 
THE HOST

Copyright David Francis Jeffery 2014

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My soul cannot be condemned to anywhere but where it is at the present time for, you see, I am the host. For what is the soul but the very essence of our being but no, do I really wish to play host to all this? This somewhat obvious discussion, which can turn away even the most enlightened mind? Yes, I rather think I do.

So, what then, do I believe? I think that this is going to be a terribly misleading question, for I am going to give a terribly misleading answer - I believe in experiments. But don't let that word conjure up the inevitable picture; the tools, the sterile environment, the emotionless academic laying waste to the feelings of some defenceless creature; or perhaps the even more boring vision of school Bunsen burners boiling coloured water down to its base material. No, I prefer to think of myself as wishing to experiment with the outcomes of standards. And even that is going to prove confusing for my language is not half as impressive as I imagine. Let me just begin my discussion by saying that this is an experiment in itself.

This is going to take me into realm s that I've only explored cursorily, which means that I have no idea where I will take myself (and of course, you). I don't imagine that it will always be a pretty picture and I suppose that it many even tax the patience of some of you but, if you are willing to come along on this journey, I may be able to give you something to think about - or at least fill up a couple of hours of your life.

I was born thirty-five years ago, and now I'm here typing this. That is all I will give you because, as I'm sure you would agree, thirty-five years in not nearly enough time to think you have anything in your life interesting enough to write about. Which is only half-true but I don't want to go too far just yet. Let's leave it at that and try continuing without so many interruptions.

An experiment is defined (by at least one dictionary I have) as thus: Procedure _tried on the chance of success, or to test hypothesis._ At the time of this writing, I have no idea whether there is a true chance of success but, I think I am at least heading in the right direction, for my hypothesis is this: keep writing. And what, if any, has this to do with the soul question? Well, to put it simply, I believe my soul lies in the act of writing, but I need to find its true voice. The only way I conclude I can do this is to - keep writing.

The soul in itself, is an act of God; would I be right in saying that? The soul individuates our personalities, it makes us 'who we are.' So, is it such a crazy hypothesis to imagine that my soul becomes me in the act of writing? To imagine that the act of writing brings conclusive proof of God? For what is my body if it is not merely a host, a host for the presence of my soul? My soul cannot write without the help of my fingers, my fingers cannot write without the urging of my soul; God cannot exist without the presence of my soul and fingers upon the keyboard, or holding the pen. Indeed, with every work I type, with every work I write, with every thought inside my brain trying to make it onto the page, God grows stronger and more alive. He becomes more _real._ I have not merely belief in experiments. I have FAITH.

From the same dictionary: Host _1 - Large number (of; person is a ~ in himself, equal to a ~ of ordinary persons); (arch.) army (Lord God of ~s); ~ or ~s of heaven, heavenly bodies, also angels._

Host 2 - One who lodges or entertains another; landlord of inn (reckon without one's ~, overlook opposition &c); animal having parasite.

Host 3 - Bread consecrated in Eucharist.

So?

Is the soul a parasite?

Yes, why DID I only pick that meaning? Well, we can eliminate the large number because the soul couldn't possibly be a large number - though that does raise the very interesting question of multiple personalities \- are they the victim of invasion by other souls? Do they only have partly-formed souls, albeit many at the one time? Or alternatively, is their soul somehow split, making several attempts at completion but unaware of which completion is the right one for their host? That is something I may explore later but, for now, I am going to assume that the large number can be dismissed, at least for me.

One who lodges - could that not be the vessel of a host? Is a soul not lodged in one's body? Can a body be considered an inn for the soul? I think it can, which leads us directly to the next proposition, is the soul a parasite? (I believe we can skip the Bread of the Eucharist but I may explore that as well). I can't see how the soul can be anything else.

Would you like another dictionary definition, this time I'm only going to refer to the one most appropriate: _animal_ _or plant living in or on another and drawing nutriment from it._ I'm certainly not going to posit the soul as an animal or plant but doesn't the soul draw nutriment from its host? Or perhaps, wouldn't it as part of its own life cycle, endless as it may be?

Consider the soul itself - what is it? Can it be described? As a physical thing, I'm sure you'll agree that its description must remain impossible but as a concept, we have broader ground to cover. The soul has been variously described as, the essence, the being, the true nature, or the life force. I like to think of it as, the switch. I consider the soul as the switch that draws a person into his or her own life. How many people have described their jobs as 'soul-destroying?' Almost like something is not being fed perhaps? For if the soul is indeed a parasite, wouldn't your love of life, of even being alive, feed your soul; give it nutrients? Thought if you could find no reason to wake up in the morning, wouldn't you be starving your soul, feeding only yourself? Wouldn't you, indeed, be your own cancer? Perhaps I should say, feeding only your host, for when only the host receives proper nutrients, the parasite must surely die. So a parasite cannot always necessarily be a bad thing. Consider the cancer angle; if you could discover a parasite that fed on cancer and only cancer (no matter what type) wouldn't that be worthy of a parasite? Wouldn't that be a good thing? But a cancer that feeds only on itself not only destroys the parasite but the host with it. If you can't turn on the switch to your soul, then only death can result - the host cannot live without the parasite.

We are going to explore some very dicey territory now, you and I, and I am going to do my utmost to explain myself as fully and as carefully as I can. The following pages are not going to correlate with everybody but stick with it if you can, the light won't always be the oncoming train.

What flicks the switch? That is a question that is not always going to provide a pleasant answer. Condemnation is very easy for most people (none more so than me) but with experimentation comes the onus of exploring every possible avenue, no matter how ugly. So, let us start with the most innocent of participants in this hypothesis - me. (Laughter)

As mentioned before, I am a writer. How easy it was to type that, 'I am a writer.' Well, it is true, I AM a writer, the only problem is, is that I am the only person who knows that. Apart, of course, from my soul. Most other people know me as a cook, or a cleaner, or sometime musician, or even more rarely, a waiter. But the truth of it is, I am a writer. Thus far, in the space of five years, I have completed four manuscripts - a book of prose poems, a book of poetry, a novella and a book of assortments. To date, none of these manuscripts have set the world on fire but I continue to write, because I am a writer - it is what feeds my parasite. I like to cook, it too gives me pleasure, but it does not feed my soul. It cannot feed my soul; it can only increase my cancer. But that is ok, it does not grind me into the depression it once did - it no longer feeds my cancer so vigorously because I have found the way to feed my soul. I have found the perfect nutrients for my parasite. I am managing to keep a balance. I believe that, once I become published and am on my way to a living as a writer, I will have destroyed my cancer and embraced my parasite, as I know I must. For we all must embrace the parasite, do not do so will only provided the already stated outcome - death.

I guess, I guess I've been a writer, in one form, all my life. I have never been a genius, not once during my school life (that I care to remember) were any of my stories singled out for praise, not once was I credited with brilliance by my teachers, never were my stories read out in front of the class. Though, does that not make me a writer? It seems that, whenever I read biographies of writers (mainly for inspiration) they all have one thing in common - at some stage in their early lives, they received confirmation of their soul. The common thread seems to be that, in their school lives, their work was read out to the class, or singled out by the teacher as being 'good.' Of course, I realise that this is pushing my own barrow of jealousy and certainly not every well known (or at least, well published) writer can have a similar tale but it is worth noting that, plenty of them do. Does this make me other than a writer? My soul and I agree - no. The thing that makes me a writer is the pure fact that I have been writing something for most of my life - regardless of publication.

My early years of writing began like most I suppose, reading. I've always loved to read, almost to the exclusion of anything else - almost but not quite. English was my favourite subject and, until high school, my best. I enjoyed having to write stories, or composition, as they were known back then. I imagined them as great works, original works, huge works but, as with most primary school children, they were not. But I enjoyed them and that was the point. Them high school came, and with it the realisation, your grammar is incorrect. Thus, the joy of writing, the pure joy, was destroyed for many, many years. Once we had to learn the intricacies of grammar - the correct use of semi-colons, apostrophes, present participles, adverbs, adjectives &c - English became a curse to me. I only wanted to write, I didn't care if it wasn't correct, I only wanted the opportunity to put pen to paper; to realise my thoughts upon the page, to write.

I found my way back to a love of writing through becoming a musician. My father has been a musician all his life and taught me the new love; indeed for a time, it fed my soul like the writing. I was not completely happy though and wanted something more. I became a drummer and , as with most drummers, was vilified as a moron. I wished to prove otherwise and found a way through the writing of lyrics. Thus my love for the pen and paper resumed. For the past fifteen years I have written and thrown out perhaps five to six thousand lyrics. In that time, I have also learnt to be a songwriter and have around one hundred completed songs, of which, three of four are absolute gems. But it was this love of lyric writing that spurred me on, and rekindled a love of writing in general.

As could be imagined, writing lyrics turned into writing poetry, but I was not interested in writing more of the same; the rhymes, the shortness of lines, the self-imposed limit of topic and language. I wished to expand my expression (alliteration at its best!). Thus my experiment began and evolved into another need for expansion. I toyed with the short story form for a short while but lost the urge. I turned back to songwriting and attempted to expand upon that avenue. For a time I regarded myself as successful but I would always meet someone better and consider giving up. To my disgust however, I always managed to find a song that was just that little bit better than everything else I'd written, just enough to encourage me to keep going. If I had been depressed with them all, I could have given up easily and whiled away my hours hitting things but there was always that one that stopped me. The one that my soul told me was 'on the way.'

Then came the requisite 'dark period,' the time I shall not write about there but a time that all have, at least once in their lives. Mine lasted five years or so and, while it was not something I cherish, it was a time when I wrote my first completed novella (never to be shown in public), my first truly good song and my first attempt at keeping a journal. It was also a time of some of the most painfully self-manufactured hate that I have ever committed to paper.

