thick

2006-06-01T04:53:00.000-07:00

What’s that puddle?

Which one?

Near the couch.

Closest to the door?

No, other end.

Nothing of note.

...

Hey?

...

It’s on my mind

What?

The puddle.

What about it?

I want to know what it is?

Why?

Because you didn't tell me.

I also didn't tell you what I had for breakfast either.

It’s different.

How?

Look, what does it look like?

It's too dark in here to see...

It’s barely lunchtime, maybe you need glasses?

...

It's not what I think it is?

WH-

Last time, I swear.

What?

That. It’s not what think it is, is it?

I don’t know what you’re thinking it is.

How could you not know?

I’m not you.

...

Is it semen?

That's what you thought it was? Man! How big do you think my testicles are?

What do you mean?

No man could produce enough semen to achieve a puddle of that diameter.

I reckon I could.

Glad you’ve got a sense of humour, considering.

So then what is it?

Jesus!

What’s the big deal?

If I tell you, will you go to bed after?

I’ll go to bed if you tell me.

That’s what I said.

That’s what you said.

...

So?

Okay, it’s blood.

It is not.

Okay, it’s not.

Thank god.

...

You’re just fucking with me right?

I thought we had an agreement.

I’m going, I’m going.. But you are messing around right?

No, It is blood.

What type of blood?

I didn’t happen to get a chance to check.

I mean which animals’ blood?

A human animal.

Okay this is getting stale, I’m over it. Night.

...

Thought you were going to bed

I am. I just need you to tell me you were kidding, I know it’s stupid, but I just need to hear it so I can stop thinking…

I’m not kidding man, I don’t know what to tell you.

Whose?

Sorry?

Whose blood?

Why?

Can you stop this please?

Well, I don’t see how telling you is going to help you.

Telling me? You’re adamant that that huge territory there, that’s all blood?

Yes.

Did the person die?

No.

After losing all that blood?

No, they’re still alive.

Are they in hospital?

Nope.

Where are they?

.....

Did I just drift off?

A little bit.

I still want to know whose blood it is.

Yeah, I imagine you would.

Oh you do, do you?

Well, I guess I would too, if I was in your position.

Why the change of tune?

Because it’s around that time?

Time to tell me?

I forgot, what was the question again?

I’m at the end of my tether, seriously.

That you are, that you are.

Okay, that’s it, I’m going to sleep.

No no, I’m kidding, I can tell you now.

You’re annoying.

I know I am.

Even more annoying cause you’ve got the upper hand in this situation.

I know I do.

If our roles were reversed, I would... would have ...

You’re falling asleep.

no I...

Yes you are. But, just to put your mind at ease

hmmpphhh…..ye…

That puddle...

uhuhm...

It’s yours.

2006-05-03T06:51:00.000-07:00

terra incognita sui generis (an unknown land of on one's own kind)

That's not your real laugh...

2006-05-03T06:27:00.000-07:00

'Oh, shit.'
'What?'
'Damn. I forgot about tomorrow...'
'As far as I know it comes after today'

Wup wup wup wup wup, wup.

'I cheated on you.'
'What? I don't believe this!'
'Are you calling me a liar?'

Wup wup wup wup wup, wup.

'So, you guys are still as in love as you were all those years ago?'
'Well, we still sleep in the same bed.'
'Yes, but never at the same time.'

Wup wup wup wup wup, wup. (Get off the stage!)

I suggest we have a Fake- Laugh Free Day. Once a year.

AAAAAAAA-FIB! (bless you)

2006-04-28T01:12:00.000-07:00

After visiting my blog on a computer other than my own, it was disconcerting that an exact months worth of posts were missing. I returned to my computer, visited again, and wouldn't you know it - an exact months worth of posts were missing. Everything between 27th of March and 27 of April dissapeared. I remembered that 40 members of an American cult killed themselves on this day in 1997, apparently in the belief that they were going to link up with a UFO near the comet Hale-Bopp. The two are most likely unrelated.

I briefly considered it to be a sign, probably from M. Night Shyamalan (born John Smith)...

It's a darn shame. Losing all those posts. And - SwedaGawd! - they were brilliant posts. Better than anything on the blog now. I showed four separate publishing bodies who happened to be walking down my street, and they were ready to sign me up - purely based on these missing posts. I should have used Marcrohard Word first. Why didn't I write them in Macrohard word, first?

Sigh. I'm boring myself.

