, from the “mistakes”. Nothing then is a real mistake, it is now a process, a therapy. And all the hobgoblins of your psyche can be tamed and dealt with, recreated into a utopia. Get it? And this inter-related to Alan’s book, As a Man Thinketh.   Perfect your thinking, deal with what you are, and you are your own master. Does this sound too simple? That in one swoop psychiatric medicine can be felled to the ground. Well it is true. Why, ask yourself, should the meaning of life not be something a 5 year old child can understand? The meaning of life is, in a word, love. So every child is hard-wired with this innate understanding of life, its meaning. And love is social harmony, utopia. And this can be a meditation with Spontaneous Utopian Symbolism. Spontaneous being the utilization of “mistakes”. Meaning there are no mistakes, actually. It is therapy! Get it? A spiritual meditation, you and your psyche, in interaction. A perfecting. Go to it! [And I wont need to publish my book].

Its only listening to evil men like Freud and his invented vocabulary that distracted us into complexity. The same thing happened with banking at the same time. The energy economy systemised with its “interest” banking, when the original word was “usury”, meaning to use someone. The name has changed to hide the enslaving principle Jesus hated. The real Jesus. Just like they changed the word Pharisee, who Jesus also hated to a brand knew word “Jew”, which they try to explain but make a mess. And we were tricked in the fancy talk—the forked tongue] of an atheist freemason Jew called Sigmund, a name that means “Hail Victory”. Hail the victory of the Jews. Welcome to pax Judaica. The Jew World Order.

Which brings me to another important point. You really think I would be mentioning the Jews, who now have nearly everyone on their side if I was wanting to persuade you to something that wasn’t true? Why would I add that into it?  If, somehow, there was a logic in my wanting to paint two innocent men as psychopathic, would I then wreck that credibility in insisting you are wrong about Judaism? But I have principles. I am not interested in quantity of friends or readers, only quality. I am not here to make you like me other than my being truthful.

29

Anyway I meet my mother in Shanghai, and it is all pretty good, but she knows I am secretly  smoking. [I never let my daughter see me or suspect me of this though] And I explain my situation to her; that after 8 years in all in China, [11 years in Asia], I am not happy, and I don’t know what to do. And I remember her words as if it was yesterday. “Pray about it”. And this I began doing, and slowly but surely the final piece of the puzzle of my life started to move into place and I was becoming whole.

But it don’t come immediately. First I have to go home to face the wife. Who is of course irate. I had left a note telling her what I was doing, taking Fay to Shanghai, and that I would return in a few days. And I let Fay call her every night. Fay is very happy throughout it all too. We saw some great sites, and my mum put us up in the Shanghai Shangri-La. Fay loves her grandmother, and her grandmother loves Fay. It is a joyful time for both of them. And my mother writes a letter later, thanking me for bringing joy into her life. And I am set to do all I can to have her in my family. Knowing my brother has abandoned her.

While remembering those clothes I bought for Fay, I will tell you a funny story. I bought those for her when I went to Beijing to get my passport renewed. And we turned it into a holiday, visiting the Summer Palace and a lot of shops. One of the shops was a music shop [I took her into it and said “choose an instrument”, and she chose the violin. She is now a virtuoso violinist, and concert master of the Tasmanian Youth Orchestra, as noted]. Also in this music shop she wanted a drum, the old fashioned ones you strap on. A children’s toy but also a real quality drum. And so from then on we are walking around and she is playing on this drum, just loving it, but sort of dedicated, learning the rhythms. Everyone thinks it is the cutest thing in the world. And so we get to the embassy on this wide tree-lined boulevard and I tell her to go ahead of me. We are approaching the Australian embassy and to go up ahead of me and stop at the gate. And so there is my drummer, decked out in traditional gold Chinese clothing, announcing my approach to the Australian embassy. Another fond memory I have, while your reading, is of finding this garden near out hotel. It had two pagodas, one on each end. And we played this game where each pagoda was each of our houses. And let’s pretend we are walking along and we recognise each other in the garden, and invite each other home for a cup of tea. Fortunately I had a small brass teapot [with soot inside] we could pour the tea from. And she loved this game so much she wouldn’t let me stop. And it was just so adorable to see her as we pretend we were meeting out of the blue, a smile coming to her face, as she tried to remain serious. “Fay! Is that really you?! How are you? I haven’t seen you for ages. What are you doing in this garden. Do you live near? Yes I do, see that is my house. Do you want to come and visit me. And so on. We must have spent a good hour playing that game. Over and over. changing it up. Then I think we did it again the next day.

And of course, hell hath no fury like what I went back to face with Maggie. And she immediately takes Fay while saying we are getting divorced. And so I agree to that, even promoting it, and it is all so weird. Calling her bluff I was actually. Two men come to me one day to hand me papers as I am going off to lecture, and I just push them off. They are saying something in English like ‘We are the Police’, but I am not buying it. And then I hear Maggie, who I didn’t know was there as well, call out that it is the divorce papers. And so I go to the court one day and there is no one there. My daughter is so lovely and all this time, which lasted for weeks, when we are talking about divorce she thinks we are talking about dwarves. And she never learns otherwise.

So I go to the building for the divorce, to make head or tail of it, and it is just a woman screaming at her husband with his lawyer or someone in this huge empty building. It was surreal. I didn’t know what it was.  But was glad we weren’t getting divorced. No one turned up. I still don’t know what that was all about . But she later told me it was the wrong day.  Anyway, she had always been half hearted about divorce, I knew it. I convince her that we move to Australia. I tell my mother this, and she is happy.

I had made my mother promise to never tell Maggie about my past and the mushrooms and such. That was a condition of my returning to Australia. A promise my mother would forget to keep. I am saying that again. It was the one condition I pinned everything on. But the Freudian premise has no mercy.

So we are all happy, but my mother never says anything about letting us stay with her in Sydney. My wife and her parents are continually asking whether we will stay with my mum. I am getting more and more embarrassed. Do I have to aske my own mother whether she will let her son, daughter in law and granddaughter stay some time with her while we get settled? To be fair, mum knew I had been smoking, and she was yet to meet Maggie. But she adored Fay and Fay adored her. And so I am dropping huge hints, like telling mum that I am through with travelling in my life, and that where I land in Australia, is where i will live forever. No moving. And, by the way mum, I say, I am thinking it might be Perth. Yes, really. And so after no invitation ever comes, I decide that the negativity there in Sydney must outweigh the positivity of me plus the new family. And so i tell her we are indeed moving to Perth, which is literally the most isolated city in the world. And just what I needed after China. I look into Perth on the internet though, and am not impressed with the heat on offer there. And so I suggest Tasmania. But I have a hard time convincing Maggie and her parents. “Its just a tiny island” they say. And how would we get off it, and such cute questions. It was where I wanted to go though. I was only wanting Sydney for the sake of my mother. Make no mistake. I was through with cities, with crowds. Yet I still wanted her with us. But she always denied coming down to live with us in Tasmania, saying all her friends were in Sydney. And whenever I suggested she ask Chris to move back from America to Sydney, she was sort of astounded at the idea. No, no , no,  he has his life.

