 
### The Unfulfilled

David Francis Jeffery

Copyright David Francis Jeffery 2013

Smashwords Edition

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Table of Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty One

Twenty Two

Conclusion

ONE

And so, here it is my confession to you. Bless me father for I have sinned: this is my first, last and only confession.

19 January 1968 – I remember the time of my birth very well. Arms like table legs, eyes like sweat and a voice like rain – that's me but you'll never see it. Who are you to judge my consumables? Make it - don't make it, it's your choice – if I have no say in your body, you have no say on my mind. This is my death we're talking about. When I was young, I used to walk around the house eating breakfast and pretend that if I hadn't finished the set task in the time it took to finish my mouthful, my energy would run out and I would freeze where I was. Do you feel that way? I'm cold. I used to be a saint but there's no need for saints in this existence. Pure thought, that's the new ghetto.

This is so much about my mother, you wouldn't believe. Chance plays the finer rule – I don't think so. Regrets aren't just meant to be, they are. And so there's no regret but my father's death. I rush, I know, I rush. Where to begin?

My past. My past is a nothing, a boredom upon the story and of only minor importance but a place to start.

My past is a cord wrapped around the thighs of three men: Jacob, my father: my best friend's brother Christopher and God. It is with God that we are most consumed, most laid bare. So like putty in the hands of an artiste, our relationship did not sever repentance. My father.

I, I was born on the date you see above, the daughter of no wealthy parents – not into a stable was I born either. A small place my hometown, a city wishing it weren't a rural town, a rural town hoping it's not a city. I have no tragedy in my early life to regale you with, no hint of the future, no disruptions from the past – as I've said – boredom. I was not early to read, nor late to talk. I could walk and run but was no sports captain; my schooling was not alternative, I was not and am not a genius. I remember nothing radical of my schooldays – no severe taunting, no excess of friends, no life-enervating moments. No, perhaps I lie. There is one story that has stuck with me since primary school, one incident that I do not wish to claim as life altering – it's just something I remember from time to time.

One particularly boring afternoon, 1978, I was in grade five. Our principal, whose name I forget, walks into our class for reasons unexplained – I believe it was his habit, just checking classes. He was a tall, thin, emaciated looking man; with dark rimmed glasses and no hair – altogether rather manic. I've always imagined in this story, that we were studying history but that could be spurious – we may have been taking maths. In any event, after talking to our teacher, Mr. Dunn, the principal launched into one of his war stories. It affected him terribly, the war, I'm sure of it; he was a complete madman and not in a joking sense either. His story, in the main, was a justification for the bombing of Japan and my vague memory recollects it thus:

:My friend and I were on patrol in the jungle, just the two of us and were on our way back to camp, having found no soldiers within our vicinity. We had seen no one for a couple of days and so, were glad to be heading back where the silence was not so great. Upon arriving at the site, we saw our unit around a fire, weapons beside them, eating what was left of their rations. My friend and I were in full kit and just happy to be back amongst others when the most unusual thing happened. Out of the jungle and into our site ran two Japanese soldiers, wearing nothing but shorts and armed with no more than short planks of wood. There was no doubt in their eyes – they were intent on killing us all, however, their chance never came about. A fully armed platoon finds two minimally armed soldiers no threat and consequently the Japanese soldiers were killed. We had to; they left us no choice. And so it was with the bombing of Japan, they would leave us no choice, they were never going to surrender, and we had to do what was done. You see kids? You understand? They were never going to stop, we had to:

The look in his eyes told the story – he was pleading for our understanding, perhaps even forgiveness. We were nine years old. The war affected him savagely, just a story I remember.

So, the life of an only child, I was no seeker. I expected no more, no less than I had, I did not feel alone, I did not wish for siblings. I enjoyed the rare solitude; I fed on my parents company but did not rail against their own time alone. I imagined an ordinary life - I couldn't see the difference between mine and my friends who boasted brothers and sisters – I felt normal. Indeed, I can explain it no other way – I grew up normal. There was only one seemingly unusual aspect to our lives, unusual because it was commented on so often, the amount of books we had. I did not deem it strange, I rather liked it, though some of my friends thought it almost perverse: How can you live with so many books?: I could not imagine a life without them. I don't remember how we came by most of them, I'm sure my mother had much to do with that but I do remember the importance of them. Many hardbacks, paperbacks, magazines, newsletters – anything with writing in it we had. Mum was a terrible hoarder and threw almost nothing away; consequently, we had bookshelves full and books stacked up beside them like ancient pylons. All writings were important to me, it's where I obtained expression, but only one book was the most important to my mother – the Bible. Not a day went by that she didn't read something from it – depending on her mood. Kings was a bad day, her namesake better. Ruth was my mother's name and she loved that book. A real Old Testament girl she was too, not that she never read the New but the Old – that was indeed her persuasion. Begun with the death of her parents, Ruth turned that book into a lifestyle choice. Break out into a new experiment and you'll forget what the original taught you. She was an original, my mother.

Our books, what true grace they held for us, even as a family. My father was not a great reader and therefore, only ever read the greats. He insisted on reading only works that proved worthy – over time and consequence – of being read; bits of here, pieces there, sometimes completed works – as I said, not a great reader but a savage force against mediocrity.

My mother read early but became less contemplative. She also read some of the best but her thirst for books was often the books themselves, not always the words that she longed to hold. Nowadays all she longs to hold is her Bible.

She took her own pension in the arts did my mother. She was a writer of sorts, and I don't mean that to sound at all as cruel as it does. I've seen her work and it remains some of the more insightful use of language that I've yet come across – I only say 'of sorts' because, even in these enlightened times, travel journalism is often confused with being a writer – 'of sorts.'

Influenced by all she read, though primarily by the premature deaths of her parents (within three months of each other), Ruth became a traveller. Fed for a period on the meagre inheritance left by her kin, she soon grew to know the harsh necessities of a travelling lifestyle – work. She waited, cooked, drove a taxi, was even a jillaroo on a cattle station in Narrogin for a short time – once she'd proved she couldn't ride worth a damn they paid her to care for the horses. Upon saving enough money to leave, she would do just that. She'd travel as far as the money would take her, where the process would start again. It was a healing process as much as it was an enjoyable route to maturity and, like those she'd read before, every so often she would write about where she was and what she had been doing. Not so much a diary or even a journal – it was a method of remaining sane. Travel may broaden the mind but travelling solo can tip the fragile balance of power so subtlety, by the time it is noticed, your time is up. These writings eventually found their way into various papers and magazines and a minor legend began.

Ruth's mother was not pedagogically religious. She was not a regular church attendee, in fact, religion wasn't actively pursued in the household but Ruth remembered this much, her mother's only valued possession was her bible. Never once was Ruth sure she'd read it, never had she seen it come down from its shelf yet, it was her mother's only treasure. She can still remember her saying: mind this book Ruthy, it's my only special gift: And so it was that in her travels, Ruth became intimately acquainted with the bible her mother left her; a tool that aided her journalism.

Travelling south with my mother's book in my lap, open to Kings, the words bear witness to my continuous mind –

That the LORD may continue his

Word which he spake concerning me,

Saying, if thy children take heed to

Their way, to walk before me in truth

With all their heart and with all their soul,

There shall not fail thee (said he)

A man on the throne of Israel.

Is this not indeed why I am rushing on? To walk before in truth, to walk before as t/ruth. Bring to me a solid belief, I will not shy away – it is no tactic I have not used before personally – the train echoes my -thoughts; heading home, heading home, heading home – am I? Aren't I just taking a round-a-bout way? Leaving without saying goodbye, entering without noting the time, scratching away at the dull acid of my thoughts on the page, my vision on the eye. Truly, I am not cruel 'till the page comes out, for truly, I am not cruel just hopeful. I've watched your houses bleed for the accompaniment of a fresh vision – that your children follow me could only spread the good news I find. Are you truly dying for a soul? I wish only to pray to your treasures not to deny them for the eyes can deceive from overuse and the memory that shocks is often the confusion of better wishes. Travelling south and heading through the dirt-lands – I wish my direction were better. I turn my mother's bible but the words are blurry and I see a still pond. Sleep sanctify me.

Dreams of my father remain all-too pervasive in this, my one confession. A pure man, a holy man, a sober man, an alcoholic, a carpenter, a teetotaller – he was all this and carried it well. I inherited my own troubles from his side and he was more loved by me than can ever be conceived. Worship was a skill my father was extremely adept in, though outside of his marriage he never once stepped foot inside a church. A reader of greats he built his philosophy around the thoughts of others and cemented it into a truly unique experience. We would talk, Jacob and I, about, around and through his beliefs and thoughts – all the more interesting after a night on the piss. He said I was his 'little virgin birth,' a title I found highly amusing until Ruth explained why. I then no longer found it funny, rather inspirational – at least as far as my shallow inspiration will allow.

Dad was a builder, a carpenter, by trade and had assumed his own father's role. I remember on the eve of Grandpa's death him urging me to learn the skills: people always have to have a place to live Mary, follow your father as he did me. Follow him Mary: and I did not take his advice. He was a gifted builder my dad, he built our house in Thomas Street, but somehow, I could not interest myself in wood. On occasion, he tried, he showed me things I still use to this day but, it was never going to be my life and he saw that. He never once expressed to me his disappointment though the amount he felt might have been more than I've imagined – more than I'll let myself imagine for, either way, it no longer matters – he's dead you see. Killed by a drunk but yet again I rush. Always with my father I rush.

:Surely Mary, you can't believe the stories of your mother's faith can you? Surely not en toto: -I don't know dad, there does seem an electricity in the words, an intelligence. :No that's where the problems lie, in the words: -What else is there, in a book? :Tremors Mary tremors: -Tremors? :Ah, yes your eyes light up do they not? Tremors, the feeling of a breaking away, the shaking up of roots, the chance to rebuild. Does the ocean not change every wave? Do the trees not renew every season? And yet remain constant, the ocean is always ocean, the tree always a tree. See? Tremors: -Now I'm lost. Has this any connection to the bible, the bible that mum reads? :Mary, Mary, Mary, you do not listen you do not wish to listen. Stories cannot be truths until enough belief confirms. Read the stories of the bible, stories that are believed as truths Mary, all believed unquestioningly by too many, including your mother. I do not I do not question Jesus or even God's existence, I question their methods. Miracles do occur my little virgin birth but not of the biblical kind: -It sounds more like you convincing yourself than me. :I'm not trying to convince you Mary...: -Of course you are, of course, there's no other reason...:No Mary I'm trying to explain my position – I hate the bible. I love it for what it stands for but I hate it for what it teaches: -What, love? :No, that there is only one true way: -Surely that can't be the books' fault? :Can't it? A book is no more the thoughts of the person writing it; in this case people. Indeed, can't the book be blamed? If the book did not exist would there be such hatred? Such oppression, such racism?: -Doesn't that seem an extreme form of over-simplification to you? In fact, its own form of oppression? :Wait! Wait I do have an answer. Yes and no even a maybe. I can't settle yet, I concede your point. But the facts still point away from the truth don't they? Could you deny a more peaceful world if all were truly able to practice freedom of religion? If the rules were dropped would not earth be happy? Truly?: -That's interesting but fraught with danger. How can there be no rules, no point of reference, no punishment? :Truly, you will never achieve the way: -Achieve the way achieve the way? That's a priest answer! :I know, I'm drunk. Wait and I'll collect, I have a better solution: -Goodnight dad. :Mary, the answer's there Mary: -Yeah I know dad, in the wood. :Yes, in the wood. Goodnight daughter: -Night.

In the wood was dad's answer to anything that required longer thought. From his carpentry days, it was sure to be something obtained from his father, perhaps even from his father. In the wood at our house meant the end of a conversation – after all, how could it be argued against? How's the coffee? – in the wood. How was your day? – in the wood. What's the weather like? – in the wood. So sufficiently obscure was it that it only needed the subtlest of inflections to convey the chosen meaning. A slight uplift – generally positive or slightly sarcastic; deadpan – definitely sarcastic, though sometimes weary; low and quiet – bad, with no doubt, bad. It was handy for him to carry around – his own pocket word eraser – and I soon learned its usefulness myself.

-This time Jacob she sighed this time I know it. :Ruth you've said that so many times now and always been disappointed; don't corrupt yourself, you can't better sterility: No Jacob, this time I know. I...I had a vision; it was like he spoke to me. To me Jacob, we're going to have a boy. We're parents at last. :A vision?: -A voice actually in my ear then a flash. At the end, when you came, a voice whispered as if inside my head, your time Ruth, your time. Then I saw a bright flash and a baby's hand. It's a boy, I don't know how I know that but I tell you, it's a boy. :Ruth, I desperately wish to believe you but I can't. It's not possible for us to conceive, we shall be alone together forever. A vision you may think you've had but truly, do you believe? Was it no more a wish, a wish that only the hope of a vision can fulfill? Please Ruth, you must come to accept this eventually, I'm sterile. We will not have children: -In the wood Jacob.

My father still did not believe until he started to see my mother's belly grow. Only one incorrect fact in my mother's vision; I'm a girl – the little virgin birth – Mary.

TWO

Listen now Christian, for the confession continues.

I'm not chained to my best friend but we do have a link in the pen. After years of denying my mother's career and part of the gift she passed to me, I became a writer. Not truly by default, the unspoken joy of the scratching sound overwhelmed me. A dabbler in the ink herself, Julie's forte entailed shameless self-promotion. A genius of the spoken word, her name was tied inseparably to popularity. So it was that Julie was never short of ideas nor the means to realise them. Virgin Chalk has become her most successful.

A magazine to popularize new writers, Virgin Chalk is still run from the spare room of her flat, though distributed to all states. I myself have written for it occasionally; nowadays my small popularity prevents. Sometimes brilliant, quite often borderline, Virgin Chalk tends to sit against the grain of the intelligentsia though no one is prepared to deny the value of its existence – almost all of the new authors have appeared in its pages once.

My own writing has deteriorated. Conversations in the wood, my one book, my only achievement has helped ensure it. Garnering only mediocre reviews and selling so poorly it was remaindered one year after publication, it nevertheless remains a great book, if only in my estimation. It's all I have left of my father.

It started as the drinking became worse. We began having these 'conversations' as a night ritual but they soon grew into anytime, anywhere and would often stretch over three hours. I began to notice some of the thought patterns my father could form, especially drunk, and couldn't let them go. I started transcribing, from memory, our talks – adding my own thoughts and conclusions and arranged them into book form – Conversations in the wood, a dialogue between father and daughter. Published by Left Arrow Press, its demise was an all-too-familiar story for most first time writers. Four days after our small publication party, my father was killed – alcohol and books – a true deadly mixture. After the funeral I vowed never again to write another book, I did not wish to anger the powers further. I now write articles and two fortnightly columns – despite my meagre fame I remain safe.

I've always had an unnatural fear of greatness – is that absurd? With lust for penetrating depths of agony – I've seen what it does to people. Clouds form darkly back into the horizon and trouble smells, leaving no begging to the imagination. Christopher knows the furore of greatness. Track him down – ask him. Though joined to me as the brother of my best friend, he remains more to me than a sibling acquaintance. Such strange strong trouble that he constantly finds himself in -–once nearly my lover, now a friend on the run from his own genius. Like his sister Julie, a true charm of the spoken word, his priestly occupation does prevent his originality from proper recognition.

Frustration finally drove my father to his full madness. A roaring decibel of emotion, he always said he never let the wine take hold of him – he was wrong.

Having met my mother in '64 and knowing her name from some point in his reading; he took up the cause from the arms of Shakespeare, having convinced himself the bard was a selfless alcoholic and thus contributed much of his soul to his work. A closet drinker for some time after their quick-fire marriage, it wasn't long before my mother confronted him with the truth – her brother, my uncle Nial, being an alcoholic himself she recognized the obviously concealed signs. Jacob did not deny the drink, only the frequency. Ruth did not question the denial, only remaining more vigilant. For all of the strain this might have placed upon their marriage, life was not hard. Even as I grew up I remember no disruptions, no violence, no threats, no rows. My father was far too impressed with my mother's abilities and wished no tension between them. Besides, he was in love with her and she with him – despite the envy.

All from my father's side, the envy, or so he believed. In truth, my mother more than once marvelled at how dad could build anything she wished and often longed to do the same, however, she felt it was part of the limitations God had imposed upon her and was content with the gift He had bestowed. Not so my father. He believed that in many ways he'd been cheated out of a life lived through creativity, especially as a writer. Having read and read well, not just their works but their lives, Jacob believed in a life lived for the purpose of achievement and woodwork did not echo his stated ideals. Abortive attempts at his own writing career fuelled a frustration of creativity; something the building could not quell. No matter the praise from others, my father felt his life going to waste. Then Ruth, a successful writer and a life lived for the pen and not only does he fall in love with the person but also with this persons' CV. A person who had achieved what he could only ever dream, a person who had made the leap from myth to reality to myth – a minor legend and they were to be wed. Jacob envied Ruth and to her own degree Ruth envied Jacob but only one believed in this truth.