'Ridin' Under the Night 'OR 'Exercises in Bullshit'[verse one]

2006-04-27T05:42:00.000-07:00

O!
Today - leagues after bronzewheat and bucknalls,
sackwranglers and edgeropers knock clogs,
afoul o' the law; hitched on either crease at the molten mouth
of that bulging [mammary] gland of a rockcone
which shifts like a merchant turtle on that there horizon -
finestretched behind them
at the northernmost side of their pointy mash of shadows.
One spritely hairchest
with his gunstick sheathed in yellowscratch cowhide,
took a broadstroke at the quo in an attempt at multidirection
by both edgeroping and sackwrangling for the moment,
without either side knowing -
It is my duty to send word to all who'll listen,
To any man, come rusty spoils or weights of time,
keenest of bicep or seed of chivalry - make haste!
Run the course of all means to this rockcone,
and put this feud to bed.

sometimes you've gotta think about those things

2006-03-27T01:56:00.000-08:00

come lay down to
detailed ceilings / lest we untangle our mainframes / warm blankets wrapped ‘round empires / calm bedtime story

cut up the flanks / stick them to one another / child-like assemblage

hangover head compartments /a steward with a headspin /
buttons and lights in now defunct skies

fluff in your ears / wind pull back / don’t finish sentence, finish prayer / I haven’t the stomach for it

The Amazing Adventures of W.R.Greg

2006-03-24T06:56:00.000-08:00

Weirdly Raised Greg enters Salad-To-The-Future, a shiny new one-off on the fast food strip. He stands before a 24 panel menu full of salad (and salad related) innovation. One salad contains braised beef and white chocolate. From the connoisseur to the casual, Salad-To-The-Future promises to mesmerise everyone with it’s abundance of choice. Well, not everyone. They can’t make that promise to Weirdly Raised Greg, but then again, I guess, what can we expect, he is -Weirdly Raised Greg.

“I’d like a medium Green Salad without lettuce, please and thankyou’s.’
‘Sir, are you sure you wouldn’t mind trying any of our subatomic salads? You get unlimited free soft drink if you buy the Large size.’
‘No please and thankyou’s. I’d like the medium Green Salad without lettuce, please and thankyou’s.
‘Okay.’
‘Please and thankyou’s’
‘I gotta say. There’s really not much to a Green Salad without lettuce.’
‘It’s just the way I like it.’
‘Ok. So that’ll be $6.50, anything else’
‘Hang on, where’s the beetroot?’
‘You want beetroot? You didn’t say anything about beetroot?’
‘Yes, Please and Thankyou’s. Beetroot.’
‘Okay.’
‘Hang on, that’s not Beetroot.’
‘What’s not beetroot, Sir?’
‘What you’re about to add to my salad. It’s not beetroot.’
‘Well, what is it then?’
‘It’s a carrot.’
‘Sir, I have to tell you. This is not a carrot - this is a carrot.’
‘That’s not a carrot, that’s a tomato.’
‘So what are these red things already in the salad salad?’
‘They’re angel hearts.’
‘Angel hearts. And this one?’
‘That’s a foetus.’
‘Sir, that's a pineapple, and I’m sorry, but that’s all kinds of messed up.’
‘I’ll just take my Green Salad, without lettuce, please and thankyou’s.’
‘But, with beetroot?’
‘Yes, please and thankyou’s.’
‘Okay. Can you please point to the beetroot for me?’
‘Sure. That one’
‘This one, second from the bottom?’
‘Yes, please and thankyou’s.’
‘The crispy, leafy, green stuff?’
‘Yes, please and thankyou’s.’
‘Yeah please and fuckyou. That’s LETTUCE. That’s FUCKING LETTUCE. Steve, I’m sorry I can’t take another one of these fucking customers. It’s digging right through my ears and into my brain. You hear that you please and thankyou motherfucker? RIGHT through my ears, and INTO my BRAIN. I’m sorry Steve, I don’t mean to swear in your store. I just can’t do this anymore.’
(She cries all the way to the cupboard, grabs her bag, then cries all the way out the door).

With the over abundance of technology, it’s easy for us to close off and avoid confrontation. We can avoid confronting issues of poverty, intolerance, starvation. We can avoid the proximity of the spruiker or beggar. We can avoid our family and our friends, even avoid our own selves. But no matter where we are or what we do, no matter how much we try, no matter how much it breaks us down, there is nothing on God/Allah/Yahweh/Vishnu/Bruce Springsteen’s green earth that we can do to avoid a confrontation with Weirdly Raised Greg. And if he knew I was saying that he’d probably moisturise the sandpaper*. But then again, I guess, what can we expect, he is Weirdly Raised Greg.

“To moisturise the sandpaper = to feel validated.’

(‘The Weirdly Raised Greg dictionary’ was not released in early March and is not available at all leading bookshops. It has not been compiled by the renowned academic (and Professor of linguistics at La Strobe University) F.David.Monahan, and doesn’t contain a foreword by both Matt Groening and his Holiness the Dalai Lama. It is not selling for $28.95.)

