Clarity and Passion

Either August will kill me or I will kill it.

In addition to my actual studies, I'll also be:

• leading the Melbourne NMMNG support group
• Contributing two talks to the Australian General Semantics Society National Conference in collaboration with AGS members with valuable assistance from Media Ecology Association founder and Fordham University Professor of Media and Communication Dr. Lance Strate
• Attending the United Nations DPI/NGO Annual Conference on Global Health representing the Institute of General Semantics
• Writing my sarcastic as hell columns on the insipid and tasteless AU federal election for Onya Magazine
• Gearing up Melon Race for production, writing and shooting.

I'll probably need a drink at some point. Its also come to my attention that a candidate for the Secular Party of Australia is running in my electorate against incumbent Simon Crean who holds Hotham with a 13% margin. Since I don't want to vote for or even preference the ALP, Liberals or Greens or (shudder) Family First in the Lower House it makes sense to vote informal to avoid my vote going to a party I disapprove of. Then there's the dilemma of voting for the Secular Party to grant it some measure of public campaign funding for the next election and their ambiguous policy on "banning religious attire at schools" (Yarmulkes? Hijab? Crucifixes? what?) which seems to contradict their call for maximizing civil liberty. Though I have decided to preference Stephen Conroy dead last in the Senate Group Voting Ticket (below-the-line) I'm still undecided as which party to preference first. I am of course leaning toward the "Triumvirate of Libertarians" - the LDP, the Australian Sex Party or the aforementioned Secular Party. It seems politics, like everything else in life, one size rarely fits all.

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Through The Wire, Part III (Receiver)

Part III of III in a short story series entitled "Through the Wire."

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Driving down the interstate at 2am, Juanita glanced at her phone again. No missed calls. That wasn't like Michael. He must have been tired. He wouldn't be doing anything untoward. He wasn't like that. "Because he's spineless," her unconscious mind pushed through. Fuck that. She lit up another cigarette and pushed her clunker past 65. Its even possible the wire had been severed. There wasn't much coming through the wire. Just the old memories of times gone past, the intense heat of passion that had now yielded to routine, to the same old shit. Oh how those days had passed so quickly, oh how they scorched her lip and tongue just thinking about it. Unbeknownst to Michael, she kept all the old letters from the wire. She could almost remember every word.

"Do you remember that, sweetheart? Do you remember that feeling? We waded through the free waters of a day that felt like it would dawn with such brilliance and never end. It was like a renewal; a glimmer of hope in a world that had shunned and trampled over us. You held that pain in your heart for so long; you long seized that the notion of this life was meant to be a struggle. That you were waiting for the day it would all come down. We went out on our limbs and spread our arms wide to catch each other. Sometimes, it was if you fell backwards and in the act of catching you, you had already fallen to the floor. Even so, our love is so great it can weather any storm.

We had this promise made, we were in love."

It could've been true; everything that was said in those pages sent over the wire - but then again, it could've all been bullshit. The prick disappeared without a trace, almost. He was back somewhere, working on his problems without a care in the world for anyone else. There was love but no trust. All the wires she thought that were connected both ways were just shadows; her mind playing tricks on her. There was even doubt that the wires ever existed, or that they always had. It was a constant battle of probability fighting uncertainty.

As the cigarette snuffed itself out and ash scattered across the dashboard, it occurred to her that she was no where near home. She was going to the place where she lived. So many things on her mind - every topic and subject conceivable except for herself. If she wasn't thinking of her, then who was? The wire didn't have the answer. So who would? Would anyone?

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Through The Wire, Part II (Deceiver)

Part II of III in a short story series entitled "Through the Wire."

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“It’s okay,” he said with a muted voice down his overpriced cell phone in the middle of a lonely stairway like a clandestine encounter.

“Juanita’s at work. I’m in another state, for Christ’s sake.” He paused for the other voice on the other end of the wire.

“It’ll be fine I don't mind waiting a few more hours. When you do, wear as little as possible,” he said wryly. He gave a little chuckle and walked back toward his suite.

Sliding his key into the door, he heard a familiar beep and click and pushed himself in. Walking past the kitchenette and amenities, he slumped himself on to the bed. Loosening his collar, he flung his tie across the room and turned on the television set. His stock portfolio was losing traction. A few more days and it would tumble down a cliff all by itself.

A sigh. “I love Juanita, I really do.” He thought to himself as he lay, sleep gathering in his eyes. “But Lacey. Fuck me. I’ve never felt that way before. She makes me feel like a new born child. Free of sin, free of shame. She makes me feel right being me.”

Before Michael knew it, sleep had claimed him. In his dreams he sat in a lonely room watching television again – Sesame Street. Panic swarmed over his body. He could almost taste the musty stench of decaying old feta and extinguished cigarettes. He could see yellowing floral wallpaper curling up at the corners of the rundown walls. He was the age of four at his grandmother’s. Where was mommy? Where was daddy? Where was anyone? All of his bricks were smashed and no one was coming to help him. Crying didn’t help him. Cleaning for grandma didn’t gain him attention. He was forgotten, abandoned. Nothing he did seemed right. It was all misshapen, he even felt wrong just for sitting here watching Big Bird argue with Snuffy. Why was he so different? Why was he so unloved? Was there something wrong with him? He began to inspect his hands, his feet.

He got up off of the tattered couch and walked toward the bathroom. He took the footstool from the corner to gain enough height to look at himself in the mirror. All he saw was his sandy blonde hair cover over his brown eyes. There were tears streaking down his rosy cheeks that burned hot with anger at the world and himself.

Anger at being imperfect. And not being able to do a thing about it.

There was a knock on the door. The buried shame had risen into his stomach. Once he realized who it was at the door, it disappeared. It was completely gone, for now. “Sweet freedom,” he thought. “A few hours of freedom are all I need. It’s all I need. Please give it to me. I’ll do whatever you say, darling. I’ll do whatever you say.”

Before he could shift off the bed to answer the door, his cellphone rang. The lights flickered on and off with a pulsing rhythm – the word “Juanita” flashed in his eyes. What was she doing, calling on the wire? Why would she even care at all?

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