Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Monday, December 6, 2010
“And that’s all you have to do.” He said as he blew a plume of blue smoke towards me from across the small, wooden table.
“What do you mean ‘that’s all’, that’s a hell of a lot to do, what you’re asking.” I said, shaking my head slowly, looking through the contents of the manila folder in front of me.
“It’s either do that, or lose your chance entirely. If you decide not to do this, there are no second chances, that’s that, you will never see us or our opportunity again. You decide.”
“Can I sleep on it?”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Murphy, the time for decision-making is now.”
The Apartment Song
I just wrote this out of nowhere...i don't even know what to do with it....
i love the way when you
look at me in a way that way
i think it's so cute
makes me think you think
i'm with you all the time
don't you wish that all the things
we never had could come true
and i never wanna say i'm sorry
i never wanna say i love you
all the things i don't want to
do with you involve
shopping for apartments and
going grocery shopping
i know that that sounds kind of mean
but what it is i guess i mean is
we might not always be together
but i think that that's okay
when you think about it though
what are the odds we'll stay together?
what do you think we will get married?
what do you think that we'll have kids?
i hate to be the guy that
bursts the bubble that you live in
but the world is not like that
not every relationship is meant to last
no matter how much we say
i love you or that we'll stay together forever
it doesn't really make sense when you
think about it
how many did you say it to
before you were with me?
and how many did i say it to
before i was with you?
these are just the things we say
the motions that we make
because we're tired of soul searching
and just wanna make it work
as much as i wish i am wrong
i know that when i sing this song
you are gonna think about it
and know that i'm not lying
so when you walk away
on the day that is comes
please don't say that i didn't warn you
please don't hate my guts
it's just the way the world works
the way the world works
i don't like it, you don't like it
but i guess that that's too bad.
tell me off for a dollar
tell me off for a dollar
re a useless
tell me off for a dollar
no one will ever love you
and your hair is stupid
tell me off for a dollar
you should have been aborted
tell me off for a dollar
re stealing all my fucking dollars...
...and I HATE you for it!
tell me off for a dollar
tell ME off for a dollar?
dropping money into the box
looking at the sign
and taking aim with words that wound
a non-existent pride
it is i who is despicable
it is i who is useless
...tell me off for a dollar?
I dreamt I was in some huge hotel in Canada, and it just so happens that some evil alien leader named Krull had decided to take up base in this very place to start his invasion of Earth. The hotel was half destroyed, and people were running everywhere. I made it out with some friends from Canada and my backpack and we made it to an old, 2 story pub like place, via the subway underground. On the way I called Yvonne (my old Montreal babysitter from when I was little) to see if I could stay with her and she said "no" and I said "well, then I have to go and find somewhere to go" and she asked "why?" and I said "because Krull is attacking!" and kept running. Once in the pub we sat down to have a drink and go over some plans. I said I'd be safe once I got to Yael's house in New York because the USA had those little trucks with the missile silo boxes on the back and we'd be safe there - since, apparently, Canada's army isn't that good in my dream. Then I heard some weird vibrating and went to my phone...
...and woke up to my phone reminding me to pick up my passport. I hadn't even set my alarm, but luckily got woken up at the right time by me phone.
I wrote an article for one of the uni newspapers very much to this effect.
Seriously guys, let's get this under control.
Don't forget to read the roll-over text (text that appear when you put your mouse cursor over the image).
The beginning of a Film Noir Detective story with a robot detective - Rob is not the robot detective, I haven't introduced the robot yet:
Rob is seen hiding behind some crates. It is raining. A harsh streetlight shines on him. A bullet blows a corner off a crate near him.
“Come on, Rob, you’e done this before.”
2 more bullets hit the crates.
“…and that’s six.”
Rob leans over the top and fires several times. A bullet goes through a crate and hits the perp. Rob goes to stand over him – his body lying in a pool of his own blood.
Rob is in the Chief’s office.
“That’s the seventh one in a month, Rob, what the hell is going on with you? We can’t get any goddamn information on these fucking creeps’ boss if you keep shooting them!”
“You think I don’t know that? Maybe if they stopped pulling guns on me, I’d stop shooting them!”
2 panels identical. One shows the two sitting in silence. The second has them with a bit more of a smile. The next panel has them laughing.
“Shit, Rob…go home…get some rest. I know you don’t need to see the shrink for pulling your weapon, but don’t go acting all macho, okay?”
“Chief, do I ever?”
Rob is at home and dials the phone. It rings out onto the answering machine, “Hi, you’ve reached William Lydell, I’m obviously not home, so leave a message after the beep.” BEEP!
“Hey Will, it’s your brother, remember me? It’s been like a month since we’ve spoken properly. I’ve called a bunch a times. You must be working on something really big this time, huh? Ah well, gimme a call.”
Rob hangs up. Slouches into the couch, turns on TV. Falls asleep.
Next day. Lighting shining in through the blinds in the window onto Rob’s face.
Automaton Noir Update
I've decided to swap the names of the brothers. Because I want to call the robot RoBert or something like that, RoboRT. So, would it be weird to have the two main characters with the same name? The brother could have named it after his brother for something. Cop is Rob and robot is Robo or something. Hmm...
The idea is kind of from Penny Arcade
I'm not what you imagine and I never will be.
Though you softly dream of me,
it isn't really me that is there - I'm somewhere far off in a place you can't imagine in a place you don't know
my best laid plans are mazed networks for you
barbed wire fences you can't scale
and your ideas are
invisible to me
because they don't exist
they you and me that is a fairytaledream is no more and you did it so you can't
How Many Times
I've watched you walk away so many
why isn't it easier now?
i've even seen you walk towards me and it's
because when i look at you i think
of everything we had
i see your eyes
those same eyes
nothing ever really changed and you know it
just admit it
the same car
i'm tired of seeing it drive off down the street as i
walk through my front door
i just wanna stay with you for a whole night again
“How the fuck would you know? Now shut up.” Derek said, cocking the hammer of the gun and aiming it at Harvey.
“Don’t I get any last words?” Harvey asked with a strange calm.
“If you’re not careful, those will be them.” Derek said smiling with malice.
They stood like that for some time, Harvey on his knees and Derek standing in front of him, his weight on his forward right foot, his right arm raised aiming the Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum, his eyes on the wall clock just over his left shoulder.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” Harvey asked, cocking his head with curiosity.
“Shut up!” Derek spat as he eyed the clock and uncocked the gun aimed at Harvey’s forehead. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and sat down on a nearby stool, pulling it towards him with his foot.
“Anything the matter?” Harvey asked, seemingly concerned.
“Nothin’s wrong, I just gotta wait is all.” Derek said, crossing one leg over the other in an attempt to look nonchalant, but betraying his sense of nervousness by tapping his foot and darting his eyes between Harvey and the clock every few seconds.
“You seem nervous,” Harvey said, “Can offer you something to eat or drink? A cigarette?” Derek glared at him from his seat with heated contempt, “No fucking food, no fucking drink…but I’ll take one of them cigs.”
“Front pocket.” Harvey said. Derek leaned forward and ripped off the front pocket of Harvey’s shirt, taking with it the new pack of cigarettes. Derek tore these open and withdrew a cigarette and put it to his mouth, “Light?” he said gruffly.
“Left pocket.” Harvey said and Derek searched Harvey’s pockets for the lighter, but came up with matches. Derek lit the cigarette and the end glowed red, the smell of the burning phosphorous filling the small room as the swirl of tobacco smoke floated towards the ceiling. They sat there for some time in silence, Derek with his cigarette hanging loosely from his lips, ash falling like snow onto his worn black jeans, right leg crossed over the left and tapping at air; Harvey on his knees, his hands behind his head, not a bead of sweat marking his face.
“So,” Harvey said after some time, “can I ask what it is you’re waiting for? You have ample time to kill me and leave, probably taking most of my valuable with me – I live alone so there’s no chance of someone stopping you from upstairs.”
“Don’t you think I know that? I ain’t waitin’ ‘coz I wanna. I’m waitin’ ‘coz them’s the terms of the deal.” Derek scratched his three day beard absently, his broken nails making a grating sound in the penetrating silence. Harvey eyed Derek. He wasn’t a tall man – five foot ten at most – he had short, greasy, messy hair which looked untamable and his eyes were a deep brown. He was probably handsome at a time, but what seemed like a lifetime of unhappiness had taken all the life out of his face leaving it a mass of wrinkles covered lightly with a harsh beard. Harvey thought he saw a distinct sadness in his eyes, as they looked constantly moist with tears – like Tom Cruise’s – but that could have been because of the cigarette smoke or how nervous he was. Derek noticed Harvey eying him and as he did, Harvey smiled. Derek began sizing up Harvey, a dark skinned, middle aged man who had aged seemingly well but was maybe a kilo or two overweight. His black hair was cropped short and he had dark eyes, hidden behind and magnified by his rimless wire glasses which sat lightly on his face. He had what Derek thought was a kind face, but quickly shook his head of the thought. Derek looked down at the gun in his hand. It was a heavy, steel gun with a six bullet wheel, a .357. The gun he had been given for the job. It was such a big gun which could apparently blow a man’s whole head off. It seemed unnecessary to Derek, but he didn’t think twice about it when he took it, when the man had called over the phone told him to look in his bedroom where he found polaroids of his wife and daughter duct taped and lying on a stone floor.
