The Art Of Giving

Karmic Restoration
and
A Story About Friendship

 

I am aware that the people who are taking the time to read my words are those who know me and it’s a good chance that my audience will always be limited to people who are already living within the realm of my existence; I am not complaining, I am humbly grateful for the beautiful humans present in my space who care enough to want to gain some insight into the shadows cast upon the corners of my mind – particularly, when you consider the abundance of amazing words, insights, teachings, musings that the various platforms of the world wide web has made available.

I know the quality that exists across the many forums, I know there are stories, articles, lessons written with finesse that surpasses mine on all sides – and I don’t mean this in a self-deprecating manner at all.  I know this, because I too, am a reader, I read everything, I will read so much and for so long that I don’t realise yesterday is gone and today has long begun.  So I know you could be using your valuable time devouring 1000 words committed to public disposal by somebody else much more talented, with more knowledge and a more interesting and relative tale to portray.  But instead you have extended to me a moment of your own, which to me is a true metaphor for love, respect and humility.  So it is with a sincere appreciation that I offer my own style of love in return.

This is an introduction to a story about friendship, an unrefined embodiment and my first draft;

_____________________________________________________

Iron Overload
An Insight to Hindsight

Hindsight is such an incredible aspect of ones journey through life, for which I have two main questions,

the first is;
would we learn without the existence of hindsight?

and the second;
would hindsight need to exist if we were evolved enough to learn everything as we progressed?

When Jordy was really young, he was a dick, in my opinion.  I never wanted to go over to my cousins house if there was even the slightest possibility that he might turn up.  He was destructive, mean, he was the kind of boy that could put you off men.  He scared me.  Not in a possible sexual predator way, I must stress – more in that he had the potential and the power to humiliate me in the presence of others, had he chosen to victimise me.

I was shy, I was quiet, I had low self-esteem.  Compared to my friends I was also far less advanced sexually and by far less I mean, I had absolutely no experience with my male counter-parts.  At thirteen I hadn’t even kissed a boy.  I didn’t have to kiss many to realise I didn’t actually want to kiss any of them at all – but that’s another story.

I know now, as an adult that being overtly sexually active by the age of 13 is disturbing, but in that time, in the place I grew up where there wasn’t much else to do besides drink cheap spirits, sniff petrol and fuck each other – most of my friends were.

I was different.  I liked boys, but the behaviour of the majority of them confused me.  I was raised rurally by a hard-working, soft-spoken man who taught me to read, write and play backgammon, a diligent teacher and man of the earth who instilled in me the importance of tough grind and the concept of ‘the power of positive thinking’; therefore the idea that my father was once a boy, and most of the boys I knew behaved in an ungracious manner made absolutely no sense to me.

It’s funny what you learn long after the fact.  All men were boys once; a foreign notion to me then, but a simple truth now.

Jordy was best friends with a boy who was the polar opposite of himself – Gregory.  Comical and warm, Gregory was an unambiguous joy to know, whose tender company was revered by many.  Engaging as a boy, he continues now, a grown man and proud father of two sons, to emanate kindness and genuine compassion – in his youth he was responsible for gradually restoring my faith in boys and the sole reason I made the decision to give Jordy a chance to redeem himself, to shake off the ‘dick’ label I had given him as an unapologetic 13 year old with high energy levels, quick unfiltered wit and a sinister laugh.  I figured that if Gregory loved him, and he did, as he so often professed, I too could grow to at least like him.

Although I now know he was just a damaged little boy, projecting his pain and insecurities onto a world he felt had let him down, it has been a long and perilous journey for the boy I once feared, he has traversed the roughest of roads to become the man he is today, the man who second to my father, I most admire.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mister, Mister – An Open Letter

I remember the day before you left to go to Tasmania with your Mum and brother; I didn’t know the next 24 hours were to be our last moments shared in this life.

I wish I’d had some idea.

 

I was really tired from lack of sleep; your Mum and I had been packing and I had been working a lot, which was not unusual.  I was always working.  It took its toll on all of us.  I was knackered.

I needed a rest, we all did.

I shared my bath water with you, it was a healing bath with epsom salts, apple cider vinegar and essential oils,  so I told your Mum to put you in with me, once it had cooled down a bit.

