15-16/2/12
Music: La Dispute - Wildlife
Streetlight Manifesto - Somewhere in the Between
If and when we're found by
Another race
From distant space
Will we confuse them?
Have they observed us already?
The fickle struggle for life
For true love
And to defy death
What do they think of our mindless repetition
Is history doomed to repeat?
Will one look at war damn our race in their eyes?
Or will star-crossed lovers entice them?
Will they laugh at our ill-placed faiths?
And the conflicts they stir
And our dwindling resources
And love of that we were
For we must wonder
Is this race
From distant space
Just like us?
Are they doomed to repeat their history,
And ruled by their emotions,
Conflicts of desire and morality
Defining them as they do us?
Do they seek peace in idolatry?
And refuse to change their ways?
And if all this is true,
Are they here to seek salvation?
Entangled lovers must unite
The past must be left to rust
Else the desperate spacefarers
Will most likely be us.
____________________________________________________________
Well, I haven't posted on here for a while. I've had an interesting past few days, and now my head hurts. I'm confused and overwhelmed. And the fact that I head off to Uni soon doesn't help.
I know someone's reading this. Whether I'm your friend, or colleague, or schoolmate, or something more, I thank you for your patience. I thank you for putting up with me, I thank you for support, I thank you for anything you've ever done for me. And a certain person in particular, I thank you for your understanding. I don't want to let you down.
______________________________________________________________
In less depressing and hormonal news, I'm going to see La Dispute on Sunday. I'm so excited I could break something. I've got a good weekend lined up, so, hopefully, I can relax and enjoy myself.
My awesome parents got me a guitar. So I've started trying to teach myself, and I can play a few chords now. I'm starting out trying to learn a few Neutral Milk Hotel songs, thanks to their simplicity. Hipster credibility +10.
I have to go to work in an hour... I love the fact that I'm making money and being productive, but that place makes me think. Sometimes it's a good place to reflect. Sometimes it turns my mind into a wretched hive of scum and villainy.
Thursday, 16 February 2012
Wednesday, 8 February 2012
Improvised Victory
8/2/11
Music: Benny Goodman's Carnegie Hall Jazz Concert, Catch 22's Keasbey Nights
The human dependence on others is understating,
dissipating,
syncopating,
The value of our actual relationships
There is no perfect romance, nor friendship, nor comradery
But we can take steps towards an improvised victory
And while those we love may be the hardest to reconcile
It is they who're most worthy of the effort
The shunned friend, hurt by unkindness;
In his eyes, at least;
But she who he sees as unkind feels equally shunned
Scared of the inner beast.
But she's made a decision she needs to stick by,
And so do I,
And so does he,
And so do you
A big band of many instruments can clash
Or synchronise with alacrity
Insanity
Or Clarity
But it takes the combined efforts of all to combine as one
But, simultaneously, give each their own place
Their own grace
Walking away and talking away are incompatible
But it's what humanity is best at
So why don't we do both?
Not forget our past, but look into our futures
The best part of a big band is the soloists
But they'd surely be boring if it weren't for the backup of the band
So we must be soloists,
And go our own way, with support of course,
But blowing our own horn
Beating our own drum
And having a lot of fun
__________________________________________________________
Jazz metaphors, people! Oh yeah, I made the right choice.
I start uni in less than two weeks now. Damn. I'm still coming to grips with it. But I'm incredibly excited. What is not exciting me is the amount of garbage I've got to go through for Centrelink and to get my concession card. Social services, you suck. Sincerely: me.
I'm in a strangely good mood today. Like, bounce off the ceilings, spend 20 minutes sitting in front of my stereo not doing anything but listening to Miles Davis, good mood. A new Streetlight album being confirmed and talk of Psychonauts 2 definitely both help this mood.
Music: Benny Goodman's Carnegie Hall Jazz Concert, Catch 22's Keasbey Nights
The human dependence on others is understating,
dissipating,
syncopating,
The value of our actual relationships
There is no perfect romance, nor friendship, nor comradery
But we can take steps towards an improvised victory
And while those we love may be the hardest to reconcile
It is they who're most worthy of the effort
The shunned friend, hurt by unkindness;
In his eyes, at least;
But she who he sees as unkind feels equally shunned
Scared of the inner beast.
But she's made a decision she needs to stick by,
And so do I,
And so does he,
And so do you
A big band of many instruments can clash
Or synchronise with alacrity
Insanity
Or Clarity
But it takes the combined efforts of all to combine as one
But, simultaneously, give each their own place
Their own grace
Walking away and talking away are incompatible
But it's what humanity is best at
So why don't we do both?
Not forget our past, but look into our futures
The best part of a big band is the soloists
But they'd surely be boring if it weren't for the backup of the band
So we must be soloists,
And go our own way, with support of course,
But blowing our own horn
Beating our own drum
And having a lot of fun
__________________________________________________________
Jazz metaphors, people! Oh yeah, I made the right choice.
I start uni in less than two weeks now. Damn. I'm still coming to grips with it. But I'm incredibly excited. What is not exciting me is the amount of garbage I've got to go through for Centrelink and to get my concession card. Social services, you suck. Sincerely: me.
I'm in a strangely good mood today. Like, bounce off the ceilings, spend 20 minutes sitting in front of my stereo not doing anything but listening to Miles Davis, good mood. A new Streetlight album being confirmed and talk of Psychonauts 2 definitely both help this mood.
Monday, 6 February 2012
What do you want from me?
6/2/12
Music: Crusades, Mindless Self Indulgence, Throbbing gristle, and of all things LMFAO
Your picture sits by my window
It is staring me down
Yet I see you in town
I smile, and chat, I don't feel low
But my dreams talk of you differently
You bring me to pains
My perception is stained
Makes me wonder if we are free
Through our intangibility
Like a couple, they say
Forced to question our ways
Actually a couple, are we?
We seek each other for support
Romance, an accident
Is this fear commitment?
Or did we build to much rapport?
_____________________________________________
I think too much about things. The smallest situation becomes the largest in your head. So when a situation's already large, it can seem like the very nature of reality has fallen into question. I'm about to make a decision which may end very badly for me. It may end very well. In 5 years time, I'll probably find it totally ridiculous that I thought of it as a big deal at all.
I've been away for the last few days, up on the Murray. I went paintballing, drank too much, the usual. Good weekend with good friends.
Music: Crusades, Mindless Self Indulgence, Throbbing gristle, and of all things LMFAO
Your picture sits by my window
It is staring me down
Yet I see you in town
I smile, and chat, I don't feel low
But my dreams talk of you differently
You bring me to pains
My perception is stained
Makes me wonder if we are free
Through our intangibility
Like a couple, they say
Forced to question our ways
Actually a couple, are we?
We seek each other for support
Romance, an accident
Is this fear commitment?
Or did we build to much rapport?
_____________________________________________
I think too much about things. The smallest situation becomes the largest in your head. So when a situation's already large, it can seem like the very nature of reality has fallen into question. I'm about to make a decision which may end very badly for me. It may end very well. In 5 years time, I'll probably find it totally ridiculous that I thought of it as a big deal at all.
I've been away for the last few days, up on the Murray. I went paintballing, drank too much, the usual. Good weekend with good friends.
Wednesday, 1 February 2012
Companions
1/2/12 (Hehe, cool date)
I found you at a party, at a show, on the street
The last type of person I was expecting to meet
Intrigued by you, inquisitively joined you to eat
Talked all night by the fire, in the pit, on our feet
A bond exists between certain people,
Not romantic nor chemical, but one
Though causing frustration and confusion
Will withstand stresses, forces old and young
I see you in the city, at your house, at our work
Sometimes I'll apologise, for I have been a jerk
And we'll embrace our inadequacies and our quirks
And acknowledge that they are far outweighed by our perks
_________________________________________________________________
It's amazing how one little exchange, one conversation, can make you feel wonderful about yourself. It can elevate a terrible mood to something not at all bad, and a good mood to a force to be reckoned with. As much as I frustrate them and they frustrate me, I have some amazing friends and I wish I could acknowledge that more often.
I found you at a party, at a show, on the street
The last type of person I was expecting to meet
Intrigued by you, inquisitively joined you to eat
Talked all night by the fire, in the pit, on our feet
A bond exists between certain people,
Not romantic nor chemical, but one
Though causing frustration and confusion
Will withstand stresses, forces old and young
I see you in the city, at your house, at our work
Sometimes I'll apologise, for I have been a jerk
And we'll embrace our inadequacies and our quirks
And acknowledge that they are far outweighed by our perks
_________________________________________________________________
It's amazing how one little exchange, one conversation, can make you feel wonderful about yourself. It can elevate a terrible mood to something not at all bad, and a good mood to a force to be reckoned with. As much as I frustrate them and they frustrate me, I have some amazing friends and I wish I could acknowledge that more often.
Sunday, 29 January 2012
Alone
Birds of prey fly alone, solitary
You said you were another bird of prey
But you found a flock, left your quarantine -
Self imposed you declare, for you found love
Yet you remain quarantined in my mind
Knocking the thin walls of my consciousness
And force me to question my own nature
Am I a bird of prey, as you once said?
