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Ennui and Despair $2.99 $1.95

Author: JJ deceglie

About:

Existential pornography…

Mystical debaucheries…

Ruminations tracking through to a delicate hell and back…

Bourbon, flesh and celestial flares of chronic laughing hope…

Quiet Days in Fremantle, Author JJ deceglie with musings on existence, art and sex in the sparkling wastelands of West Australia.

Excerpt:

The plan was to stay with Chase when I arrived in Sydney. The festival was in Newcastle, which is about four hours away by day train. But I hadn't seen Chase in a year and planned on staying with him for three days. He promised me some life and he never did not deliver it, he lived as art and madness, couldn't help it, what I wrote he breathed, what I aspired to he metabolised. The man could show you life somehow, could pick it out directly where you were just looking and make you see what just according to your eyes was not. It was a holy quality. He was and is a seer. Even his problems seemed to have more literary weight, just missing a bus could equate to something by Dostoyevsky, a piss he'd take the equivalent to a Chekhov short story, a shit perhaps something by Bukowski. Jerking off and he could channel Ginsberg. He was one of the only men I've known who repeatedly would take career altering defecations. Career enders, career makers. The man was an elite shittest, he had an inbuilt knack of bringing all filth to the earth and making it look like it was health and spririt, of making it smell like a bakery just as the oven was unpacked. And he once claimed to have shot a neon blue load, it glowed dazzling like one of those nightime fishing lures he'd said, though I suspect he'd been high and reading William Lee.

I had with me a load of my books fit for Hercules to carry, a suitcase full which I had to empty some at Perth airport so as just get the bastard on the plane. I got rid of some pairs of shoes and a big book by a Nietzsche. I would be a fucked if I was leaving any of my own words behind. Yeah I kicked that German bastard right in the crotch. He would have wanted it that way. The plan was to get my work out over there. I would give the things away, I did not care, I just wanted them read, wanted my sphere in theirs, my voice in their head whispering into the psyche, I was Whitman selling door to door, pleading my case and asking for a chance, but I planned on throwing the damn things at them, if they let me get close enough, right between their eyes, I was hoping to injure. To maim and abuse and pose unrelenting questions. Nothing more to it. Well perhaps an erection and the equal glide in the girls. Getting to Chase's was a test of endurance. Lugging a chunk of concrete with me across Sydney. From the Airport training into the city, then the bus (this was a stilted nightmare) out to and across the bridge to Mosman, in between each mode hauling the monstrosity behind me sweating like a junky, a poetic penance, one I had accepted before leaving, dragging sins around in a chosen hell, cursing under my breath every fifty foot, people looking at me like I was claiming to be Christ, like I'd claimed the luggage was a crucifix I was dragging to Calvary. I fumbled about Central Station like a loose mental patient, tripping about and stumbling up stairs heaving the cargo in colossal loaded efforts, up and down and across, sputtering questions at strangers who'd turn the other fucking cheek and walk, finding the bus finally and that was an embarrassing event, holding up the queue, pissing about for change, taking up two seats instead of one with the suitcase on a full vehicle. Looking out the window the entire trip. Hoping the whole way that I'd caught the right one. Eyes peeled trying to make out where to get off. I missed the serenity of the plane ride over. Served by luscious hostesses and sipping on wine. Now fighting and scrapping with the masses hoping Chase would be waiting for me at the bus stop. He was not. I got off where he'd instructed and then called him. He said walk up and then turn right he he, I'll meet ya half way you writer, you fiend. It was a fair hike. I had hatred for the case by then, it had to be carried and I had to bring so many copies of the work, there was no choice in any of it, yet I hated it some. As I went up to the main road Chase had said to follow to his digs I went over what I had planned for months in anticipation of this. What I had promised myself would occur. Who I had said to myself would attend the festival, who would be there and more notably who would not. And this is the lecture. This is the promise I made a little while back, the instruction that would come. It will take some explaining, but read on, read on and see for yourself you coward. I had decided that I would attend. Sounds easy enough. I would go. I would be there as I'd never been anywhere before. It would be something else, it would. I would be alone. Alone amidst it. Remember I'd just discovered the paint. I was florid, fecund. Everything was something. And I was writing very well, it was flowing like Hem said it would, the well was filling daily, right to the brim, I'd send down large buckets and drain that sucker only to find by next attempt she was filled to the brim. You see there was much. And I'd never seen Sydney, and to see it with Chase originally was a slice I had anticipated with tingles whenever it sprang to mind. But yes to be there as I, not me, but I. As essence, not personality, to be I as I'd known I and not be any other such entity. To forget and create. I remember the streets were undeniably wondrous. The streetlights like galaxies only metres about my head. Wandering up a street I'd never wandered up before. Lugging forty kilo of my own words behind me, another ten kilo of personals sitting on my back. What a beautiful way to be! Waiting for Chase to run maniacally up the same street. The rightness of your existence can be unquestionable in moments. To have been invited on the back of your own words, to go back to the seed of those words, to work from then to now, from the very first word to the last, to dig deeper, to go back to the experiences that were written of, and further to the desire to write in the first, to create, to know who you are and take years and years to get there, to here, to Here. Carrying yourself and your work, sweating up a Sydney street, waiting for Chase's face to break apart with a grin on sight. And I knew I could paint. The significance of this cannot be let slide. I was as they are. Writer, painter, misunderstood loser, suicided madman, death was most of my life before then, not all, but most, a rebirthing occurred, I fucked the cosmic cunt and the uncultivated coitus led to impregnation, it was a last ditch attempt, I gathered the courage and just walked into her room naked, I knew she had been thinking exactly what I had, there in that room, were all the parts of my life that never felt like real death, no this was real death, absolute, and with absolute death comes absolute life, you realise you can't die if you don't really live, then she guides you in gently, into her natural secure comfort, and the effort lasted months, strokes that were clung to by the walls of living forever, smooth, warm, wondrous and firm, no girl ever fit you better, the climax feels so good that it isn't pleasurable but rather best explained as the most you've ever known until that point, the pregnancy lasts only hours, you reshoot out the womb and now suddenly remember that you are alive. You remember just that and it makes for a difference you only ever glimpsed briefly before. The nagging feeling of your entire life rings true, it sounds with the clearest resonance, you will completely die, and now for real, by everything holy kid, get completely living. You examine a corpse resembling you rotting rapidly to dust atop her on the bed. You feel some pain a second, real harrowing stuff, but it fades, and you clean her off, turn her over, and start to fuck her all over again.