…yes, but he contrived that life after she was a widow. So why did he abandon you mother? For gay sex? As you know mother, I had a reason to leave. Yes you telling the world I was mentally ill…

Maybe in the after life my mum understands it all now. I can’t help thinking so. That she sees clearly my perspective. She was such a noble woman at heart. So loving, so kind. My brother and his tricks ruined her, ruined her life, ruined what would have been a wonderful and loving family. One that would have naturally melded with our relatives in Ireland eventually. But they have their own psychopathy premise over there. It is everywhere. So who knows?

After three or four years of her coming to Tasmania, my mother writes to me “Chris is yet to meet Fay and Maggie”, as though he were Jesus. And that they were coming down in two days to Tasmania. Shock and awe, I suppose is how they thought of it. Chris would work his charm on Fay all would be well. Fay was no longer in hospital so Chris could be out and about. And they did come down. Mum texting that it was her, my mother’s birthday into the deal, into the pressure. But I wouldn’t co-operate and the meeting never happened. My mother as P.R representative to the big star of David. Jesus and David, Christian and Jew, Christ and anti-Christ. Double meaning by which he lives by. Larger than life.

And so it came to pass that my family and I were forced into seeing my brother by my mother getting ill. She had promised me she wouldn’t get the vaccine but she forgot about that promise too.  A deadly and diabolical thing explained by DOCTORS I was listening to at the time. In those days the alternative to Youtube and the like, was Bitchute. That has since been destroyed of all truthful content. Bought out, we can suppose. And I know more about the vaccine from DOCTORS and MICROBIOLOGISTS and CHEMISTS and TOXOCOLOGIST and the like than anyone I know.

I watched at least two hours a day of vaccine related videos for over a year on this singular topic. “The clot shot”, as it was called by informal commentators. Studying the actual vaccine, while you who got it knew NOTHING. As it was a “trade secret” which no one on mainstream media was allowed to analyse. And so my mother is soon told by her doctor that she is  “just a clotty person”. Chris of course got it, not having a mind, and my mother bet her life on the wrong horse.

In that hospital I had pleaded with her to let me take her to her home, she would be surrounded by us, Fay, Maggie, my mother in law, and me and Chris—for as long as Chris would stay. And all the familiar things of her beautiful home. We all wanted this, except for Chris. We would now stay in Sydney, I told her, live here from now on , no problem, or we would return to Tasmania when she was better, whatever she wanted. This she understood clearly.

To reiterate; I had tried since returning to Australia get her to live with us, and the only reason I was now in Tasmania, was her doing, not mine. I had first intended to live in Sydney when returning from China with my new family. But my brother had filled her with this bottomless fear. I told her I was through with travelling, and where I landed, that is where we would live. And I was sort of saying, well, this is what you will get if you cant help us into a new country [a different Australia to me it now was too]. I am not going out of my way, risking my family for you if you cant assist.  And she never rose to counter this. No comment. She was happy to see us go to Tasmania. How could anyone be so impossibly fearful of a man who only ever loved her? Who never had an incidence of violence, not even against my father. How? Only one possible explanation comes close. She was lead to believe something infinitely dark, and just as false.

So there was no way I was going to move back to Sydney with the chance that both of them might start seeding rumour into my family, was never going to happen. As just noted, my mother did this anyway. Telling Maggie of the drugs and the mental hospital. And if my mother did that, what do you think my brother was going to do? But at this crucial stage I made the decision that caring for mum was more important than anything.

And so, in hospital, my mother kept deteriorating drastically as my brother insisted on her staying. Getting all sorts of God knows what “tests”. Yet I knew from long history that my mother was also in on it. Any doctor could tell her anything at all, and she would believe it. Also she apparently wanted to “go home”, a euphemism for death, according to her close friend Ailene. It was obviously some kind of murder-suicide pact. Fitting in with the genocide-suicide era we were in with the vaccine. And it came to a point where I said to her, with Chris there, that she needed to decide immediately what she wanted to happen. That she could  let us take her home and we would take care of her. She would get excellent food. Fay would go to school here, etc etc. Or she could stay in the hospital, but that I didn’t believe this was helping her. [Understatement of the century!]. I said, the choice was perfectly between her and God. I knew this was the last hope. She was clear-minded enough to understand. But it was the last days or day if we didn’t get her out. Do just what you want to do mum. But Chris was at the bedside, on the other side listening, calculating. It was only us three. And my mother says “I don’t know what to do”. As if she could decide on this later, and it wasn’t the point that they were killing her. Then my brother starts talking about Jesus Christ for the first time in his life, and how the neurologist is going to find out this or somethings else. Something he told me was going to find out the problem. All in the same breath. And I was so angry I had to walk straight out of the room. I marched on down to a big window in a public room overlooking Wakehurst and Frenches Forrest where Maggie was and was just speechless. What on earth was my brother doing? My mother was deteriorating so fast BY HOSPITAL and he ADMITTED IT. But here he wanted her to stay. He had actually been complaining about it for week, insisted on a meeting with the staff. When that had happened, less than a week before this offer I was giving her, he tried recording with his phone. This is how obvious her deterioration was, and how much he knew it. He would even mention it at the funeral, because others knew it too—and passing it off as natural! How does that work?

Many of us are surprised about how mum slipped away so quickly from our midst, considering she was chipper only in December. It seems the knee surgery, the heart attack, the heart operation, and some small strokes, kept taxing her physical reserves. She knew this and had mentioned in passing the comfort she felt in soon meeting her saviour. I believe her living faith has provided her the courage to go. And ask the comfort, that she is now justly rewarded. In finishing I’ll note its an impossibility to condense such a life and personality into words, let alone 1100 words. I know within her community, her blood relatives, and her adopted family, there is an abundance of unique and positive connections involving Olga Bell. And in these private memories she will live on, and we are blessed.

—-

Let’s break it down;

Firstly you must know that mum’s demise was so swift that Chris was doing his all to call a meeting with all the hospital staff about it. How he was never able to find and speak to people, how he was never given information. He had said all this plainly at this meeting when it happened, that this deterioration was incredible .He wanted to know how she had gone from someone clear-minded and healthy “to this”, this woman next to us all gasping for air, in a few days. Yes, he asked them flatly why she had deteriorated so fast. But the meeting was a farce because the phone in his top pocket which he was recording with, had its light on, and one of the nurses, a male, asked if he was recording. And he admitted he was. This of course put an end to all conversation about my mother, and the meeting, which was a circle of standing people about  5 or 6 staff, pretty much dissolved there and then. But at the funeral he comes across as knowing it was all a natural death.

Many of us are surprised about how mum slipped away so quickly from our midst, considering she was chipper only in December

I have a problem with this. It is way too casual and inappropriate. She was healthy in December. She didn’t die of a bad mood now did she?