If you can settle down, seek out a nest
If I cannot forget the past's vulture
Perhaps I am much like you, in a way
Sick of my love's limit to subculture
____________________________________________________________
I'm writing so much of this stuff. And it's mostly inspired by one situation (As well as mildly by another). Odd, how one situation inspires crappy free verse, another might inspire short stories, another highly structured poems, all sorts of shit. This piece specifically was inpired by discussion with one person about a couple of others and our own thoughts on the matter. Cue reflection on the past year or so, and cue me writing terrible metaphorical shit inspired by my own username.
I've been working far too much lately. And it's far too hot. And I'm incredibly jealous of everyone that went to Big Day Out today. But this weekend I'm going to Moama and going paintballing. That should be cool. Just need to get through the boring week first.
You said you were another bird of prey
But you found a flock, left your quarantine -
Self imposed you declare, for you found love
Yet you remain quarantined in my mind
Knocking the thin walls of my consciousness
And force me to question my own nature
Am I a bird of prey, as you once said?
If you can settle down, seek out a nest
If I cannot forget the past's vulture
Perhaps I am much like you, in a way
Sick of my love's limit to subculture
____________________________________________________________
I'm writing so much of this stuff. And it's mostly inspired by one situation (As well as mildly by another). Odd, how one situation inspires crappy free verse, another might inspire short stories, another highly structured poems, all sorts of shit. This piece specifically was inpired by discussion with one person about a couple of others and our own thoughts on the matter. Cue reflection on the past year or so, and cue me writing terrible metaphorical shit inspired by my own username.
I've been working far too much lately. And it's far too hot. And I'm incredibly jealous of everyone that went to Big Day Out today. But this weekend I'm going to Moama and going paintballing. That should be cool. Just need to get through the boring week first.
Saturday, 28 January 2012
Urban Camoflage
This piece is the sequel to Trench Warfare 101. Please read that before for best effect. I'll probably continue this eventually.
____________________________________________________________________________
A thin boy, dark hair, grey eyes, was left staring blankly into space. His vision, moments before filled by the miseries of war, was now filled instead by his miserable life. The room was shabby and dark, an old desk covered in old gadgets and obsolete media, bed unmade, mattress thin.
The only remarkable thing about this room was the computer at the boy's feet. Slim, black, a thin strip of blinking lights breaking the darkness. A single power cable trailed to the wall. There was no obvious input nor output devices, nothing of any sort. Only when the boy stood, and approached his own reflection in his cracked mirror, could he see the marvel of technology he'd been experiencing. A large plastic and steel device, perhaps 6 centimetres in diameter, was affixed firmly to the back of his neck by a pair of thin black ties, forming a collar around his neck. This was the device science had searched for for years, a true neural interface, and now it was in the home of every kid geeky enough to set it up and wealthy enough to afford it.
The boy looked at the computer, concerned, for his connection loss was unheard of. The blinking lights revealed his dilemma, that, somehow, his internet connection had gone down. This was unusual to say the least; such a thing as a downed internet connection was a relic of the century's first decade, at least to his mind. A restart of the system did nothing. Nor did any of the myriad troubleshooting possibilities offered by the operating system.
The boy threw off the collar in frustration. Looking in the mirror again, he saw red marks where the straps had dug into the skin. He'd been online for a while, hours at least. The collar stayed on to eat, to check the mail, to defecate; all time which could be wasted instead used productively, doing schoolwork, keeping up with the news, socialising. Most of the friends he socialised with the boy hadn't seen in weeks; but no matter, he saw them online all the time.
The boy opened a curtain, and a flood of yellow light entered. the room was uglier in sunlight than in darkness; only now could one see the stains on the walls and the damaged plasterwork, the door hanging lopsided in the unpainted door frame. The boy dragged on a pair of shoes, nondescript walks trendy amongst his generation for reasons not known by anyone.
The boy walked out into the street, as of yet not seeing a single other person. A lone post truck drove by, carrying food, clothes, anything people needed to live. Wandering aimlessly, the boy followed in the same direction, away from his home and the dozens of others identical to it and into the edge of the metropolis. He still hadn't seen a single person.
Suddenly, as the boy rounded a corner - music. The strumming of a few simple chords, and a man's voice, somewhere in the distance. Walking in the direction of the sound, the boy listened with a critical ear. The lyrics the man sung were nonsensical, meanderings about 'pianos filled with flames' and 'semen-stained mountaintops'. And yet - there was a beauty here, unlike the electronic tunes and produced pop idols favored by those he knew. The boy walked, and walked, but the music was always in the distance, it seemed.
A man, maybe 60, sat on the kerb at the side of the road. Another person had finally emerged.
"You there, boy, do you now where that music's coming from? It's getting on my nerves." The boy looked intensely at the man, for he looked strangely familiar. He had a bristling mustache.
"No, no, I'm looking for it too." The boy wrinkled his brow. The man looked like an older version of the commander from his war game before.
Walking awkwardly away, the boy continued. The music was closer now. The man he'd seen before lurked on his mind. It was definitely the commander from his game, but he was more... broken? He seemed old and tired rather than young and full of life. Was this what the web did to people?
The boy caught his reflection in the glass of a shopfront. The red marks on his neck were still prominent, with it looking like he'd fallen the victim of strange bedroom antics. His shirt fitted terribly, his chubby arms sitting limp in sleeves clearly designed for a more athletic man. He clearly was as broken as the commander, not the muscular heart-throb he was online but simply another slob who needed real exercise.
The music was closer still. The boy looked around, trying to pinpoint it, but he didn't even know where he was. It looked familiar, almost as if he'd passed through before... And suddenly, the pin dropped. This was the same corner he'd seen the old man near. This was the same corner he'd been passing for awhile, now. Very odd. He kept walking.
Next time he came to the corner, there was a man, with an acoustic guitar. His features were unusual, facial hair bringing to mind a particular British revolutionary.
"Welcome back to reality"
The buildings warped, sky fading to black.
A thin boy, dark hair, grey eyes, was left staring blankly into space. Before his return to reality, he had seen a single flash of text.
"Escape your electronic prison"
No matter what he did, every time he closed his eyes the text was back.
The internet seemed to be working fine.
_________________________________________________________________
It's Anonymous! In the future! And seriously, if /mu/ were involved at all you can guarantee In The Aeroplane Over The Sea would be involved.
I feel sick. Damn pizza, making me thirsty. Damn water, making me feel bloated. But the Pokemans and the teasing Laura was good.
I have so much work for the next few days. Money's good, but I'm gonna hate Foodworks at the end of it...
____________________________________________________________________________
A thin boy, dark hair, grey eyes, was left staring blankly into space. His vision, moments before filled by the miseries of war, was now filled instead by his miserable life. The room was shabby and dark, an old desk covered in old gadgets and obsolete media, bed unmade, mattress thin.
The only remarkable thing about this room was the computer at the boy's feet. Slim, black, a thin strip of blinking lights breaking the darkness. A single power cable trailed to the wall. There was no obvious input nor output devices, nothing of any sort. Only when the boy stood, and approached his own reflection in his cracked mirror, could he see the marvel of technology he'd been experiencing. A large plastic and steel device, perhaps 6 centimetres in diameter, was affixed firmly to the back of his neck by a pair of thin black ties, forming a collar around his neck. This was the device science had searched for for years, a true neural interface, and now it was in the home of every kid geeky enough to set it up and wealthy enough to afford it.
The boy looked at the computer, concerned, for his connection loss was unheard of. The blinking lights revealed his dilemma, that, somehow, his internet connection had gone down. This was unusual to say the least; such a thing as a downed internet connection was a relic of the century's first decade, at least to his mind. A restart of the system did nothing. Nor did any of the myriad troubleshooting possibilities offered by the operating system.
The boy threw off the collar in frustration. Looking in the mirror again, he saw red marks where the straps had dug into the skin. He'd been online for a while, hours at least. The collar stayed on to eat, to check the mail, to defecate; all time which could be wasted instead used productively, doing schoolwork, keeping up with the news, socialising. Most of the friends he socialised with the boy hadn't seen in weeks; but no matter, he saw them online all the time.
The boy opened a curtain, and a flood of yellow light entered. the room was uglier in sunlight than in darkness; only now could one see the stains on the walls and the damaged plasterwork, the door hanging lopsided in the unpainted door frame. The boy dragged on a pair of shoes, nondescript walks trendy amongst his generation for reasons not known by anyone.
The boy walked out into the street, as of yet not seeing a single other person. A lone post truck drove by, carrying food, clothes, anything people needed to live. Wandering aimlessly, the boy followed in the same direction, away from his home and the dozens of others identical to it and into the edge of the metropolis. He still hadn't seen a single person.
Suddenly, as the boy rounded a corner - music. The strumming of a few simple chords, and a man's voice, somewhere in the distance. Walking in the direction of the sound, the boy listened with a critical ear. The lyrics the man sung were nonsensical, meanderings about 'pianos filled with flames' and 'semen-stained mountaintops'. And yet - there was a beauty here, unlike the electronic tunes and produced pop idols favored by those he knew. The boy walked, and walked, but the music was always in the distance, it seemed.
A man, maybe 60, sat on the kerb at the side of the road. Another person had finally emerged.
"You there, boy, do you now where that music's coming from? It's getting on my nerves." The boy looked intensely at the man, for he looked strangely familiar. He had a bristling mustache.
"No, no, I'm looking for it too." The boy wrinkled his brow. The man looked like an older version of the commander from his war game before.
Walking awkwardly away, the boy continued. The music was closer now. The man he'd seen before lurked on his mind. It was definitely the commander from his game, but he was more... broken? He seemed old and tired rather than young and full of life. Was this what the web did to people?