She stopped travelling once they were wed – after all there was little point in it now and things were beginning to change; it was becoming harder to trust people. Having built up her reputation my mother did not find work too hard to come by, she wrote her fair-seller A Country Revealed, not long after they were married and became somewhat of a roving reporter for a Melbourne paper; though they were based down here. It entailed a middling amount of travel - she hardly steps out of the house these days. She knew it was the way Jacob preferred it but it suited her as well, having remained rootless for so long it was nice to write a permanent address. The reporting is over with now and mum doesn't write anymore, she feels it ruins her concentration on the bible.

Three years after their marriage, in January '68, I'm born – a gift from the Lord. Me Mary, the little virgin birth, the product of a sterile father and an obsessed mother – I've always felt I was a replacement for her parents and I've also come to accept that Ruth won't let herself believe in this truth. I also, and of this I'm sure, came to represent to my father some sort of turning point in his envy, an opportunity to teach someone else the beauty of the work he could never accept or trust. Alas for both of us my mother's career won out. I gained many wonderful skills from my father – the ability to saw a piece of wood straight, how to hammer in a nail so as not to split the grain, the finer points of the construction of a solid foundation, even how to hang a gate - however, my career I owe to my mother and it's a small guilt I've never been able to slake.

I still remember when my book came out, how could anyone forget? Three years in the writing, six solid weeks in the typing, another year before it was published. I still sometimes retrieve that acceptance letter and marvel that someone wanted to publish me. I even look at the book in wonder – is it truly mine? It has my name on the cover, my work is inside, it even contains the copyright symbol along with my name and the year of publication 1991 – I guess it must be. I was one of those rare firsts – a published writer with no previous publishing history – my mother's name a great advantage I have never admitted openly. Four days later, my father lay dead in a Ryrie street gutter, having drunkenly walked into the path of an oncoming vehicle. They found him with my book in his jacket pocket; one day later mum found me with my guilt in both red hands. I hadn't tried to kill myself; it was merely an accident. They said that I was close to the femoral artery, a slight twist to the left was all it needed. I probably started drinking about then – I'm not too sure. I can't remember when Ruth began to drink. It was only a reaction I know but I still blame myself, it was my book or perhaps, my perceived success that pushed him.

The lust of true envy, how my imagination dwells. How proud he was when he saw the letter, then the book, how eager he was to tell all who'd listen : this is my daughter, she wrote this: how sad he seemed as his life dragged him home again – how much guilt shall I swallow? I know the truth, I should not have to swallow any yet this is my father we're discussing – can I not shoulder the blame? Not for just once does my book inspire the memory but I could never convince him of his own greatness. – Look at the words dad, almost all are yours, it's your book as much as mine – though he could not or would not see. The dilemma of alcoholic envy – to believe or to trust? The trust enables the self to continue whilst the belief inevitably must require change and if it was one thing, apart from mediocrity, that my father detested it was change. It was not his own handiwork so how could it be claimed as his creation? For if the claiming were put to the test and between my mother and myself lord how we tried, and the test proved true – how could the envy remain? Now his sum total excuse for drinking – what point then remained? Only the admittance – I am an alcoholic. I may drink a lot but I'm certainly no alcoholic – the Hippocritic oath. Books and alcohol – a true deadly mixture – for my father THE deadly mixture. Killed by a drunk – himself – in the celebration of his interminable lifestyle, his delicious envy. And, of course, the 'if only' question that still keeps me from sleep – his name on the cover?

I first met Julie in a very drunken night at the Queens Head. I was in there drowning my sorrows from what had been, earlier in the day, a particularly mediocre interview performance by me at a well-known literary magazine. Not only did I actually want the job but also I really needed it as mum's income was not much and I was growing increasingly desperate from cooking at the restaurant. I however did not interview well and, believing I had lost the job (which turned out to be true) decided on a pseudo celebration. In a misplaced attempt to raise in myself some levity, I took a trip I'd been saving for a happier outcome a half-hour before leaving. While it was true I did feel more cheerful, it only served to make me more intense and with a combination of alcohol, I spent most of the night screaming in peoples' faces. Along about three I was thrown out of the Queens Head – still racing – and was picked up by a girl whose face I did not recognize. I remember nothing of what I'd been saying in the pub but this girl must have heard something because she asked aren't you -? To which I replied that yes, indeed I was. She in turn introduced herself and a familiar chord rang out. I asked if I knew her from somewhere to which she replied have you read Virgin Chalk? That became the start of our friendship. Thanks to the drugs, I kept her up all night talking about books, magazines and writing, about my presumably failed interview and the death of my father two years before. She reciprocated by telling me about the magazine, how it started and who had appeared. She also mentioned, in passing, that she was impressed with my writing. I was impressed that I'd met someone outside my family who'd actually read my book. I'd never considered submitting anything to Virgin Chalk, as I was too busy with Conversations but that changed when Julie offered me a space in the next issue, which I greedily accepted, safely ignoring the magazine's prime cause. Morning came and I left her flat, strung out but happy enough, tasting the fresh flavour of a new friend. It was some time after that night before I met her brother Chris. Chris the priest.

Chris was a man of letters – long ones. He wrote to Julie every couple of weeks and she soon had volumes of correspondence from the man -–some of it real works of art. Julie let me read a couple – to gain another writer's perspective – and while some of it was a mishmash of dogma, idolatry and unexpected tangents; there was righteousness and a fire running through them as a constant theme. As I say works of art, they even looked good. I urged her to publish a couple in Virgin Chalk but she didn't think Chris would approve, she didn't even think he would ok my having read them. As it turned out he probably wouldn't have cared – he ended up using the letters as a start for his own book. It wasn't until he returned from Adelaide that I started learning of his troubles, the letters I remember reading only hinted.

I was working my last week at the restaurant when I met him. I was on dishes and there was a back entrance that ran beside the toilets and into the back of the dishroom. I think it was a Tuesday night, which were rarely busy, and quite often Julie would come in for a meal or just to keep me company. This night she said hi, I turned around and there was a male version of her standing beside. He didn't require the introduction that Julie provided; there was no question of who he was - they were almost twins. We fell into conversation straight away and I left the restaurant that night with the beginnings of another firm friend. As I mentioned, almost my lover but the story to that is extremely ordinary – he wasn't that interested. I think we went on one shambolic date and from that time we both decided, at his suggestion, to remain friends. I was still interested for a time but finally realized he was right, we would have made an awful couple.

Chris had decided on entering the priesthood through his love of words – this he told me in one of our rare all night talks. Since he'd moved back from Adelaide I was drawn ever further into his untold past. Never fully explaining his reasons for not divulging his secret, I nevertheless found out something of his own love of the bible and the text interpretations therein. He inferred that it was his word and meaning associations that brought him most of his trouble.

Sixteen years old is a brave time to declare an interest in the bible. To declare a love for the work marks you out for Coventry. And so the silence reigned. His last year at school, Chris talked to no one and none to him. Not quite as dramatic as that as I found out from Julie but not altogether untrue. For most of that year he read the bible – openly – while his friends ignored, ridiculed or beat him. Chris put up no defence – which had less to do with the bible's words and more with the fact that he was too lazy to care – something of which he generally favoured and I didn't find out until much later – but occasionally he would protest – only for appearances sake. Sometimes he was joined by a girl roughly his age, Brigitte, also a lover of the bible and they would talk or read together. If there was any romantic involvement Chris didn't say and Julie can't remember a Brigitte ever visiting the house, though she does vaguely recall the name. In any case, there was common ground once, though he did not keep contact with her and is unaware of what she does now.

And so the words of power do strengthen a young mind. Perhaps not but it was undeniably an influential time. Chris first picked up the bible at the instigation of his father, who often used it as a justification for greater than usual punishment. I've never met Julie and Chris's parents as they died two years before my own father but from their stories I don't believe they were abused; it's just that, as with most people my age, childhood contained a certain amount of physical, as well as emotional, "discipline." Tired of the 'biblical quote as reason' philosophy, Chris set out to prove the old man wrong and instead, fell for the words – hard. He once described his first encounter with them as 'a slap of joy,' a line I quite liked.

:I only ever picked up the book through sheer spite, nothing else. If my father was determined to use this book against us, for our own good, then the least I could do was understand the words. My real motivation was to prove my father wrong; instead, I fell in love with the voice – a slap of joy in my head. I read the thing from cover to cover in one sitting then started over. I didn't sleep for three days - my dad was actually worried. He probably thought things far more sinister were occupying my time, I didn't tell him it was his bible. I kept reading through the months that followed and began taking notes and comparisons, really studying the book. I noticed what I thought were inconsistencies; not many just small things but they were still there. I thought that if I'd found a couple, who else might have? I attended church and listened, really listened, to what was being said but it all followed the standard cliché. I began asking people about certain passages and quotes and if maybe there was another way of thinking but all I received were blank stares or laughter. I tried to ignore but it became too important, I found too many questions. I'd realized my lifework without even being aware – the church was the only place I could see my future; a future of teaching the path:

Chris began his quest for self-management not long after his HSC year. Dividing his time between reading the texts and reviewing interpretations, he soon realized he truly had "the calling." But at what price should this calling be? He had no love for the standard cliché and was more than happy in vocalizing his vision. Chris and trouble were not easily separated. Over time he learned to control his opinions but only insofar as was necessary to graduate. He clung to his own beliefs like a pope – willing to subjugate his thoughts for his elders but, upon graduation, ready to lead his people to the chosen path; the right path, HIS path. And so marked the beginning of the troubles.

The birth of his book was in Adelaide. He hadn't been able to, or allowed, preaching for a considerable time - his frustration relieved through his letters. They also began in Adelaide, mostly as a consequence. The letters never explained anything; it was a way to stop the madness and a way to increase it.

Chris wished to write an addendum to the bible, I know this because he asked me to proofread the finished manuscript. He did not wish to write a complete bible, which was far too complex, though he thought it needed another gospel. The gospel according to Chris. Matthew, Mark, Luke, John and...Christopher? He told me it had needed revising for years. Imagine the implications. A new chapter, a new gospel, a new book. Name me a writer who wouldn't wish that for themselves, the opportunity to create a new gospel. Not just a new introduction, an actual new gospel. Chris may have been crazy but he was certainly no fool, he knew that a bible addendum would never happen; despite this, he still felt the need for a book. His book, the book that would clarify the word.

Upon his return, neither Julie nor I knew of the writing. Julie thought he was having some time to himself, I thought he was talking to the church, hoping to preach again. Even when he asked Julie for his letters back, she thought he wished them purely for possessions' sake, she never once imagined he'd return them. When he did, neither of us thought it odd, for indeed, it wasn't. It was the winter of '95 and we both had other things to concentrate on besides priest Christopher.

I first learned of the manuscript in January '96, a hot summer as I recall. Chris visited mum and me and while I was in the kitchen pouring coffee, he came in and asked me to proofread it. I accepted not realizing the dangers involved. I thought it a fine manuscript and contributed minimal editing, though never once thought it would ever find a publisher. My own troubles started once it did.

I remember our trips up the highway. We used to frequent the city as often as we could Julie and I, anything just to disappear really. We'd alternate cars, we'd share some smoke, we'd talk. The car is the best place to talk I've found; there're very few interruptions, you can contemplate, you've nowhere else to go. I often think the best part of our trips was the journey toward – the journey home was all done.

It was here I learnt the most about Julie – ordinary aspects of life that are boring to anyone else but I enjoyed hearing them. It was here that she became my best friend. The world may pass through into the gulf of bad timing, but your best friends' life can still prove a staggering weight to bear.

She was pregnant when she died – Julie's mother. She was pregnant when they all died. Two years before my own father was killed, Julie and Chris were expecting a sister. They were near the hospital when it happened. I don't know whose fault or even exactly why, I don't want to know, but they died only five minutes away. They ran head on into an ambulance tracking an emergency of a different kind. Her parents were killed instantly; the baby survived two weeks but was too traumatized to go on. As soon as she told me that story, I wished she hadn't.

It wasn't indicative of our trips however; many times I could barely see the road through tears of laughter. She told me of school, of early work, of Chris, of her parents, even of me. A true master of spoken prose, she fascinated me with sheer boredom. She convinced me many times to contribute to schemes that I knew were doomed and yet, somehow, things usually worked to her advantage. We never seriously broke the law mind you, though there was some borderline thievery – shopkeepers receiving mysterious amounts of money through the mail for items that had disappeared – that type of thing. She influenced my work and my life and though she may seem unimportant in the tally of this confession don't be fooled – she is the only reason I don't rate my life as a waste. Vale.

:So little sister, the sting has not proved too elusive?: -Nor the tail. Blessed are ye who see me as I am, for yours is the speech of truth. Shall you go far this time? :These things I cannot know until the eve of my departure. Have you read the book? I think it has value: -She did show me a copy yes, the editing is a fine job. Do you think it's fair though? :Fair? In what way?: -In relation to your work, do you think it's fair? I mean, translation is one thing but structure is something else again. :Yes, I see your point. Is that as it stands though? Or are you meaning a more lasting effect? We both know the prize may not be speakable, but let's not forget ebullience. The polished tin can concede no more than its own shine – burn it and watch the difference: -That's as it stands. No, I'm more interested in future interpretations; this is where you came in isn't it? :A little before perhaps: -Ok, a little before but still – you know what I'm saying. It may stand erect now but what of tomorrow? Will it topple? Will it sway? Will it even survive? :That's all in the prose, all in the manner of the prose: -Is it enough? :I think you'll find...: -We won't find anything! We'll be gone, quite long gone I think you'll find. This is my exact point – we won't know. Is the prose enough? The ideas can be conveyed in a myriad of ways – is the prose enough? Is it even right? Is it THERE? :As you say, how can we know? As I was attempting to say, I think you'll find that, in the end, it will be out of our hands. The interpretation will always change, regardless of the medium. I do believe the prose is there, I feel it as a positive strike. I can only hope the reader recognizes: -Yes; and I can only hope that the speaker does not overindulge.

THREE

Was it me who crossed the transverse line?

And so once again, the pen is in hand, the motion is forward. How many times will it be like this – me alone, the paper denying, the pen confirming? How many times can the truth be revealed to a dishonest community? How many words must I place before the language reads itself? Questions, always more questions, you'd expect that I'd know by now. With all these missives sent out, received and digested, you'd think the answer would be all that remained. You'd think. Well, like a distant cousin I've yet to meet....

Spotlight on God – a lasting impression no less. This story goes back to my youth, you've probably heard Mum tell it a hundred times, it was always one of her favourites. It occurred the year before you went to school and the year I started – I was four going on five, as Mum always began.

There was an older boy attending the same school, in grade two if I remember and slightly retarded. His job in life, it was at that point anyway, was to bully all the new kids who started school that year. He had become quite well known and a source of annoyance for the parents of the bullied children because they couldn't do anything about it. Couldn't or wouldn't I'm not sure which. The story continues that one day; I'm also not sure how long I'd been at school, nevertheless, this boy decided it was my turn. Now, this will sound like a complete fiction to anyone that knows me well but the story that Mum tells is that I beat this older kid up when he started picking on me. I can honestly say that I do not remember the incident at all and for me to take on a much larger and older boy seems a trifle unbelievable but I guess I was younger then and less of a coward, besides, it's really Mum's story so who am I to dispute her? This supposedly occurred in our street not far from our house and Mum saw what was happening, ran out into the street and tried to stop me. However, neighbours who had also heard the commotion and looked at what was happening, urged her to let me go because they felt the bigger child needed to be taught a lesson. Mum was sceptical but didn't stop me and apparently, it worked. Now I ask you, where was God working there – through him or me? The bully or the victim? Considering my rapid capitulation to authority, coupled with my self-conviction of secrecy, I'm tempted to believe He was not with me but that is only one lane of thought. Consider also my distaste for cliché and my determination to teach and I could argue the second case. The third angle would be that God was at work through both of us, each for a separate lesson, though the lesson will not have been the obvious, given His track record. Lastly, certainly for this analysis, He may not have been at work at all, which if you regard the bible as is, could prove the most likely. I do not.

In the end though, it's only a story, a tale, a parable if you prefer. Perhaps the lesson was not whom was God working through or even whether God was working but instead, we were working through God. A more likely position in the spotlight I think. We were working through God; those idiots can't see the harm they've caused. They know that themselves, you can almost smell it on them! A palpable fear that maybe, just maybe, you might understand and make sense of the whole thing, and where would they be? As Kings I say but – who listens? They call me a troublemaker, a usurper, a...no they haven't gone so far as to call me Judas. And indeed why should they? A man so brave I can only hope to equal; a man who knew but still did what had to be done. The money? An afterthought, a cover for the truth. Judas – the priests – and Jesus, they all knew, they made a pact and the outcome sealed forever. Judas and Jesus, both in their agony but only one could remain pure, it was the pact. Could you have chosen that path, knowing the history, future and past, could you have known such strength? I doubt it. I could not, I only do what I know I can, not stretch to what I don't know I can't. Though in the end, isn't this also only a story? Ah, the paradox of the book, where exactly to find the truth? The basis of faith lies in assumption – why should my FAITH prove so dangerous? I'm not denying existence; I'm qualifying interpretation. And really, isn't that all a serious man of the cloth can do?