It seems the knee surgery, the heart attack, the heart operation, and some small strokes, kept taxing her physical reserves.

Was Chris Bell there running the show? I think he was yes. He had the last word. I know it actually because I was trying to stop it. He was a medical expert in the hospital, anyone would have thought. Promoting brains scans. Promoting and insisting. Insisting she stay there in hospital. She writhed in bed for a whole night in front of him. He himself was amazed. Giving me that wide-eyed expression when I asked. We didn’t know what they were doing to her, but it was something. The only cure for her had been to get her out of there. So I don’t like the language here. “Many of us are surprised” which should be “many of you are surprised”. If anyone knew what was happening, it was this man. Because he was allowing it.

She knew this and had mentioned in passing the comfort she felt in soon meeting her saviour. I believe her living faith has provided her the courage to go.

A coincidence? The same using of words as subconscious suggestion

…Her saviour. I believe…

In the paragraph, Chris is putting down two rabbits for us to chase here. As usual. It was the medical problems as well as mums courage, that saw her die in agony in front of our eyes. Becoming deranged in a matter of a week. I remind you, he was doing all he could to call an emergency meeting, and then recorded it, on his phone. Now he uses words like “chipper”, “faith” and the word “comfort” twice. Framing it all as inevitable due to various conditions. And “courage to go”. How does that work. It smacks of suicide to me.

I know within her community, her blood relatives, and her adopted family, there is an abundance of unique and positive connections involving Olga Bell.

I suspect he is again saying you should discount my side of the family. And that he has used the word “community” to hide the real message he is giving here. Try it this way;

I know within…her blood relatives, and her adopted family, there is an abundance of … positive connections involving Olga Bell.

Otherwise he would have used the words “friends” and “in”. Everyone has “community” of associates that would NOT be at our funeral. So why include them in a eulogy at a funeral, so that you need to use the word “within”. That isn’t natural. A funeral is supposedly only friends and family. Not hard. No need for fancy wording is there?

Remember, he had just left a picture of Maggie off the program. And referred to Heike as her adopted daughter.

And so, getting back to the death bed, I just cant stand it all and we argue a lot, but he keeps on about the neurologist and some plan concerning neuroscience as explained by the neurologist, that he believes in, and that it is his decision, and how he believes it is better for mum. A couple of days later or so I come into the ward and a nurse greets me saying mum had had a fall. Chris and Heike had forgotten to put up the rails up on the bed, while there was a mattress on the floor as a precaution. So mum had gotten out of bed and stood on the mattress and fallen. And so I rush to her take her hand as nurses are tending to her on the floor, she had cut her nose and blood was coming out, and it was as much like water as blood. She was on all these blood thinners because of the clot-shot vaccine, and there it was. I marvelled that she was still alive at all. And logged a new layer of hate for the “vaccine”  and its people. [Despite what people think, there were dozens of different types of vaccine, with some being placebos]. And so she was soon back in bed. Spaced out on drugs, a bewildered expression to all communication, a looking around at phantoms. Then the fucking neurologist comes in to kill her some more. By this stage I knew I was beaten. Chris had power of attorney, all authority on what would happen to her. This neurologist said something to me, I told him I don’t agree with what he is doing and don’t want her to have another test. He askes me what my name is, calling me ‘Sir’. Brain scans are NOT nothing. They damage the brain to some degree, and exponentially so when you keep having them, as mum was. But he had his theories, he would try out his idea. He was a neurologist. He would learn something either way. I watched her being wheeled out, my soul crying at the sight. I knew it was over at that. I can hardly put into words what that was. I was watching something utterly innocent at heart, utterly naïve, utterly deceived in life, being murdered, like you would watch a kitten deliberately being tortured to death… in some cult that saw it as a good thing. In those last two nights, before the last one, she was, as noted writhing in the bed in a sort of torture all day, and Chris, who looked over her that night told me she never stopped through the entire night. By the next night, which was my turn, she was calm, utterly drugged. I held her hand watching tennis on T.V, the woman’s final. She loved tennis too, and I hoped the sound was comforting.  One of the woman players had a tattoo and grunting. I knew we both were going for the other girl who was lovely. But she lost.

As noted, I suspect I could never have gotten her out of the hospital, even if Chris wasn’t there. As noted, she was “ready to go home”, going to meet Jesus. I remember when she was in Tasmania and we were looking through old photos of people and she said; “And all these people are dead”. I hardly knew what to make of that at the time. But maybe she was telling me, “We all have to die. Don’t worry I will be with family.” I am sure her dying was not what she envisioned, whatever the afterlife was and is for her now. I know that much.

But one other memory I will never forget. Was about her week before she died when she was struggling to remain lucid. Maggie and I were there talking and I walked over to her and she had been watching us and she said to me “Don’t worry Gordon, you will be alright”. I hugged her and kissed her and said ‘mother, what about you?’ with a sort of smile. Though I cry now. At another point she said, some time later when she was really loosing it “I am a guardian Angel.”

Anyway, she went off via the “hospital”. That is how much she believed in both mainstream medicine/mainstream media. This is why all the “near death experiences” I am seeing on Youtube piss me off. In my opinion my mother was in a botched murder suicide. Dying by torture instead of anything else. Much like what nearly happened to me. So Chris getting up and waxing philosophical and illogical is hard for me to take. There was no “courage to go” in the equation. Oh it was the strokes, the heart, all this  “taxing her energy”. No, it was whatever the hospital was doing to her by Chris and mum’s permission. Then Chris’s permission only. But I know he is a psychopath, he wont acknowledge the question. A magician, he will change the question before your eyes.  He will hold two facts before you, and make sure you take the one he wants. “Infinitely”. Much like the incurable “schizophrenia” bogey man he controls your mind with.

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A schizophrenic dog.

Suzanne Bell is my father’s brother’s daughter, my first cousin on my father’s side. My father cut off all his family, and I saw her for an hour or so when I was 9 years old visiting Ireland. Only. That was all. No contact at all before or since through writing or anything else. Until about the year 2020 when I got her email address from my mum and wrote to her. We shared photos and news for about a year. But when I say shared photos, I sent her pictures of my family, and she sent me pictures of only her two children. The first one with a dog between them, licking her daughter’s face. The dog’s name is Ned, she said. Fay wrote sent an email to her daughter but never got a response. Suzanne said she checked but they never got it. She also never mentioned her only sibling Ryan, her younger brother.

Then my mother died and I knew my brother was again in contact with her. She never wrote to me again. She never wrote about my mother’s death, or any time in the three years following. So I was suspicious.

Then I heard that Chris had been telling people I was holding onto past hurts “from being bullied as a child”. Making me sound truly hateful and petty, and a victim all my life.  So I suspected that he had worked on her too. Maybe through the years. Maybe coaching her about how to deal with me. Maybe saying she should send a picture of her dog. That I love dogs.

Anyway, I wrote to her in December 2025 asking her if Chris had said anything derogatory about me. To which she answered a week later that Chris hadn’t said anything at all about me to her. I answered that I thought my name would have come up in relations to my mother’s death. To which she never responded.