But my horrible novella (and I use the term because I don't consider anything a novel under 70-80,000 words). I realise, as a writer, that it is important to 'read the right people.' It is simply not done to state that the book that made you want to write was 'The Stud,' because that leaves you obligingly open to ridicule; especially if you truly wish to be taken seriously (I do). No, to be brutally frank, the book that truly made you want to write ought to be 'The Tree of Man,' or 'The sun also rises,' or even 'On the Road,' but I'd read none of these books when I truly decided to try my hand at writing a novel. The book that opened my eyes to the possibility was Nick Cave's 'And the Ass saw the Angel,' an outstanding Australian classic barely mentioned outside musical circles. And while I know that is a blatantly naïve statement, I wonder if it doesn't hold some water? Because the reason I (or my soul) chose this book as inspiration - not only because it is extremely well-written and a great story - is because Nick Cave is a musician and so was I. I reasoned that, if he can expand on his career as a songwriter by writing a book and having it published, so indeed can I. The fact that I, at that time, was neither in a band, nor finding any use for my songs whatsoever (i.e.: completely unknown) caused me no disturbance at all - I was going to write a novel.

So, what did I base my novel on? Well, in addition to 'And the Ass saw the Angel,' I had also been reading 'The Lord of the Rings,' and the Thomas Covenant series, of which I plagiarised mercilessly. I also managed to plunder a couple of the scenes from 'And the Ass,' but I rationalised my way out of it. This was to become a major theme for me for the next few years, in fact I lie, it still is a major theme for me, I just think I'm becoming better at it. I hand wrote eighty pages of this book and still have the manuscript in my possession but I have never been able to re-read it further than the first few lines, it is truly awful.

Once the novella had been completed, I went on to write possibly the worst one-act play written in the English language, half-wrote another novel and began keeping something of a journal. This was possibly my favourite way to write. It started as snatches, paragraphs for proposed books, poetry, thoughts, attempts at humour and daily happenings. It could almost have been something worth keeping until I discovered Henry Rollins. Another musician that wrote books, except he had his own publishing company and I made the mistake of buying a couple of his books. Not that I thought they were bad but I realised that my journal was in a very similar style and I copied him as a result, even trying to outdo him for violence. A couple of years ago I found this journal and read it. Only one good piece of writing remains in the whole thing. But it is still one piece, that one piece that speaks to me, that my soul tells me it wants. I have not kept a journal since.

I believe my writing has grown out of necessity. I feel, and have always felt, the need to write things down; to feel I am doing something creative, to feed my parasite. My songwriting has perhaps been my least altruistic method of writing, I started that to prove I wasn't stupid but also, deep down, I wanted the fame of the songwriter. Not that I don't want the fame of the author, for I certainly do, but it is NOT the reason. I wrote reasonably commercially oriented songs, I don't wish to write commercially oriented literature. I'm still not clear am I? Even when I read this I can tell that it's mostly bullshit. I DO want the fame, I want people to read my work and appreciate it but I also want them to read it on MY terms. I'm not interested in writing the next million-seller, unless it's MY OWN writing, not someone else's. How can I feed my parasite with somebody else's meat? I can't write a Jackie Collins, or a Bryce Courtney or even an Agatha Christie. This writing does NOT feed my soul, no matter how it may feed others. I also don't wish to write a Patrick White, or a David Malouf or a DH Lawrence but I'd like to write in the company of them. I have to write in the company of them and I have to keep writing, keep writing, keep writing.

So much for no autobiography. Let's move on.

Can a soul always be considered true? Or does the soul also have the capacity to be overcome, to adhere to the status quo, to conform? Is this 'false soul' in evidence when some of our more unsavoury characteristics appear? Is the false soul the harbinger of submission?

Consider my friend Corey. Corey has just turned thirty and is one of the most intelligent men you are likely to meet. In his youth, Corey was a talented sportsman, both as a player and a tactician. He was also interested in music and began to learn the guitar but, as he grew older, something changed. Corey decided, halfway through high school, to study accountancy. He told me that his decision was based on his girlfriend's father, himself an accountant, who owned one of the best stereo systems money could buy. Corey wondered how he could afford it, found out the father's occupation and so studied it for the next few years. Corey did well and graduated with honours. But he did not last in the profession for Corey was also a surfer and living in Torquay, while his job was an hour away in Melbourne. After one year, Corey quit. Now, the question is, did Corey's soul, whilst initially true, turn false? Is that at all possible? I think it is, in fact, I think it is quite likely. You see, Corey's true soul is knowledge - he loves to study, to learn new things, he's' the perpetual student. But for one short period, he wanted money and this is the interesting part to me, to buy a stereo - a connection with music? Yes indeed, quite a connection I believe. And this is perhaps where the soul turns false, in relation to our truth. Corey is not really a musician, he plays guitar still and plays in bands but he will never truly be a musician. Yet I believe that discovery of his true soul is connected with music. So here's the proposition, how do you realise the connections?

Corey and music and learning - Me and music and writing - can you see the connections? Am I making sense? My connection with writing came about through music, even as I imagined music to be my true soul. The same is happening with Corey. So, here's another question to consider, which connection leads on to the true soul?

There can only be the one answer, at least for me, and that is the one that I have stared before - the connection that makes you feel alive, the one that makes you feel that you are not wasting time. And this is where the ability of the soul to turn false easily comes into play \- it is far too easy to convince yourself that you aren't wasting time.

Brainwashing - the economy of the world. What problems do you face in life that are so important to you? Bills, schools, health, work, friends, children, spouse, parents. The list could be (and probably is) endless. But why? I'm not suggesting for a moment that no responsibility applies but you surely can choose the responsibility level. The true soul does not always apply to career choice, I think this is probably fairly obvious. But let us just concentrate on career, as it is with our jobs the brainwashing is most insidious. Why are so many people unhappy in the chosen careers - their CHOSEN careers? Because they feel that they are wasting their time. They feel that nothing that can be changed and they feel that they wouldn't be allowed to even if they could. Why? Because they've been brainwashed into thinking it. A friend of mine is in a similar situation to me, he's a coffee maker and waiter but he wants to be an actor. To this end, he is trying out for minor parts in local productions and refining whatever skills he has at home but he's not trying out for NIDA. His friends (a couple of mutual friends actually) are somewhat aggrieved that he is choosing to do this, as my friend was accepted into one of the top law schools in Melbourne. However, after a year he felt it wasn't 'right' for him and so he quit to follow acting. His friends chide him every time they see him for they feel he is 'wasting his life.' They are trying to brainwash him. For his part, my friend is always questioning this decision but, so far, has remained stubborn enough to follow his true soul. Of course, acting may not be his true soul, but at least he is exploring the connection. The friends have stopped trying because they are 'grown up.' I find this attitude of moral elitism appalling and I think it is an indication that those on the moral right have realised their true soul is undernourished. Their parasite is dying but they have lived so long with their cancer that they cannot step outside it enough to try new meat. They cannot see why, if they must waste their lives, why should others not?

This is where I think the brain washing becomes the most potent - self-continuation. The statement 'I can't do that because, at some time, you have to grow up and realise that you can't kid around anymore,' is so full of spite and jealousy that the parasite can never be fed with any kind of life. There is always, ALWAYS, a way to follow the true connections. There is no point making another's life the same as your own. There cannot be an effective outcome from continual self-brainwashing. Your own life is all that matters; your own life is all that matters. As said, I am a writer. But I am also a cook and a cleaner, at least until I'm a working writer. I have taken up my part of the general life brainwashing responsibility but I have not forsaken the connection with my true soul. I cannot be the only one who realises this. My friends are not happy that I'm trying to be a writer - all but two do not believe I have the talent to be successful. More often than I can say, I am being asked whether I will go back to school or whether I will try to obtain better employment. But I like what I am doing at the moment; it suits me to have the time off to write, to make a bit of money and to be constructive. The friends that seem most against my writing have well-paid jobs but allow them little freedom in the way of social life. They are the group planners.

Plans are good. Plans can be helpful. Plans can be some of the most useful things you will ever encounter in your search for the perfect parasite food. But I don't believe that an entire life can be planned. For, if it truly could and the plans went accordingly, what sort of life would it be? To know every day what will happen, to know in five years' time exactly where you will be - how can that be considered a life? And, more importantly, how can that be indicative of your true soul?

Planning for your life is the most unloving form of brainwashing I can think of. For where can risk gain a foothold? This is something I have yet to touch on but, I've mentioned it now so, I might as well follow up. Risk is the most fundamental action in the search for the true soul. And risk is the major factor in turning the soul false. For what is a plan but an elimination of risk? And what is brainwashing but the repetition of 'no risk, no risk, no risk?' And what can cause such strong emotion form others but the realisation that you are risking more than they would ever be willing to? I may be seeming a little harsh but think about it, if someone is willing to risk everything, and I do mean everything to pursue what they know in themselves is the right connection, isn't that more risk than most people attempt in their lives? Because if they were indeed successful in this endeavour, if they risked all and came up with the answer, wouldn't that mean that, for those that risk nothing, their life is indeed a waste? And who wants to admit that their life is a waste?

Risk - it's the hardest decision to make. Because the brainwashing truly kicks in.

'What about your job, kids, wife?'

'Are you sure it's really what you want?'

'What if it turns out that you can't do it?'

'You're throwing your life away.'

This list could go on another twenty pages. Risk is the most important factor in overcoming the brainwashing that starves the parasite. Brainwashing is the cancer, risk, while not being the cure, is the integral path of the connection. What is a parasite, without risk?

Read this carefully; everything I have written so fare could be wrong.