The boy caught his reflection in the glass of a shopfront. The red marks on his neck were still prominent, with it looking like he'd fallen the victim of strange bedroom antics. His shirt fitted terribly, his chubby arms sitting limp in sleeves clearly designed for a more athletic man. He clearly was as broken as the commander, not the muscular heart-throb he was online but simply another slob who needed real exercise.
The music was closer still. The boy looked around, trying to pinpoint it, but he didn't even know where he was. It looked familiar, almost as if he'd passed through before... And suddenly, the pin dropped. This was the same corner he'd seen the old man near. This was the same corner he'd been passing for awhile, now. Very odd. He kept walking.
Next time he came to the corner, there was a man, with an acoustic guitar. His features were unusual, facial hair bringing to mind a particular British revolutionary.
"Welcome back to reality"
The buildings warped, sky fading to black.
A thin boy, dark hair, grey eyes, was left staring blankly into space. Before his return to reality, he had seen a single flash of text.
"Escape your electronic prison"
No matter what he did, every time he closed his eyes the text was back.
The internet seemed to be working fine.
_________________________________________________________________
It's Anonymous! In the future! And seriously, if /mu/ were involved at all you can guarantee In The Aeroplane Over The Sea would be involved.
I feel sick. Damn pizza, making me thirsty. Damn water, making me feel bloated. But the Pokemans and the teasing Laura was good.
I have so much work for the next few days. Money's good, but I'm gonna hate Foodworks at the end of it...
Friday, 27 January 2012
Generation gap
27/1/12
Music: American Football EP and Abbey Road. Both on vinyl. (I love having my turntable set up upstairs.)
Move on with your life, say the people in the streets
"When I was your age, I had a job
working 12 hours a day
6 days a week
You kids don't know how easy you've got it"
So I shrug and smile at their blatant exaggeration
And deny their implication
That the causation
Of my frustration
Could be simply remedied
For I cannot get a job, without a degree,
I cannot get a degree without money,
And I cannot get money without a job
So I work casual hours, slaving away,
At the insistence of the older generation
And face
Not grace
But pitied laughter
But I ignore their petty calls
That I should move out
Since they're the reason the houses
Are overpriced
And not nice
I refuse their calls to get a car
Since their restrictive laws
Mean it'll be next to useless anyway
I refuse their calls to get into politics
Since the politicians are old codgers
Catering to other old codgers
But all around me,
My companions in age
Face the same calls
And concede
And move into the same boring life as their parents
And their parents' parents
And their parents' parents' parents
Only a few will make it through
Ignore the calls
And live a real life
And I hope to god I'm one of those people.
_____________________________________________
Woo, 3 days in a row. And I'm gonna write something else tonight, try to get out of this free-poetry phase and write a story. Very happy with myself
Music: American Football EP and Abbey Road. Both on vinyl. (I love having my turntable set up upstairs.)
Move on with your life, say the people in the streets
"When I was your age, I had a job
working 12 hours a day
6 days a week
You kids don't know how easy you've got it"
So I shrug and smile at their blatant exaggeration
And deny their implication
That the causation
Of my frustration
Could be simply remedied
For I cannot get a job, without a degree,
I cannot get a degree without money,
And I cannot get money without a job
So I work casual hours, slaving away,
At the insistence of the older generation
And face
Not grace
But pitied laughter
But I ignore their petty calls
That I should move out
Since they're the reason the houses
Are overpriced
And not nice
I refuse their calls to get a car
Since their restrictive laws
Mean it'll be next to useless anyway
I refuse their calls to get into politics
Since the politicians are old codgers
Catering to other old codgers
But all around me,
My companions in age
Face the same calls
And concede
And move into the same boring life as their parents
And their parents' parents
And their parents' parents' parents
Only a few will make it through
Ignore the calls
And live a real life
And I hope to god I'm one of those people.
_____________________________________________
Woo, 3 days in a row. And I'm gonna write something else tonight, try to get out of this free-poetry phase and write a story. Very happy with myself
Thursday, 26 January 2012
Plastic living
26/1/12
Music: Alamaailman Vasarat
As you look beyond your windows what is it that you see?
Are the men in the streets truely free?
Do the women turn in their sleep for their nature?
Or are their concerns a result of this fucked up world?
Do you live in an estate, plastic trees lining manicured lawns?
Late-model automobiles combing suburban sprawl
Like ants across the picnic rug, searching for crumbs
Crumbs left by the high society they aspire to be
Do you live in the country, perhaps?
Surrounded for miles by the wilderness?
That is, of carefully plowed fields and planned parks
As designed of course, by men miles away and six feet underground
Is your home a donation, a moment of charity?
By the gracious men who take their ten percent
Every time you buy into their "free" market system
Every dime you could spare to pay your own rent
At home in the city; are you?
In an apartment identical to one built
In Cairo, or Beirut, or Singapore, Minsk?
By the same corporation, which;
Built the automobiles, and the estates too;
And buy the grain from the fields plowed by you;
Exploit the political free market system;
Your job, your schools, everything you do;
Can you afford to live on your own?
Of course not; you're dependent on family and state
The same family once dependent on theirs
The same state dependent on support from you
The same state dependent on corporate support
The same state controlled by men miles away and six feet underground
And of course; one day; one of those men might be you.
For the corporation is our nature, control is our nature,
And in this fucked up world, if you can get power
You've little choice but to use it.
_________________________________________________________
Today was Australia Day, a day whose meaning is irrelevant and mostly forgotten, a day utilised by bogans to excuse their racism, leftists to attack conservatives, conservatives to attack leftists, politicians to score points, and big business to make a crapload of money.
Hence, I spent the day working for double time pay, drinking beer and eating kangaroo steak.
Gonna binge-watch Pokemon with Laura tomorrow. Fuck yes.
Music: Alamaailman Vasarat
As you look beyond your windows what is it that you see?
Are the men in the streets truely free?
Do the women turn in their sleep for their nature?
Or are their concerns a result of this fucked up world?
Do you live in an estate, plastic trees lining manicured lawns?
Late-model automobiles combing suburban sprawl
Like ants across the picnic rug, searching for crumbs
Crumbs left by the high society they aspire to be
Do you live in the country, perhaps?
Surrounded for miles by the wilderness?
That is, of carefully plowed fields and planned parks
As designed of course, by men miles away and six feet underground
Is your home a donation, a moment of charity?
By the gracious men who take their ten percent
Every time you buy into their "free" market system
Every dime you could spare to pay your own rent
At home in the city; are you?
In an apartment identical to one built
In Cairo, or Beirut, or Singapore, Minsk?
By the same corporation, which;
Built the automobiles, and the estates too;
And buy the grain from the fields plowed by you;
Exploit the political free market system;
Your job, your schools, everything you do;
Can you afford to live on your own?
Of course not; you're dependent on family and state
The same family once dependent on theirs
The same state dependent on support from you
The same state dependent on corporate support
The same state controlled by men miles away and six feet underground
And of course; one day; one of those men might be you.
For the corporation is our nature, control is our nature,
And in this fucked up world, if you can get power
You've little choice but to use it.
_________________________________________________________
Today was Australia Day, a day whose meaning is irrelevant and mostly forgotten, a day utilised by bogans to excuse their racism, leftists to attack conservatives, conservatives to attack leftists, politicians to score points, and big business to make a crapload of money.
Hence, I spent the day working for double time pay, drinking beer and eating kangaroo steak.
Gonna binge-watch Pokemon with Laura tomorrow. Fuck yes.
An intellectual debate
25/1/12
Background music: The Squirrel Nut Zippers. How did I not discover this band sooner? It's Gypsy-Jazz-Klezmer-Punk!
"What is happiness?" The philosopher asks
"Mere chemicals," declares the scientist's gasp
"But why?" asks the romantic, the punk, heathen
"These chemicals exist with purpose, reason"
"And what of our miseries, chemical row?
Depressed without reason nor season in stow?
Do our harmonies light without any true cause?
Or call true emotion which flows without pause?
"Jealousy and frustration with those we love-"
"Does that have reason?" calls the lover above
"Loneliness and sadness is caused by our flaws-"
"Actions like those act to call us into war!"
"We'll kill him!" cried jilted lover asudden
"We'll set ourselves free of this terrible spell"
"If we can't be happy, be free and be well,"
"We'll rot alongside him as we serve in hell!"
The logician laughs at the mad lover's quip
"You'll do none of that while I am on this ship-
"These emotions are evolutionary guides-
"You'll pay them no heed and go on with your lives
The anarchist; rebel; broods quiet aside,
His posture communicating aloof pride
"What we need to do," comes his new reflection
"Is give happiness a critics inspection"
"Lover, will you find true happiness at war?
'Cos in the future, god knows what is in store,
Your lady's return may be later than hoped
But maybe you'll find she is pipped at the post"
The logician claps for the punk has seen reason
The lover content to persist for the season
And with contention from both the left and the right
The neural landscape goes to sleep for the night
________________________________________________________
I love writing things set within the mind. I blame Psychonauts. I have no idea how I settled into vagely Seussian verse though. The "rot alongside him in hell" bit felt like writing a power metal song.
Today's piece was brought to you by an anonymous motivator, whose comments on the quality of my work made me want to do more. They may also have been an influece on the content of the piece. Or, they may not have. I'm not really sure, to be perfectly honest.