Répondez S'il Vous Plaît

2006-03-24T04:13:00.000-08:00

'It's been a while.'
'Yes. That is definitely what it's been.'
'Coming to my birthday party tomorrow night?'
'No I'm not coming to your "birthday party"', I'm having my own party."
'On the same night? Isn't your birthday in June?'
'It's not a "birthday party".'
'When did you decide to do that?'
'Ages ago."
'And will you be celebrating anything at this party?'
'Yes. As if I wouldn't.'
'Well? Go on then?'
'It's World Bird Day tomorrow.'
'World what day? I've never heard of it.'
'Yeah. I wouldn't imagine someone like you would have.'
'Very funny. What exactly does it entail?'
'Jeez (sigh), okay. It's run by the World Bird Association. They strive to protect birds from bone weakening chemicals that are sprayed on crops.'
'Bone weakening chemicals?'
'Yes. They weaken the bones'
'And the birds spend a lot of time hanging out in crops do they?'
'They're attracted to the chemicals. They find them sweet.'
'Do you know which chemicals?'
'Ah. I wanna say something that ends with -opan. Tamoxopan, Mepescopan, Diprosopan? definitely an -apan'
'Interesting. They sound more like anti-depressants. So, this party, this would be your World Bird Day party?'
'Yes. Everyone is going to be there.'
'Well, I think most people we know are coming to mine. I sent the invites out two months ago, and most have RSVP'd.'
'No, I mean like, other, people, people that you don't know.'
'Okay. I'll take your word for it. Can I ask. You were the only one who didn't RSVP....'
'You have to receive an invite in order to RSVP.'
'I sent you an invite.'
'What? I didn't get it.'
'Well I sent it.'
'Well i didn't get it.'
'Well, I sent it.'
'Well I didn't get it.'
'Well, are you going to stop being a dickhead and just come to my fucking party?'
'I can't. I'm already having a party?'
'Yes. A Bird Day party. It was the first thing that came into your head - and the only reason it came into your head because it sounded like Birthday Party!'
'The people at the World Bird Association would turn over in their graves.'
'They're dead?'
'Oh, no no. Is that what that expression means? I just meant they'd be really pissed off.'
'Fuck you man. Why don't you want to come to my fucking party? Some friend.'
'Now, I am friend to the bird. And only to the bird.'
'Are you high?'
'Yes.'
'So you made that whole thing up?'
'Yes.'
'And you're pissed off at me because you think I didn't invite you and due to being high and irrational you've taken to a weird way of venting that anger?'
'Yes.'
'And you're coming to my party.'
'Yes.'
'Fuck. It's good to see you, man.'
'Happy Bird Day.'

part 2

2006-03-23T07:31:00.000-08:00

I’d extended my visit past the initial month, now six months since I came to Conclusion, living in the north, in a considerably wealthy area called The Close (developed on an almost circle of land that protrudes from the northern coast of Conclusion). It was the home to Ulysses.B.Frank (and to his 40ft statue, both world renowned - the latter arguably more so), the father of Conclusion, who formed the Order of The Final Arrangements; twelve of the most conclusive men from all known nations, and sent each of them to an equidistant point on the Conclusion coast where they were left to build, and found, a town. The Close, was founded by Frank. His statue is visible from up here, in this attic apartment, where I write this, if I stand on my toes I can see its bottom half. Allegedly, Uly.B.Frank met his end at the end of his couch, watching the denouement of The Last Emperor with the volume turned down so he was able to listen to the outro of The Final Countdown; his wife entered the room with a basket of washing just as he happened to roll his head to the side and utter his last words: This is me in the end.

Those words have stuck with me, This is me in the end; A phrase that epitomises the essence of a local Conclusion and strengthens my love this great nation. It motivates me to be more decisive, more productive, and to work my way towards consideration for residency.

I consider myself a foregone Conclusion.

(To be concluded.)

[Also to come: ‘When I arrived at The Assumption Islands: An Unqualified Nation”]

conclusion - part 1

2006-03-21T01:40:00.000-08:00

I first came to Conclusion, three summers ago. It was the last place I thought I’d end up visiting and certainly the last place I thought I'd meet my end .

At the start of what was meant to be a package deal Conclusion holiday , I became fascinated with the seeming strength of character amongst the local Conclusions. I walked with them, enjoyed their profundity, their succinct interpretations - they weren’t like all of us but were like some of us – exactly as some of us would like to be, and precisely as some of us wish to avoid being. I enjoyed my role of the sole fence-sitter, the applauding audience for either side, enjoying all sides of all fences, mesmerised by all their confidence- which I found alluring, almost arousing. A local could change your mind about anything – in some cases they could send you into a state of shock, harness your person and carry you along side them, funnelling you through their surety until your left with vicarious feelings of strength.

Time hides from you when you come to Conclusion, you don’t even notice it passing because everything is happening so quickly. There’s no fussing about, no procrastinating, no indecision. Nobody is hanging their heads, furrowing their brows, scratching their heads. Only I was. But wanted to no more. It was for that reason, and that reason alone, that I realised It was not my fate to come to Conclusion, It was my destiny to stay.