“What exactly are we waiting for?” Harvey said, waking Derek from his thoughts.
“If you gotta know, three a.m. We gotta wait for three a.m.” Derek said, annoyed.
“Three a.m.? But why? You have me now.”
“That’s just what the guy said is all,” Derek said, now angry with himself for having revealed information about the man on the phone, “and he said to get you and wait until three a.m. to kill you, no earlier and no later, or he’d know.” Derek shrugged, “Make’s no difference to me, either way you end up on the floor pooled in blood and I get paid.” Derek felt his cheeks flush as he was thought too much about things. Talking too much. The man had left a polaroid of Harvey, too.
“Kill him at three a.m. and you get your family back, and ten thousand dollars,” he had said, “no earlier or later than three a.m., I will know. Don’t test me.” And then he hung up.
“If we’re going to be waiting here for another two hours,” Harvey said, once more waking Derek from his thoughts, “May I take my hands down from behind my head? I imagine they’ll get quite cramped and painful and I’d at least like to be mildly comfortable for the last two hours of my life. It shouldn’t make any difference to you.” Derek eyed Harvey for a moment and the things which were near him. He was in the centre of the small room, with nothing of worth within arm’s reach for a weapon, “Sure. Why not?” Derek said finally and Harvey lowered his hands, rubbing his wrists and forearms.
“So, if I may ask, why exactly have you been sent to kill me?” Harvey asked.
“I think the real fuckin’ question,” Derek snapped back, “is why the fuck were you expectin’ me to?”
“A good question. I wasn’t. Not tonight, really. But for some time.” Was Harvey’s cryptic response.
“So why the fuck were you expectin’ this to happen, then?” Derek could feel his palms sweating as he asked this.
“I answered one of your questions, now it’s your turn. Why have you been sent to kill me?”
“I don’t know,” Derek said, his voice flat, “just some fella wants you dead, an’ he’s payin’ me to do it. S’nothin’ personal ‘tween me an’ you.”
“I’d say there’s nothing more personal than this.” This comment made Derek shift uneasily on his stool, “Do you know who sent you?”
“Nope, an’ that suits me fine.” Derek fiddled with the gun, switching the safety on and off.
“You haven’t done this before.” Harvey said, causing Derek to tense.
“’Course I have! Don’t you fuckin’ challenge me! Shut the fuck up!” Derek jumped to his feet, taking aim at the focal point of Harvey’s glasses, his hand shaking.
“No, you haven’t, but that’s okay,” Harvey continued, “no need to feel bad about it. Not many people can do a job like this. There must be something more than just the money pushing you into a job like this.” The sound of his wife trying to push words through duct tape exploded into Derek’s mind.
“I got my reasons. Why was you waitin’ for this to happen?”
“Because I’ve done some things which may have made me some enemies.”
“You in the army or something?”
“No. I’m an accountant.” Derek began to laugh a deep laugh which wheezed from years of smoking, “I guess that’s the new army, isn’t it?” He said and continued to laugh. Harvey just smiled. Derek sighed after his laugh and was hit with a vision of his daughter strapped down and he sobered up quickly.
Dreams are seriously fucked. They've been so odd lately.
Kissing some girl I know in a blizzard of falling snow.
Dreaming of a very sexual, non-existent sister, "Why is it exactly we don't fuck?" she said. I don't recognize her either.
What the fuck?
There have been so many weird dreams...
Songs for Life
"I never knew that it was over when I met you" - Over When I Met You, The Camels
"Take me away, I'm gonna hurt somebody...how could she say, she wanted more, you, better" - Take Me Away, Plain White T's
"When you gonna work out that I'm all you ever needed...I'm never gonna find another woman that I want" - All You Ever Needed, The Camels
"Summertime is when I look into your eyes" - Summertime, The Camels
"Romance...does it happen when you slow dance? is it in your head or is it in your pants? Romance!" - Romance, The Camels
"All the times we've had..." - Times We've Had, The Camels
"I've become so numb...I don't know what you're expecting of me" - Numb, Linkin Park
"This may sound a little fucked, don't wanna fall in love!" - Don't Wanna Fall in Love, Green Day
"Nothing perfect can remain forever" - Nothing Perfect Remains, Jordan King-Lacroix
"Smiles and her laughter, she's the only thing that I've been waiting for." - Emily, From First to Last
"If love is a labor I'll slave 'til the end" - Swing Life Away, Rise Against
"The best way to get over someone, is to get under someone else" - No Mercy for Swine, The Cherry Poppin' Daddies
"Now you're nothing but a picture and 1000 Memories" - 1000 Memories, Bad Religion
"So you're feeling unimportant, 'coz you've got nothing to say" - Slumber, Bad Religion
"I'm just a loser with no self-esteem"- Self Esteem, The Offspring
"15 years getting loaded, 15 years 'til his liver exploded" - Bob, NOFX
"Deep inside your soul there's a hole you don't wanna see...even though I try I can't get my head around you" - (Can't Get My) Head Around You, The Offspring
"Baby I got you on my mind...you'll never know, how much I need you by my side." - (Baby I Got You) On My Mind, Powderfinger
"There's a place for us sitting here waiting for the sun, and it calls me back into the safe arms that I know" - Waiting for the Sun, Powderfinger
"Who's next?" - Who's Next?, Tom Lehrer
Second (I think) LJ Poem (ed. it was like the 5th)
big night last night,
heavy falling waters
endoftheworld rain down noisy crash
on a bus i can'
t get on for the sake of the
i wondered why i was bothering to
a twisted turning confession
in the recesses of my mind confirming i was
blind to the things that lay inside
and ended u
with my hand behind your neck and your
i leaned you in close to me and you sure didn'
t pull back
our lips almost met but they didn'
t and that'
s almost what made the (non)kiss better
a tease of the lips and almost touch of the tongue
the look in your eyes and the
shine in mine
forehead to forehead we lay bizarre
encircled by inappropriateness
i remember you when you were young
and you remember me the same
i would watch you when your parents were away
and now you'
ve grown into a beautiful young woman
and it sure feels strange to know and see and be on the couch
lying down with you and almost kiss you in a way that...
m going home,
walk me through the rain?
and you do.
I sit in the dark of my room, the dull flow of my desk lamp of the page as it hums its florescent hum. I look out over the darkened cityscape of the city I'm now forced to call home. Not that I'm sad about it - the ensuing months will be filled with joy, I'm sure - but it wasn't home. I think of Marcho and how I'll likely miss his 21st - unless I can think of a clever way out of class and to earn enough cash to get home. The darkened McGill campus stretches out before me and the streetlights glow like four-pointed stars against the glass of my sealed window - safe from the negative degree temperatures outside.
A giant red sign says, towering over the other buildings. The trees are still leafless, lifeless, brown stems connected to the earth waiting to blossom in the coming spring - a spring that ever seems to want to come. I find it strange to think that I have so little time left in this room of mine - apartment 301 - in this house; a house once full of strangers and now full of friends; family. A cheesy and cliched sentiment, for sure, but truthful nonetheless. I miss home but not in the way I thought. I miss the people, the knowing, the security, not the land - just the familiar. My stomach sinks a little and I cough. A strange and educational trip this has been. And here I am, pen scratching recycled paper at 3:30am because my brain won't sleep and I keep coughing.
Scratch scratch scratch goes the metal nib against the page and marks are made, like magic, stained with ink. But the words aren't magic - just the ramblings of a brain over-excited and unable to comprehend how life brought it here. This fortune! I want nothing more than to sleep. Maybe I just needed to get all this out and I should do this sort of thing more often.
To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket- safe, dark, motionless, airless--it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable.