The weather's been outstandingly unpredictable for this time of year. Jules, you absolutely have to come to this place soon; it really seems like a place you'd love. It's not quite home but, in essence, is that really saying much? The city of churches, how the irony does ring in my ear. A place to teach where I'm not allowed – Cowardice – how much shall I loathe thee? It's raining as I write to you, apparently it's not supposed to rain until next month, they say I've brought it with me and in some respects, I suppose I have. Shall I describe the rain to you? Listen to the hiss of audio tape when it's old, turn it up to maximum then magnify that three times. Have I told you I've a tin roof in this dwelling? Yes, yes I probably have. I'll bet I've mentioned it in previous offerings. Well, I've mentioned it again. Remember the shed when we were young? That was all tin, we used to sit in there every opportunity we had when it rained, just listening. I won't deny it as a form of comfort but I didn't primarily enjoy it for that; I liked the sound, it was mordantly stimulating. Everything became cleansed, literally and figuratively; from my mind, from the streets. It was less a new beginning than a clarified vision and it's been the rain that has awakened me ever since. If I remember rightly, you liked the rain because, 'it made things wet,' and I think that simplicity has been the watermark (no pun intended) of your genius ever since.

Lost in the perils of my own Gaza Strip, can you help but notice my mood? The tingling fingers, the atrophied heart; I'm in a mess before I've even noticed the frown. Cocktails at dawn – vodka and cheap orange soft drink – tastes as bad as it sounds but it keeps the blood swimming. Rapid corpuscles, clenched arteries; the blood flows as it flows as it flows. My own poetry is wont to suffer in the delineation of my thoughts: Ezekiel, Deuteronomy, Song of Songs – praise the words of the poets and thus praise the word of...me. Not God, me – I show the way – praise the word of me. I'm not here to protest but don't get me started, no encouragement necessary, I've been more blank on the issue of the congregation than most. Mark this down in a thought balloon – I don't care. They don't need my help they need my wisdom, my insight. I don't care if they don't want to hear they have to – they have to know. They've been taught the cliché so long – can they ever go back? I have to know. I have to try; running away can only prove the cliché stronger. This is not about me, this is about ME; the real ME, the other ME. If I have to be in protest then let it be equal time, let them know truly what they protest about – not what they're TOLD, what they KNOW. In breach of the rules? What rules? Since when did truth have rules? It all involves talk, just talk – no more. I'm not forcing belief, I AM allowing choice but you have to know the choices; you can't guess. What good is choice if the advertising is too slanted? You have to know – A or B, what is A, what is B – not A is good, B is bad. There is no cause for alarm, no punishment shall be meted out, no allowance for question will be intolerated. You WILL decide the absolute truth; in the end, you will have no choice.

Little sister, do you remember the song dad used to sing when he was working? Yeah, 'Body and Soul,' he loved that song. I heard it on the radio just the other day – memories returned like a soldier. He hated the job didn't he? That song was all that got him up in the morning. Ah me, the selfless life of the true parent. Do you think Jesus made a good dad? I like to think so – he had plenty of good stories to keep them amused. 'I love you, body and soul,' what a great song. I wonder what Jesus sang to push him through? Dad and his bible, dad and his song.

My life as an alcoholic lasted one full week. Me and my friend Peter; you remember Peter, from school? Anyway, his uncle owned a pub and me and Pete, who were really only looking for something to do that didn't entail working, decided that every Wednesday would be drinking day. Naturally this decision was made while we were both drunk as the Senate and so the deal was set; everything seems like a fine idea when you're pissed. For the first two Wednesdays we relaxed – we started off at his uncle's pub in Yarra St because we could manage a few free ones from there – Pete loved Cointreau; I was drinking bourbon mostly. We usually left there half-cut and wandered around, sometimes we'd end up at Lamby's, sometimes the National, sometimes his flat with a bottle of vodka. It was at his flat that my alcoholic life began and ended and our friendship cremated.

Started the Sunday of our fourth Wednesday, ended the following Saturday. What did we do that Sunday? I still can't remember all that well, the whole week is a bit askew, but I do know that he called me for some reason and I ended up at this flat Sunday afternoon with a cask of cheap red wine. We did...something while drinking, I just can't focus, but we finished the cask at about seven p.m., then Pete brought out a cask of his, three-quarters full. We wasted no time.

Now, Peter lived in a flat that was located at the rear of his uncle's pub, mainly because of the cheap rent and the fact that he could work there when money was tight, which was all the time. There were a couple of flats out there actually and at least two housed regular tenants, one of whom was a shift worker. We'd been in trouble previously with this particular tenant as you might imagine; shift workers tend to work irregular hours and people who are drunk tend to be noisy without realizing. So it was this Sunday night. We were completely drilled by the end of the second cask, it was eleven-thirty and we put the stereo on – loud. His usual signal to let us know we were keeping him awake was to thump the floor five or six times – annoying when sober, infuriating when drunk but he had a point. He needed sleep, we needed to leave. However, as he'd been thumping the floor from about seven onwards (we were loud even before we'd put the stereo on) I'd had enough. Against Peter's protests I ran outside and screamed up at him to come down and settle it. He didn't, which I'm sure was lucky for me, so Pete and me went on the town, continuing the alcoholic stupor we'd placed ourselves in. I walked home much later that night (morning) and returned to the pub the next day to pick up my car. I was forced to go inside to collect my keys, where I saw Pete and apologized profusely for, what I imagined, the trouble he was in. He didn't seem too fazed by it; he told me that, indeed, he did have to confront the said tenant and apologize, who was quite ropeable, as you'd imagine but Pete had the golden throat and things worked out. So much so that I was back there that night, continuing our work. We stayed out that night, then the following, which meant a fair bit of pre-buying because there weren't many pubs open after six on a weekday, as you well know. I'm sure not much has changed – can you prove me wrong?

The night after that, Wednesday our regular drinking night, Pete invited some old high school friends around and we stayed in his flat drinking vodka and talking music and by God, were we quiet! We all still ended up smashed but we remained at a low murmur with the TV at barely a whisper – a most satisfying night actually.

Thursday night, our big trip to Melbourne. After catching the train, we were to meet a mutual friend of Peter's and mine, stay the night at his house, then head out on the town Friday. What really happened? As usual, we started at the pub, left half-cut and walked to the train station. Timing our arrival perfectly, we watched the train we were supposed to be on disappear down the tracks; the next wouldn't leave for an hour. We sat inside the warm station to wait, without a ticket – we'd forgotten to buy those. Four hours later, security wakes us up and orders us out. Pete and I go our separate ways, not really comprehending what had happened. The last night of my week – Saturday night – I had no money, neither did he. We stayed home and so my life as an alcoholic ended. Not through lack of joy, through lack of funds and, certainly on my part, sheer laziness. I have found, over the years of trying different things, that it takes great commitment and a true sense of self to become an addict of any kind. I could not keep up the commitment. I still hear from Pete occasionally – now there is a man with a true sense of self.

Here I go, lying to myself again. Am I not an addict of my own judgement? I talk about a sense of self, a knowing of worth, of self-respect – is not knowing the fire to teach an acceptance of self? I can only conclude yes and so, in the final analysis, I too must admit my addiction - the addiction of truth. The addiction of knowing I have the truth, the addiction I must share – for isn't all addiction about the act of sharing? Even a barfly knows the power of a shared addiction. "A problem shared is a problem halved." No, I think, and I know I'm not the only one who's found this, I think a problem shared is a problem doubled. To share alcohol with an alcoholic only halves the amount you can both drink, thereby doubling the amount you need to spend on satisfying our addiction; which doubles your amount of hatred for all but you and the drink, in turn, doubling the power that has become your addiction. The same formula applies no matter your poison – it all doubles. Sharing your truth with a believer doubles the amount of truth that can now be told and we've seen where that leads. And so now Julie, this question I must pose to you: is my desire to teach the truth a responsibility?

It's still raining as I come somewhere near to the end of this letter. I feel sometimes as though I'm inside each drop that if, despite the downpour, I concentrate I can count each drop as it lands. It brings me a certain peace, a certain tranquility that I've yet to know in my living. Who knows, it may even be the resonance of the truth I am trying to express, the truth I am yearning to fulfill. They don't hate me Julie, not really I don't think, they're only afraid – they truly believe that I'm insane. Weren't all the teachers of the truth branded insane? Isn't that where distortion originates? Can all our books of knowledge truly be claimed as accurate? Every writer knows the joy of an editor, every writer knows the pain of the pen coming down and the scissors coming out – why not the writers of our holy books? Every writer knows the horror of reading a piece they wrote and it not resembling remotely the original document. What if that writer had been dead a hundred years before publication? Who's left to argue the case? Am I truly insane, can it be proven against when they ask me to prove for? The answer is there on the page and so I repeat; was it me who crossed the transverse line?

Love Chris

FOUR

Safe, what do I mean by safe? Good good question. Provocative. Of course I mean safe as in unknown. Unnoticed. Forgotten. At least until I finished the new book.

Conversations did not sell extensively, of this you are aware. Interestingly though, fame does not necessarily equate to major sales. Certainly not the fame I was once involved with.

My book sold two thousand copies, not many. In fact, such a pathetically small amount, I would have been unable to interest another publisher in a new book, a – if I'd had one, or b – if I'd wanted to. Neither applied to me. Two thousand was enough to ensure the death of Jacob, the anger and derision of Ruth and the fear of retaliation for me. For I'd angered more than just my mother, of that I had all but proof.

Of course it was the content, of that I am in no doubt; nor should you be. Throughout my three years of transcribing, editing, compiling and commenting on the manuscript, I did not truly understand. Only after talking to Christopher, editing his book and writing my second did I notice. And only then did I notice the similarities between Jacobs' ideas and Christopher's. But that was after the second book, when the curse of small fame rallied again.

I began talking to my father two years after his death. Obviously I don't mean physically, I mean I found his works. Whilst talking to my mother, pissed again, she spewed forth a list of grievances and obscenities so long, I felt sure she would exhaust herself before a new breath. Most of these I had heard before, but in the midst of it all, she let slip the idea of some 'papers'. Futile as I knew it to be, I attempted to steer her vitriol in that direction but soon enough, she was finished and asleep. I tried to forget the mention, for I imagined it as merely another drunken delusion but, naturally, my curiosity and thirst for reading sent me on the hunt. It took only two days of searching (in the back of my father's closet, underneath the old Christmas tree) to find the box. I felt like an archaeologist on a dig into some unknown, unseen territory. And then – click – there they were, my father's writings. A stack of such information as I'd never dared hope – the earliest from 1961, the latest, the day of his death. It was an encyclopedia of work that I never knew existed. Ruth obviously did but I waived the implications of that knowledge and prepared for my feast. And my, oh my, didn't I eat well that first day! True, the writing was scratchy – not only grammatically but also visually still, this was my father, this was Jacob and we could speak again. I did not mention to my mother that I had found dad's work; though I'm of no doubt she knew. You couldn't manage anything past my mother.

I found out many things about my father over the next few weeks – one, he was obsessive. For thirty years my father wrote something almost everyday, clearly dated if not so clearly penned (a tradesman's curse?).

Two, he had more interests than just the book but the book remained his only topic. There were works on death, sex, food, imagination, chemical abuse, alcohol, roads and yes, even building. In fact, there was one group of papers that could easily have been the text for a technical manual – the art of building a house. But all of these interests, even the manual, all, in his mind and in his hand, related back to the bible.

Three, dad was not as bad as he had us all convinced.

The second book came out of these writings, Obsession: The Knowledge Factor. Thus the reason for my confession. Too far forward Mary, too far forward

Ah! The romance of my father's letters! Jacob was not only obsessive in his writing but in his cataloguing – he'd arranged every piece of writing from first to last – 1961-1991 – so I had no trouble finding pieces that linked together, I was only at a loss as to where to start.

Plunging in headfirst, I decided to start from the start and see where it led me. Jacobs's obsession also ran to cross-referencing, pieces from 1974 joined up with earlier writings from 1963 for example, though he wouldn't join these together – the 1974 pieces stayed together and if they linked up, there would be a note at the bottom: cf. 1963 or joins to 1981 etc. Nothing could ever be confused with something else, so his full intentions were always clear – unlike mine.

The first piece I read that showed some real interest was a semi-letter Jacob wrote to himself, trying to explain the many foibles of love. It was not as good as some things I would read later on but there was the one paragraph that I felt showed an insight I wish I'd possessed during the writing of Conversations – even now in fact. It was written in early 1962, before he'd met Ruth.

And what of true love? Yes, the true love that may or may not be, depending upon who _'_ s talking at the time. Do I believe, do you? I suppose I can only nod my head in agreement, even though, at this present time, I _'_ ve yet to see or experience it. The great poets can write about it but you can bet they _'_ ve never felt it. What makes me so sure? Because they write so well about it _–_ you can believe me, anyone who can write so beautifully about a lost emotion has damn well never truly felt it. And yet I believe? What else is there? The only true love I can believe in _–_ anticipation.

That one word struck me – anticipation. I could immediately see what he meant, though I think, perhaps there was more intention than awareness. Nevertheless, it was a great paragraph in a fairly standard piece of writing.

The following weeks became crucial to my awareness of how Conversations in the wood came about. Indeed, it would shine a new light onto my guilt that I would not have believed possible.

I discovered my book in a series of pieces dating from 1985. True, it did not have all of my own words that ended up in Conversations but even ignoring that, the book was practically written as it was published - my own job, had I known of these pieces, would have been largely editorial. I could have saved myself at least two years of work, spared myself the struggle and included dad's name on the cover. Then he might still be alive and my mother might still be talking to me as someone other than a murderer. But I didn't know of these pieces did I, so how could I be blamed? And why should I increase my guilt as I did? It surely was not my fault that dad wrote the same book as I, though it was my book that was published - he did nothing with his work after all. In all the letters and pieces I discovered, not one of them was a rejection slip. For a man as obsessive as Jacob, I doubt whether he would have thrown these out. In fact, I'm sure of it. And a double fact I'm sure of, if I had indeed known of these pieces, I would have forced him to do something with them, they were too good to leave in a cupboard. So it was there, the ugly truth, Jacob could have been saved. I began to ask myself, should I be guilty of a suicide? And, assuming as I was that Ruth knew about these pieces, why should she not bear some guilt for Jacob's death? After all, it was because of her that his obsession began.

Jacob's religious obsession began in 1972, two years after Ruth stopped reading everything but the bible and put down her pen. Try as he might, Jacob could not persuade her to write again and largely blamed himself for her denial. It was only when she told him that nothing else need be written after the bible that he began his own crusade.

He read the King James Version from cover to cover (which necessitated his own purchase as he could not obtain Ruth's) five times but, as he wrote, 'completely missing the point,' or at least the point Ruth recognized. He could see the 'beauty and genius of the word, that was plain,' but he also could not 'ignore some inconsistencies.' That particular phrase would return to my memory two years later – when editing Christopher's book and writing my second. In all of dad's writings on religion, he never pointed out the exact inconsistencies he found but instead, gave them vague sounding, almost parable-like explanations – presumably for the investigator in us all. Perhaps he did not wish to be questioned if found out or, maybe he was just drunk and argumentative. All these were likely scenarios with Jacob's writing.

His drinking also increased around the same time. I knew this because he made mention of it in almost all his pieces after 1972. Why it increased he did not make clear, though I believe it may have been because he thought it would 'open his mind' to the possibilities of the word. That the only way to understand Ruth's obsession with the bible was to alter perception when reading. I'm only guessing of course. In all my talks with him and my arguments with mum, I don't remember discovering whether he'd found out.

His writings were brilliant in light of the impact they made on his religious obsession. True, I said he wrote on other subjects and, substantially that's correct, but he focussed all of his attention on how they made sense in a religious context.

For example; his story on roads, whilst mostly being a tome on the lust for travel, also highlighted a more spiritual quest. Dad became preoccupied with forks in the road about half-way through this piece and wondered aloud, on paper, which branch may lead to a more spiritual understanding and which to a further cultural cliché. He left the choice to the reader.

In another letter to himself, concentrating on chemical addiction, he again wondered whether the ability to 'see God,' lay in the chemical or the addiction to it. This was another he left open-ended. Interestingly, at least for me and perhaps for the coherency of this confession, Jacob's writing from 1961-63 showed little interest in religion. In fact, they showed little interest in any set subject bar himself.

Obsession _–_ the Knowledge Factor, was begun in early '95, a few months before Christopher started his own work, as I discovered later. It grew from my own obsession with my father's work and as a sort of penance for taking the blame for his death. I had been writing steadily since the funeral but nothing too large, nothing too ambitious. The powers had, so far, ignored me, which I had taken to mean forgiveness – I've rushed many things in my life and not just this confession.

I decided that, yes, I would write another book and yes, this time I'd do it right – Jacob's name would feature on the cover as it always should have.