I went to Uni to enrol; it was cool. The people in my course all seemed smarter and wealthier than me. Eh. I don't seem to fit the mould for a Commerce student though. I protest like an Arts major, drink like an engineer, and lie my way out of things like a law student.
Oh well, lets see if I can get something new written more quickly than last time now.
Background music: The Squirrel Nut Zippers. How did I not discover this band sooner? It's Gypsy-Jazz-Klezmer-Punk!
"What is happiness?" The philosopher asks
"Mere chemicals," declares the scientist's gasp
"But why?" asks the romantic, the punk, heathen
"These chemicals exist with purpose, reason"
"And what of our miseries, chemical row?
Depressed without reason nor season in stow?
Do our harmonies light without any true cause?
Or call true emotion which flows without pause?
"Jealousy and frustration with those we love-"
"Does that have reason?" calls the lover above
"Loneliness and sadness is caused by our flaws-"
"Actions like those act to call us into war!"
"We'll kill him!" cried jilted lover asudden
"We'll set ourselves free of this terrible spell"
"If we can't be happy, be free and be well,"
"We'll rot alongside him as we serve in hell!"
The logician laughs at the mad lover's quip
"You'll do none of that while I am on this ship-
"These emotions are evolutionary guides-
"You'll pay them no heed and go on with your lives
The anarchist; rebel; broods quiet aside,
His posture communicating aloof pride
"What we need to do," comes his new reflection
"Is give happiness a critics inspection"
"Lover, will you find true happiness at war?
'Cos in the future, god knows what is in store,
Your lady's return may be later than hoped
But maybe you'll find she is pipped at the post"
The logician claps for the punk has seen reason
The lover content to persist for the season
And with contention from both the left and the right
The neural landscape goes to sleep for the night
________________________________________________________
I love writing things set within the mind. I blame Psychonauts. I have no idea how I settled into vagely Seussian verse though. The "rot alongside him in hell" bit felt like writing a power metal song.
Today's piece was brought to you by an anonymous motivator, whose comments on the quality of my work made me want to do more. They may also have been an influece on the content of the piece. Or, they may not have. I'm not really sure, to be perfectly honest.
I went to Uni to enrol; it was cool. The people in my course all seemed smarter and wealthier than me. Eh. I don't seem to fit the mould for a Commerce student though. I protest like an Arts major, drink like an engineer, and lie my way out of things like a law student.
Oh well, lets see if I can get something new written more quickly than last time now.
Monday, 16 January 2012
DAY 7: Trench Warfare 101
14/1/12
Location: Back to the bedroom - Only two more sleeps in it!
Background noise: Aphex Twin - Selected Ambient Works '85-'92 (I really need more of this ambient electronic stuff)
Burial - Untrue (Ambient dubstep? Why not?)
Tchaikovsky - 1812 Overture, Nutcracker Suite (Okay, this electronic stuff is too distracting)
The sky, blue of an untuned television, was interrupted only by smoke trails and the occasional miniscule projectile. The trench ran several hundred meters in each direction, a group of men crouched at an unknown point along it. One man, short and possessing a large, bristling mustache, barked orders to the motley crew. The men were not of any single race nor nation, but were somehow united, here, against their common enemy.
"We have been ordered..." shouted the mustache bearing man over the echoing crash of artillery, "...To attack the position directly in front of us, to the south east, when the artillery stops."
The men stood mostly distracted. Trench warfare was all the same after a while, the unending mud and uniformly terrible conditions meaning everything looked the same after while, and the strategies of the generals comfortable in the home countries never changed.
"We will divide into three group..." A particularly loud artillery shell exploded with particular proximity to the man with the mustache, drowning out his voice, dry and monotonous anyway, to all but those nearest him. Clearing his throat, he continued.
"We will..." His voice stopped again, not due to artillery again but this time to the lack of it.
"Oh shit... Go, go now!" The mustached man's voice wavered with nerves, suddenly sounding less like the shout of a war-hardened man and more like the scream of a prepubescent boy.
The men raced over the side of the trench, without regard to the mustached man's anguished cry. Gunshots rung out from the opposing trench before many had even clambered into no-man's-land, some falling straight away, others whilst caught on the endless barbed wire and other debris scattered across the battlefield. Less than a quarter of the men who had left the trench even reached the opposing side of the battlefield, and many of these quickly met their end at the end of a gun, not from a bullet but a bayonet.
Five men made it into the trench. The mustached man was not one of them. Surprisingly, only ten of the enemy remained. Or perhaps only ten had been there in the first place?
A gunshot. One of the five had managed to grab his rifle and shoot the man in front of him. It surprised even him, which meant that he was even less prepared for the bayonet which quickly went through his back. The next of the remaining four, though was prepared, and upon being stabbed pulled the pin on a grenade he'd stumbled across at some point.
The explosion, in a definite example of Murphy's law, was directly next to a crate of ammunition. The explosion took the surviving men with as much surprise as that first gunshot. Suddenly, there were four men, two of either side. As much as they may have wanted to ask for a truce, the men knew they wouldn't be heard.
A slim man, dark hair, grey eyes, part of the attacking side, took the first move. Pretending to lunge with his bayonet, he instead fired at an opponent. Suddenly, a dance of violence and bloodshed had commenced, the swishing of bayonets and the occasional gunshot more like a choreographed performance than an act of war. The slim man's ally fell hard.
One versus one. What was the point? Explosions recommenced in the distance. The artillery had started again, at least it appeared at first. The explosions though, seemed to lack any position, any depth. They were uniform, and spread perfectly around. Both men stared each other down, not out of mutual confusion but because their bodies appeared to have stopped working. The bodies of their compatriots had surrounded them, but now there were none. The ammunition case which had exploded previously was back in its original position, as if nothing had happened this day. Suddenly, the blue sky flicked to black, no transition but simply an inperceivable shift. The whole world shifted into darkness.
***Error***
Forcefully disconnected from server
______________________________________________________________________________
I kind of cheated today since I'm still a little writers blocked. This is a rewrite of the introduction to a piece I wrote a while back. I want to use this style of piece to introduce a much longer short story at some point so don't be surprised if it springs up again. Between then and now, though, I know it needs a lot of work.
I really want to turn the piece from Day 4, A Dystopian Romance into a short film script. It wouldn't be hard dialogue-wise, there's not exactly a huge quantity of it, but I want to describe the shots and shit, that'd be fun. Definitely a project for when I get home next week. I also need to start working on my Vault Dweller cosplay, been putting that off for like a month...
UPDATE: The next part of this story is now up! Urban Camoflage!
Location: Back to the bedroom - Only two more sleeps in it!
Background noise: Aphex Twin - Selected Ambient Works '85-'92 (I really need more of this ambient electronic stuff)
Burial - Untrue (Ambient dubstep? Why not?)
Tchaikovsky - 1812 Overture, Nutcracker Suite (Okay, this electronic stuff is too distracting)
The sky, blue of an untuned television, was interrupted only by smoke trails and the occasional miniscule projectile. The trench ran several hundred meters in each direction, a group of men crouched at an unknown point along it. One man, short and possessing a large, bristling mustache, barked orders to the motley crew. The men were not of any single race nor nation, but were somehow united, here, against their common enemy.
"We have been ordered..." shouted the mustache bearing man over the echoing crash of artillery, "...To attack the position directly in front of us, to the south east, when the artillery stops."
The men stood mostly distracted. Trench warfare was all the same after a while, the unending mud and uniformly terrible conditions meaning everything looked the same after while, and the strategies of the generals comfortable in the home countries never changed.
"We will divide into three group..." A particularly loud artillery shell exploded with particular proximity to the man with the mustache, drowning out his voice, dry and monotonous anyway, to all but those nearest him. Clearing his throat, he continued.
"We will..." His voice stopped again, not due to artillery again but this time to the lack of it.
"Oh shit... Go, go now!" The mustached man's voice wavered with nerves, suddenly sounding less like the shout of a war-hardened man and more like the scream of a prepubescent boy.
The men raced over the side of the trench, without regard to the mustached man's anguished cry. Gunshots rung out from the opposing trench before many had even clambered into no-man's-land, some falling straight away, others whilst caught on the endless barbed wire and other debris scattered across the battlefield. Less than a quarter of the men who had left the trench even reached the opposing side of the battlefield, and many of these quickly met their end at the end of a gun, not from a bullet but a bayonet.
Five men made it into the trench. The mustached man was not one of them. Surprisingly, only ten of the enemy remained. Or perhaps only ten had been there in the first place?
A gunshot. One of the five had managed to grab his rifle and shoot the man in front of him. It surprised even him, which meant that he was even less prepared for the bayonet which quickly went through his back. The next of the remaining four, though was prepared, and upon being stabbed pulled the pin on a grenade he'd stumbled across at some point.
The explosion, in a definite example of Murphy's law, was directly next to a crate of ammunition. The explosion took the surviving men with as much surprise as that first gunshot. Suddenly, there were four men, two of either side. As much as they may have wanted to ask for a truce, the men knew they wouldn't be heard.
A slim man, dark hair, grey eyes, part of the attacking side, took the first move. Pretending to lunge with his bayonet, he instead fired at an opponent. Suddenly, a dance of violence and bloodshed had commenced, the swishing of bayonets and the occasional gunshot more like a choreographed performance than an act of war. The slim man's ally fell hard.