- C.S. Lewis
I wrote this poem by closing my eyes and just writing because my chest and head hurt and I needed to vent:
t know how it happened
it just did
some things happen that
one minute we'
re in the doorway and then
in the next room
t know how it
some things happen
what are we doing
what are we doing
ewhat are we doigng
awhat dre we doign
euhgiueu we...it doesn'
panting i looked over
and i just couldn'
t stop and now i still
t i just couldn'
t believe it
just one of those things
heat from everywhere
just one of those things
friends friends fierends
fiends friends fiend sifend firend
fired firedn friend fire red fired
friend friend friend firnen dmf
rolling across through the
and into the next room
"nice", she said
jacket falls off
"stay there and stay warm
ll be right back?"
into the bathroom
i wrap myself in her blanket
and she gets back and she'
s smiling and she is so pretty
and then she comes over and we
just one of those things that happened
she came to my bed later that
just to cuddle
and we slept
it was nice
been a long time
just to hold and to kiss
and to smell and to...yeah
is it weird that i get
Twist: My Brother Is Gay...
my mum: justin (my bro) went clubbing with [insert ex-girlfriend's name here], apparantly she's bi now
me: oh, she's been bi forever
mum: oh, and i wanted to give you some news. well, that would've made an interesting threesome
me: oh...oh mum...oh...gross...geez
In the light of the past few days - which have been a downward spiral in my otherwise jovial mood so far (it's gotta happen SOME time) - I have realized some strange things about my life here at the moment. (ed. names have been changed)
First, to last night. Brian had his cousin, Katherine, and her friend, Lena, over to stay for a day or two. Last night, Brian, Lena, Katherine, Linda, Bob, Rizzo and Synthia and myself decide to head out on the town for some drinks. I didn't really want to go out because I was in one of those moods where I knew I wouldn't make good company, but finally I obliged because I couldn't concentrate on my readings anyway, and I might as well be out having fun, rather than inside not reading and being sad. So, off to Gert's (the local pub on campus) for some drinks. Brian, Rizzo and Synthia head off first and the rest of us hang at home for about 45 mins finishing our pre-drinks before we head off. By this point, Katherine is very keen on me coming out with them. We eventually leave and go to hang at Gert's. The night progresses well, and Katherine and I are playing footsies under the table and eyeing each other like mad - woo for me. But wait, there's more. Last call is heard and we decide to leave for another bar - now, initially, I don't want to go back out, because I'd had a disagreement with Linda and I was already in a bad mood, but after some talking (and a significant amount of pulling on Katherine's part of my shirt) I decide to head out - leaving Bob on our couch, asleep. We hit The Mad Hatter's and we drink some more - Katherine and I continuing our coy game, but this time a little more overt to one another. Eventually, Linda, Lena, Katherine and I head up stairs to play on the stripper pole, and they eventually leave, leaving Katherine and I together. We hook up. She says she quite likes me and wants to...well, you get the idea. We decide to stay out a little and then we'll go home and meet in my room - cool. We stay out, and there is some touching - whatever. We get home, and we arrange to meet in a certain place so no one finds out - but BAM! in comes cock-block best friend and your loveable narrator is alone for the night. Aided a little by Bob, whose earlier comments on Katherine convinced her to reconsider hooking up with Brian's friends. So, me not happy.
Today, I'm better-ish and I head to class as normal, do everything as normal. After my last class, which Babs is in, as we leave I ask her, "What're you up to now?" and she replies with, "I guess I have to talk with you."
"I know what that means," I say and smile.
She cringes, "Yeah...I'm sorry. We had a big spark, and it was fun and I like you very much, you know that...but I have someone back home and...I just can't do this...shot thing right now...we will still have a spark on stage, and maybe something will happen later, we'll see...but we can still be friends, yes?"
"Yeah, don't worry...it's ok." I'm still smiling, "Well, see ya later."
"Ok, bye then." And I leave.
I got preemptively dumped. Haha.
One minute romances - I can't stop having them!
Philosophy of Life
"You should be as alive as you can until you're totally dead." - Dylan Moran, "Like Totally"
I killed a man yesterday. I’d never done that before. I haven’t washed his blood of my hands – seems disrespectful, you know? I mean, this is the last part of him and all I can do with it is wash it down the sink, mix it with the great oceans and then he’s gone…no, I couldn’t do that, imagine if it was me. They say the dead follow you around always after they die, watching you, because everything you do, the person you’ve become, they’ve helped shape, you know? You can’t always see them, sometimes you do, in those moments when you feel goose bumps in a warm room or when the dark seems darker, but they’re always there. I read that in a book somewhere…it was fiction, but I like to think that that’s true so that way I never feel too alone. Is that sad? I don’t know. Probably. When they found me with him, I was just sitting there next to him, cross-legged, my hands cupped holding a small pool of his blood, staring at it like it couldn’t be real. The detectives testified that I had a, “grey and distant look in my eyes”. I guess that’s accurate. Though I’d say it was more red – all I could see was that blood. They also say that if you can make your executioner laugh, maybe he won’t kill you – I’ve heard that in two places now. I don’t know if it’s true. I was the executioner, he didn’t try to make me laugh, he just cried…so, I don’t know. Wish I knew, then maybe he wouldn’t be dead. Or maybe he still would – depends on what you believe I suppose.
New Story (28/4/2009)
Started a new story, let me know what you think:
It was four a.m. and Henry sat at the kitchen table, “Get some sleep!” the others had said as they climbed the creaky staircase up to bed, “Yeah, yeah.” Henry had said, waving his hand over his shoulder. That was at one a.m. He had tried to sleep. Really. He had gone up to bed and lain still, and tossed and turned. He had even masturbated to try and get himself to sleep, but this hadn’t worked either, so he had gone back down to the kitchen and sat at the table. The room was dimly lit; all the lights bar a small fluorescent light above the microwave were off – some of the room being lit by the light from the adjacent room and the street lights shining in from the kitchen windows. He sat in one of the wooden chairs that surrounded the table that sat off centre in the room. He sat there for some time in the dank light before he got up to get his half-finished bag of chips from the cupboard, borrowed some salsa from one of the others and poured himself a glass of milk. He sipped on the milk and smiled.
“Milk in a bag?!” He had said, looking over at Jerry, who looked equally flabbergasted, “Milk in a bag?!” Jerry repeated, accentuating “bag”, pronouncing it as if it were spelled “bayg”. They smiled a broad smile and grabbed a four liter bag to suffice their milk needs and added it to the shopping cart along with the large box of Pop-Tarts, “Those’ll go well together.” Jerry said and Henry nodded.
Henry fingered the cigarette he had removed from a packet on the table, pushing the tobacco cylinder across the table idly as he ate his chips. He eyed a pack of matched and placed the two things next to each other. There it was – a pastime. Henry was a vehement non-smoker but he was seriously contemplating smoking this cigarette. He laughed at himself slowly and out loud, remembering all the times ha had yelled with derision at friends and strangers who had lit up near him, how he had coughed loudly passing smokers in public – being one of those non-smokers people hated – but now he didn’t care about all that.
“George, you’re stinking up the place!” He said as George came in from outside.
“Come on, man,” George said, “I like to smoke. Leave me alone. I can quit when I want, you’ve seen it. I just enjoy it too much.”
“Whatever man, it’s your body, your funeral, not mine.”
“Let me get that for you, m’lady.” Henry said as he leaned over, pulling out his lighted and lit Sally’s cigarette.
“Oh, thank you, do you smoke?” she asked as she offered Henry a cigarette from her pack.
“No,” he said, “I just like lighting other people’s cigs.”
Flash went the match as Henry lit up his cigar on a New Year’s Eve…
Snap. Inhale. Bubble goes the bong…
Henry toked from the joint…
He pushed the cigarette across the surface of the table and smiled, striking a match and watching the flame burn out the wooden body, inhaling the strong, potent, yet strangely sweet smell of the phosphorous match tip. He blew out the match and watched the blue-grey smoke dance in twisters above the match and dissipate in the dark air.
The smoke rose into the night sky as the love-letter he had written to her burned on the terrace like he had burned his essays at the end of high school – this letter meant no more than them now, but the gesture meant a lot to him.
(Here it goes blank from lack of ideas, but here's the ending...)
As Henry sat in the kitchen he looked out the window to see the sun rising, creating yellows, oranges, blues and pinks on the light cloud cover just hovering over the horizon. As the others came slowly downstairs for breakfast or early exams, they smiled and big him good morning, “Get any sleep, Hank?” they’d ask.
“Yeah, actually,” he lied, “all night.” He was comfortable with lying now – with contradictions and hypocrisy – because he lived it each day. He didn’t mind as long as it didn’t hurt anybody and he smiled at George as he joined him outside for a cigarette.
Sorry I haven't posted in a while. Haven't found the time or topic to. I've been having dreams about her again. It's weird to do so at this time, with everything that's been going on. But I'm always happy in those dreams, and so is she. It's good to see her happy. It's always pretty intimate, but in a sweet way, never in a "rough'n'fuck" way. In my Judaism and the Occult classes we're learning about Talmudic dream interpretation. One of them is, "If you are fornicating with a woman, whom you in turn love, then it is a good omen." In this case, I would say that 'love' could be quantifiably rendered into the friendship area, especially as the dream interpretation texts were written so long ago, and so archaically. And I could sure as hell use the good omen, especially after all the bad omen teeth falling out dreams I've had this year.