Clearly she was siding with Chris into the fear bunker. And as with the Armstrongs and Grays my last communication was that I thought it was an insult to God to cut off family. As with them, she couldn’t say boo to that.

So let’s get this straight; My mother dies, and my brother calls her on the phone, and neither of them mentions her son. 

No one is truly free, they are a slave to wealth, fortune, the law, or other people restraining them from acting according to their will.

 

Love is all we have. The only way that each can help the other.

 

This is slavery. Not to speak one’s thought.

 

The day is for honest men, the night for thieves.

 

Quotes from Euripides

I held my mother’s skeletal hand on her death bed late into the night. She sometimes squeezed my hand and I squeezed back, often telling her I was still here with her. I kissed her forehead saying “God bless you mother” as I lay down to sleep on the floor next to her. I woke at about 4 a.m, only silence, a lack of her strained breathing. I put the blanket up over her face in the dark. Repeating “God bless you mother”. I began to pray for her guidance, as I had before falling asleep.

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Then came the will reading. Mum had gotten in with a solicitor called Richard Roden. One who soon refused to communicate with me, almost immediately. Said he will only communicate with the executor. The problem was both he and Chris were misreading the will. But he either ignored my email or thought it was too late, and didn’t matter. Oh but it did. Mum had said she gives Chris full power to doing whatever he thinks is “expedient” in selling the house. This is a context. One of selling the house, and splitting the money as soon as possible. Even though she didn’t finish the sentence  and dear Roden didn’t think to clarify when she wrote it with him. Chris was executor and could do “whatever he thinks expedient”. Full stop. But Chris decided it meant he could make money on the house for as long as he wanted. That it meant to renovate the house to increase the profit. Which meant he extended a VERBAL contract between a dead woman and the renovator for a whole year, giving himself a salary and paying his own airfares with the estate money during that time. What they did was illegal. The verbal contract died with mum. But here’s the kicker; mum expected the house sold in weeks, not a year, when she was alive. I could have called up an array of mum’s friends who could testify to that. In fact she had told me in September 2022 she hoped it would be sold by Christmas. For my mother, the real delay was NOT some massive overhaul of the house, it was her getting into the aged-care living she had set her heart on. She wasn’t getting the opening, so the renovations were just rambling along, and I saw no evidence of renovation at all in the house. Past renovation yes, but no work being done still. She died in January 2023.

But Chris did huge things after she died, even digging up the driveway apparently. As I said a whole year. Who was the manager foreman over all this? Yes, Chris. Foreman and employee, and paymaster. Neat. Chris tells me in his usual trickster way not to worry, that his salary is very low per hour. Right. And how many hours did he work? Whatever he thinks. And what has renovating a house got to do with trips to Nevada U.S.A? And for this whole time he refused to show us any sort of financial information. In fact, as I said, he ignored the email—this one about whether he was giving himself a salary—for about 6 months, until he had to write again. and even then not addressing it. He “must have missed that one”. Information we did finally get was extremely complex, and I sent it all to a top Sydney Lawyer who told me it was indeed very complex and for them to even look at it would need a 10 000$ payment from us. In my first questioning of the arraignment he tried to push how close this renovator was to mum, saying that they met and “quickly formed a deep friendship”. I have put all of this out of my mind since this happened. I may update this writing with the whole thing explained in detail in the future. As with adding photos of the people mentioned, finding a use for the hundreds of family photos I inherited of my relatives. Photos now tainted by their loveless condition from following the reptilian mind of my brother.

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Taking stock of all of the above;

I believe Chris is a psychopath. And that he believes in Chinese astrology, and is directed to the subconscious manipulation of others, the Freudian world he openly professes. The first evidence being him not willing and  able to sensibly explain his homepage. He is hiding something very obviously, and I believe it is this use of Chinese astrology and Freudian cleverness to subtly disturb and belittle me. Backing that up is his two ridiculous eulogies.

His rumour was also made possible by my blundering into life. Culminating in my falling into an anti-establishment funk, while on drugs and shackled in a toxic relationship. Maybe any relationship in this funk would have been as bad. I am not here to blame N.W. Exacerbated, or equally caused by Tasmania being so corrupt. Exacerbated again by my not knowing what to do, what skills to try for, and not the health for anything, physical or mental. [See here for the real state of Tasmania]

Drugs have you a slave to sensualist stimulation. And any buffoon on a machine becomes a heightened offence against you. Thus did I once throw a handful of dirt at a car window. [The driver drove off but called the police]. And I believe the engine of this syndrome was my being supported by government money, so as to just stagnate in this life, in this sensualist pursuit. It was also tantamount to my parents giving up, but as we saw, they never believed in me. Puddlesworth, remember. That money was a serious mistake. Whoever was to blame. It might have been me predominantly.

And so I wafted around and started seeing this modern world as an invader culture on nature and art, as something destroying the therapeutic environment, the sensualist pleasures. Things [nature/art] people jet around to see in Europe, called the Renaissance, as one example. The modern world was obviously a sort of mistake we are all playing along with unwillingly. And there is some sense in this. One of the people I wrote to during this period on free money and drugs, was Roger Waters, of Pink Floyd fame. I identified with what he was saying in the music. I saw him as a father figure in his making this pain his focus—as it was mine. Being so lost in the sensualist phenomenon of recorded music while effected. Here is a quote from him about the phenomenally successful record Dark Side of the Moon.

People naturally experience an unease about, all of, all of this. I think we human beings, most human beings experience an, and think; well, on the surface this seems to all be working, but it all somehow doesn’t sit right with me. That’s why people are attached to it. They are attached to this work because there is a sense of relief when—even if its melancholic—you go “Oh my God, somebody else gets it too. Somebody else feels this sense of unease”.

Last I checked this was the best selling album of all time. Millions of mentally ill people. Millions of schizophrenics. The only difference with me was I was in it as all I could think of, while others were within supporting families and jobs, and just involved in relaxing moments. I was more intense, you can say. The instant kid. I wanted action. My head was in the state of the world when it should have been within the practical concerns of a wife and children. this is why a large step foreword was my meeting Sefu Sing.

Another cause for the rumour was my writing to Waters, at this time. Yet how aligned we were in attitude is, for me encapsulated in the fact I wrote a song called ‘Amused to Death’ a couple of years before he came out with his CD of the same name. My song was about the nightly news and his album is about mass media in general. I wrote to him about God and Jesus, of course, and his big promoted song of that album, was a dig at me [and my “type” say, as he misinterpreted me] called ‘What God Wants’. He is an atheist. And now a lip-snycer. I was hoodwinked by him and recorded music entire, media entire, from all the way back to Susie Quatro. [Who coincidentally is advertised to appear in the Hobart Casino as I write! Symbolism].