(to be concluded.)

memory/nostalgia exercise

2006-03-20T03:18:00.000-08:00

Facing backwards towards foggy windows:

Joe, The lumpy Athenian, stands before the vinyl-strip doorway to Joe’s Fruit, half- cigarette in one hand, half-nectarine in the other. Aunty Renee scrunches red and lays another egg onto that same floral couch and I still can’t figure out how she does it. Giancarlo, wearing only briefs, takes his place at the table before any of us - loose-legged, hairy and oblivious – and prematurely parmesans his custom sized bowl of Gnocchi whilst angling his chair towards the TV in the other room. More cross-eyed than usual, Anthony Glass hurls something sharp and fast through the suburban air or blows up a small section of someone’s driveway. I fold another cardboard stick of collector-card gum over my tongue and dust excess powder from the top card’s face. Got it…got it…got it…don’t have it…got it…got it…got it. A maniacal John Arrowsmith pierces Ms Iacono’s outer thigh with the inside of a blue Bic ballpoint and Colin Moroney claims he needs that machete to open his can of baked beans. This capsicum isn’t a capsicum; it’s a hot-as-hell chilli masquerading as a capsicum. Skulls and pink lightning on a hang-ten tank top. I’m stung by a bee or maybe it’s a wasp. Dad has a beard; Uncle Alan likes women; Rachael’s caught in the clothes-line. Jessica’s doing the Ninja, Damien’s perfecting The Three Amigos salute and Mum’s singing Do You Hear the People Sing - AGAIN.

I promise I didn’t lock myself in the stationary cabinet.

It’s not a dustpan – it’s a farage.

I love Stephanie from Full House and I know she’ll love me too.

egg & reference

2006-03-13T22:29:00.002-08:00

Today: One of the more embarrassing days in my recent memory.

There's nothing like freezing up publicly. I recall primary school, yr.2, I was competing in the finals of the yearly Public Speaking competition. I was reciting my speech (the subject matter escapes me right now, but am fairly certain my Father wrote the majority of), when half-way through a near perfect recitation, I froze. I couldn't recall the next paragraph, I couldn't recall the one that followed, I couldn't recall what I had just said, I couldn't even remember my topic. My focus was on the silence and a nervous pee that was nagging its way towards daylight.

A minute and a half later - a duration that seems longer when hundreds of people are staring at you, waiting for the ice that's formed around you to crack - I come to my senses and start the next paragraph with as much enthusiasm as I exerted before the silence. The school awards me second place in an attempt to soften my embarrassment.

That tremendous feeling of embarrassment feels so much more painful at this stage of my life (which is probably due to the fact I've been broken down and ravaged by the system! Fart.). Today at Uni, It's my week to give a presentation.

I feel like a sham. In a room full of writers, mostly comprising of the more experienced (those with a more theoretical/analytical understanding of concepts), I mumble out half thoughts, attempting to articulate what I'd been going over and fixating on and worrying about for over a week now. I freeze up on several occasions. Paining to articulate any of the the thoughts I'd been exhausting upstairs, I shake and I stammer my way to long silences. More humble (and more human in my crumble opinion) class members attempt to steer me toward the right track, however a core group continue - the masters of AcademicSpeak - to dribble out (obscure?) European names, those of whose existence I had no clue. They've got reference all over they're face and sinking into my seat I've got egg all over mine.

I lower my head at the end of class, not speaking to anyone as I leave building six. Knowing that no-one really gave a shit that I'd fucked up, but still framing each and every large personality's opinion of me. I walk to the car. Calculating. They know why they write. They know how they write. It's intimidating. Granted, I'm a virgin writer - but - I just write.

I know, I should suck it up and get over it. And I will tomorrow. But for the remainders of the day, I'm going to wallow in self-pity and let the downside of imagination take me to my bad place.

thick C

2006-03-12T00:46:00.000-08:00

wade through a thickness of intellectualised commonspeak & feel thick in the process.
become unnerved by the prospect of forming theoretically reinforced opinions.
force yourself to think in rhetoric.
only feel comfortable in relating the thickness to the self: the one platform that can be scaled with authority, or at least with seeming authority.
wonder how the hell it becomes relevant.
take comfort in the idea that it doesn't.

k.i.s.s (keep it simple stupid) my truncated arse.

draft with errors

2006-03-09T02:56:00.000-08:00

RULE:
Lots of tiny, mundane, administrational affairs = accumulation of KarmaCard points.

"He-llo. Wel-come to Re-cip-ri-cal serv-ic-es. Press one for bill-ing or acc-ount in-quir-ies, two for sales, three to red-eem kar-ma-Card points, four to hear our cust-om-er pol-ic-y, and five to speak to a cus-tom-er ser-vice rep-res-en-ta-tive."
"You have pressed three."
"Please wait, we will be with you in a mo-ment."
(dead air)
"All our op-er-a-tor's are bus-y. So sit back, re-lax, and a-bove all ex-er-cise pa-tience."
(more dead air, then, dead music)
”Accumulated KarmaCard points? Visit KarmaCard.com and shop in our online store. Just enter your account number, your password, your date of birth and your special KarmaCard number, and you’ll have unrestricted access to our Good Fortune Web Catal–“

