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Mutley had commented that there was an absence of my cock lately on Fuckeries, and yes, I suppose not much inspiration has flown in for 'creative cock' pics, and so I thought to show off my latest dressing gown. I got it for winter as my usual wear is quite flighty allowing me the freedom to dart about the lounge-room leaping over couches, chairs, coffee tables etc. This gown however is more heavy, thicker, woolen and warm. It's a bit of a pensioner gown, but I don't feel any of the benefits of youth at the moment, it is a passing phase, and in a year or two I'll be swinging from the rafters again.

As you can see I'm sneaking in a cigarette, having a night to myself in the apartment. I finished reading "A Moveable Feast", where upon hearing the times Hemingway spent with Fitzgerald in Paris (1920s), made me understand that the fruits of our creative labors are only half the tragedy of being. That a sensitivity to all things and an unknowing which perspires contradiction is a fundamental condition for questioning the universe that has born us. That succinctly not much will change as each wave of generation filters through all the puzzles and procedures needed to breed the next lot, and so on. Tender is the night ... said Fitzgerald, and he perhaps in his dizzy anxiety and perplexing insecurities would be one of the few who truly felt it.

So now onto Miller's "Black Spring", as I sit back listening to Electric Light Orchestra's rendition of Edvard Grieg's "In the Hall of the Mountain King". Briefly I think back to a month ago when I had an amusing conversation with a phone sex girl and she described humming on my balls, I asked what she was humming, she laughed, and I suggested "Popcorn" the tune composed on the Moog by Gershon Kingsley. I then suggested we do "69" and I hum on her cunt, something like Mozart's "Turkish March". There was much amusement as we attempted to orate this expressive fantasy - me with a hard cock, wanking, and she probably in front of the telly with the sound on mute.

It was one of those paid phone sex conversations that converse nicely between getting off, and after I came she said "Wow, you actually sound intelligent, I'm used to dumb, rude and arrogant idiots". I bade her good luck with her "Dumb, rude and arrogant idiots", hung up the phone and went to bed smiling. Glad to have made someones working night a little more enjoyable then it might normally be.

The other night I clung onto trying to remember my mother. She died when I was almost 3 years old and I have no memories of her. I lay in the darkness and for about four hours I tried really hard to recollect. I stimulated my mind with things I could remember in the hope that I would trigger a memory that might be hiding dormant somewhere. It was exhausting as I went through things that had caught my eye at a very young age, traumatic times, and common memories. The stimulus that was most vivid was the traumatic experiences so I concentrated on attempting to recall trauma. I was told by my Aunty that when my mother died I was lying in bed between her and my Uncle, and at 6am I woke up crying terribly, it was 6am when my mother died in hospital.

This brought me to one important point. I was lying between my Aunty and my Uncle, and this brought to my attention the fact that I had a fear of the dark as a kid, something I had forgotten about up until now. It was a lead.

Up until about eight I had to have a tiny orange light that plugged into the wall socket wherever I went, whichever friend's houses I stayed in and during the summer where I grew up. During winter all my early childhood I had a fire in my room that gave off a flickering glow that calmed me, as I had terrible fears that sharks swam on my carpet and wolves were under my bed.

So I knew that most likely I would have slept between my mother and father at a very, very early age. It seemed rational enough to pursue this line of recollection, and then it happened, I got a flash of memory of waking up having peed the bed or just woken up, and my father being irritated and my mother in a white nightie comforting me. It was a surreal memory and it felt real, as real as memories can, real enough to convince me that my mind wasn't playing tricks on me. I think I have found my memory of my mother ... I think.