I sought in music the intellect I should have looked for in History, in myself. My bad. But it is not mental illness. Millions of people do the same thing, feeling a comfort of someone expressing this shared unease. Someone saying that this bankers world is unfair, either directly as in people like Miles Mathis, or by reflection and poetry. But it is a syndrome I finally saw my way past. Roger Waters just gets richer and richer, and his fans get nothing real. He was recently caught lip-syncing, as noted. He never found his way out to the Utopia I was representing, and still am—albeit I was still working it out at that time. But I saw in him the intellect I never found in my father. I found in him someone considering the state of the world, and that world was what I was entering. So Waters became my father by default.

Now the media just get more and more compelling, so I don’t waste this important and painful lesson. In fact I have taken it to its final exposure. All the way back to ancient Egypt.

Bringing me to the last stone my brother has been surely hurling against my name, my family. That I am anti-semitic. Well I have explained that already, but people wont care what I say. They are the hive mind, re-programmed every day about some supposed almighty human take on what history was, and by implication, what we all are. And what the Jews are today. We saw it in my brother not willing to doubt the hospital in public. That would make him a radical. He don’t want that. That is my job. The more the merrier to throw stones at me, the isolated.

So if you want to know about the Jews, the 1% of Jews who I define, the banksters I am referring to, then it is up to you to open your mind to this, to the real me, my real logical and rational mind. And I will send you more of my research. But you can start here at this take on the Freudsters in Tasmania pretending to be government. If you like that then send me your email address and I will send you the link to my next article. You can also see here for who Joseph of the bible was. Albeit this presenter—like all others on Youtube— doesn’t go all the way.

So I got out of the funk by;

1] Educating myself about history. Only history explains the world we are now in.

2] Having a daughter and a wife. Stopping the chase of women and superficial sensual pleasures, giving up the drugs for this love of my family.

3] Finding the work that suits me. At first the menial work of kitchenhand and supermarket shelf packer, where one can have one’s own thinking time. Then Gardening. Mediative work allowing me to think, allowing me to socialise as well, and feel useful, largely now to the elderly. Elderly who have become what I don’t have in my own family.

4] Finding the work of Mile Mathis, which happened in about 2020. And then going passed it to my own conclusion on the world.

As for educating myself at university, this was as much an exercise of my mind, than the realising how big the topic of History is. It was like I had been paddling in a babies pool and finally saw the ocean. I think this leap foreword was coupled wit my physical exercising on my bike. I rode to uni as with everywhere else. Including just for fun, as noted. So I was flushing and oxygenating my brain, and I knew this at the time was helping me. Its generally called “the runners high”. When you feel the joy and power, that you can go on forever.

The reason I mention this is because there has never been anything like the internet. But it is a two-edged sword. It can cut your mind up into tiny pieces, getting stuck on Youtube or whatnot, or it can be seized and guided to comprehend the world and defend yourself from this cutting up. My former friends who can’t communicate with me just can’t consider the way out. Which is always human communication, the striving for social love. Same with the relatives mooing in Ireland. They don’t have the mind for it. But they should. Even if I was still in that babies’ pool, I would still be asking this older self what it is all about.

So I will take a moment to isolate my advice to my younger self. To put the history of the world into a few sentences to point that bewildered teen and young man in the right direction. Which this whole article is also for.

Dear Little Lost Prince;

The cause of your predicament is in ancient Egypt. Everything that has been converted into the history of the world as a Hebrew phenomenon, including the story of Jesus, is either Egyptian or directly relative to Egypt. And the reason for this is because Egypt began the parasitic banking phenomenon we now call interest banking. Specifically with who we now know as Joseph. Who enslaved the people of Egypt during a drought thusly;

18 When that year was over, they [the Egyptian people] came to him [“Joseph” the Semitic] the following year and said, “We cannot hide from our lord the fact that since our money is gone and our livestock belongs to you, there is nothing left for our lord except our bodies and our land. 19 Why should we perish before your eyes—we and our land as well? Buy us and our land in exchange for food, and we with our land will be in bondage to Pharaoh. Give us seed so that we may live and not die, and that the land may not become desolate.”

Genesis 47

This system was then taken to the world with the Romans and Phoenicians. To Europe by Charlemagne. Finally to England by William the Conqueror. This is why we are forced into a system of paying rent, and why we are born in debt and without land to get on our own feet against it. And why my house was shrinking as I grew up, and I paying for it in tears.

Joseph’s real name, like everyone else in  the bible is not a name but a pun. It was real history but written as symbolism

Hebrew, Aramaic sp, zp = Joseph, adding, increasing

יוסף ywsp : “he increases,” a son of Jacob, also the name of several Israelites — Old Hebrew (Strong)

יסף ysp : add, continue, exceed, increase, longer, more, prolong, repeat — Old Hebrew (Strong)

יזף yzp : to be added — Aramaic (CAL)

Aramaic zp = loan, lend, debt, interest

יזף yzp : to borrow, to lend, to be borrowed, to be lent, to be added — Aramaic (CAL)

אוזפה ˀwzph : loan — Aramaic (CAL)

זוף zwp : to lend — Aramaic (CAL)

זפה zph : loan — Aramaic (CAL)

זפו zpw : loan — Aramaic (CAL)

יזוף yzwp : borrower, borrowing — Aramaic (CAL)

יזיף yzyp : borrowed — Aramaic (CAL)

יזיפו yzypw : indebtedness, borrowing — Aramaic (CAL)

יזף yzp : borrower, loan — Aramaic (CAL)

יזפה yzph : loan — Aramaic (CAL)

מוזפן mwzpn : lender — Aramaic (CAL)

מוזפנו mwzpnw : lending — Aramaic (CAL)

מזפו mzpw : interest — Aramaic (CAL)

מתתוזפן mttwzpn : that which is lent — Aramaic (CAL)

שיזפן šyzpn : minter or exchequer — Aramaic (CAL)

Hebrew zp = borrow, lend, debtor

יזף ; זיף ; זוף yzp; zyp; zwp : to borrow; to lend — Hebrew (Jastrow)

יזפא yzpˀ : debtor — Hebrew (Jastrow)

[Interestingly, my maternal grandfather was called Robert Joseph Gray, a Freemason,  and my great Grandfather was Joseph Gray. And my godmother’s real name was Josephine, though she went by the name Renee. And my maternal uncle was a Freemason, as noted. The freemasons are just people doing for the Jews and their system, this same system.]

So these Semitic people, the Hebrews, melded with the Egyptians in the family of Jacob and his son Joseph [this is why they both received royal Egyptian burials]. And it, this family escaped Egypt in a crisis of war, leaving the pure semitic people behind, who were then enslaved as a perceived potential threat to the pharaoh. They later left and consolidated with their family history and ethos for inbreeding. Marrying themselves and banking for themselves, their upper status via usury [interest banking].