“Hello this is Arvette speaking”
“I’m sorry did you say Arvette?”
“No No, I said Arnette.”
“Oh, Arnette?”
“No, Annette!”
“I’m could have sworn you said Arvette, and then Arnette!”
“Yes, okay sir. What can I do for you this afternoon?”
“You’re telling me you didn’t just say Arnette? You may have not said “Arvette", but you certainly said Arnette.”
“Yes whatever you say, sir.”
“Excuse me? Don’t give me that customer care bullshit - patronising”
“Sir, I regret to inform you that you’ve just lost 130,000 KarmaCard Points.”
“WHAT? Oh shit. Okay. I’m sorry. Ah…how many do I have now?”
“345,230”
“And what would I get with what I had five minutes ago?”
“Let me see. 450,000+ points would have got you a one-night encounter with a highly attractive, big-brained female. You will, let me see, computer’s loading, ok. You will charm the pants off her in one night of indescribable passion, until the following day at which she’ll realise, that you’re merely a thirteen year old boy in a man’s body.”
“Doesn’t seem like I’d be gaining anything”
“Well, the item is more focused on the night of passion.”
“One that I can’t experience anyway. So what can I get with my 345,000?”
“You’re entitled to meet the same attractive, big-brained female and form a long term, plutonic friendship. She will come to see you as a brother.”
“So I’ll always be feeling asexual around her? No thankyou.”
“You can be friends with a female, sir.”
“Yes, but not like the one you’ve described. It will be physically painful. For me.”
“Why don’t you just give it a try. These items are, in their truest sense, prizes.”
“PRIZES? I don’t call a night of inferiority, and a lifetime of discomfort, prizes.”
“Sir, there’s that tone again.”
“You heard that too? Hang on are you talking about that beeping noise that I just heard, or about the tone of my voice?"
“Both. I regret to inform you that you have just lost a further 130,000 KarmaCard points.”
“ARE YOU SER- ious… shhh….Sorry! shhh. Okay. I’ll just take what I can get with whatever’s left.”
“Ok sir. You’re entitled to a free six-inch subway sandwich of your choice.”
(silence, teeth grinding)
“Okay. How do I get it?”
“Reciprocal Services will send you out KarmaCard Coupon, redeemable only at Eastern Suburbs Subway Restaurants.”
(silence, teeth grinding)
“Okay. I’m in the west, but okay. How long will it take to arrive?”
“4-7 weeks.”
(silence, more teeth grinding)
“Okay.”
“Sorry about the complications sir, hope you enjoy your prize.”
“Thankyou Annette. Listen. One more thing –“
“Yes, sir?”
”When you said before, that I should try to be friends with a girl – of course, I have female friends – but when you said that, that I should try, did I detect a hint of something?”
“Sir, I’m not quite sure what you mean.”
“You sounded like, you were trying, to tell me something.”
“Sir, I’m not quite sure where you are going with this.”
“Really? I thought I was being obvious. Ok. Well, would you, like to, perhaps be friends with me?”
“Sir, I regret to inform you, thats another two infractions - a further 260,000 points.”
“FOR WHAT??”
“Let me check, just finding pamphlet, C6- page 12...ok. 130,000 for unprofessional telephone conduct, 130,000 for inappropriate act of solicitation.”
“Okay. What have I got left?”
“Let me see. You now have a negative number of KarmaCard Points on your KarmaCard.”
“Which means?”
“Which means you: fall down a local railway station staircase.”
“Isn’t that a bit extreme?”
“Negative KarmaCard points rise in severity exponentially.”
(silence, teeth clenching)
“Okay. So how long ‘til this happens?”
“Well, tell me, how will you be getting to work this evening?
"By...shit."
“Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No, no. You've done enough.”
“Okay sir, Thank you for using Reciprocal Services.”
“No, Thank you, Arvette.”

thick B

2006-03-07T23:55:00.001-08:00

I'm thick 'cause my ideas are so simply manifested. Everything's flippant masquerading as succinct.
I'm thick 'cause what I hand in is so well written, it needs a team of linguists to decipher.
I'm thick 'cause I'm listening to you two and trying to figure out what medium I'll use.
I'm thick 'cause today, you're not.
I'm thick 'cause i'm insecure
I'm thick 'cause i'm idealistic
I'm thick 'cause i'm realistic
I'm thick 'cause i'm fatalistic
I'm thick 'cause i'm watered down
I'm thick 'cause I want to go home to sit on the couch with my family

2006-03-07T23:48:00.000-08:00

"All thoughts run olympic through but none that aid response so I’m silent and I know you can see my mind dancing around in a thousand parts, you’re lucky they’re engulfed in my the best look of surprise. Maybe my nerves help this guise seem authentic so I’m denying and denying and flying off and denying until the peaks of my forehead pinch up and inwards. This is the first sign. Flanks of facial muscles try to angle the tears in the wrong direction; to quell them back inside, but the signal is so strong that I’ve no choice but to well up."

man

2006-03-07T23:22:00.000-08:00

He pulls up beside me while I’m stationary, in that red Toyota, or maybe in that Mitsubishi, winds down his passengers side and forgets the formalities.