If anyone asks me my religion, I always say Church of England. I guess I grew up Anglican; at least that's what I say to make some sort of distinction with other religions. Because religion wasn't really practiced in the house. My Mum and Dad went to church frequently, they were both in the choir and my dad even studied at theological college for three years. They met through the church and, when we were younger, the three of us went to Sunday school - at least for a year. I thought it was ridiculous really and very boring, especially for a kid. But if anyone asks, I always say Church of England, or Anglican. It still seems funny to me now to say that, for I don't practice religion of any sort, not any true concrete religion anyway. I've read bits and pieces of the Bible but could never read the book from cover to cover - it just didn't 'feel right.' To be quite honest, it felt stupid and I don't know why. It shouldn't feel stupid to read the bible should it? I'm quite interested in reading the Koran, I'm even interested in reading some Buddhist texts but to read the bible, it seems almost pointless. Why is that? The parts of the Bible I have read have posed some very interesting question for me. I believe the Bible has been much maligned and it doesn't need to be this way. I also believe that the reason it has become so ignored is that too many people with too much power are taking the bible at face value.

The bible is only a book after all. It has no real power, it is only telling a story, a history. To believe the words at face value is to make too many assumptions that can never be proved incorrect. And yet, if you read the text as it is, it seems obvious to me that the book was never meant to be taken as a literal translation of the author's intent. Read a book, any book, even one written in the most obvious style and language and no two people will reach the same conclusion about it. Incorporate a book with a language so written as to encourage interpretation and no one will reach a conclusion. So, why shouldn't it be with the bible, written in Hebrew some two thousand years ago? Even translated into English, it proves no easier, nor conclusive to read. It is written in such an openly interpreted style, it is a wonder Christianity ever survived for as long as it has. The bible is a book on the history of the time, who is to say that it has been translated correctly, or not been embellished? To believe the bible as a book of pure fact and truth is to believe every book ever written is a book of pure truth - it cannot be.

I do not think it is bad though. I do not blame the bible, or even the Christian religion for many of the wars and atrocities committed in its name over the years and are still happening. That I blame on the power of obedience. The obedience of power unchallenged. The power of the false soul.

People want to be led, that is why the false soul is so easy to make master. All it takes is one acceptance. If one is seen to accept an outcome, the amount that will follow is too frightening to contemplate. The ones in power know this. They follow their true soul into the height of that power and then break the connection. For it is far easier for them to follow the connection to their false soul than to continue the fight. Or am I wrong? Can a true soul bring another to subservience?

The power of the false soul lies in the ease of capitulation. The power of the true soul lies in the joy of the knowing. So, knowing you are taking power over someone else, isn't this an indication of a connection to the true soul? This is my own reasoning, I am only following my own argument to its seemingly logical conclusion; isn't this an indication of a connection to the true soul? And yet I say, no. How does making another suffer equate to t true joy of life? It simply cannot. As I have stated, it is easier for the false soul to grow than to challenge the connection to the true soul. And I have also asked the question, is the false soul the harbinger of submission? The need for obedience is clearly a connection to the false soul; the eagerness of submission also features this connection. Yet power without submission does exist and this is the connection to the true soul.

This is not supposed to be a self-help book.

You must understand, I cannot repeat this enough, I have no insight. I am not in any way qualified to state these opinions, I am merely a writer, a conduit I suppose. I am just expanding on a hypothesis; this is, as mentioned at the outset, an experiment.

This is the truth. One week ago, as I was walking home from work on a Sunday morning, I decided to conduct this experiment. What I had planned to do was this: ensure a good supply of coffee, buy some sort of legal pill to help keep me awake, find three days when I did not have to work at all and stay up for those days writing. This is my fifth manuscript and I was trying to experiment with style. I am still searching for my own voice and I thought that this procedure would be a great opportunity to gain an insight into my voice. I work split shifts quite a bit of the time, cleaning and cooking, so finding the requisite days off has not happened. I doubt whether I could have actually stayed up for so long anyway but I was willing to try and believed it would work. So, what has actually happened? In a very short while I am going to be moving house and not have access to this computer, so I have moved my schedule up a couple of weeks. As said, I doubt I could've stayed awake so what I decided to do was to break my stint up into three different shifts - a night, a day and a night - so I would only really be awake one full day. This is what has happened. Last night I had intended to begin my experiment but I was so tired after the weekend that I fell asleep. Today is the day my experiment began. It is now 10:24pm and I have been writing almost constantly since 10:00am. It is my intention to write 20,000 words by the time the sun come up tomorrow. At this time of writing, I have written 5,888 words, so I have 14,112 words to go, at which point I will declare my manuscript finished. My wife understands what I am doing but she will come into the study at some point and tell me to go to bed and I will probably agree with her. One, because I am quite tired already and two, because I love to go to sleep with my wife. However, I also believe that this experiment is important to furthering my writing career and I intend to keep writing as long as I can stay awake. I need this study to break through my laziness when it comes to my writing. It is not important whether this becomes a published work, it is more important for me to slash my usual writing cycle. For my book of prose poems, I wrote just over 17,000 words in eighteen months. For my short novel (that is still not truly complete), I wrote a little over 35,000 words in two years, three months. My book of poetry took only six months but that it only around 10,000 words. As you can see, I can never be accused of over-writing. But I have reasoned with myself that, it I can write a 20,000 word manuscript in basically the one sitting, I should be able to find it within myself to write 100,000 words or so for my next book. This is the truth of my experiment; keep this in mind as you read on.

The absolute need to qualify myself has guided my writing for as long as I can remember. I often believe (probably erroneously) that I have controversial thought that must be put onto paper. The problem with these controversial thought is that I always believe I will make trouble for myself, so I qualify them, usually by contradicting myself. This is a habit I am trying to break myself of, mainly through the writing of this manuscript. So far, it has proved a miserable failure.

Let us examine this previous statement in the light of my true soul/false soul argument. Qualification must be a connection to the false soul. Therefore, it is fair to argue that, with this book I am attempting to find the real connection to my true soul, in point of fact, I may be yet to have found my true soul - that is fair I believe. So, I suppose that this must leave me somewhere near the edge - to reach for the connection, or to sever the rest on my old judgements? We both know which is the easer choice, you and I, so how can I reach for that true connection? How can I be at one with my true soul? How can I reconcile the beginning of this piece, with its real truth? I don't believe I can give an accurate answer until I fulfil all the truths that were at the heart of this book in its conception. I need to plunge deeper into its truths.

You know the reason for this book, the reason it was started. So, let me expand on those reasons and actually tell you what this book was supposed to be about.

It was not to be about my belief in the soul. It was not to be about my search for truths within the soul. It was not even really supposed to be about religion. In actual truth, I did not really know what I was going to write. It was supposed to be an experiment in writing for its own sake and, as I grew more weary, I was going to attempt to describe the experience. Sort of taking a trip without the benefit of the drug I suppose. As usual, I had pictured the outcome in my mind, far in advance of when I chose to start. That is another of my writing problems, I imagine these big, beautiful works of art, thousands of words long, hundreds of pages, but I always imagine them finished. I rarely imagine the sweat that goes into writing thousands of words, I rarely imagine the tedium required for writing a book so large. I have written about this in my novel, so I don't wish to cover old ground here but let me say that, for this particular manuscript, I imagined myself typing out the final line of the book, daylight just breaking in through the front window, my eyes deep with black circles of deprived sleep, my fingers cramped into claws from tapping the keys for 72 hours straight, the computer overheating but still managing to cling to some vestige of life; just enough for me to save the manuscript and ensure my fame. Because yes, I did believe this book would make me famous. It would be the one book of my collection that would become 'the one he typed for three straight days, living only of coffee and pills, not sleeping, stopping only to piss.' I imagined all this but never once imagined how difficult it must truly be to stay up for three days straight without some sort of illegal drug, or at least some great surge of adrenaline to keep the mind alive enough to thwart sleep. I'm quite naïve in many respects - is there a legal pill that will keep you up for three days?

Digging deeper into my psyche it's time for yet another admission - why I chose to write this manuscript this way. Yes, it was to search for my own voice and yes, it was also to explore occasional themes that have been running through my head for years but, not as much as I have made out. The first and truest reason is because I read and have been influenced by Jack Kerouac. By his novels certainly but moreso by his letters. If you are a writer and have yet to read the selected letter of of Jack Kerouac, I can recommend them as a must read, if only for inspiration alone. The first book starts at around 1940 and continues on up until 1956, the year before _On the Road_ was published to much critical acclaim and made him a household word. Kerouac was, by far, the most obsessed writer I have ever read. He threw virtually nothing away and followed his true soul like no one I have ever (in a fashion) known. Between 1951 and 1956, Kerouac wrote a sum total of _eleven_ books. Think about that for just a moment. Some writers haven't written eleven books in their lives, Kerouac wrote eleven books in five years. My manuscripts (including this one of course) for the last five years would barely fit into the pages of _On the Road_ or even _Visions of Cody._ That is probably the most important factor in my writing, or at least my decision to concentrate more fully upon my writing, that book of his letters. Quoting directly from the book would be a gross violation of copyright so I will try to paraphrase what I can remember. Towards the end of the book (1956), Kerouac wrote in a letter (to, I think, Allen Ginsberg) about his frustration at writing. It seemed that all around him, his Beat Generation friends were becoming published but he, the man who truly could be said to have started it all, remained outside. He protested, "when people say they are writers I ask them to show me their work, but they have nothing and I have so much." (Remember, I am paraphrasing). The most impressive piece of the book, which stuck in my mind long after I had read about it, was this. Ann Charters (who edited the book) has written quite a few small introductory pieces to most of the letters. In one, she mentioned the writing of _The Subterraneans,_ a short novel written when Kerouac had fully developed his spontaneous method. This book was written in three all night sessions. I remember first reading that and being blown away by the fact that someone could actually write a novel in three nights. At the time of reading these letters, I was halfway through my book of prose poems, twelve months. Six months later, I have finished them, taking Kerouac's inspirational attitude to writing; keep writing, keep writing, keep writing. Still, I had always remembered the story of _The Subterraneans_ , and after completing the rough draft of my novella, I was stuck for something else to write. I had long ago concluded that the only way to be a writer was to write, largely through Kerouac's influence (I'm repeating myself I know but I'm tiring out). Then came my walk home. I have no idea why it suddenly sprung to me but I'm grateful for its happening. Inspired, I planned to do what you have already read, stay up for three days and write about it. Well, it looks like it will only turn into one day but, thanks Jack; you've been my mentor. And if I break down and sleep calls too harshly, you've still inspired me to come this far.