One versus one. What was the point? Explosions recommenced in the distance. The artillery had started again, at least it appeared at first. The explosions though, seemed to lack any position, any depth. They were uniform, and spread perfectly around. Both men stared each other down, not out of mutual confusion but because their bodies appeared to have stopped working. The bodies of their compatriots had surrounded them, but now there were none. The ammunition case which had exploded previously was back in its original position, as if nothing had happened this day. Suddenly, the blue sky flicked to black, no transition but simply an inperceivable shift. The whole world shifted into darkness.
***Error***
Forcefully disconnected from server
______________________________________________________________________________
I kind of cheated today since I'm still a little writers blocked. This is a rewrite of the introduction to a piece I wrote a while back. I want to use this style of piece to introduce a much longer short story at some point so don't be surprised if it springs up again. Between then and now, though, I know it needs a lot of work.
I really want to turn the piece from Day 4, A Dystopian Romance into a short film script. It wouldn't be hard dialogue-wise, there's not exactly a huge quantity of it, but I want to describe the shots and shit, that'd be fun. Definitely a project for when I get home next week. I also need to start working on my Vault Dweller cosplay, been putting that off for like a month...
UPDATE: The next part of this story is now up! Urban Camoflage!
DAY 6 (Part 2): Spiders
What is it about the spider which captures the imagination unlike any other creature, insect, arachnid or otherwise?
Why is it that the creature phobia known by its technical term by most of western civilisation is not that of rats, nor sharks, nor scorpions, but the fear of fly-killing, web-weaving spiders? One could make suppositions about lethality, that spiders are both commonplace and dangerous, but if that were actually the case we'd have people scared for their life in the presence of cars, refrigerators, swimming pools and domesticated dogs.
No, what I believe is the case is that the spider appeals to our basest instincts; that its form, a bulbous mass on eight spindly legs appeals even to children as inhuman and aesthetically displeasing; and once its supposed capacities for harm, exaggerated as with most fears by a combination of media illustration and cultural demonisation, become known to us it is ingrained in our minds that this is something to be afraid of.
Spiders, then, can teach us a valuable lesson about societal conditioning. What would otherwise be disregarded in the manner of flies, and bees, and even the more potentially dangerous like the centipede and the scorpion, can be turned into an image of purest evil not through its actual intentions but what society makes us believe are its intentions.
Now, think for a moment. Is all that I'm talking about spiders? For some people; races, subcultures, identities are spiders. Some lifestyles, movements, ideals, are spiders.
Ask yourself; are you a spider? Or the human hand, clad in tissue paper or broadsheet, killing the spider for its own comfort rather than any supposition of safety?
__________________________________________________________________________________
This piece stems from one of the great thinking places, the toilet, after watching a Daddy Long Legs slowly clamber its way up a wall and out of a window of its own accord.
I think I'm still recovering from the big piece I wrote a few days ago, hence the short, quirky pieces. The next couple of days will be busy, but hopefully by Monday I'll be right to write something decently long.
Why is it that the creature phobia known by its technical term by most of western civilisation is not that of rats, nor sharks, nor scorpions, but the fear of fly-killing, web-weaving spiders? One could make suppositions about lethality, that spiders are both commonplace and dangerous, but if that were actually the case we'd have people scared for their life in the presence of cars, refrigerators, swimming pools and domesticated dogs.
No, what I believe is the case is that the spider appeals to our basest instincts; that its form, a bulbous mass on eight spindly legs appeals even to children as inhuman and aesthetically displeasing; and once its supposed capacities for harm, exaggerated as with most fears by a combination of media illustration and cultural demonisation, become known to us it is ingrained in our minds that this is something to be afraid of.
Spiders, then, can teach us a valuable lesson about societal conditioning. What would otherwise be disregarded in the manner of flies, and bees, and even the more potentially dangerous like the centipede and the scorpion, can be turned into an image of purest evil not through its actual intentions but what society makes us believe are its intentions.
Now, think for a moment. Is all that I'm talking about spiders? For some people; races, subcultures, identities are spiders. Some lifestyles, movements, ideals, are spiders.
Ask yourself; are you a spider? Or the human hand, clad in tissue paper or broadsheet, killing the spider for its own comfort rather than any supposition of safety?
__________________________________________________________________________________
This piece stems from one of the great thinking places, the toilet, after watching a Daddy Long Legs slowly clamber its way up a wall and out of a window of its own accord.
I think I'm still recovering from the big piece I wrote a few days ago, hence the short, quirky pieces. The next couple of days will be busy, but hopefully by Monday I'll be right to write something decently long.
DAY 6: Shakespearean Tribute
13/1/12
Location: Same as the last few days, except in the living room instead of my bedroom, just to change things up.
Background noise: Australia vs. India at the WACA; the first few minutes of The Omen
Motivation is the ficklest thing;
One moment it overwhelms and consumes;
The next it fades away into the mist;
Leaving the task placed at hand incomplete
Friday the 13th was uneventful;
The closest companion's shoulder coldest,
Three days until I shall see the oldest,
Most trusted caught in infatuation
But an unexpected praising message
One of praise, of surprise, sent flippantly
A trusting call to arms with a flourish;
Stirs the ever fickle motivation
The task; nearly left incomplete; broken
Is restarted with energy again
Starting with a Shakespearean tribute
A monologue; iambic; for a friend
________________________________________________________________________
It's funny how a day just like any other can create feelings of dread for so many people. Iambic pentameter is bloody hard, so I'm sure there's quite a few places I buggered it up/forgot about it, but I'm pretty sure I at least got the structure and the line spacing appropriate for Shakespeare.
Location: Same as the last few days, except in the living room instead of my bedroom, just to change things up.
Background noise: Australia vs. India at the WACA; the first few minutes of The Omen
Motivation is the ficklest thing;
One moment it overwhelms and consumes;
The next it fades away into the mist;
Leaving the task placed at hand incomplete
Friday the 13th was uneventful;
The closest companion's shoulder coldest,
Three days until I shall see the oldest,
Most trusted caught in infatuation
But an unexpected praising message
One of praise, of surprise, sent flippantly
A trusting call to arms with a flourish;
Stirs the ever fickle motivation
The task; nearly left incomplete; broken
Is restarted with energy again
Starting with a Shakespearean tribute
A monologue; iambic; for a friend
________________________________________________________________________
It's funny how a day just like any other can create feelings of dread for so many people. Iambic pentameter is bloody hard, so I'm sure there's quite a few places I buggered it up/forgot about it, but I'm pretty sure I at least got the structure and the line spacing appropriate for Shakespeare.
DAY 5: Lucid Writing
12/1/12
Location: Same as the last few days...
Music: Daft Punk - Tron Legacy soundtrack
Short brown hair, with an asymetric slant; her eyes peeking from her fringe like gems in stone. We embrace, our setting unfamiliar to me, but the waft of body odour and guarana is reminicient of an enhibition hall. People surround us, each faceless, nameless, anonymous; but of course for the woman before me. She is oddly familiar, yet strangely alien, like an identical twin of someone I once knew long ago. She smiles. I smile; at least I think; for my mouth feels similarly alien. I go to ask where we are; but nothing can come out.
The crowd surges with energy for a moment, and I clutch at the girl again, noticing this time her coat; black and long; again oddly familiar yet alien. In the confusion, I feel her head nestled deep beneath my chin, arms strongly around my back.
I take her hand and we run. The crowd parts like the red sea, but as I look to her there's something wrong. The coat is gone, dropped into the crowd perhaps? As we fall into a patch of grass, somehow suddenly outdoors, there's something more wrong though. Her hair is still brown, but long and intricate, almost regal in its complexity. She smiles, and again I try to smile back, but internally any happiness is overwhelmed by confusion. What happened? This woman; this girl; while still familiar is different, changed, and it's almost as if something is missing.
I stand, and feel a million eyes crawl up the back of my neck, for the crowd has returned, no longer anonymous but thousands upon thousands of variations upon the same, brown-haired girl. Some are more familiar than others, no doubt, short or tall, old or young, they're still all the same, still all familiar, and definitely still alien. A familiar bell rings, my old school bell, and more upon more of this girl surround me.
__________________________________________________________________________________
I had writers block so I wrote a dream I had as prose. Yeah, Freud would go nuts. And at least 4 of my close friends appeared as the girls in this dream. You know who you are.
Hopefully I can come up with something better than this tomorrow...
Location: Same as the last few days...
Music: Daft Punk - Tron Legacy soundtrack
Short brown hair, with an asymetric slant; her eyes peeking from her fringe like gems in stone. We embrace, our setting unfamiliar to me, but the waft of body odour and guarana is reminicient of an enhibition hall. People surround us, each faceless, nameless, anonymous; but of course for the woman before me. She is oddly familiar, yet strangely alien, like an identical twin of someone I once knew long ago. She smiles. I smile; at least I think; for my mouth feels similarly alien. I go to ask where we are; but nothing can come out.
The crowd surges with energy for a moment, and I clutch at the girl again, noticing this time her coat; black and long; again oddly familiar yet alien. In the confusion, I feel her head nestled deep beneath my chin, arms strongly around my back.
I take her hand and we run. The crowd parts like the red sea, but as I look to her there's something wrong. The coat is gone, dropped into the crowd perhaps? As we fall into a patch of grass, somehow suddenly outdoors, there's something more wrong though. Her hair is still brown, but long and intricate, almost regal in its complexity. She smiles, and again I try to smile back, but internally any happiness is overwhelmed by confusion. What happened? This woman; this girl; while still familiar is different, changed, and it's almost as if something is missing.