“Man, do you know where I could get a good steak this time of night?
“No, man, I’ve no idea.”
“Nah? man, I’ve just got the biggest, fuckin’, craving for a good, fuckin’, steak.”
“I wish I could help you out; Maybe down near the station.”
“What at the pub?”
“Maybe. man I don’t really eat steak.”
“Yeah but just because you don’t eat steak, doesn’t mean you wouldn’t know where I could find a steak.”
“Fair enough. But I really have no idea.”
“Okay man. Do you wanna come look with me?”
“Nah man, I’ve eaten. And I don’t eat steak.”
“Why don’t you just come for the drive anyway? Oi I gotta show you this song by DJ Craze. Do you know DJ Craze?”
“You’ve told me about him before.”
“Yeah well, he’s got this song that goes ‘wup, wup, wup’, come with me I’ll show you I’ll show you.”
“Nah, man I think I’m just going to go to bed”
“Alright. But you gotta listen to a bit of this song.”
“Man, I am really just not in the mood.”
“Okay, man.”

He drives off, unperturbed, highly peaceable, changing to the next track, with a hard-on for medium-rare.

thick A

2006-03-05T04:46:00.000-08:00

there's a strange thick in the air - it's pretty thick, you can almost see it. people starting to think aloud, to value a clear lens, to wind tight their sanctities of family and friendship, or at least striving to.

meanwhile, underneath the first paragraph...there was this person, and this other person:

this person: thankyou for your advice, it was comforting.
this other person: and thankyou for your advice, it shed new light.
this person: ill meet you at the other end of this problem.
the other person: ill bring boggle.

clarification

2006-03-03T21:13:00.000-08:00

I'd like to clarify that recent posts are brainstorms for a novella i'm attempting to write. In fact, the reason I started this glob (I like that word better), is to use it as a sort of white-board. It is fiction, so don't get confused with the whole "I" thing. All events and characters described are fictonal.

2006-03-03T21:02:00.003-08:00

"I don’t think I even read the whole message. I knew it before I scrolled down and all my corners and joins are pleading with me to let them contract, once and for all. The floodgates are open and if my wails were time-stretched and headphoned they would uncover phrases such as “I’m. so fucked up”, “I don’t know what I’m doing” in shrill, staggered tones. Snot and saliva swim at the rim of my upper lip, oozing into my mouth and becoming part of the eruptive ramble until I’m a creature of another place - bubbling and snarling, jack hammering and hurricaning around the room while you look on and try to get some volume into your voice."

the round room

2006-02-28T21:14:00.000-08:00

DR. FLEISCHMAN: Have you experienced long term coughing? Any shortness of breath, ah, blood in your phlegm, painful breathing, fatigue, loss of appetite?

TONY: He doesn’t have no fucking cancer! He’s a kid, a bit of rough-housing will do him good, dirty his hands. at this age you can do whatever the fuck!

DR. FLEISHMAN: Ah…Mr. Soprano. I appreciate your sentiment but… ah... I’m afraid your attempt to undermine my diagnosis, before i've actually made my diagnosis, is not… is not… is not exactly… is not exactly… the most productive solution to the patients situation…

TONY: What the fuck did you say?

PRESIDENT BARTLET: Gentlemen, gentlemen. There’s a Latin phrase that comes to mind: Mens sana in corpore sano. In other words, a sound mind in a healthy body. You can’t have one without the other. Now I’ll admit to you but not to my wife that I enjoy the occasional evening cigarette at the oval office balcony, but I eat well, and I am regularly seen in sweats playing half-court with Toby and Josh down at South Grounds. I have an excellent centre of gravity. But let me also say that age is not something you gain, and considering I’m in someone’s subconscious at this time I’ll freely admit that yes, I have experienced all the innocent recklessness of youth and no, I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

DR: FLEISCHMAN; Respectfully, are you condoning the patients behaviour? It is my duty as a man of science not only to inform you of the physical ramifications but also to explain how they directly affect cognitive function. They have a neurotoxic effect, damaging brain cells that contain dopamine and serotonin, both neurotransmitters. And believe me it’s important to leave neurotransmitters alone.

PRESIDENT BARTLET: I was merely celebrating the innocent recklessness of youth.

DR. FLEISCHMAN: I have to say I don’t think innocent is an appropriate description any longer.

TONY: I hate to say it, but I agree with the doc, I didn’t know you were messing around with that shit, I thought we were talking about cigarettes.

PRESIDENT BARTLET: We're not talking about cigarettes? In that case, you must stop picking at the wound. Let it heal. You must make your way towards a clear mind.

HIM: That’s what I am more worried about. What sort of state will my brain be in when I kick it?

TONY: That I can’t say. Doc?

DR. FLEICHMAN: Well, while I am not a mental health practitioner I do hold a general grasp of psychological and psychosomatic function, I did fairly well at freshman psych. at Columbia. So all I’ll say is this...
...make sure you use a condom.

PRESIDENT BARTLET: I second that. use a condom.

TONY: Yeah, use a fuckin’ condom. And on another topic, Bartlet: does any self respecting man make speeches like that anymore? With your Pluba Luca Luna bullshit? What ever happened to Gary Cooper? The strong, silent type? I’m surprised no-one decided to cut you off, and even more surprised that I exercised restraint. Lucky for you ive started this anger managament shit.