So Prince Gordon start there. Its a massive simplification, and this system spread in many steps actually. And pay some attention to the Pharoah Seti I, who became the basis for Satan, and the emperors Julius and Augustus who became gods, with Augustus, Julius’ son, the first living God [of consequence]. Meaning a god and a living man at the same time. Whose second successor went up against Jesus for the fight between bartering and sharing on the one hand, and money use–god worship on the other. Also investigate numerology, for that is the basis of all the gods. And the banking laws from William the Conquor’s invasion, Henry VIII, and the Great Fire of London.

And do nothing but gardening. As in the story of Eden, all health, wealth and and food, buidling materials and real art [artisanry], comes from the ground, the garden, and working, working in it.

---

What would my brother say of all that, of my explaining Satan as a mythologising of a real historical person? Meaning the exact opposite of what dogmatic Christians and schizophrenics go on about. Well he would be looking the other way. He will be in another part of the universe devising his latest contraption come advert for himself. Keeping his mind on himself at all costs.

If History is the ocean, the internet is the boat. Which brings me to Miles Mathis the last influence, the last influence for my mind—who I for a time called my spiritual big brother. I don’t any more because his context is the internet—he is not a guide I need any more. I am beyond him, having worked out his world.  So he is somewhat  like my real brother, wanting to build his legend, discounting this incredible tool of the internet as a means to his success, and so comparing himself to historical intellectual greats. I find some of the accounts he gives about people being almost religiously devoted to him sickening. No he is not as great as he claims, comparing himself to history, when all we had then was books. Also I don’t agree with his over-arching thesis, though it is the correct side of the sky, so to speak.

But, as I grew up, the internet wouldn’t have helped me anyway. I would have got stuck on Youtube like everyone else. Escapism. Not knowing what to look for. Also the internet is controlled by the bankers to a great degree. I already noted what happened to Bitchute. Well it happened to Youtube too and the internet entire. That video about Joseph concerns ancient history and does not alienate [define] the Jews to most people. They don’t care that you want to think about it. They should though. For it explains a lot. Once you have the beginning, you know the trail to follow. And when you do catch them hiding, then that is all the more stronger evidence of where you should be looking. They play a self-defeating game.

Which is all to say that this is my state of mind now. I don’t  agree with Miles Mathis in his ultimate conclusions, and a lot of details. I finally grew up. Better late than never. But his thinking is not many degrees off from mine. So for any relatives of mine now finding out I exist, or I exist as sanity, you can explore him to know me concerning the Jews. Jews themselves would be happy to hear all I have to say.

And then?

Come on down to Tasmania! Or just join the revolution of like minds, minds wanting wholesome community. A community based on practicality and sharing, not based on banking, alcohol and appointment, subjectivity and fake art, and fake-social events. Events in Tasmania they hold to force their Zionist culture on us, reliant on alcohol, their big and literally original industry here.

33

The last thing to say is how my brother got to saying I am now “holding onto past hurts from being bullied as a child”. Yes, because “schizophrenic” isn’t holding up so well after all these years. Gordon is just hateful. Better steer clear. As I also said, he ignored the email asking why he is saying this. But I know. And here is the story;

We go back to my time at Highschool and the boy my brother’s age, and a close friend of his calling out “Gordy” in a high-pitched parrot-like voice, time and time again, for two years, while they were at the school still. Grinning at me always when I looked. Anyway, one day after he did this, a boy my own age came to me and said this devilish teaser was his brother, and introduced himself. His name was John Donnell, and we became good friends. In fact he was one of my best friends through high school.

He too was having trouble with home life. For him it was his different older brother, apparently also fixating on him with insults. [This brother would , like my dad die of a brain tumour]. And John and I made an attempt to build our own cubby home in bushland where we could sleep and still attend school. Becasue home life for both of us was impossible. Going and getting cement to lay a floor down. Which was as far as we got with that. I was again in touch with him during my doldrums years with N.W. He would come to my home and kiss N.W on the cheek to say hello. Which I took for friendship at the time.

Then I went to the Blue Mountains, then uni, then to England, and never saw him for all those years. Then I returned home to Australia and my father died after a couple of months as I saved to return to Amsterdam. By big stupid Evel Knievel plan.

The day of my father’s funeral came and preparations had been made for guests to come to the house. Well, I wasn’t going to answer the same question all afternoon, [Why didn’t you go?]. Especially as I didn’t want to damage my father’s reputation if I didn’t need to. And so I left with a board to do a painting on. As I was leaving one of my mothers friends came and saw me leaving.

What I didn’t know was that John, who was friendly with my brother, and they had met a few times over the years, was also at the funeral. And he was told by this woman where I had gone off to. And so as I am walking by the sea I hear a shout behind me and it is John a kilometre back on the track, running to get to me. I wait and we sit and have a good old chat, and a laugh just as usual. We mention N.W in the course of it, and continue avoiding talking about my dad, and soon he is gone. Never heard from him again. Not through all those years in China, not through any visit he could have made to my mother, though he went to the funeral. Which sort of annoyed me. But all my other friends had avoided this woman who cared for them over the years too. So you live and learn.

Then the Great Panic hits and I with all my informed take on the vaccine begin contacting people. Finding that they pretty much don’t want to know me. Or know anything else. You know why. And one of these people I think of contacting is John Donnell, who I find on Linked In. He sees that I have searched hip up and writes;

I wasn’t impressed with that, as no one had ever called me Gordy in my life but for his older brother. My nickname was always ‘Gords’ to my friends. So he had adopted this over the years. I also saw he had been in Israel, so I got that ole black magic feeling about it. He had been to my father’s funeral, apparently for reasons of his own. And my conclusion was that it was in pursuit of N.W who he would have known I had split from through my brother inviting him, or through his brother. This is why he ran so hard. I thought. So I answered; “I wasn’t looking for you thickface”. To which he answered that that was o.k. Yes, that ole black magic. The Freudian condescending position. No need to engage. Call your cowardice sympathy or whatever else excuses you from engaging. Or so I thought at the time.

This, my response, disembodied, somehow got back to my mother, I believe though John’s older brother the teaser, because this teaser was in contact with my mother over the years. I felt utterly betrayed. Who the fuck did this man think he was? So I then and there spilled the beans about this older brother teaser to my mother. Telling what he did over my first two years of high school, and why this calling me ‘Gordy’ had upset me so. I then wrote to John, asking him to pass on a letter to him. It explained why I had been upset. To which John replied:

Ok. I will pass this on.

I hope all is well and it would be great to catch up. I don’t mean to sound flippant, but written text can be tricky.

Which I was glad to hear. Obviously he understood my reaction, was at least ready to consider it, and held no great store in it. And then his older brother apologises for that time in high school. And I answer immediately that I forgive him, it is all in the past. He knows I forgive me, and this is why at my mother’s funeral a year or so later he finds me and we shake hands and have a pleasant chat.

And from this Chris my brother formulates a new virus to infect the world from inside his brain-lab

I eventually write again to John and tell him that I have strong ideals now about parenting and my world-view is involved with that,  and so I send him an article I wrote which explains the stance I took against the Tasmanian government corruption. This one. Thinking to myself if John is a real, is unlike my other friends [most of them] from the past, he will be interested in these things, including parenting and the world. Which are really one and the same thing. And we will not still be on that old mindless merry-go-round I was caught on in my youth. And so my daughter might become friends with his sons. They were similar ages. And as you know I have no relatives to rely on. This is always how I am thinking. And so we might be friends again, as we always were. And that I hope this will happen.

