Brass Knuckles and Bravery.

The words keep welling up, and if I don't pour them out they become sour and putrid and rot me from the inside out. So I'm back for Round Two! Rejoice, my adoring fans, for your Gandhi has returned.

All sarcasm aside now, Jimbo. I have things that need saying, and I had better get them said. But I am having trouble getting them out. Think of a large vat, or a big bowl. These thoughts are spilling over the sides and running off the table to the dirty floor. I can't stem the flow, or channel it in the right direction, and all the precious genius is roiling and floundering down there with the bugs and germs and filth of the ground. But is it so bad down there? Shit, we all came from somewhere on this earth... from somewhere inside it, even. Maybe that is the truest place - the most appropriate - for my thoughts to be. Perhaps my eloquence lends itself nicely to a bit of grime; a few stains and spots to balance things out a little?

Oh yes, I have reached a resolution, and it suits me just fine. Christ, the ground! Of course! And has it taken me this long to figure it all out because I am a dim-wit? Or have I been looking too closely to see what has been right before my eyes? I have always known I am not made of the same flesh and sinew as those who sit at the Head Tables sipping fine champagne and shovelling caviar into their painted and moustachioed food holes. I do not possess an obnoxious laugh, a small mind and a fear of the unknown. No, no, no, you drones! I am a child of the ground - of the dirt!

And I am damn pleased for it! For these brief minutes, I am glad to be who I am. I have always been proud of where I am from, but not of who I am. Savour these small moments, for they will be fleeting. That is a true and accurate fact.

I like the idea of trawling in the dirt for diamond-studded ideas. I will feel at home when I am wiping the mud off a pearl of wisdom, polishing it up to sit on this virtual mantle piece of my scurrilous and intimate thoughts. Yes, yes! They may be a little rough around the edges, but pearls they most certainly are. I suspect my insomnia is taking a hold of me, daisies. But fuck that! I will not sleep if I try, so why not take a seat on this unholy ground and take a gander around at what spills off the table and lands nearby? Why not, indeed.

I have been mired, that is indisputable. I have lost the most important weave in the tapestry of my life, and it is my single biggest regret in a long history that is littered with the bastards. She was one in a million, so that means there are three more just in New Zealand. I will not be out looking. No, not yet. And could you blame me, if you knew the allegories of love in the ways that we did? I know without a doubt that I would change it all if I could, or even hope that we had never met. They say it is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all. I disagree. The pain is far too much - at the end of it all - for a coward like me.

And this was not meant to be a lament of long lost loves. I apologise to you, gentle creatures, if my wandering heart momentarily took precedence over my wandering mind. It won't happen again. Maybe my wandering eye will get a look in; after all I am red-blooded.

I should be more lonely than I have been. I see no one during these long word-filled days, except for characters I have created, and scenarios that I am not exciting enough to live through in real life. Well... that's not quite true. I used to be that excitement machine, and I feel in my bones that I could be Him again, but for now I am artificially stifled. That happens when you lose your rag a few too many times, and those closest to you are on your case about it. Sorry, fuckers. I do it only out of love for you all.

Back to the present. Presents. Already the Christmas rush has begun. My mother found a limited edition Coca Cola Santa Claus trinket in a second hand store, and now it sits grotesquely on our mantle. No one knows (or cares) that Santa was made by Coke. You hear that, hush puppies?! Santa Claus as we know him, is a marketing tool for Capitalism's most prevalent teeth-rotting aid. The dental industry thanks you, Coca Cola, and so too do children the world over. Where would they be without your red-suited present-provider? No doubt drinking water, and we can't have that. If you don't know the story of Santa and Coke, or you don't believe me, go and look on the Internet. I'm sure the story is there somewhere. Ho, ho. Revelations!

I think tomorrow is a day for driving. Writing can wait. The lakes are calling to me like seedy builders to an attractive woman who passes by their site. Or maybe it's the other way around. Who's to say? Either way, tomorrow I will go, weather and fortitude permitting. Fuck this insipid drivel! Where have you gone, muse? To take refuge from my rough hands and callous use of you? Surely you are not so callow as to leave me now? And here I was thinking we had an understanding.

How come a breast without a nipple is so much less appealing?