PRESIDENT BARTLET: You probably exercised restraint due to that fact that I am the President.

TONY: You ain’t my fuckin' President. I’m my own President. You see anybody, in whatever the fuck you do, whether it be politics, or science, or…hang on… What you do?

HIM: Creative stuff.

TONY: …and like the patient here - artistic types. Anybody who’s anybody got what they got by being their own President.

DR. FLEISCHMAN: I’d like to think I’m my own President.

TONY: Has your name been in the paper?

PRESIDENT BARTLET: Mine has!

TONY: Doc, has your name been in the paper.

DR. FLEISCHMAN: No, only in a North-Atlantic medical journal.

TONY: Va fungulo medical journal… You ain’t your own President.

HIM: Ah... I haven’t been in the paper.

PRESIDENT BARTLET: So you go into the wide world and trevel deep in to your depths. You realise your potential. That’s what you mean don’t you, Tony?

TONY: No. I mean get yourself in the fucking paper.

DR. FLEISCHMAN: And use a condom.

PRESIDENT BARTLET: Yes, and use a condom.

reviewing the situation

2006-02-28T04:15:00.000-08:00

"I’m spring-stepped and 180’ing on the spot behind a wide-walled stage set, succumbing to the adrenaline that’s been frenzying through my body for at least two hours. Steadfast drips of sweat roll from the hair beneath my old-mans hat, pooling in my ears and muffling the ovation of the audience only ten meters away. The Dodger has tipped his hat, taken his bow and next is that over-confident kid that plays Twist. He shoots me a pristine wink that’s beyond his years, turns head, and like clockwork adopts his trademark cutesy expression before charging onstage for his curtain. I chuckle and am undeterred. My curtain is last, and as I revel in that fact, I leap, kick my heels together for the third time before hunching into old man posture and creeping onstage to receive my glory.

Then facing a dark blanket lit only by red LED and white flash, I’m catching glimpses of hand-claps and whistle-lips: I am the silhouette of triumph and this cartoon smile won’t be wiped from my face. Wait 'til I’m out of these god-forsaken tights – I’ll meet ‘n’ greet the public, surrendering to an ego respray with three coats and a polish. Just soak it up and footnote this feeling. Fellow cast members pat my back in support of the standing audience I know are out there, and I’m sure one of the seated chorus is eagerly palming my ankle due to the lack of un-congratulated territory on my upper body.

I'm slow motion and as I extend into my bow, I’m weightless and the walls scroll into the sky like vertical blinds - my old man refrain dulls, muffled cheer lose volume and a proverbial stillness rises. Trick photography! There was no chorus member congratulating my ankle but rather a persistent hand from the glare of reality - quaking my fantasy and unsettling my crusty lids, prying them open like unwashed toasted sandwich makers. They’re finding focus on that oh-too-familiar cobwebbed ceiling but focus won’t be found so they’re shut again, and as remnants of my sleep beam dull neon outlines of a fading dream across my inner lids, I’m reminded…reminded… and reminded again, that there’s something or someone at my ankle. I’m stuck here. And I’m not alone."

for recollection...

2006-02-27T03:09:00.000-08:00

Metalepsis (Gr.) The continuation of a trope in one word through a succession of significations, or the union of two or more tropes of a different kind in one word.

OR

a borrowing of something without properly acknowledging you've borrowed it.

walk home

2006-02-26T21:16:00.000-08:00

see his nose at his chin
bleeding hope on the pave

in and out of spotlight
and he's at it again

never seen such a man
dissapear with such grace

never seen such a man
as the man who lost face

trail of burnt bread-crumbs

2006-02-26T21:07:00.000-08:00

You play a desultory game. A way to deny responsibility, to disclaim action, to make a mess and leave it as it is.

"Someone else is gonna come and clean it up".

Each time you turn a blind eye, you lose face and trip down a few rungs. Backwards and uncoordinated.

You have become your own premature punch-line.

Or rather, had become.

Raise your glass.
Establish eye-contact.
Here's to that.

marty pants

2006-02-25T22:30:00.000-08:00

And so...

...back to university.

Face front. No squinting.

A song.

a distant double bass-line starts walking.

b-dum dum dum dum,
b-dum dum dum dum...

there's steam rising from the grate
like something out of scorcese
shadows painted on his face
arson and old lace

ground down empathy
supervised and free
a man on the contrary
like something out of scorcese

the yes-men re-iterate
the no-men manipulate
the mild men contemplate
the madmen fabricate
the others can't complain
they loop and watch and wait

i ain't going out today
it's gonna be a red hot day
like something out of scorcese

strings

2006-02-21T20:38:00.000-08:00

What a sweet taste. Seeing Johnny all exposed and in communication. Not too long 'til the next release I'd say. A friend predicts August. I'm not bold enough to assume.