Ok, I might actually start doing what I imagined I was originally going to do and describe my emotional state, at this very moment. Well, I've just looked up the word count and I've still 12,547 words to go. I'm actually feeling a little disappointed at this news because I thought I'd come a lot further on since my last word count. You see, I'm really starting to trough out now. It's 11.32 pm and I've just come to the true realisation that, to make it to 20,000 words, I really WILL have to stay up until the sun rises. Not to be confused with the sun ALSO rises (much laughter). So, what else am I feeling? Well.., I'm growing angry with myself because, as I am so tired, I am making more simple mistakes in spelling on this computer. For instance, you see the word because above this line? It took me five tries to spell that out. My hands are indeed starting to hurt a little, even to cramp up (especially the left one) and I'm seeing shadows of darkness before my eyes. Shadows of darkness, is that an oxymoron? I'm seeing spots before my eyes, that'll do. But it won't really because they're not spots, they're more lines. Lines of darkness falling out of the middle of the computer and sailing down the screen. I know it's only because of the way my vision is functioning but it's an interesting phenomenon to describe. Before I go too much farther, I feel like doing a spell check - this may be a good opportunity for you to go to the toilet if you wish. Think of it as an ad break.

Ok, the spell check is complete and, more importantly, I've saved my work. What else am I feeling now? There is a lovely crampy pain in my left shoulder, mainly I guess from sitting in front of this damn computer all day. My eyes grow fuzzy, even with the help of my glasses and my brain is actually starting to grow stale, almost mushy.

I started this at 10:00 am didn't I? yes, I am sure I have already mentioned that. But be under no assumptions, I have not only been sitting here typing away diligently, oh no. so far I have taken a break for lunch and tea, have made a pot of coffee, which I drank in the morning; I have taken my two dogs for a walk in the afternoon and have sat on the couch with my wife for an hour watching television, or more accurately, The Simpsons. So do not delude yourself that I have been here without moving for twelve hours, nothing could be further from the truth. But I am here now and I am still typing. Though I think I might make another pot of coffee, I AM going to finish this manuscript in this sitting. Determination - a connection to the true soul? I'd like to think so.

I have made my coffee, washed out my cup and so I can continue.

This true soul/false soul debate is growing a little wearisome don't you agree? As I've said, it was never really supposed to be a part of the manuscript in the first place; it was only a device to start me off. You see, I believe that this will be my least read book (by me certainly) because I intend it to not be edited. What goes into this book stays where it is, bad writing and all. It is the one thing from Kerouac that I am directly lifting into this one, no revision. Once it is finished and has been through a regulation spell-check, it will be left alone. A brave move for me because that is one other thing that Jack and I disagree on - I love the editing process.

All my books thus far, have taken so long because One: I'm a lazy bastard and Two: I'm constantly going back and revising the stupid things. My novella for instance, took me two and a bit years to write 35,000 words but, in actual fact it probably took me a good four years because this final draft (which I still don't believe I have truly finished) was actually the ninth time I had started it. Can you imagine, nine times? Now to some of you that may seem a trivial amount but to me, to start a novel nine times and each time make it through a quarter of the way before throwing it out? It seems a little excessive. All writers (especially successful ones) will tell you that this is the curse of the beginning writer - you cannot be expected to write a perfect first draft. But I still do. I still think that 90% of that first draft should be able to make it through the editing process; editing should be about refining that draft, no completely re-writing it. I realise that some parts scream out for a re-write or a severe cut and some places ask very nicely for some expansion but, en toto, that first draft should be pretty right. (I've just spilled coffee everywhere goddamn it) This obviously places me firmly in the category of, new writer unfamiliar with working with a good editor. Or should I say, a professional editor and yes that's true. But there is something in Kerouac's arrogance that shines through I think. I'd love to be able to take his inspiration of spontaneous prose and run with it but, I'm am just not confident enough in my own writing. I need to re-read my work; to change the parts that make me shudder, to improve the parts that seem to shine. This is why I claim for myself the 'brave move.' For this book, what you read is what I am writing now.

I'm starting to shake a little; it is 12:12 am. It's growing colder but I have my jacket on and I don't feel too bad. I suppose I ought to say that we are in May, the last month of Autumn. I began this ms. May 16, 2001. It is now May 17th. Try to contain your excitement as best you can. I am 1538 words off halfway.

The thing with this manuscript is that I am trying to refuse to follow the stated theme. It bores me now, you know the reasons why. What I will do now, just to have something else to write, is to describe my room. In front of me, obviously, is my computer, I think it's an IBM. It has a low radiation, colour monitor and is deathly dull to describe, being that off-white colour computer always seem to be. Too the right (which would be your left) is the printer - a Canon BJC-210SP. A red mouse pad sits in front of it, with a Microsoft mouse resting on said pad. To my left are my Walkman and a tape, which I use for my interviews. Yes, that's something I haven't said, I have managed to do some paid writing. I work for the local street press - Forte - that I have probably mentioned in other writings but I'll expand anyway. Forte is a music based lifestyle magazine, brought out fortnightly and is fee. I am one of a group of writers who interview bands, review CD's and concerts, review movies and write about clubs and the theatre. It is not Rolling Stone of course but it is writing that I am paid for and, for that alone, I feel it is worth taking my time to pursue. I don't wish to be a journalist but I think all writers need some exposure to the journalistic school - if only to learn how to write to a deadline. Beside my Walkman is the earpiece for it, one of the speakers that connects to the computer and the previously mentioned Jack Kerouac letters book. Underneath that book there lies a dictionary, used earlier in the day for the beginning of this ms. In front of the book there are two disks that I use in my work for Forte. Behind the books but directly in front of me (confusing aren't I?) is my silver coffee plunger and my cup of coffee. All of this is on the computer desk, which sits around three-quarters of the way into the room, close to the far wall window. On the wall facing me, is a photo that my best friend took of me when I was younger and had long hair. I am staring straight into the camera with a cymbal covering half of my face. There is a caption underneath the cymbal that reads 'it's not me.' The photo is encased in glass and surrounded by an old wooden frame that she obtained cheaply at a framers. Behind me sits a bookshelf, my wife's from her younger days, when she was studying at University. There are not too many books in it anymore, as we are packing up (well, to be perfectly frank, she is packing up) to move out but there remains some of her old study materials, a couple of nursing books, a Thesaurus, two bibles (one modern language and one old) and also my resume. On my right hand side (again your left) there is a box which contains some back x-rays, my portafile with various writings therein and bookstand with light. There are also another two boxes behind me, one a stationery box, the other containing most of my song and lyric books. This is my study; this is where I am writing this book of questionable knowledge. This is where I have confined myself most of this day and night. I will not describe the rest of my house, there's no point and I want to move on to something else. I don't know what but something that won't bore me anymore. Or you.

My first coffee of the night (morning) has gone down well.

I am desperately clutching at a way to move on, any way because I feel like I am coming to the end of my ability to continue. Ah, the weakness of the false soul, toughen up David! This seems to be another problem I am faced with, the constant need to break through my writer's block. Not that I feel incredibly blocked but as I'm always on the quest for originality, that requires new thought. I feel I am constantly repeating myself, stealing form my own work to plump up this continuing one. I don't feel like I am coming to any sort of a breakthrough, more like I'm coming to a slow halt; a car that's run dry of fuel. I'm very close to halfway now but I've just about written myself into a void. My descriptions of things bore me, I don't wish to go over the soul debate again and I can't help but constantly repeat myself. How many times have I mentioned not wanting to review the soul question? Only to do just what I have done then, go over not going over it. I am really struggling. I know I ought to do to bed and finish this tomorrow but no, I am not giving up so easily. I could, I am that sort of person, I've always been a bit of a quitter. I'm one of these people who is upset if they can't do something new perfectly from the first time it's tried. That's a problem for a great many people I know but I almost make it a mantra. So I really should be amazed that I have managed to keep my writing up for so long. Not just this piece but all my writing, from my youth onwards. The fact that I haven't quit when I could so easily have done must say something for me, even if only in my own acknowledgment. Writer's block or no, I've kept on. My true soul has just handed me a connection.

Well, that's quite a bit better. Here's a tip for other budding writers out there, Dave Jeffery's cure for writer's block - have a shit. I keep forgetting that one and it's so true, it has worked for me on every occasion that it's been used - whether writing songs, prose or poetry. I believe I now have enough inspiration to take us at least halfway through, maybe even a little further. I am onto my third cup of coffee and I'm enjoying this little caffeine headache I've developed. My shakes are increasing a little as well, not too bad though, not too bad.

I'm going to talk a little about the title of this book _The Host._ And I shall start with the title itself, where did it come from and what am I trying to convey?

Well, the title came directly from Patrick White, although PW did not once mention it in any of his books or use it as a title. It came about after I'd read his book of letters. I love letters; it's a truly dying artform. In these days of instant communication, email and text messaging, the art of writing a letter is losing prominence. Which is a pity because it is the one artform that everyone can indulge in. there is no one out there, with the ability to write and understand his/her own language, who cannot revel in writing a letter. It requires no qualifications (apart from the aforementioned), it needs no special skill in setting out, it asks no great vocabulary, it can be as short or long as one wishes and most of all, if not perhaps best, it costs virtually nothing. While I will concede that you do not have the immediate interaction that comes with the telephone, or even email, the beauty of letters remains their permanence. How many times have you been cleaning a long neglected cupboard, or draw, only to find a lost letter - from a mother, or lover, or friend? It has not been thrown out, for whatever reason, and you unfold the creased paper and read the words printed thereon. Can you gain such nostalgia from a telephone? How many of you print emails and keep them? Not I, most of my emails are deleted once they have been read, not so my letters. I personally, have kept everything my wife has sent me, from the time we first went out, to birthday cards. They will mean nothing to anyone other than me but that is not the point; to have them is to bring back fond memories. Making new ones is our order of the day at present but just to have those innocent missives remains a treasure. Why must everything be so instant? Must the art of the letter truly die out in this century? We must try not to be so cruel.