I hate the people I dream of
i hate the people i dream
it spins me round like food
time for your dime
hitched in vegas and up and
"does this all look familiar
i guess it must but it doesn'
wish that it would look like yesterday'
but it always looks like last year'
s next week in a way that
fakes the times we always
t it always seem like that to
it could just be me but
think so for once.
The Cast of Dreams
It is sometimes odd who it is who appears in your dreams. More often than not they're friends of yours, whether or not you've spoken to them or thought of them lately or not. Sometimes they're people you know in the dream, but when you wake up you realize you don't recognize them as a real life person at all. Sometimes they're people from TV shows - for example, I've been watching a lot of Scrubs lately (the whole series) and so the cast of Scrubs are commonplace people in my dreams - and we're often on adventures or running from things. Last night it was the Janitor and someone else...I don't remember. The night before it was Cox and the whole gang. Weird, but fun. But what is weirdest is when you have a sex dream about someone you know. This is weirdest when you haven't thought of, spoken to or dreamed of that person in forever. But it's still weird when it's someone you've spoken to lately, when you haven't had a dream about them - especially a sex dream about them - in a long time or ever. This happened to me last night, about a close friend, and it feels weird. And it doesn't necessarily mean I want to jump that person next time I see them, but I have been thinking a lot about relationships (again, thanks to Scrubs) and I wonder. I miss being in a relationship and I wonder what it would be like with certain people. I don't know. Sometimes the mind just messes with you for shits and giggles.
And a tear is shed as the world ends around us, but we still laugh...
Okay, so...it all started on my birthday.
We had a party, there was yelling, a table was broken, there was beer, there was a band, the neighbours complained. The downstairs one, no one else. The complaint was only of the slamming balcony door and "the loudest chair on earth, it's constant". Okay. We then heard that we had an imaginary party on Sunday when no one was home and it had "10 men and lots of beer". This is just blatantly false. We then inadvertantly had a party a week on the heels of the last. Ashlee invited people - lots - to our house. We didn't make noise, but there was a complaint. No reason is mentioned, "the people under you are two brothers who work!" So then there are no disturbances. The Aussies (Max and Joel) are staying over. Everything is fine. Last night, their last night, we get home from a party in town. We've had a couple of beers, but are not drunk. I go to get ready for bed and Max begins making a frozen pizza in the oven. I brush my teeth, change, get ready to get into bed while Max is doing this. Max begins watching something on his laptop while his food cooks. All of a sudden he smells smoke and gets up to check the food. Smoke is rising from the oven out through the stove top coils. He turns off the oven and opens it. Smoke billows out. The fire alarm is tripped. The apartment one, and then the whole building one. The building is evacuated. Five firetrucks show up. Firemen come up to see us. They see it's a false alarm and are not mad. The alarm continues until the smoke clears. We have a laugh about the ridiculousness of the situation. This morning, a call is had from Matt's mum. The landlady has called her, with slanderous and false claims. We are now being threatened with eviction because, "we have been harbouring 10 people in our apartment constantly. We have lots of loud parties. We get drunk and pass out on drugs and let the pizza burn, causing a fire and evacuation". Ben and Matt are in the shit and I'm leaving soon. This sucks.
down in the sewer
i could swear that you were
around and around on a skewer
with fewer and fewer do-gooder evil-doers.
it's plain and simple
pop the pimple
move to the avenue Darlrymple
spit out those smiling dimples
can't you see the ice trample frimple?
exercise, sterilize, cauterize,
sacrifice, artifice, simplify,
words like birds
flock in and mock
me like some downed ceder tree
get out get out
you turn me about
so that i can't see.
So many perspectives now, like kaleidoscope coloured glass - turning me about in rainbowelectricalstorms. Yes she is, no she isn't (worth it?), she's done this before, she's amazing - it's a tough situation. Gimme a cigarette.
Soft kisses, hidden cuddles, lustful uncertainty.
battling on the hilltops of a mind tumultuous and
under clouds of foolishness
brandishing a sword of unjust truths
passing yourself as a fool leading the sane
and who is it exactly that you think
when they told you that you weren'
t paying for it did you think they
m sure they never meant to give you that impression
so drink the quality of your benevolent sins
and sup on the trajectory of your lives (going in a direction
your education never intended)
and if all of this leaves room for more
then desert on the substance of your character
for that is all you will have left
when this is ended and you are stuffed full of yourself and of
the things you want
then you will see
and as the hordes of the underdevoloped, undeserved, undermined and untrained
climb the hilltop on which you dine and wait
you will be overrun
and the only thing which will be the test of who youyourself are
is how long you can hold out before they overwhelm you into themselves
s get out of here."
i remember i was in some room...with all these people i didn't know..and then in a kitchenette with David and Curtis and Curtis says "it's like i know you already" and then i woke up and fell asleep into a different dream where i was in this gang of people and one of us died and so we were all sad (it was me, elena, tina, dom and somebody else) and we met some other gang and they were tauting us
about our friend's death so we ended up fighting them and i killed one with a gun...and then that gang followed me through all these maze-like halls because now they were as sad as me over a death of their friend and i remember telling this story to my parents in the dream
and then i had a sex dream about a friend
my mind is playing tricks on me
We Always Make Excuses for the Ones We Care About
This is just something we do, I think, to other people to make ourselves look more...sane...in what we do with our friends and relationships. I mean, why do we defend someone who hurts us so much?
After you told me what he was like...I can understand why you were so overwhelmed when you went from him to me...how emotional talks turned him off or bothered him...and how I am all too open to have them...and how he admitted love the way he did...and then the way I did...and no romance...to me - Mr French Speaking, poetry writing, guitar playing, love-doer. I can understand being overwhelmed now. Now I have some more information.
I can see why you were afraid of it all...of 'me'. I'm so set on these things...they mean a lot to me...and it's not even something you're comfortable with...yet...I guess. I know romantic love. I embrace it, I suppose sometimes too/more readily than I ought to, but that's me.
I'm just as confused as you ABOUT love, though...
This is just how it can feel for me sometimes;- That I seem like a good idea at the time...but that I'm so easy to fall out of love with. I fall and I fall hard...I'm broken and I know it. Fun fact. I'm sure that's now how you see it, and wish I didn't even think of that - and believe me, it's not an attack on you.
And I just hurt my foot and feel nauseas.
You were so used to being the one that cared more that maybe now it just seemed too easy...I don't know. Just a front you were used to putting up or something? I don't have answers. I don't even have good questions.
I do care a lot about you, and never you forget it, and I'm still around because I care. I want to help. I want to be there. That's who I am.
Listening to you defend him, though, just made me realize - is that what I was like defending you to my friends? And they looked at me judgingly, saying things like I shouldn't bother. We defend because we know both sides to the story. We know the person we are defending. So the people we tell it to only get our side, mostly the bad things, and they are trying to defend US. We feel like they are attacking the person we are defending, but they are merely running off of things we have said and are trying to defend us. We don't want to listen to these objective opinions because, in a sense, they're not. I imagine, these days, what it's like on two sides of an argument.
Like, if someone tells me that they're significant other ignores them too much, is pushing them away, we naturally stick up for our friend. But what's the other side? Does the significant other go to their friend and say, "they won't leave me time to myself?" and THEIR friends will stick up for THEM. Two sides to every story.
The things that go wrong shape us more than the things that go right. Even though that pain is a sucky part of life, it's something we need to deal with. We all wish we could start again but we shouldn't because then we'd be someone else with a different life, and you might end up missing your old life. Things happen the way they do because we make choices, not always the right ones, but they're made because that's what we think we should do at the time. We may be wrong, but then we learn. We learn.
The hardest thing to do is to let go. I know that. You know that. But the time will come when we all do. That is the OTHER part of life, the one we tend to forget and are not able to see as easily - things DO get better, we DO get over things - with strength from all sources.
I know this was a pointless rant, but I guess it helps to vent the brain sometimes. And it's strange how quickly it turned into a philosophical rant...looking for answers, RE: excuses...and there I go again - excuses for us all.
"Cut the protesting, forget the excuses, we need information, get up off the floor"
Cooking is seen as a "womanly duty" yet many master chefs are men - and their manliness is not questioned.
When a woman cooks it's a "duty" - when a man cooks it's "romantic" - why?
Singing is seen as a feminine thing to do for a boy - but yet men admire male singers in bands.
Being in the army is seen as something for manly men - yet most of the women in the army could probably kick their asses.
Men say that women are "weak" - but my bet is on them cracking instantly if they had to do half the things a working mother has to do in a day.
Seeing crying as a sign of weakness, men will hold it back and inside - whereas women will let it out and get over it faster, which is healthier.
Gender stereotypes are stupid.