Long live the head.

c/o DEAD AIR SPACE

ring-a-ring-a-rosey

2006-02-21T04:22:00.001-08:00

"Now, in the high-and-the-lows, all of us, every feature of personality, in a huddle, some locked in embrace, some pressing force into each other, SIT-and-stand, stand-and-SIT, recount mistakes that have passed, imagine mistakes yet to be made, talk at one another, drown each other out, the detuned, brown-fingered chorus, heating and rising, exhausting, separating and retreating into corners, unable to agree on who should come to stand in the middle."

two audiences

2006-02-21T01:27:00.002-08:00

I doubted. Then...

A wise man once said (that is to say, he said it only once. [To me]):

"Self-censorship is the most crippling of all intellectual vices". Don't quote me.

I took my doubting ass away from this conversation and applied what I'd heard - albeit more literally - to my current situation. 2006 will see my daily battle with self-censorship. For you see, the means to the end of my proposed "thesis" sits with self-shitting; one long, relentless excrement that if dropped correctly will reveal parts of myself that only I have seen. Or wish to see.

So here's the conflict: shall I completely front up to myself? All my behind-closed-doors contradictions, hidden thoughts, disturbing experiences, stuff that would result in people around me questioning my character - in some cases shaking my personal relationships?

OR

Edit what has passed?

What makes better reading?

My head is flirting with two audiences - the people ouside my life and the people in it.

Considering the purpose of this blog is to post to myself - I guess I should answer my own question.

delirious

2006-02-13T23:49:00.000-08:00

I was watching some of Eddie Murphy's 'Delirious'. Back in the day he could sure tickle a rib or two. In my solitude, I laughed out loud. Which is rare.

A shame that he refuses to release it on DVD - arguing that it interferes with his new "family" image. I believe the Eddie Murphy of way-back-when wouldn't stand for it. He would most definitely sling shit at his future self.

"Man, have you seen that motherfucker? That nigga's probably high up in his platinum castle, sittin as bitches be giving him pedicures 'n' shit, trying to pinpoint exactly when he fucked himself in his own ass."

can I have that back, please...?

2006-02-12T17:22:00.000-08:00

he cringes at post posts.

...this glorified diary.

nonsensical

2006-02-09T00:33:00.000-08:00

I find, on occasion, that I am presented with a situation that seems to have no momentum. It sits somewhere obvious, heavy-as-fuck, ever present and always in the way. It can scrape across the ground at snail-pace, but ultimately will remain within an inch of itself.

Sometimes you gotta shave towards the grain right?

Posting, the fourth.

2006-02-06T18:38:00.000-08:00

Web-travels:

"Self-deception is thought to be impossible, for the same person at the same time cannot both know and keep himself from knowing the same thing. But, while there are not two selves, there is a division within the self, and we do deceive ourselves by not facing up to or acknowledging the facts of which we are at least partly aware. We deceive ourselves about things that matter to us and which we wish to be other than they are."

Allen, R. T. (1990) - "The Paradoxes of Self-Deception"

career opportunities

2006-02-02T20:12:00.000-08:00

I'm currently writing "Sex(y) poems" for an interactive SMS entertainment service (which shall remain nameless). My temples are thumpin'. There are only so many sexual euphemisms I can concoct that will be understood by young teenagers.

Shame. I guess, in some way or another, I'm promoting underage sex. That university degree is good for something.

I'll continue to rally the spirits into a tight huddle. Maybe they can help me come up with a few more.

rail-fucking-corp

2006-02-01T03:05:00.002-08:00

I'm traveling on one of CityRails lesser trains after 8pm. I am obedience. The model citizen. I have a ticket in my pocket.

Somehow, after arriving at Town Hall Station, my ticket escapes my pocket before I have a chance to notice where the fuck it has gone. I'm pleading to the station guard at the gates but he hands me over to the Rail-fucking-Corp henchmen. Morris' pals. They slap me with a 200 dollar fine and refuse to believe me. Why would I devise such an excuse to avoid paying $1.40? The underestimating fucks.

I never reach my location, rather I buy ANOTHER ticket to return home. Buy a bottle of Jack Daniels and wallow in my own misery.

Fuck you RailCorp, sincerely, passionately, emphatically. Fuck you and all your stoopid arses.

posting, the first.

2006-01-31T17:06:00.000-08:00

Last year, a brownish six-foot egg cracked a hairline.

I emerged, naked, covered in gunk and film, desperate for a shower, trying to figure out how I sealed myself inside an egg in the first place. And then...for instance. As I'm washing away the innards of the egg, I consider...Perhaps. If I were to. For a while. As I'm scouring this yolk from my chest-hair. Um. Maybe. Even if only to know I have. Try my hand at "creative" writing.

Since this decision fell from high, making pancake of my head, I've stumbled over pave, amidst the tickling Sydney smog, into small buildings, running my finger along a thousand spines, ripped, creased and contacted, ex-library, looking to emerge a few plastic bags of second-hand books heavier, and, of course, with every intention to read them.

I'm not sure where exactly you find direction. I wouldn't knock back directions on how to get to direction. But in the mean time I'll spin around and around again and whichever direction I'm facing when I stop, I'll take. Just for now at least.

Hopefully this blog will help me nut things out.

- j