Your joints had been playing up on you for a while and we were already treating you with holistic herbs for your heart and other vital organs to ensure the rest of your days on earth were as comfortable and enjoyable as possible – you were getting old, so we were preparing ourselves to be without you – we had discussed the issue of your quality of life at length, but because you still had so much spark, so much energy, your mind was still active and your mobility was mostly fine we decided we would monitor you and promised we would let you go once it was obvious that your diminishing health had a direct effect on your well-being.

We weren’t ready to let you go Mister and you weren’t ready to go.  It wasn’t your time, your time was stolen and in effect – our time with you was stolen from us.

You made me laugh so much, I think the depth of the bath scared you a little and you wouldn’t get off me to begin with.  You were like a tiny little seal when your wooly coat was wet, soft and smooth, glistening in the late afternoon sun coming in through the bathroom window.  Eventually with the aid of the rubber ducky I coaxed you to relax and try to enjoy the bath, you were so happy, swimming around chasing it, I could see the healing powers taking effect and when it came time to get out you looked up at your Mum and refused, you were so defiant, so communicative.

You were something special, a wooly little empath, who I was proud to co-parent for the short time I was given the honour.  But I didn’t want to get attached to you, I resisted for as long as I could, I didn’t want to love you, because I knew, I always knew that by loving you it would hurt me so much to lose you.  I was right, it hurts, so much – worse then a lot of the pain I have already experienced in this life, and I have plenty to draw from.

But I grew to love you Mister and it didn’t take long, even with my resistance in motion, I fell in love with you slowly and then completely.  You made your way into my heart with your funny little ways, the way you would hoard all the treats so Biggie wouldn’t eat them all on you, the way you would expect us to go to bed when you were ready – coming out of the room after having gone to bed and staring at us in the kitchen from the hallway, then retreating back to the bedroom, only to come out 5 minutes later and bark in frustration.  You were entertaining alright.

Such a pleasure to know and love, such a blessing to all who were lucky enough to make contact with you – in just a year you pried open my heart and taught me how to love unselfishly.  A loyal friend to your Mum for 13 years, Mister your love and support was unconditional and without judgement – I can only imagine how heavy her heart is right now and the level of pain and torture she is feeling.

I can only imagine because I am not there to comfort her, I am not there to wipe her tears or to blend mine with hers, I am not there to hold her and listen to her talk about the beautiful memories you two made or reminisce about the ones we shared together.  I am not there because just two weeks ago she packed her car with her things and took you and your brother to Tasmania.

I thought it was a good idea, I thought that time spent at a quiet place by the beach over Summer would do wonders for you both, your Mum had been in poor physical and emotional health for a while and she really needed a break, away from the city – with access to the ocean and fresh air.  So the plan was set in motion, but I was wrong.  I was so wrong.

Had I been aware that I was inadvertently sending you to your death I would never have allowed the move to go ahead, I wouldn’t have sent you to a place where there was potential for you to come to harm and had I been made aware, you would have stayed here, where you were safe.

On Christmas day, only 13 days after I drove you to the ferry terminal and said my goodbyes and see you soon’s you were bitten on the face by a dog much, much bigger then you – you didn’t stand a chance.  The injuries caused to your tiny little head were irrecoverable and you had to be euthanised.    In defence of the dog in question your Mum said to me “it’s a dog thing” – you know your Mum she is kind, she is forgiving, she gives chances – and you know me.  I would have stabbed that bitch with a kitchen knife upon seeing your suffering.

My argument is, dogs are instinctual by nature, a dog who acts instinctively also acts knowingly – a dangerous dog, however acts maliciously.  A large dog acting instinctively would know that in order to protect its territory from a much smaller animal it would take only a bark and a change in body language, a dangerous dog acting out of malice – would bite.

That is my argument.  And it is a good one, but it won’t bring you back.

Neptunes’ Tone

Wednesday, 4 November 2015 (GMT+11).
1:31 AM.

I am disappointed.

Ashtray full.  Third glass of cheap Shiraz in hand. A moderate-strength, controlled substance coursing through my veins.

Temptation.  Addiction.  Dependance.

This is me.
This is who i have become.
A narcissist, perhaps.
A cliche, most definitely.

Disappointed is not the adjective that properly attests my impression.