I stand, and feel a million eyes crawl up the back of my neck, for the crowd has returned, no longer anonymous but thousands upon thousands of variations upon the same, brown-haired girl. Some are more familiar than others, no doubt, short or tall, old or young, they're still all the same, still all familiar, and definitely still alien. A familiar bell rings, my old school bell, and more upon more of this girl surround me.
__________________________________________________________________________________
I had writers block so I wrote a dream I had as prose. Yeah, Freud would go nuts. And at least 4 of my close friends appeared as the girls in this dream. You know who you are.
Hopefully I can come up with something better than this tomorrow...
DAY 4: A dystopian romance
11/1/12
Location: Same as the last two days...
Music: Star Wars Episode V: The Empire Strikes Back soundtrack (Damn it, Rhi)
Please note: This piece is rather long, for me anyway. Go and get a cup of coffee and a biscuit, and tell all of the people you're talking to on Facebook to hold on for 15 minutes. FOr optimal effect, I recommend putting on some light classical, maybe a film soundtrack or some ambient electronica in the background. And now... go for it.
___________________________________________________________________________________
"You'll never stop the rain." A cliché. As the boy looked out onto the dry dirt of the courtyard he was amazed that rain was even a thing. Here neither scrappy weed nor a single blade of grass poked its head above the dry dirt, nor had it ever. The alien looking, most likely chemically contaminated soil refused to relent to the forces of nature.
The boy rested his hands on the glass of the window; there was no way into the courtyard, it existing solely to let a shaft of natural light into the cheap apartments without externally facing windows. The boy was a resident of one of these cheap apartments. The loud television of a neighbour echoed across the courtyard. A young couple embraced each other a floor down, the boy feeling a note of despair that he had nothing like that. The man in the apartment beneath them leaned out his window to smoke a strange pipe, the smell of which could be discerned even by the boy, through the glass of his own.
The apartment directly across from the boy suddenly illuminated. He turned his head, curious; this apartment was to his knowledge empty. A girl; perhaps 17 or 18; with slightly curling blonde hair entered, following a solemn looking man in a cheap grey suit. The man in the grey suit the boy knew, for he was the building manager. Mr. Curtis, from memory, the man's voice never seemed to synchronise with his lips. Any conversation with him, the boy thought, was like watching a badly dubbed commercial, or an ill-synchronised television. But the girl, the girl he didn't know. She was attractive, though her plain clothing and style didn't tell the boy much about her personality. Was she perhaps a student, seeking accommodation much like him? That made sense; the new term started in a few weeks. Regardless, she seemed to be settling in, Mr. Curtis handing her the keys.
"I should introduce myself" said the boy, out loud but to an audience of none.
- - -
"Perhaps I should introduce myself..." said the girl, looking across at the window opposite her new apartment.
She thought she had seen a boy through the window, but she wasn't sure. She looked out at the courtyard below her new home. There was a man smoking, another watching a huge television clearly visible from two floors above him. A couple were removing each other’s clothing whilst reclined on a couch, oblivious to the fact they were in clear view of their neighbours. The girl smiled, both for the fact that she was a witness to something she was not supposed to be, and for the couple's obvious infatuation. As trite a cliché young love was, it certainly seemed to apply. She figured the building must mostly be students; that was why she was here, anticipating her studies in a few weeks. The dirt in the courtyard below was barren and empty, but the girl could appreciate its beauty, straight raked lines in the dirt reminding her of a Zen garden.
She wandered around the apartment aimlessly, thrilled by the fact that it was, in fact, hers and hers alone. There were no parents to boss her around, but instead she was responsible for her own cooking and cleaning, and making sure she paid the utilities and the rent. Lying on her bed, she realised that there was only one thing she wasn't excited about; the fact that she was kind of lonely.
- - -
The boy sat alone, at his computer by the window, constantly glancing at the window across from him. The girl seemed to keep to her room, where the windows were understandably curtained, only moving into the visible room to cook and occasionally watch television. She hadn't noticed the boy, who kept his curtains mostly closed and his lights off. He preferred things this way - he didn’t want to be known as that creep that liked to watch people out of windows.
Turning to his computer, he glanced over the headlines with the same grim attention he did every day. The Middle East was turning into as much of a warzone as it had at the millennium’s dawn. The European situation was similar, near-bankrupt states picking the bones of bankrupt ones, free of the confines of old European Union. The United States continued its decent into a corpocracy, another sham election turning to shambles with both parties equally corrupt and financed by the same faceless men. This was how the boy saw it anyway, reading between the lines and all that. Looking out the window, he saw the girl was watching her ancient TV, a news anchor clearly visible through the glass. He sighed; she clearly had the same direly uninformed view on reality as most of the people the boy knew.
- - -
The girl smirked disapprovingly at her aging television. The news was shallow, displacing the important stories for mindless garbage about miracle diets and attention-seeking celebrities. But there were some good things. The US election looked towards electing a decent President, at least better than the corporate lackey currently in power. Peace deals were being brokered in Europe and Asia. Amongst the endlessness of human conflict, there were these glimmers of hope, these moments which showed that humanity wasn't all bad.
She had seen the boy through the window a few more times, always fleetingly. There was the constant glow of a computer screen or a small television visible through the curtains. Occasionally she saw a face, thin and clean shaven, shaggy brown hair covering a set of piercing eyes. Music, mainly classical and ambient, could be heard across the courtyard from the boy's room every now and again. She wondered what he was like. Was he an intellectual type, a thinker? Perhaps a musician or an artist? She could only wonder.
- - -
It had been a week since the girl had moved into her apartment and curiously the boy found her still playing on his mind. The boy needed milk, bread, the staples of any member of western society, so he prepared for the usual uneventful expedition to the supermarket. He waited impatiently for the elevator, the clank of late 20th-century mass production signalling its arrival. As he punched the button for the ground floor a voice came down the hall. It was emotive and feminine, the polar opposite to his own deep, monotonous delivery.
- - -
"I know you!" The girl grinned, running into the elevator as the doors closed behind her. Holding the elevator was the boy who she'd seen through the window, his brown hair all but covering his now clearly blue eyes. "You live across from me, don't you? 1208?"
The boy had strangely been playing on her mind all week, so to meet him here was a nice surprise.
- - -
"Um, yeah. I think I've seen you a few times too." The boy's voice crackled with nerves. The girl's blonde hair, pulled back in a ponytail trailed behind her like silk. She was more beautiful than he'd been able to discern through the window, so much so that he was lost for words. Any negative assumptions about her intelligence or her personality disappeared like a well-constructed magician's trick.
"So... you moved here recently, didn't you?"
- - -
The girl came to the conclusion the boy had been watching her as she had watched him. She was excited by the mere fact that she'd managed to capture someone's attention.
"I'm here to study, yes" she responded, leaping ahead of the boys questioning. "I lived out in the country, so my parents gave me some money to rent an apartment. What do you do?"
- - -
"Oh, I'm doing a finance degree" The boy sighed internally. He hated telling people this, since it seemed to be rather boring. It wasn't as exciting as a degree in architecture or fine arts, but it was secure, and that's what mattered. He looked at the girl, thinking she must be doing something more exciting. Perhaps she was studying archaeology, maybe psychology, something interesting like that.
- - -
"Hey, I'm doing the same!" the girl exclaimed, smiling at the boy with a mutual understanding of the boredom of commerce. But before she could continue their conversation, the elevator doors slid aside. A grey lobby led into a grey street. A single lamp with a red lampshade stood bright in the middle of the lobby, the only colour to see. The girl sighed internally, for she wanted to keep talking to this boy. He seemed shy, perhaps even brooding, but he was kind of cute, and she was still curious to his true personality.
"Look, do you want to perhaps come to my apartment later on? Have a coffee?"
- - -
The boy was stunned. No one had asked him to come to their apartment before, let alone a cute girl. This was the closest he'd had to a date since high school. His voice still crackled with nerves, the whole situation overwhelmingly unfamiliar.
"Yeah, sure" he blurted out, immediately unsure as to whether he'd come on too strong, if he was looking socially incompetent or desperate.
- - -
"Cool" the girl smiled, blushing a little.
"Um... 4 o'clock sound good to you? This afternoon?"
- - -
"Yeah sure" The boy said, as nervous as ever. "By the way, I don't think I introduced myself. I'm Chris." He held out his hand, awkwardly but socially conditioned to be able to do nothing else,
- - -
Taking his hand, the girl continued to blush. She was getting a little nervous now, but was pleased.
"Eve. See you at four"
__________________________________________________________________________________
I write a lot of lovey-dovey crap. And I hate to proofread anything of a decent length, so I'm sure this is rife with errors. But I might proofread it when I get to an internet connection and put these on a blog...
The weather today was incredibly shitty, so I stayed inside and played RollerCoaster Tycoon whilst pondering the meaning of life, and whether or not Deckard was actually a replicant. I think film Deckard was a replicant, but book Deckard wasn't. If you wish to debate me on that, please feel free to not contact me ever. And the meaning of life? Jury's still out.
I have come to the conclusion the Star Wars soundtracks are excellent writing music. Intense enough to stir the emotions without causing distractions like lyrical stuff tends to.
Location: Same as the last two days...
