Playing the game.

6 12 2017

There is a game played amongst friends.

Possibly to gauge closeness of ties.

Whether or not I can use phrases like “You old Bastard/Queen/Cunt” in conversation without them feeling offence?

The game requires knowing where the line is, without crossing it.

If you cross the line, it is not a case of “Political correctness gone mad”

It is your failure to ascertain where the line was, the other is not at fault.

Maintain your distance from the line and it’s a good night out, fail and it’s shame mixed with embarrassment, an apology is in order.

It’s an art form, as delicate and tricky as a male spider attempting to woo his mate, and as such is probably best avoided.


Cultural Cringe

1 12 2017

So, You find yourself with a friend, talking about life.

While deep in conversation your friend mentions a type of food which you’ve never heard of, you don’t ask about it because they’re a chatterbox and the conversation has moved on.

But one day you’re passing a shop which is offering the food your friend mentioned.

You go in, have a look, and could be delighted, uninterested or revolted.

But it’s your choice.

How different might it be if all your life people told you to be revolted by it?

Like they might do with nudity, sexuality or the simple biology of our bodies.

Ask yourself if you’re really disgusted, or was it drummed into you until you accepted the opinion verbatim?

Winding down

12 11 2017

I feel that time is running low, that my energy is less abundant than it used to be, and that life is becoming harder to sustain.

My bed is my keeper, I’m here most of the day. I mostly rest and sometimes sleep. I keep in touch via my tablet and watch Netflix at night.

My home remains uncleaned although I make sure the laundry is done and I am washed.

The cats and dog are fed, but I mainly live on coffee and snacks, I might have a meal in the evening which comes out of the microwave.

I’m not sure if it’s my body or spirit, or both.

I cannot call myself depressed, but I am unhappy.

If I die, and it could happen, my only concern would be for my companions, I am disposable.

Any talk of me being “too young” at 52 is bollocks. I had a very good life compared to many, and a good family. I regret nothing.

I write this not because I may take a dive off the West Gate Bridge, but because it could happen, it nearly happened at 39.

I know I go through cycles where I consider mortality and then come out the other side again, but I’m tired and have had my fill.

If there is life after death as some say, and reincarnation as others say then my plan is to go up and out into space, not dally around here. 

Many of you have found a place where you fit, I never have, but I look up and know I have friends out there, it’s where I most want to be.


6 11 2017

Now and then I have a big think about things, I think sometimes I’ve written about these ideas before, but perhaps getting them down again is a kind of therapy, which might help others too.

Those who experience panic attacks are asked to look for triggers, but it’s never that simple. If we were arachnophobes then we could blame our terror on out eight legged friends, the problem though is not singular, it’s a fruitcake.

As a small boy I was asked by my dad to get his pills from a narrow container for him as his fingers were too thick.
I thought it was just medicine, but later I learned that they were to calm him down.

He stopped taking them at the request of mum, who was concerned that he might be becoming addicted.

Then I in my twenties suffered from panic attacks. There were days I could venture into the city, but could not go into certain shops or cinemas.

There were weeks when I couldn’t go anywhere at all.

I had professional help, it helped a little.

One day I watched my sister have an attack in our car and then heard that my niece was having trouble driving home from work.

And later that my nephew was also having problems.

I wasn’t alone as I had thought.

All of this came down from Dad, who had Aboriginal blood.

Our brains did not evolve for today, but for thousands of years ago.

I noticed that I felt at peace in a forest, or a quiet beach, places we evolved to be, but modern places were the reason for my mental strife.

Walking through city streets, the people, the cars, the bass vibrating through the footpath, the horns, the smell of sweat mixed with aftershave, hair products, nail varnish. The fresh scents of fruit, the smothering heaviness of fried food. Signs, adverts, pictures everywhere, the contant input of information, spaces closed in or open, jagged lines, too much.

I cannot ride on trains, trains are the worst.

I wondered if it was just my Dad’s genes, could it be something to do with his Koori bloodline which caused my distress? Could I feel my connection to nature and my need to be a part of it more than others?

Do I simply feel more of an animal than others do?

Others hate seeing themselves as animals despite being mammals. 

Eating, sleeping, seeing, hearing, tasting, fucking, breathing, peeing.

Calling criminals “animals”, lowering something honourable to an insult.

I was proud of my animal side and encouraged it, had I the technology to alter my form like some alter their sex, I would take it.

Even as I lay here at ease, I am aware of my jagged breath, my heartbeat, I am on edge. 

I would like to exhale, to finally feel at peace.

But I doubt this life will offer me that luxury.


17 04 2017

My Mother told me never to mention it to others, I’m not sure why, I think she felt some sense of shame, though it wasn’t her fault. Many Women have experienced the same.

Somewhere between My Sister and I, My Mother gave birth, way too early.

She had felt something go wrong days before, but She was not a person to seek medical help. I don’t know why, perhaps she was afraid of Doctors, or perhaps she saw going as a sign of weakness, but that’s pure speculation.

I know very little except he came out on the bed quite suddenly.

Dad said that he was black, though that could have been because the child had died days earlier perhaps, and black hair.

I was born bald.

I have wondered over the years how my life would have been different with an older brother, I wonder what he would have been like.

Would he have been more like Dad, keen on going fishing, or more like me, loving his music and his dog?

Would we have got on well, or would he have been a thorn in my side?

Would he have been the one still around now that the rest have gone?

I suppose he would have been in his 60’s now.

Mum, I know you never wanted me to mention it, but at the same time, does he deserve to be forgotten?

It wasn’t your fault.


24 03 2017

It may surprise you to know I’m writing a science fiction book.

I’ve had the idea for years but haven’t really done anything about it, partly because I got hooked up into the strange world of how? and where? and who?

I understand nothing about business practices or of publishers, and also I don’t want people breathing down my neck, I want to do it in my own time and under my own terms.

Which leaves me with writing it for free, well nothing new there, everything I do is for free.

So Harlequin can be found here:

It can also be found on Facebook, Google+ and on Medium.

No big giveaways, but it’s a nice, comfortable, friendly sort of science-fiction.

You won’t see baddies fighting wars here, but you will find plenty of introspection and love.

Radical, eh?

I hope you like it.


Wolfie Rankin.


Why you don’t “Spill your seed”

17 01 2017

If you’ve read bits of the bible, you may have seen passages talking about Men “Spilling their seed”.

Indeed “Semen” is Latin for Seed.

However, back in those times sex was a dark and mysterious thing which few understood. A womb was seen as either fertile ground or barren land in which a Man could spread his oats, wild or otherwise, and they would sprout like seedlings.

Eggs, produced by humans and other mammals were unheard of.

If you compare plants and animals, then a plant’s seed would be much like an animal’s embryo, a fertilised egg.

Semen then, can be better compared to pollen in plants which means that males are, in fact, pollinators.

I hope that gave you a buzz.