The final push for my decision came through a talk with Ruth; one of the few sober ones we'd had since '91. While she didn't come right out and apologize for previous outbursts, she did let me know that it was ok. I pressed her on a meaning but she only smiled and said, :it's ok Mary, it really is ok: I had been tossing up the Obsession book – somehow she knew and was encouraging me. I took it as a good sign – encouragement from Ruth was never very forthcoming. Rationalization is indeed, good for the soul.

I was left with no choice but to concentrate my book on the religious field yet again, for it is with God that we are most laid bare. Though this time, even with the promised co-authorship, more than half the book would be truly mine.

My second decision was also, probably, my most damning for I decided, throughout the project, not to read the bible. My reason for this was twofold: that I was embarking on an exploration of my father's obsession, not my mother's. While both appeared equally obsessed with the book – Ruth's was purely materialistic whereas Jacob's was more spiritual – Ruth wanted possession of the book; of the very words themselves, while Jacob wanted possession of the why; why his wife chose only the book, why she chose no longer to write. Neither of them, for all their individual readings of the bible, neither of them became obsessed with the message. And secondly, I reasoned that both of my parents had studied nothing but the bible for almost thirty years - what more knowledge of the book could I glean from my own reading? But I say most damning because studying the bible whilst writing the book may indeed have afforded me a clearer picture, and perhaps, a more even one.

Work began in February of '95, after nearly two years of constantly digesting my father's work. It was a penance well-earned for, of course, his death will always be with me; even moreso those two years. Reading those words everyday filled me more with the desire to atone – the guilt never stops, no matter how much you try to convince yourself.

I hadn't quite realized the scope and planning that would be required for this project, as I came to my final decision about the book well before I'd examined all the information. By the time I'd sifted through and collated all the relevant pieces relating specifically to religion, I had well over six thousand pages. Once I had culled every repeated phrase, idea, line and quote, I still had four thousand pages at my disposal. Eventually I ranked those pages in order of interest and strict adherence to the theme, and managed to whittle them down to two and a half thousand – this became my core source for the book. I did refer to the other pages but only when was necessary; I did not wish to stray too far from the point. Between my other writing commitments and sometime editing for Virgin Chalk (among others), this culling took over a year. I first put pen to paper on Obsession, December of '96.

Whether it was the genes, the guilt, or the habit of watching my parents; my own drinking took off once I'd decided on the book. Oh sure, I'd been drinking quite steadily since dad died and I cut myself but once I began absorbing those words, I began absorbing his habit. Yes, I know that it's very easy to say those words, almost as if I'm blaming him for my addiction but it was true. The more I read his work, whether it be from the start or during the cull, the more I drank. But, unlike Jacob who chose beer as the drink of choice, mine became vodka. I'm much more like Ruth in that respect. I can't emphasize enough how much it helped; not in the writing because at times I could barely lift the pen, but in the desire to keep on – the drinking really drove me. I don't wish to over-romanticize the point though, don't get the idea that I was sitting at my table; bottle in hand, pen in the other, spewing forth paragraph after paragraph of diamond prose because I can assure you, my writing did not happen that way – it couldn _'_ t happen that way. I'm only telling you this because the alcohol became entwined with the book in a very real way – the book could not have happened without the drink. So, there's your answer.

My first priority was to establish the theme of Obsession so I outlined my finding of Jacob's letters. I did not mention his death, nor my arguments with Ruth, for I believed I had learnt my lesson previously and did not wish any further reprisals from my work. I described finding the letters, their scope and outline and made a case for my decision to write the book. Effectively, I not only outlined Jacob's obsession with religion but also my own with him. His name was given prominent attention, as well as immediate co-authorship. The reason for his focus on the bible was as clearly explained as I would allow – I wished no disparagement upon Ruth – and I began to sketch a rough picture of where I expected the book to go. All would not go as easily as this.

I began to strike trouble when I attempted to separate Jacob's obsession from my own and found they were the same. Jacob was obsessed with Ruth's obsession and I was obsessed with his therefore, in effect, we had the self-same attachment. We were both obsessed with how the bible affected someone else – someone we loved. Until I began writing, I was under the impression that our twin obsessions were chalk and cheese, when in fact they were mirrors of each other. Immediately I blamed the alcohol and proceeded to drink more.

I've just remembered something else from my primary school days – grade 5, circa 1978. I don't know whether this was only an urban myth or whether it has basis in fact but, we were studying history and talking about the gold rush in Ballarat and the Eureka rebellion and associated topics, when our teacher, Mr. Dunn, remarked that our home town nearly became the capital of Victoria, over Melbourne. He explained that certain parties were interested in Melbourne becoming the capital, so maps were altered showing that town closer to Ballarat than ours. People settled there in such a rush that, by the time they discovered it wasn't true, it was too late; Melbourne eventually went on to become the capital. Whether this is completely true or not I never went to any lengths to find out but it's a good story. We nearly made it, how about that?

My main trouble became; once I started to dig, I couldn't see where the end would come. When I began examining our twin obsessions, I discovered a brand new obsession taking shape – the obsession with obsession. Yes, that was my theme to begin with; it happened to branch off to somewhere I was unprepared for. I did not expect to be confronted by my own obsession with this exploration of understanding. At the end, I finally realized I had unravelled and understood nothing.

FIVE

The editing work on Chris' book could not have caught me in a less favourable period, as I was immersed in sifting through dad's letters.

As I've already told you, summer '96, he first showed me the manuscript. By then I had probably culled something around two thousand pages of dad's work – it's hard to provide an exact figure. The point being of course, that I did not want leave in the middle of such a huge task. I agreed though, as Chris was my friend and I thought that seeing a new topic might help me with Obsession. A new topic? That was a joke.

Chris' manuscript was also long, 300,000 words, but I could almost see where to lop off 150,000 of them, thereby bringing me down to about half; much easier to work with. Having familiarized myself with the two or three letters Julie had shown me, I thought I had a pretty good handle on his writing. Despite having plundered his letters for the basic concept, I did not think the book stood up as well. It was a fine manuscript and I did contribute minimal editing – in the main because I wanted to return to Obsession. But unfortunately, I saw similarities in our work and attempted to distance myself as well as I could. No doubt this affected the quality of my editing, especially as I attempted to remove as much of the bible in Chris's work as I could. He went on to re-edit my contribution and managed to whittle the monster down to a very respectable 103,000 words but never mentioned to me the lack of biblical substance. Nevertheless, it became his finished and, ultimately published, work, entitled Game Plan.

'See a penny pick it up. All day long you'll have good luck.' No wonder my life feels so untoward, I live so closely to old wives tales and platitudes. I may as well be a TV character for all the good it does me; do I really imagine my stars hold any truth at all? Not truly no, but there is always in the back of my mind – the hope. The hope that maybe some of these old sayings have some basis in truth. It certainly keeps my own self-examination at bay. After all, isn't it easier to pay homage to a platitude than to admit the truth to oneself? The truth that, if acknowledged, your life may not have quite turned out the same way as planned. We're all in the same boat of course, precious few of us could say their lives are truly on track; or do I, as per usual, assume too much? After all, I am speaking for the multitude here, have I the right? Have I the permission? Nevertheless, I say it's true and so, I say I'm right. No one to dissuade, no one to contradict; I'm right. Which is fine but it doesn't really help in the examination.

So now, the screech of tyres and the dull thud of the tree as I apply the brakes too late. This is the accident – the true examination. Who really wants to go there? Not me mate, she'll be right. Yes indeed, she will be right. But not in the last instance; no, no, not in the balance of the mind. For where does examination put us, if not in the balance of the mind? My best self-examination? She'll be right. The planning may not have worked to my best potential but that's ok – she'll be right. But I won't will I? I won't really be all right; that's just another saying, another platitude. The summation of all my Australianness – she'll be right. Moreover the work on these two manuscripts has shown me something; she'll be right can never truly replace a damn good help.

Seeing and doing are completely separate disciplines. For while I could see the 150,000 words to remove, it took me three months of work to achieve. My 'minimal' editing. Three months, three precious months that I was away from Obsession. Three months of dad's words not swirling around my head. Three months to try to start again.

For it was almost a new start when I came back to them. I felt I'd done enough on Chris' book to distance its ideas from dad's and my own but I still wished to remain vigilante; it's far too easy for a writer to copy than to work hard on their own vision. Still, even as the ideas meshed similarly, their overall themes remained distant. Chris, whilst noting inconsistencies, desperately sought qualification; whereas Jacob, while also noting inconsistencies, desperately sought the true answer Ruth already seemed to know. I only sought to finish the book – and even as I write that I know it is a lie.

Game Plan, in my own minor estimation, proved no easier to understand than the bible, even with the simplified language. I did my best with what I had to work with and I didn't want to stamp my own imprint too firmly so I'm forced to concede that, perhaps, I didn't do too splendid a job. Of course, that was only my opinion.

I tried to imagine it as a book of immense weight. Never once imagining a publisher would touch it, I felt free to try out new styles, while constantly reminding myself that it wasn't my book. I tried to imagine the book as an important work, one that must be given its respect, which, in turn, meant no sloppiness. As careful as I was with all aspects of the book, I could not finally convince myself that the book held any weight at all. It just felt too Australian.

The work of Obsession ran quite quickly and smoothly for the first couple of chapters – the setting up period if you like. It was at chapter four that I encountered my first difficulty – Conversations in the wood.

Conversations was always going to be an integral part of Obsession, I just hadn't wished to admit it. Facing chapter four, I was forced into comment on the issue. After all, those pieces Mary, those pieces. How could it not be admitted to? If I said nothing, it would be as though I'd never found Jacob's work at all. Which would mean Obsession could never have gone further and it was going to go further, of that I was adamant. So what to do? If I talk about Conversations, then I had to reveal things about Jacob that I wished to keep secret - his death most of all. And if I revealed things of Jacob, how could Ruth be kept out of my book of revelations? And myself, how would I tell the truth about myself? Only one solution of course - selective memory.

And so, the "truth" of Conversations in the wood _–_ a dialogue between father and daughter, came out. I felt a little like an actor facing the press for the first rime, when all they have to go on is the character they have played, though of course, I had advantage of the script. I was somewhat naked, in my own mind if not in the mind of the public. I kept Ruth out as it suited; only sketching her in on a superficial level – no need for both of us to be sacrificed – but Jacob required a more thorough treatment. I aimed to keep him as close to the sympathetic character that I told of in the first two chapters though eventually his alcoholism had to be told – he would've been less of a man had I left it out. His death also became a necessary detail in the course of my meddling – of which I had begun to think it – though I did not explore it in terms of why, more as a requirement; it had to be.

I began exploring my guilt and a possible acquittal in relation to Conversations though. Or should that be in relation to Obsession? My guilt was my true addiction – no, correction – my guilt IS my true addiction, my true 'obsession' and somewhere in the middle of that chapter, I became disoriented and couldn't discover a way back until chapter 12.

The dissection of all I've ever had to offer in my life became the first half of my second book. And what a torture to have to write, what an agony of effort! Shall I give you an idea of what it was to write those eight chapters? Have you ever been constipated? Have you ever been constipated and try to relieve the pressure, whilst opening yet another bottle of vodka? Have you ever, after drinking yourself into sobriety, tried to drink yourself into a stupor again? All this and more was how I wrote and what it became to write. I would start early – the drinking, the writing wouldn't start 'till ten or eleven – and when I actually did produce a clean sheet of paper for myself, any and every excuse I could think of delayed the pen. I needed another drink, I had to go to the toilet, I felt like a coffee, a shower, to read a book, to watch TV; anything so I didn't have to stare at lined paper. Sometimes (oh, such a rare occasion!) I would hit a small vein and come out the other side, one or two thousand words richer but, more than not, I might be lucky to achieve five hundred. How simple now did Conversations in the wood appear! My own short pieces with Jacob's longer ones; I was, indeed, a fool. So now I realized and now I paid. Having written so much short work for so long, I had not begun to appreciate how utterly boring it can be to write an actual book, nor how driven one can be to keep going, despite the constant doubt. I think I may have mentioned a small weight of guilt disappearing? I apologized to my father more times than I care to document in that one long, long year. For yes, those eight chapters – four through twelve – comprising some 50,000 words (not much you'll agree) took almost one full year - July '96 to June '97. (Game Plan was published in the winter of '98.)

Mr. Levi was his name and he was P.E. teacher at my high school. We only ever had him once – he was an arrogant, selfish prick. If you managed to do anything even remotely better than him, no matter what it was, he would find a way to punish you. This is more than likely another urban myth coming up but I swear I saw the broken window.

Apparently, Mr. Levi was taking a detention class and one of the boys, who was a smartarse anyway, kept talking when he should have been, I don't know, detenting. Mr. Levi, who has a short fuse when he's happy, keeps telling this kid to settle down. Whereupon the boy made the mistake of answering back. Mr. Levi, calm as ever, picks the poor unfortunate up and throws him through a window, headfirst. In front of the rest of detention class. Obviously I don't expect anyone to believe me but there was a broken window in the class and Mr. Levi did have to take a sudden 'leave-of-absence.' I don't know but he was certainly prick enough to have had the capability of doing it.

So, where did I get lost? On the trail of explaining my guilt. No one else but Jacob and I can be blamed for his death, though I spent a good year believing I was coming to peace with it. If one "good" thing did come from my work on Obsession, it was being able to pretend to live with my guilt over Jacob's death. Ruth, Chris and Julie are separate documents.

I specialized in pleading, for a while. I felt so much of Jacob as I was writing and drinking that I knew, I just knew he was reading over my shoulder. Was he trying to ease me into forgiveness for myself? I'm sure he would not wish for my guilt but I cannot let it go – it's mine to keep me honest. Ha, now there's a bold statement – bold because, even now with all that's happened, still I believe it. 'Keeps me honest,' a joke of the highest order. We all have to cling to something, right? Mine is that Obsession portrays my true honesty. My true honesty for my father at least, which although not enough, keeps me with some sense of self. My writing self. Pleading is perhaps the only honest spark I've ever broken through in my life. Ah, the ease of selective memory.

Pleading, after three months, turned itself, quite nicely, into inquisition. Never have I felt more disgusted with myself. The inquisition remains far too soft. Which is always the inherent beauty of the self-inquisition, along with its greatest flaw – the temptation of leaving well enough alone. I remained sceptical of my assertions of honesty, even as I was examining the evidence, for I know the liar I can become when confronted with the truth. And when it is I doing the confronting, it takes not a lot to lure myself in. Yet, some part of me remained sceptical and for good reason. Yes, my inquisition was indeed far too soft – after all - selective memory.

From my self-inquisition, I moved logically to? – a critique of the yet to be published Obsession. So, what was it that I'd been writing the last few chapters? Let's just say, a self-critique of the person, not the ideas. Yes, let's just live with the fantasy for a while.

Berating my father's letters was no easy task; berating my writing proved the easier of the two. My father's work was his alone, he had no real intention of following through with it, so how could I, in what I had left of good conscience, critique his writing? I, who had made somewhat of a name in the field of books, could suffer no such roadblock. Remember too, that I had yet to write the main thrust of Obsession; so essentially, I was critiquing work only I was familiar with.

I began with minor ridicule of my assertions in the first two chapters. How, I asked, can a possible justification for the book be made, with so little knowledge of the main protagonist? Needless to say, I quashed such an assumption (which was all that was) quite easily – had I not known my father my whole life? Nevertheless, the question remained as more than an afterthought throughout the rest of the manuscript – how well is well? I knew my father well, yet I knew nothing of the existence of his papers – how well was well?

A new diatribe slowly emerged from the footlocker of my examination – knowledge of the theme. Again a question easily answered if not so easily convinced. Has not Ruth been reading the bible (almost exclusively) for thirty years? Even before I could talk, has she not been throwing biblical quotes at me? Did Conversations in the wood, contain nothing? Yet it was true that I refused to read the bible in conjunction with Obsession and it was also true that I realized it might have been a mistake. Though I only realized once the finished MS was published, up until then I'd considered my move almost heroic or, heroineic, if you prefer. So I settled on the previous conviction of my upbringing and still remained uneasy about it. I became more lost as I surged further onward. My knowledge of the theme must remain spurious at best, I've only ever skimmed through the bible, however, my knowledge of obsession came through in Conversations. It was to that book that I let the question defer.

Slowly the critiquing, inquiring and endless examination stopped and I was left in a weird state of peace. Not for the clearing of my guilt but the pretence of acceptance. I could stop blaming myself and accept Jacob's death. The guilt will always be there, that I finally acknowledged, but so also will my father. We both contributed and it was time for me to pay tribute – which was the true cause of Obsession in the first place – of course.

The writing again flowed. The work on those chapters took up most of the time; the next twelve chapters took less than six months. Thanks to the agony of the previous year, I finally wrestled the bulk of Obsession into a workable format. Dad's work became mine in those few months and, when finished, I realized that I had not quoted directly from any of his writings. My decision to re-write completely the first three chapters may have been a mistake. I certainly felt something click. A photo of selective memory?