Melancholic.  Destroyed.  Defeated.

A natural progression, that eventuated in my present catatonia.  Stripped bare; my current surroundings are testimony to the reign of my vices.  The master versus the muse. The master devoured by the muse.  My muse mistress in her galactic glory, consumes me in multiple facets.

I was born on a Thursday, March 7 1985.
Pisces, mutable.  Element, water.
Ruled by Neptune, planet of addiction and creativity.

Attempting to transcend weakness, thus endeavouring to escape said flaws, an odyssey that by far exceeds the suffering that brought you here in the first place is precisely the grounds upon which a true addict will attribute onus.  It is easier to remain stagnant and consciously accept your plight as an excerpt of your human condition then it is to weather the battle of sobriety. I know this cellularly, in cyclic gradients.

After all, my longest relationship is in its seventeenth orbit and my most constant vice.  I am referring to my romance with nicotine and what i consider to be the definition of love.

Reef 43’s are $27.49 today. By my calculation it is the cheapest cigarette in current consumer rotation among the general population of Melbourne. This is just by my calculation, that being said, I am extremely calculating. Expressly concerning love and unfortunately, money as well.

Reef 0.639 cents apiece 2015, Holiday 0.216 cents apiece 1998.

In hindsight, part of me wishes i’d signed a prenuptial agreement before embarking on my marriage to nicotine.

I am dependant.  It is total surrender.

By my own, and all accounts I am held firmly by the nature of this cosmic grip.  I have difficulty envisioning the possibility of estrangement.  The feelings that envelope me go far beyond fear, perchance beyond petrification.

I am not your average smoker.  I don’t favour a brand.
My choice is based on two things only.

1: nicotine levels, relative to colour.
2: quantity of cigarettes, relative to price.

Red having the highest level of nicotine is my preferred colour-level.  I will reluctantly take the milder, blue colour-level in desperate moments.

Greetings, catatonia.
Salute, self affliction.

It is the return of indisposition. The desire for divorce is illusive.  It is plausible that nicotine will endure the remaining days of my human incarnation, as my eternal counterpart.

I often verbalise an ode to my first liaison with real love.

If nicotine was the primary downfall of my personal battle with enslavement, hope might prevail.  Alas, nicotine is merely one of the many exploits of self-destruction I subscribe to.  Addiction is a tempestuous mistress, the tremors of her engulfing lust are compulsive.

The first lady of habit is a vivacious allure.
It is to her I concede my control.

My expedition of alcoholism was gradual but somewhat ordained.  Lurking in the bloodlines of my past.

 

Initial rank – Social-drinker, age 14.
Highest rank – Guru of the dark trajectory of alcoholism, age 24.
Current rank – Occasional drinker, age 30.

Vodka, my initial drink of choice continues to be the first point of contact when reuniting with my old friend.

Grey Goose, lime and soda please.
No Grey Goose?  No thank you.

I will partake in the cheapest version of every other drink, with a finesse possessed exclusively by my fellow occultists of alcoholism.  I pay my respects to Vodka similar to any other follower of a chosen deity.

5.33 AM.

I am currently drinking from a 2 litre cask of shiraz.

The rostered start of my next shift at work is scheduled in 8 hours and 27 minutes and random drug testing is a common occurrence.  So common, that, of the three times I have been tested, I have failed twice.  The substance indulged in, that ultimately resulted in the temporary suspension of my position is readily available over the counter, to the general public.  This is a fact of moderate importance, it is however, my 66% fail-rate that truly depicts my stance on reliance.

If my name is generated and I am required to undergo such testing within the first 4 hours of my 8 hour shift today the likelihood that I will return ill-favoured results is probable.

My results would read.
Alcohol; positive.
THC; positive.
Opiates; negative.
Amphetamines; positive.

And upon further analysis, the outcome would conclude my employment.

Rock bottom is a destination, I have visited twice.  Vodka, my mentor led me astray, into the web of whiskey, Johnny Walker Black specifically, thus hurling me in the direction of brutal descent.  Both times the momentum stunned me.  The second time would be my first encounter with the threat of intervention.  I liken rock bottom to regaining consciousness, without retaining the awareness of self.

While alcohol is a devastating crutch, the wicked elixir that truly conveys the depths of my ongoing internal war on dependence, is my fondness for Methamphetamine.