Well, that was an enjoyable tangent I must say. My third coffee is gone, I'm feeling slightly sick and I need to find my way back to my point. Letters - Patrick White, the Host. Yes, that's it, the title of this book. Lifted directly from PW's inspiration I probably should say. I had just finished reading the letters (before I'd commenced my novella) and the title struck me. That's really all it was, only a title, nothing more. At first thought, it struck me as an Agatha Christie title, reminiscent of _And then there were none_ (to use its more politically correct title) but that would have been far too cliché for my sensitivities so I needed to think of a theme. It struck me that 'host' has different meanings and I viewed it as the host of a parasite. My original concept was for a young girl to be the host of the second coming of Jesus but I still felt that it was too cliché. It was not until today that I settled on the use of the title. Many of my half-novels have been called the host; this is the only book that will actually keep the title (so far).

I am over halfway through now and have a tremendous coffee sickness going on. My head feels as though it's swelling, my stomach is curdling nicely and my back is aching across the shoulder blades. This coffee and sleep deprivation is doing wonders for my writing, I tell myself constantly.

What lies in the pleasure of automatic writing? Not very much if you can believe the critics and I wouldn't mind betting they are right. For what is automatic writing if it is not the greatest form of self-indulgence? What do I mean by automatic writing? Well, to me, automatic writing is taking anything you think of and placing it upon the page. It doesn't necessarily have to mean anything to anyone except the author and it will not always be pretty to read. In fact, it may even indicate laziness on the part of the author, a desperate plea for inspiration when there is truly nothing left in the tank. The device of a charlatan in fact, cunningly persuading you that he is expanding on the realms of what is acceptable in the novel, when really, all he is doing is taking up valuable tree pulp that could be used for something actually useful, like toilet paper. Having said that (and you could tell this was coming) let me share with you, a little toilet paper.

Explain to me the Greekness of all this I have not come here to ask a price I have not come here at all for a new line is probable cause for I don't believe that a probable cause exists in this example of a playing field can you see the value in such a sensuous apparition I don't know exactly what you're playing at but I'm sure that you'll see how this could be misconstrued in the final judgement so what about the texture of the game can it be announced with such a finality pursuant to the ecstasy of before I won't allow any form of disrepute to enter my plea and if you see this as the only form of containment well don't allow me to rub you the wrong way she locked horns with the only true matador left in all of Spain but she didn't even realise she was in Spain she thought she'd left her mother in the shopping mall I couldn't really tell what the topic was going to cover so I decided then and there that there was probably not much point in keeping any notes bobby told the dealer that he'd be able to pay up Wednesday but he was reminded that the deal went over last week and I vaguely recall seeing that burnt out care somewhere near the Werribee turn off but I didn't record the number plate though I don't think the officer had that in the forefront of his mind his wife became a prostitute because she couldn't find a new toy in the first book of the month club she'd ever joined and I thought that she probably had done the wrong thing at the right time but Sharon didn't care what I thought so Robert5 can't imaging attending a better function than the final Christmas party he organised because he needed to further his career but couldn't really drive which actually left him out of the running even though he refused to believe that someone was better than him like the cow gives better milk than the goat but that was only in certain farmer's opinions certainly not mine I thought goat's milk was better for her stomach yet they refused to repair the refrigerator even though it came with the house and was essentially broken on the signing of the lease but you can't fight what you can't see even though you might be able to smell it for the taste might be improved with sugar but don't you think it's to your benefit to get used to it as it is this memorandum is sure to create havoc and if that's what you are after then I think you've probably made a wise decision even though I cannot agree and must refuse to sign the bottom paper I hope this breaks the chain of quiet subterfuge or finds you in a better mood than last week what was all that about there needs to be a greater degree of discipline around this place I'm growing a little tired of being the only professional at work my buzz from the coffee is starting to wear off and my hands are cramping more frequently than I would like but all the same I'm going to continue on it's after 2 in the morning and I'm doing my best to race along but I can't help but think that I'm truly wasting my time and I'd serve myself better by getting some sleep and learning how to be a better cook I need to stop this sort of thinking it is the thinking of a quitter of a purveyor of false souls and I can feel the hero of this piece growing stronger by the minute he is seeing patterns in the words that are slowly forming within his mind perhaps Plato was right when he said stop this world I want to get off was that Plato I can't remember sleep deprivation is a wonderful thing she said as she fell off the only place she could find to sit for the exam.

That wasn't too bad was it?

I haven't stayed up this late in quite a while, not since Corey and I towed my old station wagon home from Melbourne. This is quite an amusing story (it helps if you're tired).

It all started with my sister who lives in Melbourne. I had told on numerous occasions that I wouldn't mind moving up to Melbourne but the problem was that I had no money and no job there. One day, quite unexpectedly, she rings me up and tells me that there is a job going at her boyfriends' place of work. Good deal think I but wait, I've only recently started a job working with Corey at a restaurant. Dilemma. Quit the place I work in now to work in Melbourne or follow the status quo? Bugger it I think, I'll go up for an interview and see what happens. I call, arrange the said interview and think no more of it. Now, my car has been playing up a little for the last few weeks - the temperature gauge has been fluctuating wildly and being the non-mechanic that I am, I decide that, while it remains reasonably low, I'll leave it alone. Big mistake but that comes a little later. My first problem occurs a day before the interview, when I'm backing my car out of the driveway to head to work. It seems a little sluggish, like one of the tires needs pumping up. Well, it needs more than pumping up, the damn thing's flatter than my wallet. This would not normally be a problem but unfortunately it was for me, as it was the spare tyre. I had been meaning to have the other one fixed but I just couldn't seem to find the time or the money. Well, there was no choice now, I had to grit my teeth, call the folks and beg. My dad duly came and picked me up, dropped the tyre off at the service station and me at work, with the assurance from the station that I could pick the tyre up tomorrow morning. So, the next morning, as early as possible, I did just that - great, the tyre was fixed. Dad took me back home to Torquay where I replaced the tyre on my car and headed off to Melbourne for the interview. Driving slowly (because my car was playing up, remember?) I managed to make it almost all the way in. I say almost because, less than five minutes from my destination, driving down Brunswick Street, my car finally has the seizure it's been promising for months. The temperature gauge points straight to high, I lose at least half the power and white smoke starts pouring from my exhaust. I pull into Bell Street, which is not too far from the restaurant, find a park and walk to my interview. It doesn't go too badly, the job is something I can handle ok but I tell the owner I have to see if I can move out of my house quickly, knowing all the while that I'm going to commute until I can't stand it any longer (never the easy way for me if there is a hard way to do things). He tells me that's fine and to call him in a couple of days. Terrific thinks I, a job in Melbourne at last. But it was not to be.

Arriving back at my car, it will not start, no matter how I try. Giving up in sheer frustration and considerable anger, I walk down Brunswick Street to find somewhere for lunch. Half an hour later, with a full belly (of a wonderfully tasty vegetable Minestrone soup), I walk back to the car and try again. No success. Admitting defeat, I call the RACV, who cannot come to see me for at least an hour. Ok, an hour it is and I settle into the car to read INPRESS, Melbourne's version of Forte. An hour later I watch an RACV van cruise past my back window, so getting out to greet him, I also watch him turn the corner and disappear. Thinking that he must be coming back around (as I was parked in a one-way street), fifteen minutes or so elapse before I realise that he is not coming back. So, I ring them again and am told that they couldn't find me. This time I wait on top of the care - they find me. The guy tries also to start the car without success and so checks under the hood. Lifting off the oil cap, he finds water therein and proceeds to tell me that I've managed to crack the head and it will probably be the best part of $2000 to have fixed. Not liking this situation at all, I thank him and promptly panic. I have not that kind of money; I dare not borrow so much from my parents and always in the back of my mind is 'how the fuck do I get the car home from here?' My solution? To catch the train home and try not to think about, which I duly did.

I tell Corey the tale once I get home and he is sympathetic but not wholly helpful. At least until he suggests we tow it home, using his dad's car. Unfortunately for us, his dad is completely opposed to the idea (which I have to say, I understood). The solution hits me like a cliché. The band I played in at the time was going to perform in Ballarat. I needed a vehicle to transport my drums in and my own dad had agreed to let me use it. I proposed to him Corey's towing arrangement and he seemed ok with the idea. So it was settled, after the gig Corey and I would travel to Melbourne and tow the wagon back to Torquay. Oh, what a night.

We were the last band on and I had given our singer/leader a lift in the van. Now, there are two ways to get to Melbourne from Ballarat, the short way which would take around three-quarters of an hour, or the long way which would take around two hours. Corey and I were opting for the short way but our singer was trying to persuade us to take him home first. I was tired already after the gig, so I was in no mood to travel and extra hour and a half out of my way to get to Melbourne so accordingly, I refused. He was adamant and I usually let him have his way but this time, no chance. He bit a lift with someone else and Corey and I headed off.

We arrived in Melbourne at one o'clock in the morning and amazingly, the care was still there. I say amazingly because I had now left the car in the same spot for about three days. It had collected no parking tickets and no signs with 'please move this car,' on it, so I pushed it out into the street, attached Corey's dad's tow rope, jumped into the front seat, turned the lights and the hazards on and we left. Corey had made the stipulation that he was to drive my dad's van home and I was to guide my wagon. We worked out some hand signals before we left to indicate stopping and so forth so there'd be no confusion and no crashing. The only thing we really had going for us was the fact that it was so late, I would not have liked to do it in peak hour traffic.

