Yesterday I slept, I did not want fame. Rich sounded nice. Simply a way to get things, nice things. In that same blue vein ran sports and falling. Scrapes and painful swelling. I desired flight. To repeat a pleasing action. To win.

     Splashing paint with tiny brushes, collecting product, my mind the computer that solved problems and would fit the right peg in the right hole - Design.  A social gathering with like-minded fellows. That shocked and triggered tears of all kinds. That engaged my fellows to play, create and collect again.

     Making things that moved with magic. At times it all seemed too far away, depressed, overwhelmed and confused. But I could get there, only by trying. And repeating.

     I didn't want fame. Or need lots of money. I wanted to make nice things, things that would change people.

     I would always write down my imagined adventures and the game would never stop.

Moving Forward

Of Essex, England born. Now Kiwi lad. He falls consistently, the hair changes the flesh. He ignores nobody, and lies tremendously. He walks barefoot down the streets, where he sleeps. The conflict police, antagonists. He is the story. Its form. And structure. And content. Control this burning water in your fingertips. Acknowledge it as your forearms tighten, your palms sweat and won't stop shaking. Energy draining, steam lifting from your ears. Brain not working, as it dies just a little bit. Purple, from red. Your knuckles swelling. Gut stroking from the inside. Tears welling up, don't cry now. This is fear, dwell in it. Let it pass by, but first you must accept the worst. Dismantling your sins, loves and fears. Entering the dead repeatedly until you learn to transition smoothly. And feel the change in your body. Yours is such a pretentious religion for the middle class. Become a bug like me.

Excerpt from one of my scripts

...Two other boys and one girl scuffle around the edge of the house with him.  The long grass slapping wet on their dirty jeans.  Eight year olds in search of adventure.

The paint is faded on the wooden panels and the lower down ones are encrusted with dirt.  One of these has a large dent.  It is a small house, typical of the area.  The children step up onto the porch, it creaks.  Behind the old man, he sleeps.

The urge pulling Adael Kensington to explore is stronger than his concern about being exposed.  Dirty linoleum.  The porch is set off the lounge.  The kitchen is tiny; is pretty much incorporated into the living room.  This area where Uncle Ben sleeps in his fat brown chair.  Brown, a rather comforting colour.  But this place is too lazy.  Adael wonders if it might even be flea-infested.  This place is more like an extra living room than a porch, but with no walls or a roof.

It has the same dirty lino flooring and similar furniture.  A junk-type wooden table loaded with empty beer bottles is the only outdoorsy addition to the decor.  The pattern on the grey lino is of dark blue flowers - lotus blossoms.  Although every flower is a lotus blossom.  Adael just likes the name.  The stalks intertwine as with many flower designs, but in a way that suggests each flower is bluntly rejecting the other.  All the same, subconsciously they are drawn to each other.

What will Ben do if he catches Adael snooping?  Slice him up like in a Mick Garris Horror movie?  Or rip out his kidney and use it as an ash tray?  At the very least, Adael will be so embarassed.  Sneaking around like this, invading the man's house uninvited, it's wrong.  A simple glance back at the old man, still asleep.  No sign of movement.

The other kids aren't witnessing Adael's secret recon mission of the interior.  They are all far too engrossed in Uncle Ben and his weird tourettes-like motions.  Here it smells damp, good for roaches.  The dogs down the hill are unsettled, all crying out together.  The frogs chirping synonymously, serenity to some.  Adam just finds it all painfully dull, listening to them…