Someone deliberately going to Israel is always a red flag for me. Also he spells his name JHN on his email address, which is the Hebrew spelling. So I was wary.

He replies that he will read it and wonders about my life and tells me of his two sons.

I reply that I am so happy he has an open mind, and is ready to tell me about his family. I tell him all about my family and ….

Never hear from him again.

Something in that article bothered him so much—an article you too can read HERE that he cut me off. And so I got to thinking what it might be. He had said he has two boys, 19 and 16

Good kids. Definitely on the lover not a fighter side of the divide which I am proud of.

Was this some way of telling me they are gay? And that he had “pride”, as they use the word? His brother had once said to me something along the lines that John was gay. It might have been a joke but I wasn’t sure at the time. And so was what offended him in my article, the claim that there is a link between paedophilia and homosexuality? [I gave a hyperlink to an academic article on this connection from Stanford University]. I don’t know. But I hate being cut off like that .Especially without any hint of what is going on. The story of my life! Why my friendship is thrown in the dirt. Something out of nowhere. Hiding now. The Freudian premise allows you to do this. To adopt psychopathy at will.

Just like what his older brother did to me. Something out of nowhere. One can only be philosophical about these things. And I write this all out to the end to tell you and him, I am the opposite of someone who holds onto past grudges. Of all my friends and family, I am the one seeking discussion and reconciliation. But it is not even that I have done anything wrong! So this reversal of my brother’s does just fit in to two other occasions this has happened in my life,

• My mother saying I ostracised Chris when the opposite was true.

• I should be ashamed about “the hurtful things you said to me”, when the opposite was true.

Along with being called mentally ill generally. Only psychopathy can explain this.

As far as mentality goes, I am obviously way more superior than any of them. For mentality is for expression and solving problems. Something they cant even approach, don’t have. They have NO MENTALITY as far as I can tell. So this is not a boasting.

In fact I am still writing to all my friends-come-enemies even though they don’t answer, in  posts I make, often full of jokes. And they dare not respond. I include them in the email list to other friends, so they can read along, and I also mention them asking again and again why they wont communicate, why they wont tell me what I did wrong, what is their problem?

That would mean backtracking, that would mean losing face. And that would also mean showing their personalities, which they don’t believe in, not really. But most of all that would mean questioning the Freudian Premise in which they feel empowered. False though this is. They are sane yes, but they can hardly think to tie their fucking shoe-laces. I am waiting for all my enemyatic friends to contact me again, including him. [There is personality for you]. But they, like my relatives, have shut down. Nothing in their minds to present to the world, to stand for, to believe in. Nothing to present to someone actually thinking about things. They just ooze along in their group-think media programming. My cousin Neil Armstrong dare not even think about his own dairy business if it involves me. I have nothing here to work with. Who, I asks you, is mentally ill here? Me or them?

“I would tell her you are mentally ill !!!”

That is my former primary school classmate Alison Kennedy, nee Worthington, now a mental health professional referring to what she would say to my daughter were they to meet—after something I said, one of my jokes insulted her— apparently. She won’t say why she is upset exactly. That would mean having to possibly accept an apology, which would mean accepting that it was a joke, and not mental illness, which would mean she must abandon Freud for a moment, in considering me. Which would mean backtracking. It is all too much to ask of a rigid heart. That was her final answer when I tried to get her to tell me what exactly she thought was wrong with me in her own Freudian terms, after her first calling me mentally ill. Not an answer at all , is it? It is just her pretending to answer, while getting in an insult. So anyone who can’t respect my family will be outed for the intention. I am not pandering to these people. I am glad to know what they really are, even , like my brother, it taints all the good memories I have of them. I asked Alison how she would explain me to my daughter—because she obviously didn’t want to do it to me. “I would tell her you are mentally ill !!”” It was a threat, a pain , she couldn’t resist. Does that sound like a professional to you? And this is symptomatic of those hawking themselves as some authority on mental health. Psychopathy and me.

And I found the same sort of hard core arrogance in the top psychiatrist in Tasmania, no less. I had a personal encounter with her daughter, which I wont go into, and, this mother got upset, but refused to communicate with me directly. I discovered then that she was deceiving the whole of Tasmania and I wrote and published on it . See here. Her name is Marita O’Connell. Yes deceiving the whole community. This is the nature of those who fake their lives on Freud, who take Freud the fake to heart—in my experience. In every fucking case. I worked for a retired psychiatrist, another top Tasmanian psychiatrist here in Tasmania, the psycho state. A state run by these mind manipulators. She was very difficult to relate to. She would sidle up to me while I was doing the carpentry, with her tongue stuck out at the tip and a half smile, saying nothing but there looking at me. What do I say? It made me very uncomfortable. I asked during a conversation if all psychiatrists follow Freud. She of course gave a rambling answer impossible to follow, after saying “they are certainly informed about him…” In fact, remember how I told you I was drunk when taken to the mental hospital that second time? Well I had been drinking hard for two days. And near the day of checking out we sat and spoke to the psychiatrist and I found out he never knew I had been drinking. Yes really. The man with the last say on the matter was not informed of this. Explain that one. Well, my explanation is these people, like wolves, don’t care for what the isolated victim has to say, they are salivating for a chance to flex their fake intelligence over you. Maybe business had been slow for them that week, and then I am brought in. I was a nut, and so whatever I might say would be ridiculous—even the truth. You see the problem. No rights, no heart and soul. Once they get you in their teeth its lockjaw. My brother the example of the century.

The same process with all these people. People upset, who use Freud as their invisible war-horse. No one can say you too aren’t schizophrenic. I upset Marita O’Connell, the whole family by calling Dark Mofo, on which her family has pinned its reputation on, a con job. I upset Alison with a joke, and this is her revenge. I upset my brother with constant achievements and being more becoming as a child. As for my friends, they are just fearful and hateful of the outside world. A world I ventured into. All examples, as clear as anything, of people using Freud as cover for their own hate and revenge.

Unfortunately for them I can explain the platform these people now stand on. Words allow thought, so by accepting invented words into your mind you are also accepting the inventor. The shadow of the illogical in which lurk your own sense of the unknown. This is what you get when you follow an atheist freemasonic Jew. Although the Freemasonic part is little known today, having just been admitted. This is who your destiny will be with, rather than people like me, always ready to help as real people, always ready to forgive and to strive for a fair society. So my uncle Norman Gray and my Grandfather, his father being Freemasons, and all these people rejecting me is a fate, I now see, and one that I accept. I wont ware myself out—again—trying to have some truth, fairness, and honest communication with them.