Music: Star Wars Episode V: The Empire Strikes Back soundtrack (Damn it, Rhi)
Please note: This piece is rather long, for me anyway. Go and get a cup of coffee and a biscuit, and tell all of the people you're talking to on Facebook to hold on for 15 minutes. FOr optimal effect, I recommend putting on some light classical, maybe a film soundtrack or some ambient electronica in the background. And now... go for it.
___________________________________________________________________________________
"You'll never stop the rain." A cliché. As the boy looked out onto the dry dirt of the courtyard he was amazed that rain was even a thing. Here neither scrappy weed nor a single blade of grass poked its head above the dry dirt, nor had it ever. The alien looking, most likely chemically contaminated soil refused to relent to the forces of nature.
The boy rested his hands on the glass of the window; there was no way into the courtyard, it existing solely to let a shaft of natural light into the cheap apartments without externally facing windows. The boy was a resident of one of these cheap apartments. The loud television of a neighbour echoed across the courtyard. A young couple embraced each other a floor down, the boy feeling a note of despair that he had nothing like that. The man in the apartment beneath them leaned out his window to smoke a strange pipe, the smell of which could be discerned even by the boy, through the glass of his own.
The apartment directly across from the boy suddenly illuminated. He turned his head, curious; this apartment was to his knowledge empty. A girl; perhaps 17 or 18; with slightly curling blonde hair entered, following a solemn looking man in a cheap grey suit. The man in the grey suit the boy knew, for he was the building manager. Mr. Curtis, from memory, the man's voice never seemed to synchronise with his lips. Any conversation with him, the boy thought, was like watching a badly dubbed commercial, or an ill-synchronised television. But the girl, the girl he didn't know. She was attractive, though her plain clothing and style didn't tell the boy much about her personality. Was she perhaps a student, seeking accommodation much like him? That made sense; the new term started in a few weeks. Regardless, she seemed to be settling in, Mr. Curtis handing her the keys.
"I should introduce myself" said the boy, out loud but to an audience of none.
- - -
"Perhaps I should introduce myself..." said the girl, looking across at the window opposite her new apartment.
She thought she had seen a boy through the window, but she wasn't sure. She looked out at the courtyard below her new home. There was a man smoking, another watching a huge television clearly visible from two floors above him. A couple were removing each other’s clothing whilst reclined on a couch, oblivious to the fact they were in clear view of their neighbours. The girl smiled, both for the fact that she was a witness to something she was not supposed to be, and for the couple's obvious infatuation. As trite a cliché young love was, it certainly seemed to apply. She figured the building must mostly be students; that was why she was here, anticipating her studies in a few weeks. The dirt in the courtyard below was barren and empty, but the girl could appreciate its beauty, straight raked lines in the dirt reminding her of a Zen garden.
She wandered around the apartment aimlessly, thrilled by the fact that it was, in fact, hers and hers alone. There were no parents to boss her around, but instead she was responsible for her own cooking and cleaning, and making sure she paid the utilities and the rent. Lying on her bed, she realised that there was only one thing she wasn't excited about; the fact that she was kind of lonely.
- - -
The boy sat alone, at his computer by the window, constantly glancing at the window across from him. The girl seemed to keep to her room, where the windows were understandably curtained, only moving into the visible room to cook and occasionally watch television. She hadn't noticed the boy, who kept his curtains mostly closed and his lights off. He preferred things this way - he didn’t want to be known as that creep that liked to watch people out of windows.
Turning to his computer, he glanced over the headlines with the same grim attention he did every day. The Middle East was turning into as much of a warzone as it had at the millennium’s dawn. The European situation was similar, near-bankrupt states picking the bones of bankrupt ones, free of the confines of old European Union. The United States continued its decent into a corpocracy, another sham election turning to shambles with both parties equally corrupt and financed by the same faceless men. This was how the boy saw it anyway, reading between the lines and all that. Looking out the window, he saw the girl was watching her ancient TV, a news anchor clearly visible through the glass. He sighed; she clearly had the same direly uninformed view on reality as most of the people the boy knew.
- - -
The girl smirked disapprovingly at her aging television. The news was shallow, displacing the important stories for mindless garbage about miracle diets and attention-seeking celebrities. But there were some good things. The US election looked towards electing a decent President, at least better than the corporate lackey currently in power. Peace deals were being brokered in Europe and Asia. Amongst the endlessness of human conflict, there were these glimmers of hope, these moments which showed that humanity wasn't all bad.
She had seen the boy through the window a few more times, always fleetingly. There was the constant glow of a computer screen or a small television visible through the curtains. Occasionally she saw a face, thin and clean shaven, shaggy brown hair covering a set of piercing eyes. Music, mainly classical and ambient, could be heard across the courtyard from the boy's room every now and again. She wondered what he was like. Was he an intellectual type, a thinker? Perhaps a musician or an artist? She could only wonder.
- - -
It had been a week since the girl had moved into her apartment and curiously the boy found her still playing on his mind. The boy needed milk, bread, the staples of any member of western society, so he prepared for the usual uneventful expedition to the supermarket. He waited impatiently for the elevator, the clank of late 20th-century mass production signalling its arrival. As he punched the button for the ground floor a voice came down the hall. It was emotive and feminine, the polar opposite to his own deep, monotonous delivery.
- - -
"I know you!" The girl grinned, running into the elevator as the doors closed behind her. Holding the elevator was the boy who she'd seen through the window, his brown hair all but covering his now clearly blue eyes. "You live across from me, don't you? 1208?"
The boy had strangely been playing on her mind all week, so to meet him here was a nice surprise.
- - -
"Um, yeah. I think I've seen you a few times too." The boy's voice crackled with nerves. The girl's blonde hair, pulled back in a ponytail trailed behind her like silk. She was more beautiful than he'd been able to discern through the window, so much so that he was lost for words. Any negative assumptions about her intelligence or her personality disappeared like a well-constructed magician's trick.
"So... you moved here recently, didn't you?"
- - -
The girl came to the conclusion the boy had been watching her as she had watched him. She was excited by the mere fact that she'd managed to capture someone's attention.
"I'm here to study, yes" she responded, leaping ahead of the boys questioning. "I lived out in the country, so my parents gave me some money to rent an apartment. What do you do?"
- - -
"Oh, I'm doing a finance degree" The boy sighed internally. He hated telling people this, since it seemed to be rather boring. It wasn't as exciting as a degree in architecture or fine arts, but it was secure, and that's what mattered. He looked at the girl, thinking she must be doing something more exciting. Perhaps she was studying archaeology, maybe psychology, something interesting like that.
- - -
"Hey, I'm doing the same!" the girl exclaimed, smiling at the boy with a mutual understanding of the boredom of commerce. But before she could continue their conversation, the elevator doors slid aside. A grey lobby led into a grey street. A single lamp with a red lampshade stood bright in the middle of the lobby, the only colour to see. The girl sighed internally, for she wanted to keep talking to this boy. He seemed shy, perhaps even brooding, but he was kind of cute, and she was still curious to his true personality.
"Look, do you want to perhaps come to my apartment later on? Have a coffee?"
- - -
The boy was stunned. No one had asked him to come to their apartment before, let alone a cute girl. This was the closest he'd had to a date since high school. His voice still crackled with nerves, the whole situation overwhelmingly unfamiliar.
"Yeah, sure" he blurted out, immediately unsure as to whether he'd come on too strong, if he was looking socially incompetent or desperate.
- - -
"Cool" the girl smiled, blushing a little.
"Um... 4 o'clock sound good to you? This afternoon?"
- - -
"Yeah sure" The boy said, as nervous as ever. "By the way, I don't think I introduced myself. I'm Chris." He held out his hand, awkwardly but socially conditioned to be able to do nothing else,
- - -
Taking his hand, the girl continued to blush. She was getting a little nervous now, but was pleased.
"Eve. See you at four"
__________________________________________________________________________________
I write a lot of lovey-dovey crap. And I hate to proofread anything of a decent length, so I'm sure this is rife with errors. But I might proofread it when I get to an internet connection and put these on a blog...
The weather today was incredibly shitty, so I stayed inside and played RollerCoaster Tycoon whilst pondering the meaning of life, and whether or not Deckard was actually a replicant. I think film Deckard was a replicant, but book Deckard wasn't. If you wish to debate me on that, please feel free to not contact me ever. And the meaning of life? Jury's still out.
I have come to the conclusion the Star Wars soundtracks are excellent writing music. Intense enough to stir the emotions without causing distractions like lyrical stuff tends to.
DAY 3 (Part 2): Electronic communication is marvelous
I stood alone by the bed, the bright blue light of an LCD screen softly announcing the curves of the bedsheets, the pillows, the cold hard metal of the bedhead.
The sheets were thrown aside roughly, inviting a couple; for this was a bed made for two, not one. But alas, there is but one of me; and I could think of nothing but what the scene was missing: a woman's form, curves matching the curves of the bedclothes beneath.
My heart ached for what the scene missed; but momentarily; as the LCD light changed, a low pitched vibration echoing through the silent room.
It was her.
___________________________________________________________________________________
I write some cheesy shit. But, considering the other story was about a suicide bombing I suppose this provides a bit of balance.
The sheets were thrown aside roughly, inviting a couple; for this was a bed made for two, not one. But alas, there is but one of me; and I could think of nothing but what the scene was missing: a woman's form, curves matching the curves of the bedclothes beneath.
My heart ached for what the scene missed; but momentarily; as the LCD light changed, a low pitched vibration echoing through the silent room.