SIX

Dear Julie

Even now as I write this I can feel him HIM I can feel HIM Watching Judging Awaiting As a final plan Awaiting Final time MINE HIM Pushing Such subtle I n c r e m e n t s Death As not in Life As not in Me Cast out The product of not being there Not being THERE He With cold fingers Tightening Grips of wrath Sponge My Heart Prophecy:Three months Make it no more Three months And Jules will Fly Far. NO! Such prophesy I don't make it I don't See It.

Julie, are you wondering why? I seem to be in a great depth today. The sun is out, the people are out but I'm stuck. The voice of a new generation. Ha! A generation of what? Hardly-done-by, non-participants? A great legacy. I leave to you the greatest legacy I can – the talk of a clown. The talk of the great ignored. The talk of an ever-so-cheap mercenary.

So, how's the better news from your end?

Tragedy in my time of life To be concerned about naught

But my own

My what selfishness brings me

In this hour of my detachment

A detachment brought forth

With the weight of a deft confusion

For what is detachment

But the absence of concern?

And what is confusion

But claiming presence?

The weight, a burial of my own

I lay claim to the things I cannot call

My true vocation

Disappearance

Pressure

Dissemination

These left not behind as truth

Of my complacency

But left behind

As truth of my

Self-involvement

What is it about me that I cannot be sure? What is it that refuses me the right? The promise of immortality or just the frustration of ignorance? I'm here for something; this is in me, why am I not allowed? Could it be only pure ego and the conviction of greatness that no one can see? Is it a refusal to accept the obvious? I can teach but not like that; is the recognition of false labours more noble than the continuation of meaningless endeavour? Refusal and ignorance often make equal bedfellows. Is that my noble endeavour? People sometimes ask me similar questions and are not happy when I have no answer for them either. They want me to tap into my direct line to God but I can't, it doesn't exist. They are not at all happy when I tell them my life is just like theirs.

I'm tired of this future Willingly tired I feel seconded to a costume drama I play the priest G I V E P I T Y Or absolution But what of Me?

Love Chris

SEVEN

I first started working at the restaurant in the autumn of 1992. The book had not sold well, I was broke and mum's widow's pension barely held us together. I was not only not interested in writing another book; I was on the verge of giving up writing altogether. I decided I needed another skill and I certainly needed a paying job and with Donna's help, I became a dishwasher.

Donna and I lived together in Eggleston Street, for the final year of Conversations. She was a dabbler in the arts herself, turning out sculpture after sculpture of the same theme - a female with unfeasibly large breasts and a penis to match. She called it 'The Ultimate Warrior,' though she did not explain the specifics. In-between her sculpting, Donna also waitressed at a Mexican restaurant down the road, upstairs on the Terrace actually. She'd been working there the past five years and told me several times when positions came up - I always refused, I was a writer, not a server. Besides, I was still on the dole.

After a year my book came out and I moved out of our flat. Not because of the book but because I thought mum would need help now Jacob had gone. She never objected, though she also did not say she appreciated me being there. Still, move in I did, and Donna and I kept in semi-regular touch for the year my book was out. I remember one of the last conversations we had before I gained a position in the restaurant. I told her I was broke and was desperate for a job - anything would do. Two weeks later, she called to tell me about a position opening up in the restaurant. When I asked who was leaving, she replied :me: I didn't speak for several seconds and she told me about a letter she'd received from England; her home, as it were. Apparently she'd sent a photo of her 'Ultimate Warrior,' to a friend, who's cousin owned and ran a small, independent gallery and they'd offered her an exhibition. The only catch of course, was that she'd need to provide her own accommodation, and airfare; they wouldn't pay her either, though she was free to sell her work through them for no commission. Donna's visa was about to run out anyway, so the letter came at a highly fortuitous time. I congratulated her and told her how thrilled I was (which was true) and wished her good luck. I asked her to place a few good words in for me. One week later, I started in the dishroom - the usual dishwasher moved into Donna's waiting position - which was fine by me; I didn't really wish to wait tables anyway.

I earned my small relief - ten dollars an hour. I must admit though, I did enjoy my set up. The dishroom was actually that - a separate room, cut off from the kitchen and the restaurant floor. As I became more acquainted with the water however, I began to perform odd jobs in the kitchen. Six months after I started, I became one of the second cooks. Another six months and I'd moved on to ovens. That entire year, my pen made no mark upon the paper.

By '93 I was cooking regularly three nights a week and dishing for two; Ruth and I still only scraping a living. And I, naturally now that I'd grown comfortable at the restaurant, was becoming bored and frustrated. I wished to write again - I needed to write again. But what of Jacob, what of the powers? I reasoned that if I stuck to short works, 10,000 words or less, I could probably excuse myself from their sight. Yes, I thought that had all the hallmarks of a well-conceived program. The only factor that I failed to account for, was Conversations. Would anyone publish anything of mine after that failure? The answer, at least for a few months, was more 'no' than 'yes' but even that sentence betrays me. I did become a published writer again - the Advertiser published a pseudo think piece I'd written, entitled 'The Bridging of the Generation Gap?' This piece, however, had been rejected by thirty other magazines and newspapers around the country - this time, could I be more proud of my writing than my name? I remain undecided. Still, I felt a rejuvenation; I was again a paid author. It may have only been the one piece but it was a new start. One month later I met Julie and my re-birth truly commenced.

I cannot emphasize enough how much Julie was to thank for my career resurrection. If not for Virgin Chalk I don't believe I would ever have gained my two weekly columns. I certainly would not have gained such valuable insight into the process of editing and I doubt if any of my more 'extreme' articles would've seen typescript. Julie became my mentor and my saviour; she featured me in Virgin Chalk more times than I deserved (it was supposed to be a publication for new writers) and she offered me contacts to magazines that proved invaluable. Again this confession, while not actually being principally about her, is thoroughly dedicated to her - my Jesus-sister, you saved my heart.

EIGHT

Am I too an alcoholic? This said with a bottle of vodka beside me (half-empty) and another one in the freezer - am I an alcoholic? Or rather, am I a good enough Australian to be an alcoholic? After all, doesn't obsession come from the root of your country's ideals/clichés? And isn't alcoholism just one more obsession?

I remember talking with Ruth about this, as I was halfway through writing my second book. Ruth's parents were Irish, have I mentioned that previously? No, probably not. I know one thing I haven't confessed up until now, and one thing I hadn't confessed to Ruth until that day - I found her mother's journal. A small insight into my mother's mind.

Ten years old was I, when I found this book. Under a pile of old boxes at the back of our shed, was an unlocked metal trunk. Inside were clothes, broken toys, a few old 78's and a neat stack of books. One of these was Ruth's mother's journal. I couldn't read the writing or truly comprehend the language at that age, so I hid it. I'd decided that I wasn't really supposed to have it, but I also reasoned that no one had seen the trunk for a while (in fact, Ruth and Jacob had probably forgotten its existence) so if discovered I could feign ignorance. I placed the book between a couple of books I'd never read and forgot about it. After Jacob's death, I took one of those books down and the journal fell out. I had no idea what it was until I opened it. Ruth became somewhat of a clearer picture after reading.

Did you ever wake up early in a stranger's house on a summer day, when everything around you remains sharply in focus, though you have no idea where you are? So Ruth became to me after reading grandma's journal. Written when she was nineteen and Ruth was on the way (Uncle Nial and Uncle Sean already having arrived), it's a life lived through the roots of a country I don't know.

Ruth's mother breathed Catholicism like an asthmatic. She felt constricted by the teachings, even as she fell in love with the word. For the word was love. From the age of ten she swore to herself that she'd never force her children to love the faith through fear and violence, only through the love of the word. And so, Ruth's mother did not emphasize the teaching of Catholicism. She did not take the bible down in her children's presence. What she did was to scatter a biblical dialect through her speech. It became so natural; her children were never aware of the teaching. But taught they were.

My ego concluded after reading that the journal would not have helped Jacob. Maybe that should read my grief? For no decisions can be more damning than those made in the process of ego/grief. I had not discovered his writings and was only shallowly aware of his obsession. Perhaps because of Conversations, perhaps because of his drinking, I allowed myself to ignore its possible impact upon him. Either way it was too late, he was gone. After reading her journal, I took it out to the brick barbeque Jacob had built and burned it. I stood by my decision.

In 1975, my best friend Rachael and I were playing on the monkey bars at school. It was lunchtime and she was talking to me but I wasn't listening. I was watching my neighbour from over the back, a rock in hand, lining up some boy, also with a rock in hand, ready to throw. Rachael was still talking through this and she said something to me, vaguely insulting. We were kids; I was not concentrating but enrapt with the impending violence and answered her with something equally insulting, at least as insulting as a six-year-old can be. I said it while watching and suddenly, Susan (for that was her name) dropped the rock and ran over to where we were playing. Susan was about four years older than me and a trifle scary, so I wondered what was up. I kept wondering as she climbed up to where I was, dragged me off and proceeded to march me to the principals' office. According to her, I'd inadvertently sworn at her - you know how loud kids can be sometimes. Well, no matter how much explaining I did it made no difference - she was convinced I insulted her.

We reached the principal's office but he wasn't there so she ordered me to run and not swear again - I was scared so run I did. Never did give up swearing though.

Funny, it wasn't until I was around twenty that this story came back to me for some reason and I realized that Susan was truly a coward - she was never going to throw the rock so I was as convenient an excuse as any to save face. Besides, what if the principal actually was in? Once I'd told him about the rock-throwing match, who would've been in more trouble - her or me? Still, I was only a kid, that'd never happen now?

It had been the best we'd engaged in years - certainly since Jacob's death and she'd started speaking again. I don't suppose I'll ever learn, some things just aren't meant to be told but I was carried away in the alcoholic euphoria - I told her about the journal.

Australia's a funny place really; we shouldn't be but we really are like the world's most civilized backwater. Sometimes not so civilized either. Even today we're still very much like everybody's little brother - so desperate to be liked that when anyone even hints that we might not be all we vision ourselves to be - we bring on a case of the 'fuck you's' and get on the piss. Our country has such a proud alcoholic heritage - the nation that drinks together, drinks together. We worship all in the pursuit of more beer - the quintessential Australian drink.

This was something Ruth and I discussed at great length the day I told her about the journal. We loved to discuss alcohol, that day we did anyway. God we were having a good time. We talked about Jacob as well, even a little about my writing. We were so drunk, I think me more than her but it's hard to recall sometimes. One drunk becomes much like another after a time. But I think, I really do think, that she forgave me for betraying Jacob with Conversations. It wasn't so much anything she said but her attitude in talking to me about him. I think I started to forgive myself too, until I told her about the journal.

It has been the only time in my life, besides looking in the mirror, when I have truly felt hate. Especially when I confessed to having destroyed it. There were many things I expected to occur once that sentence left my lips. What I didn't expect was my mother's laughter. It was not, however, something you felt comfortable joining in with. It sobered me up damn quick I'll tell you. She laughed for twenty minutes or so, closed her bible and put it away. I had never seen her put the bible away. I don't ever remember feeling such fear as I did on that day. She still has not spoken to me and it's been six months.

So what am I asking and do I have proof? Is there a case for a cultural identity that pushes us in the direction of self-abuse, thereby, self-destruction? Probably there is but hey, what would I know? I'm a drunk. I like how that plays out; I'm a drunk, much more honest than I'm an alcoholic. I've never been able to grasp the alcoholism is a disease argument, because having a disease implies a possible cure. There's no cure for being a drunk believe you me - save death. Yes, you can stop drinking, Uncle Nial hasn't touched a beer in twenty years but he's still a drunk. Even he admits he's still a drunk; not a day goes by that he doesn't think he should be drinking but he stops himself and the feeling passes. Uncle Nial has tremendous will power but he's hardly cured. It's like a cancer, you can send it into remission but it never really is cured. You can cure measles, polio, chicken pox, the plague but you cannot, once you're an established drunk, you cannot cure the need to drink. You can build up a certain immunity to alcohol but you cannot build up an immunity to want alcohol. And after all, isn't an immunity a cure? A cure for a disease? So no, I can't see alcoholism as a disease. Then what is it?

It's certainly a celebration and I think I can reasonably assume not just of manhood. I still remember drinking my first beer and, God it was FOUL. I could easily have been turned aside at that point, bar one crucial fact; all my friends at that time in my life, drank beer. I told Jacob about it as just a passing comment one day and he told me that, next time I was out, I should have the barman put a little lemonade in my beer, it would help take the edge off the taste. There was no way, at nineteen years of age; I was going to walk into a pub and ask for a shandy so I resolved to like the taste. And eventually I did. From there it was quite easy to become used to spirits - I felt I'd put in the hard work on beer. Besides, you shot spirits, whereas you drink beer. So yes, it's definitely a celebration - a celebration of freedom. A freedom of a coming of age I suppose, a breaking away and all the standard clichés we know so well.

A literal celebration, or a celebration of the self? For I firmly believe an addict has more self-love than any human alive. How can you not when you invest so much time in yourself? And what's the first thing we want to do when things are going well for us? Celebrate. And if things are horrendous? Drown our sorrows (also a celebration but of a different kind). How do we do it? Exactly. And who do we please when we drink if not ourselves? So perhaps, with alcohol, the only celebration IS self-celebration. We don't make anyone drunk when we are; though a drunkard always likes to share. If someone buys you a beer but you don't know him or her, invariably they'll be drunk (and if they buy it for you in the hope of a root, then usually, the same goes). So is alcohol the greatest excuse in the cause of self-celebration? (I'm alone as I write this).

Everything becomes extraordinarily interesting when you've had a few. Just now I've examined the interior of my pen. Amazing really, all the mechanisms are in place; I unscrewed the body from the push-down top (or is it the push-down top from the body?), observed the ink level in the cartridge (still quite full), lost the spring then found it again (after much cursing) and finally, took out the actual activator button that the cartridge slips into. A marvellous work, the pen. Not allowed its due as one of the great twentieth century inventions. Who could survive without one, regardless of writing ability? Think about it, we all need a pen at some stage in our lives, even if only to sign a cheque. Can you imagine using a quill? The pen is definitely overdue for some praise. So here it is.

The second bottle of vodka is out and I'm still asking whether I'm an alcoholic, sorry, a drunk. How many bottles make a drunk? One? Seven? Ninety percent would be in the admittance wouldn't it? Hundred percent probably. So how many bottles prompt an admittance? Over how long a period do you have to drink x amount of bottles, per day, to welcome in the admittance? Eight years for me. '91-'99, and beyond I'm sure. Eleven years if you count the on again - off again binges. So that makes it since...nineteen I guess. It sounds right, I'm just finding it a little hard to fathom. Could that really be right - eleven years? Sorry, eight years? Dad's been dead and in the ground eight years. Alcohol does make time indulgent, well, not time exactly. Just me. Am I a drunk? Does this make me an alcoholic? Time to welcome the admittance? There's another bottle to go yet.

A passion for a country can only be equalled by its passion for itself. Who said that? I have passion for this country, which is why I think it's such a disgrace sometimes. I hate politics, in fact, I have next to no idea of politics but I know how to drink and how to read. Writing I still know nothing of, it's only something I do, not understand. I know this country and I'm glad to be here, mostly. Read Ruth's A County Revealed and you'll also gain clearer insight. You might also gain my despair. Despair for an Australia that once was and can never be again. That's a dangerous despair. A despair for a country that shows real leadership promise but can't emerge from the sandpit. Another dangerous despair. Because despair like this can only lead to more of the same. You have to move forward but we're too interested in our past. It's the Australian way. I know we can move on, I've seen it in so many ways, so many times but it won't happen. Because that isn't the Australian way and that's where my despair crystallizes. We need the surety of being last. Oh yes, we can be first, we have been first but truly, when was the last time? And through how much negativity? An isolated occurrence? Of course not but I can only see my own country. And my own country offers up security problems. We must have a guarantee. But that doesn't always work does it? I guaranteed myself three bottles would be enough. It isn't. Am I a good enough drunk to be an Australian?