"I'm a very difficult person...but I take comfort in knowing God made me that way." - Beethoven.
I dare you to move,
I dare you to say,
What I want you to say,
though I know that you won't.
Because you're afraid,
Well so am I,
But so what if I,
am as scared as you.
"Ok...I want you guys to dance like...like...like creepy old people who like it really rough." - Maarika.
"I'll just walk on down to the pacific and from there on, improvise." - Barton Fink.
Walking along the blacktop,
a hot wind on the air,
no one can hear the voices,
lingering loud and clear.
Oui, je doit sortir d'ici aussi vite possible.
ha. haha. hahaha. hahahahahahahahahahahaha.
please take me home...i don't want to sleep alone...
i don't know...all i feel like doing is crying today.
my head is filled with so much...i just don't know how to sort through all the JUNK.
i feel this way and that about this person and that...i'm just so fucking tired...
breaking glass on the
or breaking porcelain
on the pavement
softly dreaming of
and wishing for
oh does it matter?
i watched it happen
was in it as it happened
and nothing can
nothing can change
and as i sit here
i just want to
run to the rooftops
why this time
let me be!
leave me alone!
make it better!"
and it doesn'
Treasuring the moments where I can laugh like Tyler Durden.
Hearing the voices in my head as nothing more than sweet thoughts and colourful dreams.
I feel an odd connection to nature and the little things.
Raise your glass to love.
Show your inner beauty.
The world is shiny like a glass orb.
You should read this acrostically.
It's 5.30am here and I can't sleep. Life is made that little bit harder with the addition of one roommate - who is a 50ish year old man with a terrible cough and I just pray I don't get sick. It's amazing how reduced the things are you can do with a roommate like that. I just wish I had foreign students who spoke some english and wanted to go sightseeing together. I also found out I only have 2 tshirts and a couple of shirts rather than the other way around and I don't have a towel. Showering was strange.
It's amazing how difficult it is to kill a couple of hours when you're bored and you know nothing is open outside, and even if things ARE open, you don't know what they are...or WHERE they are. And this keyboard has swapped the position of the Y and the Z keys and I can't seem to access the "at" symbol...it's in the bottom corner of the Q key and I don't know how to get it...stupid Deutsch keyboards.
Anyway, today I hope to get out to the Erotik Museum, though walking in this cold is really unbearable - mum was right, this coat is insufficient. And I seemed to have lost my beanie...and there's no "colon" symbol...so I can't do sad faces!! Agh! Maybe I'll get out to the Holocaust Memorial today too...but we'll see...I just want to fill my days, but it's a lot harder when you haven't met anyone to do anything with.
I also wish I spoke German.
Raise Your Glass To...
Raise your glass to missing someone even though you just saw them that day.
Raise your glass to finding something you've been looking for for a long time.
Raise your glass to finally finding a place to stay overseas on exchange and it's not too expensive.
Raise your glass to people who have something to fight for.
Raise your glass to women with minds, which makes them sexier more than anything else.
Raise your glass to something more than something.
Raise your glass to turning someone's frown upside down.
Raise your glass to standing in the morning sunshine in a cool breeze or sitting on the balcony.
Raise your glass to everything and everyone that makes you happy and to how lucky you feel to have them near you.
So what are you waiting for?
Raise. Your. Glass.
"Maybe God is just a chemical fiction"
"Maybe there is a God above...?"
"[Religion] unnecessary, in our expanding global culture of efficiency"
When I go to synagogue, do I go because I feel like I am close to God, or because I like the singing? It has educated me on some very Judaic Pagan Pantheistic ways which I adore - finding God and the Divine in nature and in the commonplace - but does that really mean God to me, or is it more the finding of everyday miracles like the wind or the sunset making this world more amazing and seem less controlled and planned? I was having a discussion with Anna about this, and I agree in the end that thinking that God is creating these miracles makes them seem less miraculous as it implies someone or something has had a hand in making them, rather than an everyday miracle just happening - which makes the world seem more beautiful.
I'm confronting the fact that I think I am going to synagogue to feel closer to my people, to my heritage, to my history, as this interests me very much. It's not that I feel any particular connection to the God that they discuss or engage with, but rather the singing brings me my own sense of divinity and soothes me. I take pride in looking around at the community of Jews knowing what we have stood against. And I find the amazing beauty in the colours of a sunset no painter could do justice and no photo capture, and in the wind no one can describe the feeling of - these things are divine and not necessarily a Godly sense, but in a greater-than-me-because-it's-beautiful sense.
Religion does kind of anger me as a result of what it does to people and I think I took refuge in the concept of a God because it makes me feel more comfortable than the idea of a complete nothingness.
"Never believe a Jew who says he doesn't believe in God."
This resonates with me also. I am spiritually confused because of this - what am I? What kind of Jew am I if I don't believe when survivors of concentration camps like Eli Wiesel and many countless others never wavered in their faith? I am a Jew by chance - a Jew by heritage - but am I really Jew by choice as well? I mean, I readily identify as being Jewish and embrace many of the teachings of Judaism, but I am still unsure about God and about his/her/its presence. I pray because I have nowhere else to turn and it becomes more of a monologue to myself to voice my problems, spell them out for myself so I can sort through them, rather than a turn for expected aide from a higher power.
"And they call it God's love..."
I recently saw a comic at www.leasticoulddo.com which is a webcomic I track, here is the link. And I certainly agree with what it's saying because at times like this, it's hard to believe.
End transmission - I've bitched enough.
It was drawn like a children's picture book, and everyone spoke in voices like it was one. The drawings were crude, 2D and kind of sketchy. I don't remember the start, but I knew that an Elephant had to run away from a group of 3 other animals - a lion, a tiger and a giraffe - who always travelled in a tight-knit pack, and moved like a single piece of cardboard together as one. The elephant didn't know how to run, it kept falling over, but at some point, somehow, it managed to escape to a nearby safe area, shielded by a hill. This elephant had a human wife and a cat. The cat had a metal plate screwed to its face on the right side, covering half its head.
"We're safe now," they said, "we don't have to run anymore."
But then the 3-animal-group came over the hill, moving very quickly - gliding over the ground. In that moment, the elephant learned to run and ran away down the path as quickly as he could go. But he left his wife and the cat. The animals made it to them and loomed over them, the angry face of the lion looking down on them.
"Cough." Said the cat.
"Cough." Repeated the woman.
And the lion coughed.
"Cough." Said the cat.
"Cough." Repeated the woman again.
And the lion coughed again.
"Cough once more." Said the cat.
"Cough again, just once more." Said the woman.
"Why?" Asked the lion.
"Just because. You're a silly kitty, aren't you?" The camera stays on the woman as the cat comes out from behind her back and walks past and off screen saying, "If they like you, then they're gonna love me." And the camera stays on the woman's face as you hear a loud WHACK! and a splatter of blood and screws spashes next to the woman's head. The cat jumps onto her lap and the camera looks down on it - it is drawn like a crude cartoon and its metal plate is gone, and there is a nail where its eye should be, surrounded by blood which looks like watercolour paint, "What happened?" it cried.
"Shh, shh, it's okay," said the woman, beginning to cry, "I don't want you to be a cat anymore, I want you to be a parade."
"A parade? But where will we get the bones from!?" the cat cried. As the shadows of the animals loomed over them, the camera pans upwards to reveal a giant, flying, golden pirate ship - drawn like a child's picture book - with all of these bones hanging off of it in strings.
"Oh! From there!" Said the cat, "We'll be okay!" and it continued to talk and talk and talk about nothing.
"Ow, my feet." Said the woman, quietly.
"Ow, my legs." Said the woman, still quietly.
Then the woman began to scream screams that were bloodcurdling, "AHH! MY KNEES! MY KNEES!! AHH!! MY KNEES!" As the animals began to tear her apart, and the cat talked about nothing, and the camera panned upwards into the dark, cloudy sky.
And then I woke up.