Chase bounds up the street. His eyes reflect more light than others and in that effect blaze. He kisses you hello on each cheek, punches your chest, takes your back pack from you for relief. You notice immediately that he is built bigger than before, he was always full of muscle but he has enhanced it. His own stubbled cheeks have sucked further in and his hands looking like those of a wrestler. He he he, how are you big fella, life he says, life. He says he has three bottles of white wine ice cold and will buy us delectable Indian food once we've settled me in, I read the book he says, meaning mine, it killed me Seppa, killed me, is killing me right now, you channelled Rimbaud in that one, you are Rimbaud, but we'll talk of it later, how are you he he, girls he says, we need girls. We pass a bus stop as we go to his place and I say nothing but think you silly fuck, and his flat is on the top floor, damn near unbelievable. There is an air of charade I detect, Chase being Chase because you expect him to. There is more to something than he is letting on. I could tell by the silences in between the animation. If anything there is a hint of me being a hindrance to him rather than a needed injection. I'd seen him like this before. Nobody I know gets a flooded mind the way Chase does. It engulfs him, stealing all his air and you only get the real man as he frantically pushes his head up and out straining to stay alive. Rarefied gluts in a moody conundrum. There would be no need to extract the truth from him, as soon as we settled he would start in on it. A more open and honest being there is not. To the point of it being exhausting. He will talk the problem into submission and then beat it unrecognisable. On the phone just last night he said we'd go and see Sydney as soon as I got there. He had screamed it. I was guessing it would be a drain on me not him, what with all the travel I'd logged in that day, as it went I was rearing as soon as I'd dropped the weight I'd been carrying all the day long. He on the opposite end was apologising and asked to stay in. It didn't matter to me really. He set up the wine, a bottle each to be taken as such, then out to the balcony, out with the cigars. Inward journeys to be embarked upon, this was the toast, Chase had the course set long before I'd got there.

So life he says again, life.

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This product was added to our catalog on Saturday 18 September, 2010.
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