NINE

What's the point of almost dying? Surely there must be more important folks than I to keep alive, even in such a state as this? What use can I possibly be to anyone, especially myself, when I can't possibly be of use to anyone? Am I just a reminder, a reminder of the folly of misunderstanding? The misunderstanding of all of us, for isn't it every one of us who believes it is not yet their time? For it is not yet my time and I know that because, here I am. Oh, I wish I was dead, yes that is true, that is the one thing I've prayed for these last few years. Have they been years? I've no proof they haven't but I've no actual recollection of the incident. So perhaps I interpret as I see fit. Why shouldn't I? Would you, who now know of the situation, would you deny me such interpretation? For if you do, does that mean you would also deny me my rightful death? And with all things being equal (which they never are) does that mean I am also denied the right to let you choose your own way of despatch? You see, you cannot know the situation I'm in in any intimate way. I can describe it to you in detail, for I've had the time, in fact, I've had nothing but the time to examine it from every angle and extreme but you cannot experience the suffering I encounter as my normal life. And make no mistake; it is all about suffering. I can suggest to you how you could simulate my experience but you can always move on, something I am not allowed to do. It's all parallels I suppose, though my life now parallels the dead, whereas yours perhaps more to the living. Though living and life are more opposite than we are led to believe, as I've found out. Can a life be lived through death? For death is where I am now, in the greatest sense of the word, if life is about enjoyment. I still like to think it is, though I'm sure some people would vigorously disagree, because for them, life should be no more than suffering. I can now afford to find this attitude, not only ridiculously infantile and ignorant, but also charmingly amusing, for they have not the slightest inclination of what true suffering entails. So yes, I pray for my death, I pray every day for it - though of course, I've no idea of what a day might be anymore. Perhaps that is an indication of true suffering - to not know what a day is. To not be able to discern morning from night, or even to be able to trace the hours. To not be able to physically call this the 'end of my day' or to not recognize light and shade anymore. That, indeed, could be true suffering. That is why I pray for my death constantly, and it must be constantly for I've no other time value. A death I know that will come, though not quickly. A death that I know I deserve, though cannot be allowed through reasons I cannot even comprehend, let alone understand. So there you are looking down on me. Are you looking down on me? For it is not as though I recognize anyone, it is not as though I can even see, I only imagine. I can hear, or that is to say, I invent the approximation of sound that I choose to call hearing and I sometimes hear you in my room, breathing, talking, crying, abusing. I see you, or rather again, I imagine I see you, or a representation of you, looking over me kindly with hate - a hate I'd rather take with me to the grave than the love you so often speak of. For that hate remains my last honest emotion, the last emotion I can steal and truly call on as my own. This is the only time I've truly had the world at my feet and your hate, which I will call my own, inspires a world of devotion in people who would never have looked twice at me before. Now I have nothing but people looking at me - my wish at last - granted. Your hate is the only thing that keeps some perspective on their devotion. Can you know that? Can you recognize your hate as it flows from your eyes to mine? Can you ever possess the power to which I have been granted through your overflow? Can you imagine the trust it must take to hold on to such a hate, only to hold onto it for me? I only wish I could thank you but even then, I couldn't thank you enough. I couldn't thank you enough because, how does one thank God? You, the one who, ostensibly, gives me life, or at least some semblance of life, are you not therefore God? How do I thank you, I can't even talk to myself? Yet you are the one I must thank and I do, every time I (see) you. I thank you for a hate that truly inspires. I thank you for the heft of what's left of my mind. I thank you, you whom without I would not be today, I thank you.

What was I saying?

TEN

It was a truck in the end.

ELEVEN

Dear Julie

Well, the book is finally out and you're not around to see it. I attempted a small celebration upon its release, mainly in your honour, but my heart and mind were not in the room. I'm starting to wonder now whether Mary was right after all.

Do you think it's possible that I'm being watched? As I was writing my book, I felt, not quite a presence, more an occasional glancing. As though someone were passing through the room and taking a quick peek over my shoulder, as a confirmation perhaps. It was not always a positive book Jules, but I did not once denigrate the faith. True, I derided the teachings that have been passed onto us, but never once did I accuse the faith of brutality. Nor did I refuse the existence of God. That is where I've been misquoted so many times, I do not deny the existence of God, or even the existence once of Jesus. A remarkable man with remarkable ideas but what has become of His teachings? That was my main contention. To try to take back what has been removed from His teachings. I did not aim for personal attacks on any one single person or even establishment; I only tried to dissect the errors I found. But you are not here to see my triumph and I wonder whether Mary and her stupid 'powers' have been right.

She was drunk when she tried explaining them to me; so I dismissed her talk as more alcohol poisoning. Mary is truly an alcoholic Jules; I'm surprised she's managed to live so long. Do you know her mother's had a stroke? She accused herself of awakening the wrath of the powers with her Conversations book; she believes she killed her father with it. How much do you know of this Jules, how much can you remember? My little sister, I felt for Mary and not sympathetically but pathetically. She has lost so much in her life due to the drink and her mind seems to be the last thing to go. She told me she stopped writing to keep the eyes of the powers from her, to hope they would look to another for punishment. She believed she had left it long enough before she started her new book; they had forgiven her and wished her well. After she edited my own book, she began to grow restless. She called many times and asked me to postpone, or even shelve the book indefinitely. When she told me why I knew then that poor Mary was lost. Now I don't know.

It's been out for six months now - that damn book - my 'triumph'. It's been corrupted, trashed, burned, praised, defiled, ignored and stolen. It's become some sort of catalyst to the new anti-religion movement. It's selling underground for twice its jacket price. It's been described as the worst piece of filth ever to assault the public eye. I've been accused of treachery to the church, to the country and to God. I've yet to be battered in public but I don't think that is far off. And you are not here with me and I wish I'd never written the thing.

Mary releases her book in three months time. She expects the worst. I am inclined to agree with her.

Chris

TWELVE

My book came out two weeks ago. I suppose you'd like to know what happened. You've made it this far, accepted the fact that I'm making little sense and now that the book is finally on the shelves, you'd like to know what happened. Perhaps you were even like me, expecting dire consequences. Perhaps you'd like the final explanation. Well Christian, here it is - nothing happened. I'm not joking, nothing happened. I did say that I couldn't trust the powers didn't I? Well, now you know why, they let me down. Nothing happened. The book is selling better (at this present time) than Conversations ever did and nothing has happened. I've received mostly positive reviews and a fair balance of press coverage and nothing has happened. In the wood.

My mother collapsed of a stroke on the day I received the confirmation of publication. So now you wonder how I justify the belief that nothing happened, that the powers ignored me? The day I received my confirmation, Game Plan first went onto the shelves. That day, Ruth suffered her cerebral accident and Julie....well, we know about Julie. I warned Chris of the powers, I presented him with the chance to defer or even to back out completely. In the wood Mary, in the wood. Ruth is only now starting to recover speech and the use of her left arm. She has stopped drinking though. His own sister is no more. A dose of selfishness perhaps? If so, how does this also not correspond to me? I suspect it does but I refuse the outright acknowledgement. For I know the powers had spotted Chris well before the incidents above occurred. You see, they left him letters of caution. Halfway through the editing of Game Plan, I was struck by a sentence that seemed well out of place in relation to the bulk of the text. Those who pull me apart may not absolve themselves so easily by-and-by. A passage of such uncommon wording for his prose, I could only assume someone else had granted him the language. I forced myself to continue, knowing implicitly that the powers were awakening. Could I have transferred their wrath to Chris (and Julie) through my thoughtlessness? I came to the final conclusion upon the release of the "Jesus" issue; Virgin Chalk's Christmas edition. It became the best seller in the magazine's history; Julie received more publicity and more subscriptions than ever before. The powers were indeed upon us but I was the only one aware. I was certainly the only one fearful.

I came to Chris one night, drunk and begging for understanding. He refused my pleas, even to the point of charging me with insanity. The book was too far on the way, the publicity is already in place, the publisher has faith, you need help. All these were excuses that I fought to decry but his stubbornness proved harder than my argument. He simply did not believe. Two weeks later, the proof required became reality.

Obsession and Game Plan were similar books, this I have mentioned. It was this, I believe, and not my past that, in some small way, protected me. Protected me from more guilt, I should hasten to clarify. As you can see, it is far simpler to blame Chris' book than my own, similarities and all. My book was not yet out, I was still unsure of the publisher's acceptance, our overall tones were different, I deserved a second chance. And that, my friends, is the drum. That is where my surety lies. I deserved a second chance. Chris and Julie were not on the scene during my Conversations period, should they escape unscathed while I go on scarring? What am I saying? They asked for it? No, I'm not arguing so coldly, I'm just not placing the words in their best context. I've lived with the guilt of my father's death for eight years; eight years that I believed were punishment for my self-involvement. The last two of those eight years, I theorized I had been granted a limited absolution (if there is such a thing), a minor freedom to resume my novelistic aspirations. After all, hadn't I found my father's work in the most unlikely way, in the most unlikely place? If that is not a form of forgiveness, then what the hell is? So it is simple for me to conclude, with no residue of guilt, that Chris is responsible for the powers wrath. I said it before, nothing happened when my book came out.

I suppose you'd like some sort of proof of my ranting, something to convince you that I'm not the selfish maniac that I appear to be. Something for you to empathize with, some way for you to sympathize with my plight. Fair enough, this isn't much but it may be some way for you to start listening to me. Chris phoned me the month before my book came out, to wish me well. He was crying.

THIRTEEN

:Are you listening?: -I hear you now brother, I've not yet left this place behind. :The interpretation has indeed changed, has it not? We may have been too hasty with the conclusion: -But brother, was that not your original point? :Yes and I can see my failing quite clearly. I was examining the argument from the point of view of my own, not the public eye: -Yes indeed, it does seem to have been taken rather too literally. The interpretation given is not unlike the reason for the book. :Sister, you always have the unhappy knack of proving me wrong: -No, no, that's not what I meant. Given your own teachings, you can surely see the irony of the book. :Not the book but the publicity: -Yes, the publicity. :I'm certainly amazed that it has been tainted so quickly. I only wish you could read my letters, their explanation runs clearer: -I have seen more than you can possibly know. She is lost. :I do not think so. I think rather, that she is dormant: -Well put. Does she grieve? I have been shown it. :No, she does not grieve. But I am still blind, perhaps I'm not the best qualified: -Blind? :Yes, to my own judgements. My teachings were my one true vocation; they provided me with a sound definition, a sense of worth. Now of course, I see the idiocy of my ideals. They remain no clearer than the previous work. How did I live so blind? How do I now? My lame didacticism proved only one thing, that I have no clear beliefs: -Do not despair too quickly brother, the book is still alive. Who knows how far it may go and who may pick it up? Remember that I have been shown things, things that I'm yet to comprehend or even give credence to. I cannot tell you I know things but I can tell you I'm not afraid. The sting has not proved too elusive. Do not dismiss everything too quickly. :But little sister, can you tell me that I've done the right thing?: -I can only tell you this; a time will come when you too will be unafraid. Until that time, be aware of her gifts. They are not all deluded.

FOURTEEN

I had words with my father today. He was not exactly protesting the book but neither was he enthused at its publication. He asked me about the first three chapters. I had been dreading this conversation.

You see, the first three chapters required no real re-writing. If you recall, they were me outlining my reasons for writing a book about my father's obsession. They were perfect as they were, the only part of the first draft that could've remained as originally written. But I completely re-wrote them. It may have been the alcohol, it may have been my presumption of forgiveness, it may have been my selfishness and it may have been a combination of all three, I don't really know and I'm not willing to closely examine the question. What I'm trying to say is, that I re-wrote the first three chapters of the book with its bias in my favour. That's right; yet again I deconstructed history and came up with my name in the prominent role. I chose to make my fathers' work my own. He wished to know why. Truly my forgiveness has been short lived.

Opening a bottle of vodka, I tried as best as I would allow to explain to my father his second term of dismissal. His terms, not mine. I would've been much harsher. He accused me (rather unfairly I thought) of trying to kill him off. He said that using his words in conjunction with my own, he was effectively neutered, or to use his phrase, he was 'writing-dead' whereas I was just 'writing-poor.' I countered with the fact that I used substantially more of my own language than of his, his words were paraphrased with my own writing. But if that were so, he said, why did you need my writings as a catalyst for your book? Surely the idea was in your head before your encounter? And lastly, who did you think taught you most of that language in the first place - your mother? And I had to admit that he made a good argument. I poured another vodka each and thought about his points. If what he said were true (and I more than suspected that it was) then the whole basis of my thinking (which was centered on my father's obsessions and my mother's talents) became nothing more than a box of lies. It would rationally lead me to thinking - who was the true writer in the family? Had my mother been making up her talents all this time? And if so, why would my father go along with it? He was always the one claiming a love for the pen, never my mother. And now that I thought about it, my mother wrote nothing after my father's death. Has her life story been only an invention? My father left me alone and I finished the vodka. Had my obsession with obsession blinded me so easily? Was there a truth to be found and could it be believed? What is truth anymore? Only one person would know. But would she tell?

Her speech is still slurred. I tried but I'm not sure she understood, let alone could reply. The wait will not be easy.

My whole life has perhaps been a fiction. Yet it bothers me much less than I wish it would. But wait, that's a lie unto itself isn't it? I don't know, can you take a literary work and make a movie out of it? Not that I'm equating myself with literature, I'm only pursuing the question. Am I truly bothered as much as I imagine myself to be? How much is enough? I know one thing, I certainly don't feel as obsessed as I once was; I mean, I'm still asking myself the questions but I'm less inclined to dwell on them. My father's book being the classic example, the obsession with obsession that I was so intent on proving not a factor in my life, became my life for close to three years. Now of course the book is out and I no longer need to push myself to those limits of endurance. The ultimate climax from that period has now been seen to be as fake as the period of Conversations. I can only use so much perspiration before even I wake up to the fact that the effort sometimes outweighs the result. But it raised some interesting questions, not the least of which was my authenticity. Where exactly, does obsession begin? Do you know when you are obsessed? Can you be honest with yourself about it? Does the cure leave room for personal growth? Can obsession truly ever end?

I watched my mother have her stroke. I'd just collected the mail from the box and was sitting inside, on the lounge room floor reading it when it happened. I was reading out the acceptance of my book when I noticed Ruth's face slowly change. It was like one side of it was slipping off; like the glue had finally worn out and needed reapplying. Not knowing what was happening, I called 000. I only just managed to convince them to come - they believed I was playing a prank. Drunk again.

If it starts in the mind, why then can't it begin in the eye? For isn't obsession almost always (and I use the term notably loosely) in the eye? Isn't it usually something or someone we see that triggers an obsession? Something beautiful, someone extraordinary, something that seems 'just right?' Even fame, isn't fame just an obsession of the eye? So if it does start in the mind (and I believe it does), why then can't it begin in the eye (ditto)? Je pense que vous devez en accepter la responsabilite. But if that is done, who will accept the responsibility placed upon the head of the obsession itself? Who will accept the acceptance? I'm not making any sense. I'm trying not to drink.

My connection to the book can no longer be thought of as mere exploration of a hobby. My own words can no longer be thought of as language derived from maternal talent. Jacob's work can no longer be thought of as merely the catalyst for Obsession. My drinking can no longer be blamed for my lack of lucidity. I'm dry with sweat.

Have I told you how much I hate the word alcoholic? As defined in the dictionary: person addicted to excessive consumption of. I can tell you from experience that I am not that person. After all, what's too much? Two bottles? Three? A case? No matter how much I consume, it never seems to be excessive. But then again, I'm not searching for anything from it. I don't require enlightenment. I don't wish for re-birth. I do not seek the employment of a mentor - I already know the way. So, in that regard, how can I view my drinking as an obsession (there's that damn word again)? I once said that alcoholism is viewed as a disease. Should it not be viewed as an obsession instead? There is no cure for an obsession (except death of course and, even then, I'm not too sure). I've also stated my view that there is no cure for alcoholism (also the death option), so why not obsession? Obsession controls your life, which is frequently what alcoholics claim their drinking, does. Mine does not. I'm quite serious. I never go a day without drinking but that is no indication of control. Do you feel that excretion controls your life? It is something that happens every day, you don't think about it. So for me, I'm never without alcohol, just as you are never without toilet paper. While I'm not saying the individual does not exist, I personally know nobody who is obsessed with his or her waste output. Except perhaps the old lady next door, she's always on about it. I think that's an elderly person's thing - on second thought, maybe I do know someone obsessed with their stools. Bearing the humorous side of that in mind though, I reinforce the point - I am not obsessed with drinking. I'm obsessed with obsession. Which haunts the whole basis of my new suspicions - how did my writing appear?

Ruth still cannot talk. I think she's avoiding me.

The time has come to speak of language. For what good is a confession without a discourse on language? 'My mother's bible gave me my language,' did I really say that? I can't actually remember, it sounds like something I would say. Yet I don't believe it as a whole truth. Certainly some of it must have rubbed off, I was taught nothing else for so many years, how could it not? Yet I don't believe it gave me my true gift (if that is indeed what I can call it). No, it must truly have been more. My father's talks for one thing, which can have done nothing but influence my vocabulary and possibly my tone. How biblical were those talks? In the main, not at all - if you consider biblical in the language sense. However, in the grandeur of his rants, biblical is the only word I'd use to describe them. You've seen them for yourself; I need elaborate no further. Talks based on this format remain hard to conceptualize and even harder to edit. My language became part of that freezer mentality, it's a quality I defend and shun at the same time. It is never a good idea to try examining an alcoholic's thought patterns. My father was an alcoholic and a teetotaller. I never saw him anything but drunk, or at least, some semblance of being drunk, so he must have been a teetotaller. As far as the word can describe anyway. Conversations was not an examination of an alcoholic's thought patterns. It was an exercise in remembrance. Have you ever tried to describe a glass of wine? The way, once you've taken a mouthful, the residue of the wine stays with the glass, as though exploring the texture of its container. The way a diffused light traps the residuum in the bottom of the glass, creating an effect of baggage. The baggage of something not eager to leave its home, wanting to stay to see the outcome, to say to the others, 'I was there.' Is that too ridiculous? Is that something that is far too weak to grasp hold of? Am I betraying my own teaching in too short a group of sentences? How will a language be judged in the end? As a finite point or an architectural marvel? Will my language be judged at all?