My Dreams Are Trying to Kill Me
This is actually the dream I had from last night:
I am packing my bags - I seem late for something, I'm going somewhere. I look in the mirror and I am wearing my John Lennon sunglasses, a gray floppy fedora, a white shirt, a gray vest, black pants and black dress shoes. I run off down the road with my bags - I have this nervous feeling that if I am late something AWFUL will happen. I arrive at the wooden bridge leading to the wooden entranceway to where I'm going. This is a concentration camp. I remember thinking "I knew I shouldn't have come to Berlin on this trip". As we enter some people are being gathered to the side in a small, boxed off area. These people are to burned alive in front of us. I am walking through the entrance to the camp and Hitler taps my shoulder and says, "No, you're not going through." and pushes me towards the boxed off area. I beg him, "No, please, don't kill me." He says "okay" and picks up a handful of ashes of previously burned people and puts them in my hand - marking me. I smear them across my forehead with my thumb and walk into the camp. Once down there I look up to see Tom HB sitting in the boxed off area, crying. I cry out to him and he just reads a poem back to me. I turn away and go inside. Once inside, I start doing my Yiddish homework. Hitler - who has now become a very attractive woman wearing a black dress - yells at me that I have soiled the camp by bringning Yiddish into it. She writes me a note and says we have to pick up some bags from the entrance. I look at the note and they are numbers for the bags we must get - and it is written in beautiful Yiddish script - the numbers were 1100 and 29, spelled out in the Yiddish alphabet. She says "Stupid writing" and I say "it's nice". So we are walking along towards the entrance again to get the bags and once we have them we turn around, Hitler (woman) and I and see our companion has run off somewhere. We hear gunshots in the distance. We assume he tried to escape and has been killed, "Shame" she says. All of a sudden our friend shows up again saying he got lost - I think he was Lampwick from school. So, walking back inside with the bags down all these staircases, I am talking to Hitler (woman) and she is a really nice person...except for the evil. We reminisce about how she had previously visited my high school, segregating IT like a concentration camp for her visit - this is a vivid memory in the dream. All of a sudden her and I are alone in a small room's kitchenette and she pushes me up against the stove and we start kissing. Passionately. Then I open my eyes and she opens hers, looks at me disgustedly - because I'm Jewish - shudders, pulls away and says, "I can't do this to myself" because she is sullying herself. I say "Yeah, pretty hard to make out with someone who tried to exterminate your entire people" and she smiles. Then she says, "you better get rid of your gun". I look down and - to my surprise - is a gun in the belt of my pants. I remove it and Hitler has already removed the clip so the gun is useless. I cannot shoot her. Suddenly her, Millie, Chris L and I are in a black van with all of our bags and this large group of men are trying to carjack us and steal our things. They are trying to distract us by saying they are playing a joke on friends of theirs and they need us to pretend to be dead and hand us little packets of tomato sauce. We are all into the joke until I see what is going on and lean out the window and yell, "give us our bags back, please!" and they laugh. I say, "look who's in the car with us" and I show them Hitler (woman) and they freak out and give us our things back and ask us not to kill them.
I am awakened by a loud car horn. I am hot and I cannot move. When I can I run to the desk and write this down. Fuck my dreams.
Friday, November 26, 2010
I just completed - in an epic spurt of writing - my first draft of my 50,000 word novel for National Novel Writing Month! Thanks for all the support from everyone on this!
I also reserve the right to totally use this mildly pretentious, yet incredibly gratifying sticker image from the NaNoWriMo Winner's Goodies labeling me a Winner and official Novelist. Win.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Thanks for the faith!
Regular updates will start coming to this blog once the novel is written. Promise.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
The train has stopped and we're in some giant basin with tall buildings and trap doors all around. This is the uni with the dorms. I am going to be stating with Justin and Alex, but now they are bunking with hippies who drop a lot of acid. I try to find somewhere else to stay but can't.
Dad and Alex come into my room to measure a desk and I ask if there's room in Alex's hippie dorm and they say it's full. I pull on a shirt and, upset, I simply say, "Fuck uni, maybe I shouldn't go here anymore" and storm downstairs.
Am awoken by my phone vibrating. I never get to find out how the dream ENDS.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
All it was was me looking in the mirror and on my chest there was something small. I knew it was a radiation burn. When I touched it, it was like fish scales and it peeled back and it hurt - I mean it really burned. You're not supposed to feel pain in dreams. Then it would spread across my chest, looking like scales, and spread over my shoulder and onto my back.
And that's it. That repeated itself like six times and then I woke up, terrified. Just thinking about it now freaks me out and gives me a very uneasy feeling because I can picture it so clearly in my head.
Friday, October 1, 2010
"It'll be fine," he says, climbing out the driver's side door, "We'll be done before you know it."
"Yeah, I hope so," the sky above me is grey and overcast.
Standing in front of the gates to the motor registry is a youth a bit taller and older than me, shaved head, plugs in his earlobes, a cigarette dangling from his lips. The kind of youth that stereotypes tell you will stab you if you cross them,
"You lot here for the motorcycle course?" a man in a neon yellow sweatshirt walks out of the gated registry area. The bunch of us nod, two more applicants arriving in their own cars, "Right, in ya get."
We make our way past a small, hanger-like building and towards another hanger where the offices and motorcycles are kept, "Help yourselves," says the instructor, motioning to tea and coffee on a small, dirty table at one side of the room.
Sam - the instructor - lines up some chairs for us and offers us a seat, "I'm Sam," he says, pulling out a clipboard, "James?"
"Yeah," said two voices, who look at each other.
"James Fentway and James Warton?"
The voices' owners nod.
Sam splits us up into the groups we're in. I'm with the two James', my dad and a guy named Sam. The six of us are led by Sam into the small office area within the hanger and we each take a seat,
"Now, do you any of you have any experience?" my dad and James - the other one is Jimmy - put their hands up, "Right. Well, this course is designed for people who've never touched a bike before, so the rest o' ya shouldn't worry." I let myself exhale.
After a brief, but necessary, introduction from his instruction manual ("The instructors here are fully licensed to teach motorcycle riding and this program is sponsored by New South Wales Government. You as riders take unto yourselves full responsibility for anything that happens to yourself or your belongings during the course of this course") Sam hands us our helmets and gloves,
"Now, let's go meet your bikes."
We walk out, gloves and helmets hanging from our hands, towards the paved course-track. I feel hot, but comfortable, in my leather jacket - the sun has poked through the cloud layer for a moment, and the breeze is relaxing,
"That one's yours," he said, looking at me, pointing to a small, burgundy bike sitting in the middle of the row of black and burgundy motorcycles, "That's yours," he looked at Jimmy and pointed at the last bike in the row; a beige motor-scooter. Jimmy looked at Sam and back to the scooter, "You said you wanted to do automatic, not manual, yeah?"
"Right." And we all lined up at our bikes.
"Right, now take the standard position on the bike. Don't forget, front brake, head turn, side stand." Sam looked at us with hawk eyes to make sure we'd remembered the various steps to take into the Standard Position of motorcycle riding.
I kicked my leg over the back and straddled the large, metal beast. It was much heavier than I had anticipated and my balance was thrown with the necessity to remain upright, whilst pressing down firmly on the foot-brake.
The bike wobbled some, but eventually I got the hand of sitting up straight with it,
"Okay," Sam said, "Now turn your bikes on, and take yourself to fast idle." Fast idle was, in a sense, prepping yourself at speed while remaining in brake; the idea being, that as soon as you release the clutch and the brake, you'd speed off into the distance like an urban cowboy. But for now, we were going at measly speeds to get used to it all.
I prepped the very delicate throttle into position and the engine revved. With soft, slow hands, I lifted the clutch to get it into the Traction Zone and--
Stalled. I stalled the motorcycle. Considering I never learned to drive a manual car, I guess I can't be too mad at myself, but I was. Restarting the bike, I again lifted the throttle slowly and eased off on the brake. Unsteady, but in the right direction, I drove the bike to a steady stop near the others, "Careful to keep your head up," Sam said, "you wanna look at where you're goin'."
"Alright, turn the bikes around, do it again."
After a few of these, I continued to be wobbly. Stalled. For some reason, I couldn't balance the bike in the right direction and ended up flooding the engine a lot - almost losing control of the acceleration and clutch at one point,
"Don’t worry about it, don't be so hard on yourself," Sam said, walking over, "it's alright. It's your first time."
"Okay, drive it back to the line."
Stall. Start. Wobble.
"Alright, you guys, can you go line up your bikes over there next to mine?" The others nodded and moved off. I went to move, but Sam stopped me, "I'm sorry, mate, but I can't let you continue the course. Don't worry, it happens to a lot of people. I'll give you a slip at the end for a free remedial lesson. Go hang out in the hanger for the rest of this, or by the fence if you want to watch."
I nodded, my shoulders slumped. I looked over at the others, who felt sheepish in themselves for me.
With helmet and gloves in hand, I took the walk of shame over the grass and paved course to the hanger and took a seat, the anger at myself growing.
Sitting in the chair in the hanger, I watched the others circling the course, practicing turning. So many things to remember - look, clutch, gears, throttle, brakes, balance, weight, sit. Cars I got, cars I understood. Bikes were a different machine, a different beast altogether.
Noticeable also was the lack of that particular feeling of safety one has in a car. Completely open to the air, the elements, the road.
"You got change for a two-dollar coin?" I looked up and saw a dark-skinned man in full leathers holding out the coin. I nodded and dug into my wallet, pulling out two one-dollar coins. He thanked me and bought a coke from the vending machine.
I looked around me at the people getting their licenses. Muscles, height, facial hair - all men except for one woman out on the course getting her provisional license.