 

The omega of my addictive heart.

My relationship with Meth has been volatile, tumultuous.
At times, rendering me devoid of sentiment.
It is falsely fervent and all encumbering.

To remain gainfully employed while engaged in a Meth habit is a triumph in itself.

Hi my name is Jamie and I am addicted to all of life’s temptations.  I am here today to acknowledge my addiction in the hope that by gaining insight to my personal patterns I will be enticed by the concept of change.  Her name was Jamie and she never pursued the capacity to change.  

Her battle was lost on Friday, 6 November (GMT +11)
11.38 AM.  She was 30 years old.

Discovered three days later in the bath-tub of her suburban residence.  The autopsy performed on her lifeless body revealed high levels of alcohol and narcotics in her bloodstream. Her death was reported accidental, though there were whispers of suicide.

 She left behind two months in rent arrears and a cat named Cosmos.

Two Gay Kids

My mother gave birth to two children, naturally.

Myself and my sibling – I refer to her as my ‘sibling’, because she had the anatomy of a male child at birth and in-part still does.

Asher James – real name, no gimmicks is a pre-op transsexual.  She was a little girl, even when she was a little boy, an example of this fact is depicted in the many photos taken of her post 1989 sporting our Nana’s high-heeled shoes – an innocent, naked little boy adorned in salmon lipstick and poorly fashioned 3 inch heels.  Such was the questionable fashion of the day for a woman surpassing her mid-forties, in the late 80’s.

While my sibling didn’t begin to materialize the inner-yearning she encountered, to live her life as a woman until her early teens, the foundations for her future lifestyle were laid before Asher James could speak.

When questioned about my family by people I have recently met, upon listing my eight siblings and step-siblings, she is always the climax point, not for our full-blood connection but for the reaction I get when fondly referring to her as ‘my tranny’.  There are two reasons I do this, the first being the shock value, in that I enjoy seeing the “I don’t know how to react to that” look on peoples’ faces and the second being this; I am not ashamed of my sister – she is the most fearless human I know and I envy her, her courage, defiance and natural, feminine beauty. 

I am in awe of Asher James.

Genitalia aside, my sister is the epitome of a real woman; strong, confident and nurturing – with a 24 inch waist, flat stomach and long, well-defined legs, she anatomically and aesthetically represents the idea of what most women desire to be like and what most men desire to be with. 

As for those who, upon first glance are unimpressed by my sister and her supreme allure, from experience I can honestly say that they can all be divided into one of three groups, there are the bull-dykes, the androphilic men and my ultimate favourite, the haters.

The Hater Club is mostly comprised of jealous, narrow-minded, (often, but not strictly) religious bigots who still believe we are sentient in a world where it’s “Adam and Eve, not, Adam and Steve”, an archaic aphorism, that inclines my desire to conjure a fanciful super-power designed to dispatch those who adhere to it back to the past where, it appears they remain stationed.

This is how I interpret a hater, by my own definition.

hater(s); person, or people who strongly dislike someone for possessing something they don’t feel they can attain but desperately want, so proceed to put down and/or project their weaknesses and insecurities onto those that appear to have it: “he’s not even that pretty, and anyway she has a penis”.

When I was a juvenile and the faculty of my mind was directed by society, before the sagacious domination of thought emerged, I would call her a faggot and Asher would call me a dyke.

I, myself am a lesbian – a gold-star-lesbian in fact, which is a term used to describe a lesbian who has not had penetrative sex with a man and does not intend to.  In reference to the term, it is a medal in our community and I wear mine with pride, although my pleasure is based, not on the connotation of the title, instead on the gold rank to which it is associated, be it, as in any field, that whoever secures gold is victorious.  Thus, by being a gold-star-lesbian I am ultimately a winner, by default. 

Fundamentally it just denotes that I am a virgin – in heterosexual idiom, however it is my express opinion that being a silver or even a bronze lesbian, does not make you any less of a lesbian, although some would protest my perspective  – primarily, my fellow gold-stars, it is a distinct reality that sexual orientation has transgressed the outdated ideas that once enclosed it.  Sexual identity is now black, white, and every shade of grey conceivable and the boundary-lines of gender-identity and expression are now blurred.