I've lost power over my thoughts. Time to reconsider.

FIFTEEN

It's been some time since I've heard the voice of the priest. Even assuming the fraying of my time-line, it's been a while since I've heard the voice of the priest. Does that shock you? We used to have a teacher that would ask that all the time. My high school English teacher, Mr. Owen. He used to take us for Literature and the class would read, one at a time and after nearly every paragraph he'd say, 'don't worry about that kids,' and the thing was, we never were. He genuinely thought that reading literature could shock us; for example, Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird. Several times in our readings, when Scout would call her father by his first name, Atticus, Mr. Owen would tell us not to be concerned that she didn't call her father 'dad.' Of course, nobody in our class gave a shit; we were all too busy hurrying the bell so we could get out of the place. Still, I can give Mr. Owen some credit for at least trying to imagine that we had feelings that could be damaged by books, even if he was stuck in 1950, rather than 1982.

So I ask again, does that shock you? Knowing that you also do not give a shit, you're just waiting for the bell to ring. Then you can close the book and move on, safe in the knowledge that you've done your duty and now you can have some fun. For how long has it been since you have truly been able to call reading fun? Ever?

No, it's been a while since I've heard from the priest. I believe I may have killed him. Perhaps not me personally, or even in a metaphorical or spiritual sense but killed him I may indeed have. You see my ego, how it won't let go, it won't allow me to not take the credit for something I had no say in, no hand in, nor even any knowledge of? My god, where did this work come from? Not my father or my mother - a combination of both? Then that is one scary consideration. I must surely have inherited both their egos upon my birth, they lacked so much. Or is that just my ego persuading the thoughts? Oh, why haven't I heard from Chris? He must know by now that my book is out, surely he could call just once? Then again, if his death has come from my hand, he'd surely avoid me for all his worth. See how my justification fits so neatly into one tiny package? See how my questions so neatly provide their own answers?

Here's a new thought - what's in the word of the priest anyway? The last call, the one I've already told you about, the call to wish me well became a minor confession of his own. He tried, for the first real time, to explain to me about his troubles. About how, it may have had little to do with the word and more to do with his refusal to bend. I did not tell him that I'd assumed as much from our talks, his letters and his sister, because I wanted to see how much he would say without prompting. It turns out that it was nothing much. He told me flat out that he hated my book, or did I tell him I hated his, I can't quite remember. Either way, for a call of supposed congratulations and well wishing (which he spoke of often), it became a rather bitter call of resentment. Not for me per se, though I certainly received a perception of such, but more of works gone unappreciated in the past. He loathed some of the reasons for the sale of his book, especially when most of his sales came from the anti-religion groups, but he also hated the fact that almost no one seemed to understand the actual message he was trying to impart. I have to admit, being this is a confession, that I was one of them. Throughout the entire editing process, I could not truly fathom the meaning of his book. I imagined I knew but when Chris tried an explanation, I realized I was nowhere near the truth. And that was his main problem, no one was near the truth. Unfortunately, because the book was so convoluted, both in structure, style and language (largely due to my egotistical influence), the message would probably never be understood, no matter how long the book stayed in print. Which is where the notion of his inability to bend forms the most concrete assertions - he approved my work. It was his book but he didn't want much to do with it once he'd finished the body of the text. Perhaps bend is not the right word; perhaps his inability to accept responsibility is better. Did I tell you that he didn't read the book once we'd finished? He flipped through it certainly but he didn't sit down and re-read his own work once finished, and he did not once mention his own editing job. Clearly so, in case of things turning out as they have, he would have the perfect scapegoat - me. And do you know how I found all this out? That's right, this phone call we're analyzing. So, back to the question - what's in the word of the priest anyway? His refusal to bend concurs with his denial of responsibility, so how can his word merely be taken for granted? Yet he is my best friend's brother and my friend as well, I cannot wish to not hear from him, at least just a hello. And I cannot say, even after all that's happened, that Chris does not believe that every word he utters is the truth.

SIXTEEN

I guess I can't really say what the joy has been in the writing. The amount I've accomplished is nothing compared to the time I've wasted. Too many times I've found myself ignoring the book and blaming anything else for not having the time to write. The unexpected visitor, the television, the need to go out, my mother and of course, the alcohol. Naturally, none of this is any excuse at all, so why do it? Why find an excuse for something I supposedly enjoy doing? Because, as I've told you before, writing is damn hard work. Just sitting around, desperately trying to place words together that will bring some sort of coherent structure. Finding the right word is not always just a matter of luck. And the point is, and this is something that many writers will tell you, writing should come easily. I've believed this ever since reading my mother's articles and my father's letters - the writing should come easily. I ought to be able to write for several hours and not know where the time goes, but I have yet been able to. And the truth is, I can't do it because what I've been writing about just doesn't interest me. As obsessed as I was (am) with my father's ideas, I could not bring myself to write for longer than an hour at a time. Sometimes not even that. And how can you claim any joy in that? Joy should theoretically come from ease. Conversations and Obsession were written through hard graft. Even the last six months of Obsession, whilst comparatively easy compared to the first year, was still a forced effort. Like waking up in the morning and forcing a run or a trip to the gym when you're unfit. So again I have to ask, why do it? I say it doesn't interest me, though that is obviously another lie because I keep on sitting down with the pen. But perhaps not, for it's always been the words that have interested me, as opposed to the writing. To look back and see the lines, to ask myself, did I truly write that? To watch the ideas come together, at least in my eyes, and enjoy the fact that I can really do this. Interest or not, I can actually do this, I am a writer. So does it really fall completely into that camp, or is something else going on? I said it was hard because I'm not really interested in the subject, yet I have devoted the better part of ten years to very little else. So I'd have to say that interest is too broad a word to indicate my meaning. Then why do I waste so much time? Perhaps because I see too far ahead? For both my books, even before I first joined paper and pen I imagined them finished - huge, dense works of unparalleled brilliance, bathing in the warmth of critical praise and massive sales. Of course, I knew in reality that the massive sales dream was just that, but I truly believed the dense work of unparalleled brilliance. Unfortunately the truth began to creep in somewhere around the third chapter and I slowly realized that to create these works I was going to have to slave. And I didn't think it should be that way, I should've been able to wake in the morning, put my glasses on, make a coffee and sit at my table, pen in hand and write for the rest of the day. It truly should be that easy. Maybe again my language fails me, for easy implies far too much - even in my own mind. I've read about writers working for three weeks straight, not even stopping to eat, why did it take me three years to write both my books? Perhaps because that kind of work, in and of itself, is not easy. Who among us can truly say that they could concentrate on anything, even something they enjoyed, for a full three weeks, exclusive of everything else? Am I not the writer I imagine myself to be? I can only cling to the thoughts of my greatness, for the proof can only be attested through the lens of my small fame. And truly small it is. It is the way I've wanted it but not the way I had hoped. True it has increased since the publication of Obsession but it is wasted on me alone. My mother has been all but forgotten and my father has not the memorial I planned from the first steps of writing the damn thing. I can do no more than blame my ego and myself - I cannot allow any other to claim my rights. My rights since birth, my rights since I found my father's works and my mother's voice. The conversation must go on. I must see if Ruth is awake.

SEVENTEEN

It is time Time to go Time to take the last vestiges of this work And retire But where shall I remain? In your care? Do I wish for that responsibility? I'm fooling myself, I know Responsibility is in the eye of The beholder And who remains beholden to me? God? The book? My work? Not for you do I ask this journey Not for you do I ask any favour For the preciousness Of your inner life (if one so imagines it) cannot be asked for any favours for a favour can only be earned if one deems it possible So I go Westward ho gentlemen, Westward ho What is left for me here now you are gone? I cannot answer for my work anymore NO! I do not wish to answer for my work anymore Bravery, thy name is not my own Treachery Thy name is not my own Conduct There's a name I can truly rely on For conduct is where I retreat in this My time of shame A shame I feel no future for A shame that assumes no Responsibility For me Picture this My work At a pure angle Lifted into I For only in I can it truly be appreciated Or even Understood But I no longer wish for understanding For I no longer wish for truth In the end Truth is only what you make of it Yourself Understand? Even if not You can perhaps see the evidence Close your eyes Breathe in silence Does not the evolution of truth require this one catalyst? This one Static Element? Cest la vie Which is why sometimes clichés really do work the best When I leave I shall not return There remains no point in returning For I do not wish a resurrection Nor a holiday I only wish for you to be with me Like it once was And shall never be again Unless I come to meet you Which I have been thinking about Seriously But not so seriously That I've achieved a new bravery Because I've already mentioned that Still It's been on my mind And it remains so Now that I've truly made my mind up about leaving Which I do Now Forever Today For the last time

Chris

EIGHTEEN

Ruth is still not speaking to me. She did write me a letter though. She has understood my recent questionings all too well; the letter is proof enough of that. It is also an indication of how much I have misjudged my mother and exalted my father. You see, the works that I based Obsession on come not from my father, but from Ruth. She had not quit writing at all, merely stopped perfecting her craft. Once she had made the decision to stop writing for publication, she freed herself of the need to be self-critical. In her letter, she told me that she did not enjoy the articles she had come to write after her marriage, and her book, A County Revealed did no such thing. She regarded it as a simple piece of fluff, that she agreed to do for the money needed, rather than for the work to be recognized. My own opinion of the book remains; I feel it is one of the greatest works on this country since A.B.P. My opinion does not count in the examination of this letter however, so I shall try to keep them to a minimum.

I believed they were my father's works through Ruth and my own misjudgements. The argument that brought me to finding the letters was fuelled by Ruth herself and of course, our alcohol. I distinctly remember her mentioning - your father's works. She planted the seed and I nurtured it for her, never suspecting the truth. Only through talking to my father did I begin to question. The one thing he always told me to do and I forgot. Question. Never assume, because you make an ass out of u and me - he loved saying that almost as much as in the wood. It was always a stupid father joke to me though, but he was right. My mother fooled me too easily. I can now look back on all those works and agree with my opinions, for I see them clearly for what they are - words of true greatness, words of a golden writer in her prime, words that I have used without permission and with less imagination. If only I had known! What a great book Obsession would have become! Which points out many of my flaws, don't you think?

She tried, in her letter, to explain to me her reasoning for deluding me for so long. She tried as best she could but I think the stroke has affected her brain more than I've been told - she said she's been having talks with Jacob. Jacob has been dead since 1991. Sweeping that aside though, she claimed that fear caused the deception. Fear of the unknown, or rather, fear of remaining unknown. My first reading of that brought forth some very judgmental outbursts, most of them along the lines of :you decided yourself not to publish anymore: and :it was not you who remained unknown, it was I: and various other ego induced slurs. How meagre fame does make one bitter. At the time of finding the works that would constitute Obsession, you will recall that I was writing two columns and the occasional article; it was not like I was unknown at all. Still, my ego thought it knew best and so I judged and so, later, I was disbarred. I realized that my mother's fear was the fear of every writer, especially one who is still writing but not publishing. Ruth felt she had left it so long between works that it would be too difficult to start again. In truth, she feared the rejection. Having lived so long on the critical praise for her work, she didn't think that anyone would remember. Especially as her daughter was now the writer in the family - who would care about the mother? Once through my anger (for isn't judgement a form of anger?) I realized that I knew how my mother felt - hadn't I at one stage been the one who asked, who would care? Though truly, I believe the fear was largely in Ruth's head, many people in the publishing world still remember her name.

The letter went on to say that she envied the position I was in now, the fact that a new book was out and selling reasonably well. She remembers what it was like for her own, the feeling of accomplishment, the nourishing of the soul (even a piece of fluff can sometimes nourish the soul). The letter stopped at this point and several blank pages were included in the envelope. I'm still not sure of the point she was making; perhaps it was part of the stroke. The next section certainly was.

Your father also says he is proud, she writes, with no trace of self-consciousness. Apparently he is not happy with Ruth's deception but accepts that he became part of the plan. They both felt I needed to forgive myself at last, to stop the guilt over Jacob's death and move toward the career I had begun to establish for myself with Conversations. And that's where I began to wonder where Conversations in the wood had really come from. In dad's (mum's) works there were many references to mine and my father's talks - could Ruth have been eavesdropping and noting them down? From this distance it seems entirely possible, even plausible, considering the amount of work I discovered with the basis of our talks therein. And if this were true (and I was certainly under the impression that it was), then my father's death was truly in vain. No, no that's not right, that's not right at all, it can't be. What if my father's death was a suicide - is a suicide in vain? For, on reading Conversations in the wood, seeing his words and realizing the path Ruth had chosen, he opted to take himself out of the plan, to leave the way clear for Ruth's return. Could that be it, could he have known even more than Ruth imagined? It seems possible, knowing the way my father could lie. But does that still make his death less useless? Haven't I just proven his death completely in vain? How could he imagine that his death would bring Ruth back into the spotlight? How could he imagine his demise as some sort of trigger? Unless, of course, he knew about the book all along. Unless he thought that his death would inspire a new vision. Unless he thought his death would give Ruth a renewed sense of purpose. Unless he knew about all the writings Ruth had been compiling over the last twenty years. But his death occurred after Conversations, did he know about my work, or Ruth's work? Did Ruth know about mine; I didn't tell her? Was that the reason she was so pissed off at me that day, the day of our mighty argument that led to my finding the letters? The threads are drawing together, let's see if I can tie them neatly.

NINETEEN

The threads have become pointless; my two best friends, Julie and Chris, are gone. I no longer know how to feel about it, I am numb from grief and alcohol. I have finally truly killed someone.

This confession has taken two weeks to write so far, which means my book has been out for four. Does that seem right? it doesn't feel that long. Five days ago, Chris came to me and told me he was leaving. I only begged him not to go when he handed me papers to sign, papers that gave me the authority to turn off Julie's life support. For a long time I pleaded with Chris to find another way, an uncle, a cousin, anyone but me. He would not and did not listen, he knew in his heart it was the right thing to do. He knew in his heart that it was time to let Julie go but he also knew that he could never do it. It was not against his ideals; it was against his soul. I signed on his one condition - that he be out of the state before I made any firm decision. I signed because I knew he was right, we both had to let go of her and I signed because I knew it was something I had to do, something the powers placed upon my head. I don't know where Chris is but I know he is gone.

Today I went to the hospital with the papers. Julie is gone and I am more drunk than I can ever remember being. I am, for the first time in many years, actually drunk. I cannot write anymore.

TWENTY

She has come. Has it been a while since she's come? Yes, I will leave it at that; it has been a while. My eyesight is no longer but I know it is her, I can always tell when it is her. It feels good to know she is with me again, even if only for a short time - all my time seems short these days. I hardly can tell whether I have a consciousness or not, I can only measure time in centimetres. How is it to be measured, when I have nothing to say for myself? Ah, cruel, cruel distance, I cannot be spared much longer.

Her feeling seems different today (?), more hatred. Almost an illumination of hatred, not only for me, for herself. A quantum leap in terms of hatred if ever I've felt it, and hatred I most surely have felt, and many times. It's frightening the amount of hate that builds up in a place like this, and I don't even mean from myself. I am past hatred now, for me, for others, for life. I have moved through melancholy, patheticism, and depression to emerge out onto the other side. Now I sit in resignation, with the tinge of hope, the hope that one day it shall be enough. Her hate may be the signal I've been hoping.

This is not a time for an exploration of hate for truly, I cannot remember the emotion. No, of course you know that that is not true, not true even remotely. I no longer care to remember the emotion, for were I able, I just may be tempted to blame others for my situation. And how can I blame others when the situation is entirely of my design? No longer can the gentle nudge of guilt be reported as justifiable upon someone else. It is finally my turn to acknowledge all factors in play in my - demise? No, no - designation? No, no, no. Oh God this is so hard, I cannot think of the right word - condition? Yes, I think condition describes me quite well. And what factors were there that played a hand in my condition? Impatience, speed and animosity. All these have forced themselves into my hand, to create a tougher picture of me, for me. Because without them, I'd still be alive today. Alive in the sense of the word as I have described it before, not alive in the terms and conditions usually reserved for the more well-meaning, but ultimately facile conspirators. And don't let them fool you, conspirators they are. Oh, they say they do 'God's work'... and I lay claim to not remembering hatred. Well, proof is as wrong as all I have stated before then, isn't it? So yes, I remember hatred, I remember hatred very fucking well. But I will not explore the emotion; I cannot explore the emotion. I feel my time is close, I dare not let go and cling to the hope of hatred. For hatred is a powerful hope indeed. Without hatred, I could not have survived(?) this long; I would not have been able to remain here still, for whatever purpose I am. Hatred allowed me the hope of revenge but, it's only now I can say that the revenge would ultimately have only been on myself. But hatred clogged my thoughts so much, that I believed that she was the true enemy. Whenever I felt her presence, the hatred would allow me such visions of excruciating pain (hers, not mine) that I could only bask in the joy for as long as I knew she was around. And bask I truly did. Hatred held me up so long, that I now wonder what was the point? It proved no more useful than imagining that I was truly dead and in hell. Though of course, I was in hell, only I knew it but nobody else could understand. Over time, I have managed to let go my hatred and feel myself fading out. It has come at the price of forgiveness, if only for her and not myself, but that forgiveness has allowed my fading to gradually increase, until I can barely tell now where the fading has left to conquer. Now she is here and the hatred shows itself again. I have not convinced as purely as thought. She comes in. Can it be true? Voices sound like they're coming from outside a womb but I'm sure I heard. Can it really be true? She has forgiven me at last. I'm to be free.