34

But of course his last stone will be my “anti-semitism”. Most people are too scared to even think about the Jews. So scared are they of leaving the media lockstep of questioning these poor victims, these “God’s Chosen People”. God’s chosen people were always victims, in every stage of History. How does that work out? And so he can always say I am antisemitic, at the end of the day, and therein will be and remain his followers, his place to hid, the mass mind. I must be antisemitic, just for mentioning them. But unfortunately I have no hatred for the people in general. It is the controller 1% of them who know how they have and do use money, interest banking to usurp nations and support themselves as parasites.

So the accusation is triply absurd.

1] Jews are not a race

2] I can explain EXACTLY what I hate and logically explain it, called interest banking generically, but with very profound consequences

3] I can example where the word came from and what it is covering—which is the word ‘Pharisees’. Which were the people Jesus hated. Yes, Jesus hated some people. Shock horror!!! Because it is natural to hate evil.

4] I can explain the formation of Judaism better than most Jews [who are really glorified bankers] can themselves. Starting with Joseph the half Egyptian. As I said, most still think the star of David is ancient. It is not. It is from the industrial revolution, particularly Hitler. If they can be so wrong about their symbol, what of all the rest?

5] Jews themselves should be happy—that 99%—to learn the truth. In fact one of my academic heroes is Schlomo Sand, a Jewish born professor of History as Ben Gurion University in Israel. He wrote the gold standard of text on Israel, called “The Invention of Israel”, and the gold standard on what the Jews are really, called “the Invention of the Secular Jew’. 

If all this sounds intense, its because the accusation is intense. Labelling someone mentally ill in such a concerted and dedicated way for 35 years, is like the mental illness ruse itself. What a coincidence. Believe me, I don’t start conversations this way. Most people at some time in their lives think how good it would be if the Jews and Arabs just all fuck off back to their dessert and leave us all out it. And I respect that. The trouble is they have roped people in with a fake idea of Jesus. Just as I am roped in by the accusation to equally intense thinking. My brother could think an intense thought at all. So for him all thought is suspect. This is the problem.

Nevertheless, if people have no mind or interest in the things I have studied I couldn’t care less. Just don’t get your vaccine in front of me, or try rubbing your sexual orientation in my face. 

Most Jews have no idea, as much as most others, what is what. Most believe the Star of David is ancient and Jewish. That is was on his shield. No evidence of that. In fact no evidence of a king David outside of their own writing. No, the symbol was used over the centuries by all religions, and never as an identifier. So before you call me ‘anti-semitic’, ask me what I am talking about here, the Jews. And I will send you the research, the evidence. I would like to hear anyone about anything, at this stage…

.At the end of the day we non Jews are as much to blame for being deceived. To believe in the array of lies called mainstream media, mainstream history. Which brings me back to the final piece in my education; Miles Mathis. He has elaborated on this in countless examples. You want to deny it, then you are mentally ill.

When we went to Sydney as my mother was about to die, I wanted for her sake to make amends with Chris, to just forget the past and ride any happy feelings we could have. But the things I mentioned destroyed that. It is hard to ride over the murder of your mother. And here is why Maggie started to hate him on her own. We are driving along and he calls to Maggie in the back seat, “I was saddened to hear of the passing of your father”. WTF? This coming out of the blue, which upset Maggie. And from a man who had met her a day or two earlier, after firstly refusing to meet her when we were wanting help on arrival. A man who had refused to answer my letter introducing her and my daughter to him, wanting nothing to do with her at that time. And, after arriving, sat back cold and silent as her 8 year old daughter lay in agony in hop though our mother flew down to be near. He is charming. Always trying to imitate the non psychopaths.

Take this from his eulogy for mum. Another failed attempt;

Something that set our parents apart more than just their accents was their spiritual guidance. And it was for hundr a long Sunday hours that we would attend this very church…

 You can’t make this shit up.

35

Getting back to the very last stage of my thinking, the pinnacle–if you will. Not a crown of gold, but a crown of ice. And that is this realisation that there is no government or Jews or anything to pin your hate on ultimately and be free of it.

Now they’re plannning

The crime of the century

Oh where would it be

Read all about

Their schemes and adventuring

Well it’s well worth the fee

So roll up and see

How they’ve gone from bad to worse

How they rape the universe

Who are these men

Of lust, greed and glory

Rip off the masks and let’s see

But thats not right

Oh no whats the story

Well there’s you, and there’s me

[That can’t be right…]

What we call the government, even what I am calling the Jews, [their banking], is symbiotic with the masses. Yet ‘symbiotic’ is not quite the right word;

sym·bi·ot·ic

[ˌsɪmbʌɪˈɒtɪk, ˌsɪmbiˈɒtɪk]

adjective

symbiotic {adjective}; denoting a mutually beneficial relationship between different people or groups.

Take off the “beneficial” and you have what I mean. A “negative symbiosis” if you will. As it says in the Koran, God curses both the borrower and the lender in usury, interest banking. So you will stop reading this and go off and think I must be a nut to think our local bank is evil. And in this way, in my natural refusal to play along, there will always be people calling me mentally ill to hide their ignorance and shy from the questioning. To avoid discussion with me, and comparison with me.

And they will hate anyone like me for trying to help them, a lot of the time. They will ridicule my intention, claiming it is all too deep or all too complex, no matter how eager I am to discuss it and build up the discussion brick by brick. They don’t want to know you, they only want the ignorance, because ignorance is bliss. The government-media machine is what they rely on for their opinions. Not the truth.

And so far from being this code of truth that will unlock a giant door of perception that will bring a utopian revolution, it is more like a forest, with this mental and social decay being factored into it perpetually. Any great truth you have will never gain momentum as it should. It needs to be pushed into their faces and still they wont get interested, half the time. Hypnotism is not too strong a word. Media hypnotism. Once you convince the masses of a certain history–which governments have done– Zionist governments have done– within that act is automatically the self definition of these masses that are convinced. Jesus couldn’t have hated the Jews because Jesus was a Jew. That type of doll idea people cling to with all their might. You threaten that, and you threaten who they are. So I am a freak and outside of the community of doll-holders. And this is another reason why I have never tried to counter the accusation. And within the idea of people calling me mentally ill is this aspect, this threat they feel from a free-thinker. They are spooked. And lash out with the term ‘mental illness”. Calling what I say insane because they cant stop their media engagement long enough to think about it.

They will never let go of the doll, that fake conception of the world and themselves. What finally forced me into action here and now, is my daughter, who as of writing is finishing her last days of high school. Then to a university. As I said, this document will hover around her as a guardian. And any fake family that try to step towards her will have to choose between my brother and I. There is no middle ground. I know too much about him. I was his brother, after all.

THE END

Contact;

I will be starting a gallery with a lot of my otherwise useless family photos, here at the bottom

I will indicate this at the top of this post when I do. As with any updates I make. For this and other of my writing in PDF form, send me your email address, and I will put you on the list. Mine is

forthenursery@protonmail.com.

Sometimes double meanings are both positive, you see. ‘Nursery’ I mean.