It was her.
___________________________________________________________________________________
I write some cheesy shit. But, considering the other story was about a suicide bombing I suppose this provides a bit of balance.
DAY 3: Terrorists are people too. Terrible, terrible people.
Location: Holiday house, Ocean grove
External noise: Crappy television news, Big Bang Theory, shark documentaries, and the first 5 minutes of Jaws.
I walk the streets of a city, past nameless faces and faceless names. My gaze is caught by none; no-one catching mine. I take a seat, and only then begin to observe, to watch, to enquire: Who the hell are there people? Why are they here, where are they going, what are they doing? Why don't they stop for a while; and people-watch with me? I have a job to be doing, but as I look at my watch I decide I have time. Time to watch the people; time to observe life. My job has more to do with ending life than preserving it; but perhaps through my observations I can reconcile with it.
A slim girl, light red hair untouched by dye or products, rushes past. What is she doing? Is she visiting someone, perhaps?She clutches a large bag, beige and unremarkable, but for its immense size. What is in the bag? Perhaps a gift? Schoolwork? It reminds me of a bag carried by my father once, containing medical equipment to maintain a recent wound. I settle on this idea, it appealing to my more morbid sense; but before I can make any more inroads into fabricating for her a fictional background she disappears from the mall.
I seek out another target, spotting a dark man in a light suit, eyes concealed by expensive sunglasses. He has an impressive build, like that of a bodyguard or a boxer, but my mind decides he's deserving of higher regard than that. This man, I decide, is here as an enforcer, a representative of some monumental secretive body. He answers an expensive mobile phone, enhancing the illusion, his words drowned out by the hubbub of the crowd. Another suited man approaches, and as the dark man in the light suit continues to talk soundlessly he hands this man, pale in a dark suit, a small package from the pocket of his jacket. I smile, for my description has continued to perfect itself. Could this be a drop, perhaps an exchange of payment? Instructions from faceless overlords? I smirk with the appropriateness of it all, but at the same time mourn that the man's work may never be complete.
My attention shifts again, to a woman dressed in black pants and a Black Flag t-shirt. Her punk attire strikes a chord with me, but I immediately notice the incongruities in her appearance. She is perhaps 35 or 40, but is dressed like an angsty teenager. I decide she must be in a band, or attached to one in some way. Perhaps she manages a club or a music store. Her powerful walk and presence indicates that she is definitely not an employee, or caught eternally in her teenage years. As the woman stands and watches a busker cover Jeff Mangum, I decide she is a music critic, working for a magazine or a website, and taking in the local scene. And with that definition I am satisfied.
Looking at my watch, I sigh. The time has come for me to go to work. I take out my own phone, an expensive model like that of the dark man in the light suit. I input a number, known only to a select few, and within seconds I can feel a rumbling beneath my feet. The sounds of the mall stop, moments before a sound far greater than any of them overwhelms all. Within moments, flames rain from the sky. My work is done; my life complete; and I can only hope that the red-haired girl; the dark-suited man and the punk lady could obtain as much satisfaction as I had.
___________________________________________________________________________________
Come on; even I didn't see that coming.
External noise: Crappy television news, Big Bang Theory, shark documentaries, and the first 5 minutes of Jaws.
I walk the streets of a city, past nameless faces and faceless names. My gaze is caught by none; no-one catching mine. I take a seat, and only then begin to observe, to watch, to enquire: Who the hell are there people? Why are they here, where are they going, what are they doing? Why don't they stop for a while; and people-watch with me? I have a job to be doing, but as I look at my watch I decide I have time. Time to watch the people; time to observe life. My job has more to do with ending life than preserving it; but perhaps through my observations I can reconcile with it.
A slim girl, light red hair untouched by dye or products, rushes past. What is she doing? Is she visiting someone, perhaps?She clutches a large bag, beige and unremarkable, but for its immense size. What is in the bag? Perhaps a gift? Schoolwork? It reminds me of a bag carried by my father once, containing medical equipment to maintain a recent wound. I settle on this idea, it appealing to my more morbid sense; but before I can make any more inroads into fabricating for her a fictional background she disappears from the mall.
I seek out another target, spotting a dark man in a light suit, eyes concealed by expensive sunglasses. He has an impressive build, like that of a bodyguard or a boxer, but my mind decides he's deserving of higher regard than that. This man, I decide, is here as an enforcer, a representative of some monumental secretive body. He answers an expensive mobile phone, enhancing the illusion, his words drowned out by the hubbub of the crowd. Another suited man approaches, and as the dark man in the light suit continues to talk soundlessly he hands this man, pale in a dark suit, a small package from the pocket of his jacket. I smile, for my description has continued to perfect itself. Could this be a drop, perhaps an exchange of payment? Instructions from faceless overlords? I smirk with the appropriateness of it all, but at the same time mourn that the man's work may never be complete.
My attention shifts again, to a woman dressed in black pants and a Black Flag t-shirt. Her punk attire strikes a chord with me, but I immediately notice the incongruities in her appearance. She is perhaps 35 or 40, but is dressed like an angsty teenager. I decide she must be in a band, or attached to one in some way. Perhaps she manages a club or a music store. Her powerful walk and presence indicates that she is definitely not an employee, or caught eternally in her teenage years. As the woman stands and watches a busker cover Jeff Mangum, I decide she is a music critic, working for a magazine or a website, and taking in the local scene. And with that definition I am satisfied.
Looking at my watch, I sigh. The time has come for me to go to work. I take out my own phone, an expensive model like that of the dark man in the light suit. I input a number, known only to a select few, and within seconds I can feel a rumbling beneath my feet. The sounds of the mall stop, moments before a sound far greater than any of them overwhelms all. Within moments, flames rain from the sky. My work is done; my life complete; and I can only hope that the red-haired girl; the dark-suited man and the punk lady could obtain as much satisfaction as I had.
___________________________________________________________________________________
Come on; even I didn't see that coming.
DAY 2: Rockpools
9/1/12
Location: Holiday rental house, Ocean Grove
Music: Between the Buried and Me - Colors
Waves surge upward, only to retreat to the sea
Renewing the life of the rockpools, but,
Simultaneously cleansing all that lay before
Man's rise, over mere millenia, meaningless moments to an ancient earth,
Overruns all, cleansing that which is not useful
But is mankind a wave?
Will the sea, set free, be held aside by me?
Or will it rush through the cities of my kin,
Cleansing all that lay before
Renewing the life of the rockpools.
______________________________________________________
I went to the beach today. It was windy, but the sun was nice. And the girls. They were very nice.
I took the first steps towards putting this online, typing up my first two pieces.
I felt crappy last night, foreveralone, tired and frustrated with a lot of things. But today I feel good. Today I start anew. I'm a university student, not a high schooler; a young adult, not a teenager; an adventurer, not a wanderer. I've been renewed.
Location: Holiday rental house, Ocean Grove
Music: Between the Buried and Me - Colors
Waves surge upward, only to retreat to the sea
Renewing the life of the rockpools, but,
Simultaneously cleansing all that lay before
Man's rise, over mere millenia, meaningless moments to an ancient earth,
Overruns all, cleansing that which is not useful
But is mankind a wave?
Will the sea, set free, be held aside by me?
Or will it rush through the cities of my kin,
Cleansing all that lay before
Renewing the life of the rockpools.
______________________________________________________
I went to the beach today. It was windy, but the sun was nice. And the girls. They were very nice.
I took the first steps towards putting this online, typing up my first two pieces.
I felt crappy last night, foreveralone, tired and frustrated with a lot of things. But today I feel good. Today I start anew. I'm a university student, not a high schooler; a young adult, not a teenager; an adventurer, not a wanderer. I've been renewed.
DAY 1: Perception. Also, Introductions.
8/1/2012
Location: My bed
Music: None
Life leaves me empty
One week; I must create art
Or else lose my mind
Killer in concept
Beneath their simplicity
Even haikus lie
Your view, your mind's eye
Only reveals a little
Not a concise truth
Daughters of rich men
Rebel for reasons, to them,
Evident as day
All that is spoken
Lacks in true depth, its meaning
In delivery
To understand my intended question
You must see what I've failed to mention
___________________________________________________
I don't make New Year's resolutions; not proper ones. But this year, perhaps a week after the year commenced, I decided to set myself a challenge. Actually start keeping all the stuff I write. Try to keep it in a format where it's able to be kept.
And a hint for these random haikus: messages are almost never understood clearly at first glance. Another hint? I'm sending you a message the same way Homer's mum sent him messages while on the run from the law. And that's my Simpsons reference for the day!
Location: My bed
Music: None
Life leaves me empty
One week; I must create art
Or else lose my mind
Killer in concept
Beneath their simplicity
Even haikus lie
Your view, your mind's eye
Only reveals a little
Not a concise truth
Daughters of rich men
Rebel for reasons, to them,
Evident as day
All that is spoken
Lacks in true depth, its meaning
In delivery
To understand my intended question
You must see what I've failed to mention
___________________________________________________
I don't make New Year's resolutions; not proper ones. But this year, perhaps a week after the year commenced, I decided to set myself a challenge. Actually start keeping all the stuff I write. Try to keep it in a format where it's able to be kept.
And a hint for these random haikus: messages are almost never understood clearly at first glance. Another hint? I'm sending you a message the same way Homer's mum sent him messages while on the run from the law. And that's my Simpsons reference for the day!
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