TWENTY ONE

For God so loved the world,

That he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him

Should not perish, but have everlasting life.

And it is only now that I have begun to read the Bible.

I have been unable to find either of my parent's passion for the book. Not in Jacob's obsessive perusing to find Ruth's fire, nor in Ruth's stubborn refusal to believe in other writings. Although she did not teach me from out of the Bible per se, I found the root of almost all her language on the pages inside. Like her own mother, my mother taught me the Bible at the foot of her chair, on the telephone, in the car, in fact, anywhere we talked, anytime at all. I also found the root of a fair amount of my own language, bludgeoning my father's assertions, even while confirming his right of obsession. For isn't it only the right of obsession that needs confirming, moreso than the obsession itself? I believe so. And I also believe that this is where my basic misunderstanding has come from. I sought to trace the root of my father's obsession, rather than the right to become obsessed. And all of this counts for very little in the end, as my father's obsession was non-existent. It was my mother's all along and I had been obsessed by a lie. So, why start reading the Bible now?

I watched this happen when I was in Grade 9. There was this boy, Peter Franklin who, for whatever reason boys have, was disliked by all in his grade. When I say disliked, I actually mean hated but, as Jacob said once, you can't possibly hate anything - but that's an entirely different story. Now, the one person this boy Peter was hated by, more than anyone in the class, was the local 'tough' - a boy named John Arthurs. I don't really know why John hated Peter so much, you know how much boys and girls hung out in school back then, but hate him he did. I watched this happen.

Peter was talking to one of the boys in his class, just after the final lunch bell had rung and we all had to move on to afternoon classes. John came around the corner, and with no prompting from anyone and no antagonizing from Peter, he stuck a plastic bag over Peter's head and sealed it off with his hand. Naturally enough, Peter couldn't breathe and, whenever he tried to remove the bag from his head, John would stop him by hitting his hands with a compass, the ones for drawing circles - they have the point on the end. Eventually Peter was allowed to rip the bag off his head and it was considered largely a joke by all in the corridor. Even a few of the girls were laughing. No one came to Peter's aid. I watched it happen but I can't explain the mentality that pursues these actions. It's just another story.

I started reading the Bible because I thought that it was time. The book was written, it would place no undue stress on my writing, I would not need to worry about its influence over the work. I can only hope that the statement I have just made sounds as ridiculous to you as it does to me as I now read it back. Almost as full of ego as my honesty statement a while back. Obsession - The Knowledge Factor, was so full of the Bible, that it would've mattered little whether I copied the Bible out and submitted it for publication instead. Though I still think it's uncertain as to whether I would've gained a clearer perspective on the writings whilst reading. I suppose that's what I am attempting to find out. Because, yes, I have the Bible open now, even as I write this passage. Does anyone reading this not recognize the above quote (from John 3:16)? And, so far, I draw no conclusions. In the main, this is because I have absolutely no idea at what I'm looking at. The Bible was sprinkled all throughout Obsession but drew no direct quotes. Game Plan drew a few direct quotes, yet the spirit of the Bible, I believe, is sorely lacking in Christopher's tome. The same can be said for Obsession and Conversations. So, where does this confusion leave me? The same place it usually does, staring at an empty vodka bottle and dragging my arse to the freezer for another one. Only I don't. In this case, I open the fridge and take out a bottle of Riesling. I hate white wine; I've never liked it and can only stand a mild drop of red, if I really have to drink it. So now I'm reading the Bible and it's got me drinking white wine. Truly, this is not the work of God. I have just re-read some of this, now that I have poured myself the required measure of alcohol and have noticed a severe flaw in my statement of Chris' book. How severe? Well, how can Chris' book possibly have much in the way of biblical spirit, when I, as editor, removed the biblical aspect? Furthermore, though I don't deny my part in the removing, what the hell was Christopher reading when he re-edited it? He can't have not noticed the watered down biblical tone? Perhaps that's the way he wanted it in the first place, he did have the thing published after all. I suppose it wasn't the biblical tone that was exactly lacking, more the spirit that I mentioned. I didn't remove the spirit, did I? You know the spirit of the bible, the energy, the emotion, the fear and the love. Game Plan had almost none of that; it was almost a clinical treatise. How much of a hand did I have in turning it into that? Now I know why I hate white wine so much, too many bloody questions.

Would you like another flaw? Obsession and Conversations contained no spirit of the Bible - as untrue as anything I have thus far written. Go ahead; read them for yourself, you'll see the liar I am. Even though I did write them, I can say for myself (with minimal ego involved), that they truly contained all the spirit of the Bible. And how can I say this? Because I didn't write them, they were written for me. Written under the auspices of Jacob and Ruth, written about their thoughts, hopes, dreams and obsessions, not mine. Oh no, I could never write about mine. That would entail a little creativity, a little thought, a little originality. Where the bloody hell is something like that going to come from - me? Sure I used my own words, sure I paraphrased, sure I edited, but they were not, essentially, my ideas. And that's the crucial point here; none of these books were my ideas. Even my columns contained the whiff of plagiarism. So there lies my true honesty for all to judge. And the question remains, how do I feel about all this? What, if any, is my opinion on my parents' obsession? Why has it taken so long for this to come up? Now we are truly getting into the heart of this confession, now we truly must reveal what this confession is all about.

FOR GOD SO LOVED THE WORLD. The world. Not just Jacob, not just Ruth - the world. He loved me for my world. My world of alcohol abuse, my world of Biblical stealth, my world of ego self-management. FOR GOD SO LOVED ME. The message of my confession, God so loved ME. He bathed me in his soul, He made jokes of my depressions, He loved me for the uncertainty of my life. God so loved me; God loved Ruth and Jacob. My world of their obsession. My world of their perpetuation. My world of their deaths. One real, one imagined. Ruth still can't talk properly but she can write letters and I've told you that already. God loved me, so much so, that he sent me into the world to find out the truth. And the truth is that God so loved me. Mary, the true daughter of Jacob and Ruth, the true daughter of God. What need have I for your proof now, Christian? You talk to me of faith and belief but all you want is proof. You want true proof, Christian? Look in the mirror. Look in the mirror and tell me that God does not love you. God so loves me, why not you? What more proof do you need? You need Him to come and tuck you in at night, tell you things will be ok? You have yourself for that Christian, don't ask God to demean Himself. He'd do it of course, but what for? The truth is all there Christian; the truth is staring out at you when you brush your teeth. For God so loved the world, he sent you. You Christian, you. The wine is finished the writing over today.

TWENTY TWO

It is true Christian; I have nearly finished this confession. To use up all of one's thoughts is to lay claim to a work of greatness. I have not used up all of my thoughts.

Have we been talking of God so much in the course of these few pages? Have we alikened God to goodness only, to the better parts of ourselves, the parts we truly wish to share? Have I written of naught else but the madness God installs in the few, to be left to flounder and wake one day to the realization - was it all a lie? Is it time therefore, to speak of evil?

I do not, and never have, believe there is an opposite of God. I cannot possibly believe that God is only the pure, the distillation of good. I do not believe there is another (entity?) that contains only the pure, the distillation of evil. I can only believe that God, as neither man nor woman, is neither good nor evil but both.

For how can there truly be a devil? God, as the creator, must surely have created evil, as surely as He created good. God may represent only the good, but where did this evil come from, if not created by God first? Lucifer cannot have created something as powerful, for that would place him in the same position as God, as an originator. Therefore, he could not have been thrown out of heaven, as you cannot throw away your shadow. But I think I'm sidetracking myself. God MUST be both good and evil. Which brings me to a question I pondered last night - could Jesus, once reincarnated, have been Hitler?

I realize the tangent I have just presented and I also realize the leap of logic but, I don't really know where my drunken mind is taking me, I'm just going to let it run riot, let's see if I can make a lucid point.

Jesus to Hitler, is it really such a leap? Jesus is perhaps THE human personification of good and Hitler is arguably THE human personification of evil, couldn't the two be more than related? It is said the Jews killed Jesus; Hitler, for his part, tried to exterminate as many Jews as possible - is the link as tenuous as it appears? Was Jesus, the good man, reincarnated as Hitler, the bad man, with a hatred for the Jewish nation, that overid any good he may have been prepared to accomplish?

God can only be God in the spirit form, once on earth as human; He must certainly take on human aspects, including emotions, as indeed Jesus did. Perhaps, and this is only the thoughts of an old drunk talking, Hitler/Jesus came back with hate playing the prominent role. An unnatural hatred for the Jews followed, the memory cannot fathom why, the extermination came into being. Was Hitler/Jesus seeking, what He may have imagined, justified revenge? 'An eye for an eye,' the Bible says, was God reminding? And now you might want to know how all this relates to God being both good and evil. Suppose God only created good, how long before he became obsolete? Who needs a God if nothing bad ever happens? How does God remain in the thoughts, and therefore remain immortal, if no one needs invoke His name? Imagine, if you can, not needing to worry about hate, or violence, or fear, or even death because you've never known the necessity. Would you need to know a God to thank? No, you only thank your God when bad changes to good. If you only have good, who cares? Oh yes, God created evil all right, He created it in a big way. But he didn't wish for blame, no you can't thank God and accuse Him as well. But that's what happens isn't it? Do you think God's devil backfired a little? Still, you can't say he hasn't got what he wanted, He does remain immortal. All I'm really trying to say (scenically) is that you cannot have God without evil. You want more proof of God? Evil IS God.

But our talk of evil doesn't stop here. For it is time to discuss me, and if the question of my opinion is the heart, then this may be the very soul of this confession. Am I evil?

I've taken the dregs from this bottle and thrown it on the letter my mother wrote. I thought it also might need a drink. I'm watching the words run together as I consider the tack I need to take next. It is not a question I can dismiss with a knowing wink and a nudge, nudge - I must consider the possibility. So here I am, quite successfully avoiding the question, watching my mother's letter become a ruined artifact, drinking from a fresh bottle in the hope that an answer will come. No, you've guessed it; I'm drinking from a fresh bottle, watching the destroying of Ruth's letter in the hope that I'll forget what I'm contemplating. I'm hoping I'll wipe myself out enough to not have to confront what could be the truth - Evil is as much a part of me as Good. As much a part? No, more than just a part, perhaps my true condition. Is that why I have such dreams? Have I mentioned my dreams? I've kept that out of my mind for some time now haven't I? So late in the confession but, never too late, never too late. I've dreamed many times of bad men, evil men, coming to do me damage. They stride in before me with all the confidence of a superior, until they see my face. Then what is that I see - fear? Not fear, but horror; real, actual horror. So much so, they turn away, beaten. And I wake up in sweat, feeling better than I've felt in days. Is that part of my true nature? Do my dream men see something in me that I'm oblivious to? Or are they only that, only dreams? My true nature undisclosed to anyone. Ruth's words have run into a block and only a few can be read. love is the clearest.

I can only contemplate an examination within the confines of me. This cannot, and never will be, an examination of evil itself. I cannot answer whether evil must always equate to bad, or what evil is unto its own. After all, I have only read the Bible.

I have killed two people; does that alone make me evil? I have chased another away and alienated my own mother, is my credit building up? Jacob and Julie, dead because I am alive. Whilst it's true that I did not physically or emotionally plan to kill them, under my hands they did occur. Jacob held my book; I held Julie's papers. Without my intervention, they would still be alive today - I take the responsibility for their deaths. But does that make me evil?

Doesn't the poetry of this moment just make you want to scream? I've been up many times before this and never had such an urge to rid myself of all the rot. I have an awful pain in the restriction of my stomach; pain not as a knot but as an anvil. It feels like a build up of some kind, perhaps a swelling. Oh yes, I'm quite aware that it's my guilt, but there's no way I can possibly admit that to myself yet; I've still a way to go. A long way down my well-worn path. And how many times have I been down this way in my short life - a hundred, a thousand, more? I've just remembered a quote that would fit quite neatly into this but I refuse to speak it, I can't afford to become lost in a new age, 'you'll feel better about yourself soon,' mindset. Not that I feel there's essentially anything wrong with that but it's too easy for me to distract myself. See, I'm doing it now, you can see that can't you? My stomach has captured most of my concentration anyway; I'm lucky to have such a reminder of my position.

My position is not one of warrior; I think you may have gathered that already. We aren't really warriors in Australia though anyway, are we? That would seem to me to be more of a New Zealand trait - the Maori thing. Our ancestors weren't warriors, they were convicts. And serial killers of course, but let's not go into that here. See how easy it is for me to distract myself? I'm just filling this page with ramble; no point, no direction, no answers. I imagine I'm losing myself in the beauty of my language, the wonderful overuse of adjectives that I've mastered over time, the generousness of the thesaurus, the convoluted sentences. But really, I'm just becoming more annoying with each paragraph; each sentence leading me further and further away from the examination I'm supposed to be conducting. Does that make me evil?

I'm going to paraphrase a quote now. It was Shakespeare who said that nothing is good or evil, but man's thinking makes it so. Was it Shakespeare? He'll do for me at this stage. And that's the real answer to my question isn't it - why do I think of myself as evil?

I have set Julie and my father free, correct? An evil deed? I would like to think that I would not be the only one to say no. My father would not have lasted much longer; he was drinking himself to death as it was. Julie was no more alive than this page, this pen; she did not deserve such an existence. I cannot be condemned for such selflessness, which is what it was. Selfless acts on my part to help my two most beloved. Yet, things are never as clear-cut, never as dry as such a statement. Before all this Mary, before all this - your evil intent? I refused my father's name, I betrayed my best friend - we ended up in court - but no, that story is not for you. Suffice to say, my intent was no more pure than smoke. But-was-it-Evil? It is nothing I can answer; it is a stupid question and just another indication that I'm a useless drunk. How can you answer such a question without delving into the nature of evil? It is impossible, I am impossible, I don't know what I'm talking about. Ultimately it is not even for me to decide, for to decide such things conclusively proves that the condition cannot possibly exist. And we need evil, or even just the threat of evil, to exist. I can fathom no more, this confession is over.

CONCLUSION

Dear Chris

Fire cleanses, don't you think?

Thanks for your letter of the 14th. It cheers me no end to read that you are doing well, living in the Territory and thinking of going back to preaching. I was saddened to think that you might have lost your faith completely; I'm happy you have not turned your back.

Ruth still cannot talk; she does nothing but sit in her chair by the window these days, her bible is back open but she has not turned a page in weeks. Did you know she quit her therapy? The doctors and I have tried to persuade her but she refuses every advance, she refuses to do anything, even eat. Despite her meek protests they have been feeding her intravenously; it is not hard to change the bag once you've been shown how. A nurse still comes once a week, in accordance with my requests, but she does little else than an observation and a talk with me. They do say that fire cleanses.

You'll notice that some papers accompany this letter - it is my new manuscript. I thought you might like to read and perhaps edit it. One good turn, you know the story. It is not the best thing I have ever written, it may not even be good enough to be the worst but it is the truth. At least as much truth as anyone here can talk about. You'll know much of the story anyway; you might even be able to fill in some of the obvious blanks. I'd appreciate you taking care of this book; you have the only copy. Much of it is rubbish, to be sure, but it remains my first solo achievement; not bad for a girl who basically copied her first two books in their entirety.

I don't know whether you'll care or not but I've seen your book around town in a few different places. Some idiot even organized a book burning for it - can you believe someone still doing that? Fire cleanses his soul I guess. Have you a copy of your book? I seem to remember a time when you didn't want to know about it. I don't know how you feel about it at this stage; your last letter didn't mention it. Nor did it mention Julie, but I certainly can't blame you for that. I still am unsure of how I should feel about the whole situation. Perhaps you can tell me, does it make me evil?

Shit Chris, do you want to know the truth? My book is a confession, a confession of all I've ever thought over these past few years. I don't really know what it's about, or even why I wrote it but it feels right. It feels like it should be something I've done, something to truly leave behind. Forget about the other two, they tell nothing truly of me, this is the one, the one I'll live or die by. It only seems fair that you should have it; you're probably the one who indirectly prompted it in the first place. I've shown it to no one else; even Ruth doesn't know I've written it and you can't get anything by Ruth. I don't know anymore about very much but I do know one thing, the one thing I've been told many times; by my father, my mother and the Bible. Fire cleanses.

Hope to see you some time in the future Chris; stay with the preaching, it's the one thing that makes you who you are. Take care of the book for me; there'll never be another like it for this girl. I'm going to open another bottle and say hello to Julie for you. In the wood Chris, in the wood.

Love Mary.

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Other books by David Francis Jeffery on Smashwords include:

Bore

There's no truth to the rumour

50 Haiku

Questions, comments, threats and insults can be directed to: davidjeffery@y7mail.com