This wasn't me - I'm not the motorcycle type. I'd never felt it more than in that one moment, sitting in a dirty, white, plastic chair in the middle of an open hanger, surrounding by motorcyclists and cycles.
Soon enough the others came over, having finished - and passed - the course. We did some wrap up paperwork and, finally, dad and I left,
"You didn't enjoy that, did you?" he leaned over as we got in the car.
"Can't say I did all that much."
"Not your fault."
"You can do the remedial lesson?"
I grunted something in response.
"We probably should have done you on an automatic, not a manual, shouldn't we?"
"Sure." My tone indicated my doubt of a next time.
"I hated those helmets we had to wear. So uncomfortable."
"Yeah, but it's that or die in a crash."
"I guess, but the fun of a motorcycle is the feeling of freedom on the road, the open air."
"That may be so, but I'd rather you felt mildly uncomfortable than get in a crash and feel dead."
"Also, you totally lack a feeling of safety on those things."
"Yeah, it's great."
"No, not great. You feel free, I feel dead."
Dad smiled and we went to pick up some croissants for breakfast before driving home.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Horatio paused momentarily, his fingers caressing his unshaven chin, "I would stake my life he means the Temple of the Unending Life," the two began to walk towards the station's exit, "It's the only likely candidate. The temple was forged from the side wall of a volcano hundreds of years ago by a group of rogue priests searching for eternal life - the Gods' Gift, they called it. I would bet that is where Crook has taken the goblet."
A small shudder wracked the station, knocking a few older passengers off balance, "And it looks like we're running out of time. The early tremors have begun." Horatio's gaze turned icy as he walked towards the information desk, "Excuse me, but how long ago did these tremors start?"
"Oh, prob'ly a day or so ago," said the man at the desk, "Gov'ment says t'ain't nothin' to be frettin' on, just one o' them old volcano's shaken its weight around. Should be headin' back to sleep sometime soon, I reckon."
"Not likely," Horatio said under his breath, "thank you." The began to walk with purpose towards the exit.
"Wait a moment," Sarah said, a confused tone to her voice, "I didn't know there were this many volcano's this side of the continent - didn't you say you went through one in the tunnels of fire and ice, too?"
"Yes," Horatio said, stones in his voice, "it seems unusual, but the government keeps quiet about how many actual active, or post-active, volcanos there are on the continental United States. They don't want to scare anybody away, so they tell everyone they're all dormant. It's nothing but lies."
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
A volcano, he thought, of course it had to be a volcano. He cursed under his breath and wiped his brow. This was not going to be easy. A substantial glob of lava slammed onto the rocky passageway beside him and sizzled. Not easy at all.
He began creeping along the rocky formation which acted as a bridge for him between the two extensive rivers of molten rock. This needed to be done at pace and he knew it. He wouldn't survive in here for long.
As he began to walk, he remembered Sarah's words, "Make light feet and your goal will be easy." Beginning to run, he hoped she was right.
"You aren't getting away that easily!" an echoing voice caused more lava to fall around Horatio on the rocky walkway. He deftly avoided it, one glob singing the back of his coattails, "I still have control of this mountain! Your fate is in my hands!"
"Curse you, Barclay!" Horatio turned and saw Barclay standing by the opening he had used to enter this tunnel of fire, "You can't stop me!"
"Oh, I beg to differ, Captain!" Barclay began reciting a hurried incantation and threw what appeared to be several gems into the lava pits below, "This cavern will be your tomb!"
With a suddenness that caused Horatio to momentarily lose his footing, the walls began to shake and the lava to bubble with a violent fever, "What have you--" Horatio began, but saw the Barclay turn and run as rocks blocked off the entranceway. Now Horatio only had one way to go. He picked up his pace and ran full pelt towards the end of the stone passageway on which he stood.
Crashing and slamming, giant chunks of rock and spheres of lava began pouring down upon the Captain. Whirling and turning, he dodged the falling lava.
A large chunk of rock fell against Horatio's arm and he fell prone on the hot stone, "No!" he shouted at himself, "Get up! Get up!" he could feel the tremendous heat against his face, felt his energy being sapped by the demonic mountain. With heroic strength, Horatio forced himself upright and began running once more towards the other end of the cavern.
Not today, he thought, I'm not falling today.
Horatio risked a glance upwards and saw a tremendous portion of the cavern wall break loose and fall towards him, "Light feet, light feet!" he said to himself as he ran, making a great leap forward with all the strength his calves could carry.
The chunk of stone slammed onto the catwalk, cracking it and breaking off significant parts of its structure. Rock fell in waves down into the pits of molten lava, but Horatio was still running. His great leap had moved him just far enough out of the stone's reach to allow him to keep running. Any slower and he'd be history, "Not today." He said, a stony solidity to his voice.
Just as a large wave of lava and rock slammed into the stone where Horatio had just stood, the brave Captain had once more leapt and landed in the safety of a small crawlspace. The heat followed him down the burrow and sweat poured profusely from his brow.
Out of the frying pan, he thought as he emerged into another of the volcano's caverns, into a brightly lit chamber. The light blinded him for a moment and he shielded his eyes. When he opened them, he held before him a splendid vision of a cavernous construction made entirely from glaciers of the deepest blue. The cavern seemed to go on for miles upwards and across, Fantastic, he thought, out of the frying pan and into the freezer.
Horatio looked around and saw he stood on a thin, bridge-like form of slick ice and rock.
I'll have to watch my step, he thought, a small crack of a smile creeping up his cheek.
The heat from before had faded from his body, being replace with an at first soothing, then biting chill. Horatio's breath misted in the frozen air. He examined the far the room in which he stood. The bridge extended to the other side of the hall, but there didn't seem to be any kind of door there. No escape. Simply sheer walls of glacial ice, "Well this is a fine how-do-you-do."
Horatio walked from one end of the bridge to the other and inspected the walls. There were no secret doors, no hidden passages, nothing. His only way out, was up.
Pulling on his gloves, he looked upwards. There was definitely an opening in the ceiling of the cavern, but no telling how high it was. This is going to be harder than the lava room, he thought. He never thought he'd ever catch himself missing a self-destructing room full of lava.
He gripped firmly onto the glacial walls and began to climb. Looking at his belt, he wished he had his small axe or something of the sort. All he had left was his six-shooter, and he didn't feel a pistol was conducive to helping him scale a wall of ice.
Horatio climbed for what seemed like hours. His muscles burned, pain through his body like lightning bolts.
An explosion rocked the cave wall. Debris showered on Horatio as he fell, grasping empty hands at the wall. When he managed to catch a protruding piece of the wall, he stopped for a moment. His heart raced, his ears rang, his breath was quick.
Clever, Barclay, he eyed the walls and could now see the thin wires placed at periodic intervals along the wall, setting explosives along the cave wall. Very clever, indeed.
The Captain began once more to climb, his muscles screaming under the stress. It took him time to reach where he had once been. A crater in the ice lay where he had once stood. He pressed his face against the wall, spying for trip wires. They crosshatched the wall like a spider's web, shining in the light of the chamber, I'm not going to be your fly, Barclay.
With a cheetah's agility and the grace of a lion on the prowl, Horatio climbed the walls.
Hours passed as Horatio climbed, his body aching but his will strong. The exit was finally within sight. He could feel the fresh air blowing in, I'm coming, Sarah, he thought, putting hand over hand, his gloves soaked through, I'm coming.
As he reached the top, Horatio realised the cavern walls sloped inwards. It would be impossible to sustain himself upside down on these walls, not while his body was so tired. He would have to jump.
Prepping his feet, he coiled himself, ready to make the final leap towards the opening. Breathing deeply, he leapt.
Flying through the air Horatio had seen it. The trip wire's thin sheen had escaped him in his tired state. He had seen it too late. In his final leap he had crashed through a trip wire lain deliberately near the mouth of the cavern.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Explosions set off all across the cave. Chunks of ice flew through the air as Horatio did, pieces passing him, some striking him. Ice rained down to the bottom of the cavern, sending up rippling echoes.
Then Horatio's heart fell. A large chunk of ice, one containing the edge of the cavern's opening he was aiming for, broke loose. The opening was no bigger, but Horatio was aimed directly at nothing.
With quick footwork, he worked himself to make a second leap off the falling chunk of ice. The extra jump boosted his trajectory just enough to send him towards another edge of the opening.
Winding him, he slammed into the ice. His hands struggled to scratch at a place to hold as his lungs struggled for air. Slipping mostly down into the void, he managed to catch himself. Horatio hung from the ceiling of the cavern, sucking in deep breaths, his eyes watering, his lungs burning.
Finally, he caught his breath. His arms shook. He couldn't hold on. With every last ounce of strength he had, he crawled like a man from hell out of the cavern, and lay on the dirt above.