Products of the mid to late 80’s; we were born 19 months apart.  Asher James arrived in October of 1987, my mother’s only son, youngest offspring and arguably her preference of the two of us.  This is not to say that my mother loves me any less than Asher, but speaks more for the bond they created in the formative years of my younger siblings life.

As the first-born child, it is instinctive that I was very protective concerning my brother, a feeling that remains a fierce and mutual force in the close, but sometimes dangerous connection we have constructed during the 28 years we have spent in each others lives.  Only now, I am protective of a trinity – my brother, my sister and my tranny.

It was a brutal path to wander for a 14 year old tomboy and closet lesbian, even more difficult with the persistent presence of a 12 year old boy who behaved like a girl and was so often mistaken for one, that the task of correcting people had long ceased.  In order to survive as fragments of the ‘queer’ community in a small town inhabited by an abundance of minds confined by prejudice – there was only one option in 1999.

Harden up.  So we did.

The ultimate wish for any life-giving mother is the gift of grandchildren, my mother bore two offspring, both were delivered naturally, her youngest, Asher James is 28 years old and lives her everyday life as a woman – with male genitalia, while her eldest is Me, an evader of authority and active lesbian, aged 30.  Neither of us have reproduced, nor do we intend to and although she has had several years to come to terms with the awareness that she will never be a Nana, the wound is still open and the pain still raw.

Confronted with an emotionally charged statement about it being unfair that she will never be a grandmother, Asher James responded to her mother with this;

“Well that’s your fault for having two gay kids.”

Why, they ask?

Why?

Because horrible things always happen to me.

No wait, don’t say it, aloud or under your breath, you know what don’t even think it.
I can read the words set to tumble from your poorly educated mouth and you can fuck right off with those, I mean it.

I’d rather not be forced by rage to confront you, because we both know what will happen if I am – I will attack you, tear you apart, destroy your self esteem with my caustic verbal delivery.

Come on now, don’t feign shock.  You know me, you know just what I’m capable of – so my advice to you is to walk away, go on, shut your mouth, turn around and go back the way you came.

Okay, good.

NOW DON’T COME BACK.

 

 

Many a Merry Charlatan.

Today marks my virtual arrival into the ‘blogosphere’.

I have been transported from the womb of inhibition and self-doubt and delivered unto the planet of  unapologetic creativity.

My attitude –  ‘fuck fear’
My intention – ‘to confront’

Set to embark on this quest with my eyes wide open, my mind sharpened to it’s full capacity, having smashed down the fortification that has kept hostage my sagacious vision, I am armed with the essential cerebral artillery to conquer this new planet, to colonize its occupants into complete submission, for though my palisade of anonymity has collapsed, my guard is agile, my survival instinct primed for combat, I am conditioned, a master of the art of abstract affray – it’s time to acquaint the digital world with this analogue girl.

My progression to blogger ascendance has begun; today is my blog-birthday.

ariawritesblog

was born on 25/12/15 and ironically coincides with the linear calendar date that the Western World commemorates the birth of Jesus.

According to many an indoctrinated Christian and the defenders of the vast denominations of Christianity in current practise Jesus is; ‘The Holy One’, ‘The Messiah’, ‘The One True God’ among other commanding titles. Jesus was born in Jerusalem, the mortal son of a virgin named Mary – in what is believed to be the first case of immaculate conception, although unless In Vitro Fertilisation was available in those primitive times I remain a sceptic.

Whatever the case, this is how Jesus has been traded to the masses; as the deity that eclipses those who came before him; the supreme being of unmatched power – impossible to overlook that at some point during the Renaissance period which spanned from the 14th to the 17th Century, Jesus transformed from being and appearing Jewish to somehow acquiring the physical traits of an Aryan man – fair skinned, blue eyed and blonde haired.

While it has been written that Jesus possessed the ability to heal and performed many miracles during his mortal incarnation, I am mystified as to how a brown-skinned, dark-featured Jewish male could adopt the facade of a white man almost 2000 years after his death.

My name is Aria and until recently I had never shared a single word of my personal writings; I am 30 years old and have been transcribing my thoughts since I was a child, unlike most self-proclaimed ‘writers’ I do not keep journals for any length of time, it is my penchant to destroy anything I have produced almost instantly.