Limbo To The Lowdown

I’m sick and tired of being those very things! Arghhh! When you have a fatty liver condition like it is professionally assumed I do (but in process is the discrediting of anything more serious, which, I am told, is rare) it makes life’s very basics somewhat of a struggle. Lack of energy is the major problem caused by this condition but there is also a dizzying nausea with which to contend, and a grumpiness borne partly of frustration from not being able to fully function and partly from the angry energy pumped out by the upset liver. These symptoms are not unrelenting, thank fortuity, but they do hit regularly. When your energy for thinking is as low as mine gets at times and you can't be bothered finding a better word to use there than 'gets', then you know that something is amiss! When you can’t read or write, and when that’s of the utmost imperativeness to your life, then all too easily may you slump into the murky, swampy blues. It makes the mind feel like concrete. Of course, I am working towards rectifying the ailment by eating healthily, losing weight, drinking plenty of dandelion root beverage, etc., but it takes time. And I’m forcing myself to read and write, at least somewhat. I plan to write a page of my novel a day.

Anyway, it is basically this fatigue that has hindered my efforts to post anew in this gutter of the daisies. Such a cunt! Such a cock-and-balls! Actually, I get great enjoyment from those odd-looking organs of lovable sin so I should cuss elsewise but where’s the energy for such? Burp! Fart! George W. Bush! Saddam Hussein! Neo-Nazis! Faeces! ...Oh, groovy, I somehow found it.

...Limbo now to a brief lowdown, if you will.

Rupert and I attended a dang fine hair salon hosted Hallowe’en party in South Yarra on Saturday night. We’d given ourselves nicknames for the night – he, ‘Fly Cassanova’; I, ‘The Baron’. However, the host insisted upon introducing us as ‘the pervert’ and ‘the paedophile’ respectively. My rather disconcerting title extended from the fact of the unusual moustache-less goatee I am cultivating for my short film rôle of later this month, and the fact that he felt I needed something to make me seem creepy (as Rupert had neglected to mention that it was a Hallowe’en party I had just dressed boh-dandy), and what with Rupert already a pervert our host, dressed as a skeleton, hatched his evil plan and monikered me thus!

Afterwards, Rupert and I cabbed it to a photographer’s warehouse space and gibbered with hairdressers and hair models. We attempted some sort of action plan for seduction but the rings of Saturn, along which we were both happily slippin' and slidin', proved far too distant from any activities available on Earth just then and so it was impossible for anything to eventuate.

Next, having parted ways with all the other stragglers, we went to a café and asked if they had ‘writer’s rates’. “You know, for unemployed writer types,” I asked, or something like that. They didn’t. We breakfasted elsewhere. Twice.

We reflected on the two girls who were at the warehouse. “Which girl did you prefer?” asked he. One had appeared a tad 1920s to my bric-a-brac brain. “The Twenties one, but I would have been happy with either, of course,” I said. “It’s funny you should say that,” he replied, “because I got the impression with the other one that I was …looking at her, …drunk.”

Rupert bumped into a shop front. “Oh. Oh,” he slurred. We would pass the odd drunken hobo. “I wish those bums wouldn’t walk in the same manner as us,” he humphily declared. Soon enough, still wearing his tasselled fez, he lay across the gutter as we waited for a tram beneath the morning sun. Home wasn’t very far, yet it sure was a long journey back there.

I slept. Arose. Life goes on.

Wednesday evening I attended a li’l park picnic in honour of Shantoozy and Hissykitty being ‘ace’, which was hosted by their friend Toxiclash. There were balloons and swings and wine (not for MY liver) and cake and other snack treats. Certainly not an unpleasant way to hoist the moon up.

My main work of the moment is regarding the short film, ‘Realising Sigmund’ – to keep learning my lines and develop a suitable characterisation over the next couple of weeks. Oh, and to keep this comical, hircine tuft sprouting from my chinny-chin-chin; and the drivel running down my chin and onto this here blog for you.