The drive home was the slowest, most surreal trip on that road I'd experienced since the time Chook and I drove home with only his parkers on. Chook was the guitarist in another bank I played in and our bass player lived in Melbourne (do-incidentally in Ball Street) where we sometimes rehearsed. Chook had an old Hiace van that was well on its way out and had told me before we went up that the lights had not been working too well. We found out how well on the trip home. All the way from Melbourne to Geelong, we drove with the only lights that were working, the parking lights. It was a bizarre feeling, strangely li8ke flying. We were flashed many times by oncoming cars but could do nothing about it. A couple of days after we made it home, Chook sold his van.

Corey and I drove home on the Melbourne road at eighty kilometres an hour. It was such a surreal trip because I was completely at the mercy of Corey's driving, the only thing I could do was touch on the brakes. Because it was so late and we were so tired, there came times in Corey's driving when he would speed up just a little. This would cause my wagon to speed up also but, when Corey slowed down, the extra momentum that my car had picked up caused it to travel ever closer to the back of the van. To counter this, I needed to touch on the brakes but not too hard, as this would place unwanted strain on the towrope. It became our nightmare trip.

We made it back into Geelong at three-thirty in the morning and stopped at a garage on the way home for a rest. Actually, Corey wanted the rest, he was stressing far too much, I just wanted to keep going and get the stupid thing home and sleep. What I had forgotten however, was that I had promised my dad I would return his van by nine am and I had also promised Corey that I would take him to a garage to buy new tyres for his car. We finally arrived home at four am, completely shattered. Corey, who didn't sleep much anyway, decided to stay up, go for the tyres at daylight, then come home to sleep. I thought I would do the same but ended up going to bed at fie, to be woken up by Corey at seven. It was a night I would never like to go through again. And my car? Corey and I decided that we would at least have a look at the head so, after a couple of weekends playing around, we discovered it was only the head gasket that needed replacing. What was supposed to cost me $2000 to fix, ended up costing around $150. Of course, once we managed to get the thing going again it really shit itself and cost my mum $800 but that's a story for a different book.

I'm managing considerably well, I have only 7,178 words to go until I can declare this experiment over and it is just 3:25 am. I may even be able to finish this before daylight. I have no idea where on earth I will go once this book is finished. Because, in my constant quest for my voice and some originality, I'm wondering if I can write the same style of book twice. Let me try to explain.

Have a look again at my completed manuscripts: a book of prose poems, a book of standard poems, a novella and a book of assortment. The assortment includes some poetry, articles, short stories and incomplete thoughts. Now of course, we have this particular manuscript, which perhaps falls more into the realms of experimental writing than anything else of mine does does. And this is the problem I am coming to face - will the ideas for books dry up? Can I write another novel? Can I write another book of poetry?

I'm tempted to say that the easy answer (the false soul answer if you like) is yes, of course I can write another novel and another poetry book. The correct question should be, do I want to? And that's a little harder to equivocally answer because, presently, I would have to say no.

It's not that I don't want to, it's just that - I can't really see the point. I've written a book of poetry, I know in my heart that I can accomplish that, what is the point of writing another? The answer is not exactly the same with the novel for, it is so short that I don't really feel I've truly accomplished that so, yes I will probably write another novel. The main problem is that I want to write too much. Not words but in too many different forms. I'm tending towards familiarity with lots of forms, as opposed to mastery over one. The negative aspect of this is that I'm not sure whether it will make me a better writer. It would more likely be in my best interests to pick a certain style (poet, novelist, etc) and stick with that, refining and perfecting the style and so perhaps improving my chances of truly finding my voice. That doesn't interest me though. Writing in different styles is what pushes me towards keeping up my writing, I think it would be too boring to be confined to the one style. Or is that just what I'm convincing myself? Truly it takes someone of enormous talent to be able to successfully pull off a variety of writing styles - how do I think I qualify?

The time is now 3:53 am; I am still awake by just a shred but am forcing myself to use whatever will power I imagine I possess. I'm sure my wife will laugh at me when she finds that I have stayed up all night to write this and, speaking of amusing stories, this is as good a way as any to introduce my one and only 'attempted pick for a one-night stand' story. This is truly funny.

It was the band I played in with Chook. We were playing one of our semi-regular gigs at the local pub and while loading in and setting up, I noticed a young girl playing one the pinball machines that were in the corner. 'Nice arse,' I thought and continued setting up, thinking that as soon as we started playing, she'd leave - most people did. Well, we played our usual set, Chook insulted as many people from the stage as he could (as usual), we packed up the gear. What we had also done was have the mixer record our set through the desk, mainly for my benefit, as I liked to hear how the bands I played in sounded from out the front. Well, the tape wasn't all that flash because of the level we played at - it came out mostly drums and vocals with a little bass. Still the bass player and I went out to his care to have a listen. On the way out I passed the girl, she was still there. And I couldn't really be sure but I thought that as I passed her, she smiled.

Well, we're sitting out in the care listening to this tape and having a great old time. We sounded good although the tape sounded crap and Chook came out the some hilarious improvised lyrics. After the tape had finished, we heard the next band on setting levels, so we thought we'd go back in and listen to their set. Besides, I hadn't loaded my drums out yet; I needed to go back in at least for that.

I sat in the corner of the pub, with the rest of the band and some of their friends and , as I'm vaguely looking around the pub, in somewhat of a daze, I notice this girl again. This time I'm sure she's smiling but, as there is someone sitting in front of me, I assume she's smiling at them. Sure enough, she comes over to the guy in front of me and starts talking to him. He turns around and tells me she wants to talk to me. I waste no time - I'm there.

I start talking to this girl, whose name I can't remember and the first thing I realise is that she is pissed. And not just pissed but PISSED, she is absolutely off her face. I think I'm in with a good chance so, I keep talking to her but she has nothing to say, which didn't stop her talking mind you. At one point, she staggers (literally) off to the bathroom and Chook turns to me and says, 'you can't fuck her man, it just wouldn't be right.' And in the couple of years that I'd known him, it was the most intelligent thing to ever come from his mouth. Still, she came back and the last band started playing. She leaned forward to watch them and I took the opportunity to feel her up. She was completely unaware. And what do you think was my attempt at a pick up line? "If you need a lift home, I'll drive you." Brilliant.

The outcome of this badly told story (it wasn't a great story to begin with unfortunately) is that, once the last band finished, she went over to their bass player who promptly took her home. I was not at all happy. End of only pick up story.

Slowly, I am drawing to the conclusion that this experiment has been a dismal failure. I truly expected more form myself; instead I have resorted to the worn out cliché of telling stories from my past to fill space. For a brief moment, I considered this to be the best work I have thusfar produced. Now I realise the truth, it is toilet paper. It is not even very nice toilet paper, it has no pretty patterns or funny slogans, it is only white, boring, ordinary toilet paper. The only reason I am continuing is through sheer spite. I WILL NOT give up. I have a mere 5,982 words left to go, so I'd better have a think for a few minutes and really finish off with something good. Something big. Something that might actually be worth wading through to find. This is my last chance.

It is not right that I should work myself into such a depression so quickly. When I undertook this experiment, I was full of hope, positive that I could drag some true literature out of my underused brain, sure enough in my abilities to gain an insight into my true voice. But it has proved to be a waste of time. A waste of my time and a waste of yours and why? Because I have said so. But what is it that makes me say that? So far, I have read next to none of what I have written, I have only corrected what the spell check has asked me to, I have not read the ms as a whole. So how do I know it's a piece of shit? How can I be so convinced that what I have written is no better than toilet paper? Why must I place so much emphasis on these last five thousand or so words? Why do I place so much emphasis on this manuscript as a whole? Because I have said it's my last chance. But of course, it is not. I will have other chances, many chances to make good on my claim of writing for a living. This will not be my one true hope of a voice I can call my own, it will only be a part of many that will constitute a whole. And who says I am not already writing in my own voice? Yes, it is true that my influences are Kerouac, Patrick White and Nick Cave. It is also true that I can claim Hemmingway, Miller, Norman Mailer and Sylvia Plath as influences on my writing. With so many influences to choose from, can I really be considered to only write in a copy of one particular style? I'd like to think not. I don't believe I write like Kerouac, but he has influenced my passion. I certainly don't think I write like PW but he's without a doubt influenced my language and probably my structure. I don't think I write like Hemmingway but he has helped contain my need for wordiness. I really don't think I write like anybody that I have read or not read, yet I write like all of them, which cannot really be a bad thing. I'm choosing to use certain people as inspiration but hopefully not as imitation (I don't like it much either but it sums up my case). So again, why do I pressure myself so? Because I don't want to take the easy way out, I really DO want to write something big, something worthwhile and I'm not sure, at this late hour, that I've something big in me. But I refuse to take the easy way; I could. I could say that it's nearly five o'clock, forge the rest, turn off the computer, go to bed, finish this in the morning when you're fresh (the afternoon at least). NO! I'm going to keep on regardless of my vision, regardless of my back, regardless of my bladder. It won't be the best book I've ever written but it'll be the fastest. It may not be the most profound but it will be the most diverse, perhaps even more diverse than my book of assortments. Go ahead and take it down, you know that's what it's there for. What is my something big? This book HAS become something of a breakthrough. Perhaps not in the way I originally intended but a breakthrough nevertheless. What is the breakthrough? Simply this \- I CAN do it, because it will be completed . I can do it.

I'm now starting the true battle, the battle to keep going. I have exactly 5,317 words to complete and I'm struggling to see the finish. My previous paragraph may yet be proved a lie; I'm fading when I ought to be heading into a rush. In one minute it will be 5:00am and I will have conquered not only the best part of the night, but will have more than broken the back on this undertaking. But it has now become an absolute battle. Almost every paragraph I am checking the word count, just to see if somehow, miraculously, I have managed to write far more than I know I have. I never seem to and so I stay, tapping diligently away at the keyboard, desperately trying to bring the count down to a believable estimate. For 5,317 words, there is no way that I can finish that but 500 words, oh yeah; I can finish that in no time. This must be the writer's equivalent of the marathon (perhaps the half marathon), where one starts off fresh, inspired, full of hope but soon comes to the realisation that to finish, one is going to have to find reserves of strength and perseverance just to finish. So, here I am tapping away at the keys, hoping I am not making too much noise. My wife is asleep in the next room; I will wake her between 7:30 and 8:00am. I will not be surprised if she tells me that I have been keeping her awake all night and I will be disappointed if she tells me this, for she knows that, if she asks me, I will stop - for her, always for her.