Then all went black.
Horatio awoke with a jump, slamming himself into the wall behind him. He cringed and held his head. With quick movements, he examined the room he was in. A woman entered, "Oh, you're awake." She said, coming towards him with a wet towel.
"I am," Horatio eyed her, then himself, pleased to see he was still dressed but for his coat, "where am I? How long have I been asleep?"
"You've been out for nigh on a two days, sir," said the woman, pressing the towel onto Horatio's brow, "we all been worried you'd never wake."
Two days! The words echoed in Horatio's mind like earthquakes, "Good heavens!" he shouted, throwing himself from the bed, "Where am I?!" Horatio drew his six-shooter.
The woman shrieked and dropped her water bowl, "Heavens, sir," she whimpered, "You're in Silverwater Dale! A small home outside-a town!"
Silverwater Dale. The train station, "Where's the train station?"
"Some ways down the road," the woman gathered up her bowl and towel, "you'll need a horse. A man saunterin' into town without a horse'll surely cause some starin'."
"A horse. Yes." Horatio sheathed his pistol, "Pardon for the excitement, I hadn't expected such a…delay. Can I be so rude as to ask for one of your horses?"
"Surely. Seems you got the eyes to be fixin' to somethin' big. I ain't gonna be standin' in your way."
Within moments, Horatio was saddled up, hat on his head and coat on his back, "Thanks once more for the care you took of me," Horatio said, fixing himself into the stirrups, "I don't know how I can possibly repay you."
"Don't be fixin' to bother. We're happy to help, is all."
And off he went.
Soon Horatio arrived at the town proper of Silverwater Dale. A small berg with nothing to offer, but filled with kind, honest folk.
"Train station's that way, sir." Said the boy. Horatio flicked him a coin and nodded, "Thank you, mister!"
As Horatio arrived at the station, the train was pulling out, Of course, he thought dryly, "Hee-ah!" the horse whinnied and began galloping at speed. Horatio was quickly alongside the caboose of the steamtrain. Reaching out, he caught on to the safety bars and hoisted himself onto the viewing platform, "Go home!" he shouted after the horse and it turned on its heels and ran.
The Captain opened the door to the caboose with a thud. The door opened, smacking a man on the other side, knocking him, and the serving trolley he was standing next to, over. Raising his eyes from the man on the floor to the rest of the carriage, Horatio saw the unshaven faces of a collection of Tobias Crook's goons, led by the slovenly Dwight Church, "Well, well, well, if it ain't Captain Horatio Silverthorn."
Monday, September 6, 2010
A Czar is Born - written by band member of super FLORENCE jam, Laurence Rosier Staines - is a comedic pseudo-musical wrapped in dancing, witticisms and superfluous romance!
After a practically sell out run at Sydney University's Cellar Theatre, the show has made a return as an official selection for the Sydney Fringe Festival, which features some of the best theatre, music and art on offer from locals in Australia.
The show goes up on Saturday September 11th at the Seymour Centre in Sydney, and tickets are available now for purchase from either the Seymour Centre or from the Sydney Fringe Festival website.
The best part? It features yours truly in the play's Greek Chorus, so come along and enjoy!
Thursday, August 12, 2010
After telling him what they said and did he asked, "Did they get a urine sample?"
"Hmm...could we get one now? I'd rather send out with our lab."
"I...yeah, I think so."
So, I peed in another cup.
He told me the results report from the ultrasound came in to him and that it was possibly the beginnings of a vericocele, which was basically the veins on the left side of my ball become inflamed or larger.
"For now," he said, "you don't have to worry about it as they used words like "might", "may" and "beginnings of", but if it gets worse, come back. This could cause testicular heating and affect sperm production."
And then he sent me home.
"Call to see how long the wait is first."
So I called, "Mate, it varies every half hour. No way to tell how long you'll wait."
A waste of time if ever there was one. We drove to the place anyway and signed me in, "Wait here in the row of blue chairs and someone will see you soon."
A man, not much older than myself, paced in a circle around the perimeter of the room, muttering songs of "Harri Krishna" and "Red Brick House" and things like, "This isn't fun anymore", "go away" and "I don't want to die". He was clearly in the middle of a fiendish high from someone unknown drug and he wasn't enjoying himself. I felt for the wretch, even though he had brought this upon himself.
Two cops came into the ward and asked to be let in as they were called in for an assault which took place within the hospital. Another two later came by to view "the deceased". That was unnerving.
Strangely, the only television in the room was playing gruesome medical shows and any effects the testicular problem was giving me were far outweighed by nausea at the shows.
I was soon called in to the nurse's office to give details on why I was there and then asked to provide a urine sample.
With my little plastic cup an baggy in hand, I moved to the only bathroom in the place. The man on drugs came in muttering, "Hey." he said and took a drink from the sink.
Another man was already in the stall providing his own urine sample and we passed each other as I went in and he came out. The delightful awkwardness was palpable.
Two and a half hours later I was finally called in to see the doctor. She asked me to lie on the table so she could inspect the problem. While doing so, she asked the typical information questions of, "have you had unprotected sex in the last 6 months?", "an std?", "this problem before?".
I lay down and she begin squeezing my gentles in ways that made me squirm obviously, my fists clenched and white, "Does this hurt?"
"Yes." I breathed fiercely.
"I know it's uncomfortable, but does it hurt?"
"Yes." I said again. It was agonizing.
At the end she told me she thought I had a collection of fluid in my left and she was going to give me antibiotics and left the room.
Minutes later another doctor, a Scottish man, came in wanting to inspect. He squeezed me uncomfortably and I winced and felt nauseous. I feared I'd throw up then and there. He said there doesn't seem to be anything too bad, but it is swollen, so he gave me a ticket for an ultrasound. I could now go home.
"They were talking with another doctor outside your room," dad said, "looked like he wanted to get in there and have a look, too. The lady kept saying 'he's twenty, leave him alone' and things like that. Probably an intern wanting to learn something." I laughed and my balls hurt.
Next day, I went in to get the ultrasound out of the way. I went in and they scheduled me in for 12:30. I went and had a coffee at McCafe and read some Pride and Prejudice.
Soon, my hour of joy came and I went back to the Radiology Ward. A nice man escorted me into the room, "I'll be the operator today."
"Don't worry, I've done hundreds of these."
He scanned me, placing warming jelly on the ultrasound rod (what are those called?) and I was relieved it wasn't freezing. It wasn't comfortable, but it was better than having two different doctors squeeze my junk around in a violating fashion.
"These doctors," he said, "they squeeze your balls and ask if it hurts. Course it hurts, want me to do it to you and see if it hurts?!"
I laughed an felt at ease.
When it was over he told me there didn't seem to be anything wrong. The report would be ready in a couple of days and would be sent to emergency but could also be sent to my GP.
Though it was a false alarm and I scared myself for nothing and it was a crappy experience, glad I did it so now I know that it's nothing.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
This, however, was delightfully rectified when EB Games announced a deal that trading in your old 360 would give you a significant discount on the new sleek, quiet, huge HD Xbox AND a free copy of Red Dead Redemption. My ears burned and I traded in.
My oh my oh my.
First of all, the new plastic smell of the new console was almost like heaven incarnate at this point. The new Xbox, not only sporting a huge 250 GB HD (almost unnecessarily big), but is quiet as a mouse. The new power pack barely makes any noise which makes it sound less like it's going to explode than the old model did.
Alright, so, Red Dead. This game, honest to goodness, is more fun than it has any right to be. I mean, really, it's just GTA on a horse in the Wild West - but for some reason, that makes it BETTER.
The open plains of the beautifully constructed world are astounding and the little addition of people either needing your help of trying to kill you by the side of the road is a cute touch towards the reality of 19th Century West America.
Although the protagonist (hero or villain is your choice) is a fairly opinionless avatar of the stereotypical mysterious stranger with a dark past, he is still enjoyable. His a well-defined character in terms of animation, and his lack of too many opinions kind of allows you to role-play him any way you like - though that could be my Dungeons and Dragons playing twist on a less than well-written character.
The story, however, is quite enrapturing in a strange way. I mean, it's typically Rockstar Games/GTA in that you go to different people for missions whom the previous mission-giver introduces you to, but their stories are more interesting than, "I hate this mob boss, murder him for money". I like the, "I'm a creepy grave robber searching for my lost treasure, let's go find it - this will include a lot of murder and mayhem".
Speaking of murder, the fighting - especially the duel-style Dead Eye feature - is more fun. This could be because you have a foreseeable limit to your ammo and you only really carry max 4 choose-able weapons at a time - my favourite is the Winchester Repeater. It also FEELS like a Western flick, with the grungy hero who's good with a gun and enemies slumping over, falling off roofs, etc.
All in all, a shining review for this game. Mahalo.