I told you somewhere in her that I haven't stayed up this late in many a night; certainly not since Corey and my Melbourne trip. Well, in my sleep-deprived stupor and excited rush to put that story onto paper, I forgot about the early days with L, especially her grad year working in Melbourne.

L is my wife and she is a nurse. For her grad year she applied to one of the more pre3stigious private hospitals in Melbourne and managed to 'get in.' for part of this grad year, L had to work two weeks of night shifts, one week on then day shifts, then another week on. For some of the time, she managed to stay in Melbourne with friends but she had just moved in with me not long after she started her grad year and was commuting a fair amount of the time. For her final night shift she was obviously coming home and so I told her that I would wait up for her, so we could sleep during the day together. She didn't believe I would and, frankly, neither did I. So the night came and, not unlike tonight, I troughed out badly at around one in the morning. Late night TV has never really been the same since I was a kid and, through sheer boredom more than inspiration, I dragged out my guitar and began to write a song. It was not a very good song, in fact, I think it was downright awful, but as I pushed on into it, the time seemed to slip away. I finished the song at 5:00am and went back to watching the awful early morning television. It was ok though, for the damage had been done, I'd stayed up the worst part of the night and was feeling quite strong in myself as I watched the sun come up through the front window of my house. L came home at 7:00am; we had some breakfast together and went straight to bed. Didn't wake up until four.

I myself have now broken the back of time, but have yet to wrestle this monster into that comfortable hole. In fact, as the time begins slip further ahead, I feel as though I may not finish this at all in my one sitting. I have two hours left to type 4,649 words and I'm not sure whether I can type two thousand words an hour the way I am.

5:28am but not yet daylight. My back is on fire, my shoulders ache, my hands are almost numb with fatigue and the cold. My headache has receded to a barely perceptible hum but it is my vision that is the worst effected. At times when I am typing, the words do literally swim in and out of focus. My spelling mistakes are also growing worse, I'm having to type simple words repeatedly, up to five or six times as my fingers miss keys and hit others. I am exhausted, fatigued and aching but surprisingly I am not _tired._ I know of course, that if I lay my head down, just to rest for a minute, that I would be asleep inside thirty seconds of that minute but as long as I am concentrating on my writing, I can say that I am not tired. Once I am finished I will be more ready for sleep than I have ever been (not true, as you will probably have guessed). Surprisingly again, I am beginning to feel some small pride for this ordinary piece of work. What started out as a three day writing binge, that had effectively been pared back to one, has almost been achieved. The breakthrough I have talked about twice now had almost been achieved. I have stated that the breakthrough has come and, not to gloat too early, I still say that I'm right, for even if I stop now, this will remain the most I have typed in a single sitting. The problem for me now is, do I continue? Not for this book, because the only answer can be yes but what of subsequent tomes? I cannot possibly go back to writing a mere 500 words a day but, will I necessarily resort to the extremes I have shown for this? I would like to think that I could but I would prefer to resist. Writing this much in one go has not only been hard yakka; it's been, of necessity, an obsession. For it must surely be an obsession to plough on, push through the boredom, resist the urge to take a break, to keep the brain active and thinking.

I have been watching the screen saver for the last couple of minutes. It clever patterns and vibrant colours have been keeping me hugely entertained. I have decided that what I need is another story, one that will take around 2,000 words but as yet, I have not remembered one. I am trying. I made the mistake of looking at the word count again and I really need the story to be three thousand. This will make it much harder but I will try.

I have always intended to write a book about Corey but it has been something that I have recently decided against. Not because there aren't any good stories but because I don't think I can do him justice. Corey is very special and not to be considered lightly. So I am going to fill the last major piece of this book with this story that he told me about his trip in Sydney. But first some background.

Corey and I used to live together. Every year, he and some friends he went to University with, would make a pilgrimage to Sydney, to hang out in the Cross, go to strip bars and get violently drunk. They would usually hire a bus for these trips and, because Corey did not drink, he was always designated driver. Well, for this trip, which turned out to be Corey's last, he opted for some changes. He'd drive all right, but while the boys were getting drunk in the bars, Corey decided to get drunk on mushrooms.

I remember the night he came home after spending a day at the falls picking them. He brought in a shopping bag full and proceeded to lay them out on the kitchen bench. They not only covered the bench; he needed to use the coffee table as well. Corey, while being familiar with the types of mushrooms to pick, was a little unfamiliar of the best way to take them. He reasoned that he couldn't take them as they were, so he asked around. He discovered that the best way to serve them up was to boil them in a pot of water, rather like making soup. This he did and when he was finished, Corey had approximately five litres of mushroom juice. You can do one of two things with this. You can drink it as it is, which doesn't taste terribly nice, or you can put coffee and sugar in it and drink it that way. Corey didn't drink coffee, so he opted for the first method. This is basically how he told me his trip went.

After drinking a cup (or was it two, I really can't remember) nothing all that much was happening. Half an hour later, the trip kicked in. I seem to remember everything immediately springing sharply into focus, colours were vivid, shapes completely defined and sounds clearly audible, no matter how soft. I looked around the room but there was nothing there to really see, apart from this girl that I knew, whose face started seeming evil to me, so I took a walk. Outside the house I was staying in, there was a park directly across the road. It was not late when I drank the juice but there was no traffic around so I walked straight across. It was a new world. Everything seemed utterly important. The trees looked alive; the grass seemed to notice me. I looked at the leaves on the trees. There had been a recent rainfall and the moisture stuck to the leaves contained a world I'd never seen before. I could make out shapes and pictures inside the droplets and when I sucked the rain off the leaf, it tasted so pure; like the first water every drunk. I then looked at the bark on the tree and touched it. It felt so strong and so alive I hugged it and kissed it. I didn't know where I was or for how long I stayed out there but I remember going back to the house and the boys had left. Somehow I managed to organise a taxi and went into the Cross, where I knew they'd be. I was still tripping quite hard at this stage and was wearing the bear, my fake fur jacket. I remember a prostitute calling me over to ask me if I was a transvestite; me with my sideburns. I told he no and found the club the boys were at. They were drunk as lords, I was tripping but becoming aggro and they wanted me to wait for them in the club. I did for an hour or so but I just couldn't take it anymore. Somehow, I made it back to the house.

Back home after Sydney, Corey and our friend Gid (down from Melbourne) stayed up all night drinking what was let of the juice Corey had brought home (plenty as it turned out). I went to bed because I had to be somewhere the next day. I woke up at six, to find the two of them still awake and talking but unable to move. Later that day, when I talked to him, Gid said he didn't trip but instead felt a massive body stone. I had some later that night and could've sworn, as I lay in bed, that my room became octagonal. Maybe not.

Ok so maybe not quite the last part of this book. There is a little over three thousand words left until I achieve my goal for this book and only an hour left to write them. Actually, I can probably stretch this to an hour and a half if I wake L at 8:00am. I just need something to write about, some sort of conclusion. I don't think it would be wise to write another story.

I'm starting to float away now. There are three marks on the wall to my right hand side. In my stupor it looks like two eyes and a mouth - I can almost imagine it as a monkey's head. The monkey's head is wavering as I look at it, it almost looks as if it's laughing (or crying). I'm seeing all sorts of things before my eyes now, just for a split second. There are heads at the window the bob down as I turn to face them, stray marks on the window that have been there since we moved in start sliding down and off, only to come back again when I turn my head away. Although I am perfectly still, I feel like I am bobbing along to some imaginary music, or perhaps I am at sea, I can't tell for sure. I've had a similar experience to this when I was smoking a great deal of marijuana.

I used to have a very old pair of blue tracksuit pants that retained marks after they were washed, as opposed to coming clean. Thanks to some extra work at the restaurant I was at, these tracksuit pants also featured some lovely paint stains that never came out. One afternoon, feeling an extremely good marijuana buzz, I began to look at my pants with interest. There, in the stains that could not be removed, shapes started to appear. I wished I could draw because I remember them to be utterly amazing. They were all faces, not quite of animals, not quite of humans but they all had one thing in common - huge teeth. These huge teeth were, not necessarily coming out to get me but they certainly seemed to be emerging from my pants. Though all I could do was be fascinated. I knew what was happening, I just didn't think it could actually happen on mull, yet here I was, sitting in the lounge room, watching these characters appear. It was the greatest experience on drugs I've ever had; I'll never forget those amazing teeth. Their mouths formed cylinders that the teeth became part of - in fact in was almost like a grader, or some sort of earth moving equipment. Truly amazing but still not nearly enough to encourage me in my quest to finish this book. Stop thinking it about it so much David, it will come with less encouragement. I hope.

My disjointed search for my true soul is slowly, painfully scraping towards its end. It is 6.48 am and light is beginning to show outside, I can probably turn this light off now. My next door neighbour has turned the light on in, it looks like the bathroom, people are beginning to stir, even as I am beginning to find the end. I still crave about two thousand words to finish this off. Two thousand words that I could've probably dashed off in half an hour or so when I began. These last two thousand words are going to be the most excruciating I have ever written. I wonder how my wife sleeps? God I hope I have not kept her awake all night, she who has to go to work in about three hours, me who'll look forward to sleep at about the same time. Please let her tell me she has slept well, don't let her be grumpy because my typing has penetrated her sleep patterns.

How quick the sun seems to be rising! 6:54 and I can almost declare it daylight. What on earth have I been doing the whole night, surely not typing? No, surely not that. I have given away a few good stories to fill the pages of this experiment, I only hope that they will prove worthy upon my examination. Later of course, I could not read this now.

The marathon is in its hardest stage now; I can see the finish line. But of course, the closer the finish line appears, the further it recedes from my reach. This is where my struggle truly makes itself known - have I the ability to slave away at another two thousand plus words? Shall I just write anything in a desperate attempt to fill the space? Is continuing too fucking hard? Yes, yes and yes but continue I shall.

Seven o'clock in the morning and I can truly say the sun is up. I can clearly see the house next door; I can see the world around me. It looks like it will be a beautiful day, such a pity that I will miss it. The clouds are but a pink haze hanging over the trees that sway gently with the morning breeze that brings with it the promise of a job well done. It will not be long now before I wake L and amaze her with my perseverance. Or, alternatively, encounter her wrath at keeping her awake all night. I have decided to give myself until eight o'clock to continue with this - I feel in my heart that the deadline shall beat me. Over two thousand words in an hour is a heavier burden than I believe I can manage, though I shall keep typing unit the appointed time. I will utilize one last word count and then naught 'till eight. 2403 - it is too much. Press on.

Painting the world in a sombre glow the maid steps back from her handiwork and makes a pretext of examining the lining of her shawl w2hat's that cries the model as a new mode of insect flies out from underneath the rock that the new boy who just moved to this valley sits on oh it's nothing he says merely a breed of fly but we don't have flies here cried the model who ran away never to be seen on this side and the painter left her work to be collected by the ad agency who had paid her a handsome sum to complete that work on time but of course she didn't paint what she was told and the ad agency tried in vain to cancel the cheque the maid not being as naïve as the agency first thought had already cashed the cheque through a different company than expected by the agency and that said the boy was only their first mistake what he was referring to was the way they handled the account in the first place and he ought to know because the account was his father's company who had decided to expand and it was a huge opportunity for the agency even though their lawyers had wisely advised against it but you know how these big companies operate they don't like to listen to anybody at least that's what my sister said last week when she went in to find her load had not only not been approved but all of her money had been withdrawn from her account by the bank and they basically told her to shove it what are you going to do about it etc and my sister who is never one to be shy told them all where they could go got her salary paid in cash to avoid the bank and found out where the managers children went to school and went down there to kill them but of course she didn't kill them she just went to scare them a little but on the way she ran into Penny who she hadn't seen since her fortieth birthday so they went into that little coffee shop that's just off Ryrie Street no not that one yeah that's right the other one and they talked for goodnessknowshowlong but probably for a least three hours and my sister forgot all about where she was going in the first place and why she was just so happy to be in the company of someone who gave a shit and really it didn't matter all that much because I heard that the bank manager caught one of his tellers lifting some money from the till and he was so incensed at having been caught red-handed that he beat the manager into a coma in front of a bank full of people and you can imagine how my sister reacted when she heard this news well yes she was over the moon and even though I didn't get the contract I still think I put in the best bid oh well of course it would be just like you to disagree still I don't care I really am happy for you it's about time something went your way for a change especially all the trouble you seem to be having lately what with your gall bladder and all what that isn't you well who could it be then I could have sworn that Terry told me it was your gall bladder oh that was Terry's gall bladder huh he's dead well I never would have guessed that it was obviously much worse than any of us first thought well of course he'd tell her first they were going out for the last seven years they have that kid you know Bronwyn I've never really been able to get along with her she seems such a snot-nosed little one so how has the gold been coming along really off four now well you have been keeping that a little secret haven't you oh no I can barely play off ten you know me I only like to go nine rounds so I can practice my putting but I suppose it's just the way it goes and by the way have you seen that new ad for the housing development over in the valley yes I know rather provocative but let me tell you something about provocation and no I'm not talking about my sister again it's that young boy that moved out of here a while back did you know that he took the worst part of that saying and splashed it clear across the back page of the world we once called our own but I don't suppose that's even the worst part I can't even begin to tell you and so we leave well enough there and mosey on to a new subtext because I truly am nearly finished here I just have to keep going keep placing words one in front of the other yes sort of like walking I guess I'm walking the last steps of this marathon the end is in sight once again and I think it's receding less than I first imagined in fact I'm growing stronger with each line I type no matter how many mistakes I make no matter how many times I must use the backspace key to go over my sloppy typing I'm certainly glad I don't have to do this on a manual typewriter I would just about throw that through the window as it is it is only because I'm almost finished that I don't wreck this computer but naturally it's not the computers fault it can only type what the useless operator is telling it too and for some reason that makes me glad because there is beauty in the ability to make a mistake there is something true soul about fucking up so badly man I think I'm really coming to the end of this marathon experiment now I think I'm really going to make it after all I made the mistake again of checking the word count and I was down to a bit over one thousand words so I figured that if I just kept typing and typing you know any old rubbish basically like the crap you are reading now then I'd be able to get myself to thirty pages of text because I almost figured out in the toilet that around about thirty pages of text would constitute twenty-thousand words and here I am on page twenty-nine edging ever closer to the magical thirty page mark and it's seven thirty-nine in the morning the sun is absolutely up and I'm feeling fantastic I've made it through the night constantly typing apart from a couple of toilet breaks and soon it will be time to wake my wife up and yes I am repeating myself I think I have basically repeated myself constantly for this whole book but right at this moment I could really care less I'm nearly there I have no more to say but I'm nearly there I can smell it I can hear the birds singing I can hear the trains leaving I can hear the cards starting up for work and I can hear my own heart singing it's praise of hallelujah because it also knows that I'm almost there I just need to cross the line now just need to cross the line step foot left right left right keep it going David keep it going the line is so close can't you feel it you've just written that you can smell it so don't stop now I cannot believe this every time I think I'm close to making it over the line I have to write another one look here we go again this is going to be the most pointless book I've ever written at least till this line because I'm into the thirty page mark now and so I will finish this mess and see how I've gone.

It is official; I am now truly depressed. I had been going so well with my automatic writing, I actually thought that I would only have a couple of hundred words to write to finish off. I still have to write 1052, which is not much but I just don't know if I can be bothered, yet here I am churning them out, placing my fingers upon the keyboard and wrapping them onto the screen.

I guess my wrap up of this experiment is all that's needed now to complete the full picture of the host. And my wrap up is? I think it's all been worth it. True I have not written anything honest, I have not written anything publishable and I have certainly not written anything that will live throughout the ages but still, I started with an idea and I have to say that I have managed to carry that idea to its full currency. This manuscript did not set out to prove anything apart from the effort of writing it. I did not really know what I was attempting when I began, I thought that I would probably split it up into a couple of separate sittings, just to see if I could continue in the same vein but maybe bring something plausible to my collection. Well I think I've proved that plausible is not necessarily the best option to take. Sometimes it can be just as much effort to write anything as it is to write something substantial. And who knows? Maybe when I read this in full sometime in the future, it may, taken as a whole, actually make a certain twisted, sleep-deprived sense.

My wife has just woken up and I have told her that I am nearly finished (which thank God I am). I asked her whether I have kept her awake and she assures me that she did not hear me all night. I am relieved about that at least.

My search for the true soul is at its final peak. I cannot tell you if I have found it, I cannot tell you if I truly pursued it, I cannot even tell you if I really care right now. I have only a few hundred words to go and the soul question is only put in her now for the sake of clarity and the effort needed to finish this thing off.

I still have six hundred and fifty words to go. It is 8:01am, my wife is awake and I am still enjoying my writing. My brain is almost completely fried and my hands are sore up to my wrists. It is cold this morning but I feel good. You don't need me to tell you this, you have read it for yourself, I wanted to write what I have - the workings of the brain when placed under the stress of no sleep. I am looking forward to reading this in a couple of weeks, repeats and all. L is watching the television as I type the last of this out. I recognise now what I have been writing, 'type the last of this out,' I mean of course, write the rest this as it happens. I wonder how long it will take to read, I'd be surprised if it ran to longer than a couple of hours. Perhaps I should put some sort of codicil at the front of the book, "should be read after a night of no sleep." I only wish that it could be read in the same way that it was written, it may give you, as a reader, a purer insight into my motives and state of mind as I am writing. As written before, this is designed not to be edited, missed words, missed spell check mistakes and all. It is going to prove my hardest manuscript to show anyone, although I am eager to show as many people as possible, simply for the non-editing stance that I am taking. I mean it is going to be the hardest manuscript for me to leave alone. I may, indeed, never actually be comfortable enough with it to read all the way through. I know in my heart that I am always going to be itching to change things - especially the automatic writing I imagine. But that is just why in must NEVER be altered. The purity of this manuscript lies in its inherent sloppiness. Of that, I cannot repeat myself enough.

This is it, the final paragraph, my last three hundred words. I did not realise how enlightening such a small period of time would prove to be. I can think back now to that time when I needed to write over five thousand words and didn't truly believe I'd make it as a time that needed to be overcome. It was the time that I proved to myself that I could push through, that it could be done, that it actually would be done. I can almost imagine that the marathon is over and I am bathing my feet in an alcohol bath but strangely enough, even with my mind wandering all over the place, I know that nothing is over until it truly is over. Well, I didn't think I'd resort to so obvious a cliché to help me finish off this thing but when you've been struggling for the last five hours to get close to where I am now, your likely to use anything. The time is 8:20 am and I am literally rubbing my hands together in anticipation of the finish line (well not now of course, I'm typing but I think you get the picture). I have looked outside the window again and I think I'm right - it's going to be a beautiful day.

Now, you think that would make a good ending for this book but, you'd be wrong because I'm still around about sixty or seventy words shy of this experiments' end. You think I'd be finished by now wouldn't you; the amount of times I've claimed I can see the finish line but have not crossed it yet. I wouldn't mind betting that I've told you I'm almost finished for the last twenty odd pages of this arguably small tome. Well guess what? I now know I crossed the finish line four or five words ago.
Other books by David Francis Jeffery include:

BORE

No truth to the rumour

50 Haiku

The Unfulfilled

HA/VE

The Anti-Book

All these ebooks are available from the Smashwords website.

Remarks, comments, insults and death threats to: davidjeffery@y7mail.com

Thankyou

