Live?

I don't live, I just exist in a semi-perpetual biologically inefficient way. The purpose of my existence is to continue doing this for as long as possible while accomplishing a set number of tasks.

Those tasks do not require me to be happy. Not even comfortable really.

The soul is a promise that whatever it is that makes a Joel a Joel will be plucked from my corpse and placed in a more efficient body later.

I have already accomplished the specific task required for this to occur.

So I'm going to do a bit more stuff, and then I'll die.

I have regrets. I see them as 'Things Not To Do Next Time' and serve a biological purpose.

I don't live like there will be no tomorrow, because if there isn't then I won't be there, and if there is I will be seriously under-prepared.

I don't dance like nobody watching. I dance like a Joel who knows people are watching and wants to get some attention by doing something no one else is doing right now.

I don't love like I have never been hurt, I love in a strategic informed way that will minimize potential hurt in the future. If such a thing as love can be said to exist.

I don't sing like nobody is listening, I sing in tune, and with correct pitch, to songs I enjoy. I like the sensation it brings to my vocal chords and to entertain the people who are obviously there.

I don't live like its heaven on earth, I live like its earth on earth because heaven doesn't have acting rapists, thieves, murderers, cruelty, intolerance and various other things that if one pretends does not exist can cause serious problems to one's health.

I want to live forever, everyone to do what I say, be a millionaire and have the most beautiful woman in the world fall in love with me.

Suck it Twain.

Perspective.

The end result of every human endeavor that has ever been undertaken is death.

Nonetheless, there can be said be successes and failures.

This is due to perspective.

I fight each morning for clarity and freedom from my shackle.

I wrestle each night with the bear that is my hurt.

And I saw the answer in my own eye,

Reflected,

In the mirror of art,

The shine of a knife,

The blank black flat screen of a television.

My eyes are green.

Let Us Talk About Something Important.

Abortion. Tricky issue.

Okay so, its traumatizing for the mother. I can definitely understand that. Especially if they have to raise the child afterward and/or if they have been raped.

I would say, it all depends on whether you consider a fetus a person. If you consider it/her/him a person you will give that being the rights of one, i.e life.

If you consider it a parasitic fold of flesh causing pain and anguish to an otherwise healthy woman then the choice is also blatantly obvious.

But then you have to ask yourself, if you consider one of these to be fact, you have to ask yourself: When does a separate egg and a separate spermatozoa become a "person" and when does a fold of flesh become a baby?

I'm not going to pour guilt down your throat from either direction. But I personally consider a fetus a person, and am pro life. In most cases I consider abortion murder. Not all though. Sometimes it is a necessary if unfortunate thing that has to be done.

My recommendation would in most cases also be that the child not be raised by the woman who birthed it. Particularly in the case of teenage mothers.

I am not a woman and I am young. However I do know what it is to make a difficult, life changing, life saving decision for another person that you owe nothing to, at great personal cost.

I have also known someone who is pro choice not because of the mothers plight, because that person is simply amoral and desires freedom from responsibility. This is something I considered very wrong, but passed no judgement.

Because of my opinions in this area I have been given many slurs, insults and criticisms. However I would ask you to respect my opinions and beliefs in this just as I (by and large) respect yours.

Do Not Want

Some people are really not very nice. I think I'll have a shower, read a book, think about Miranda for a little bit and try not to focus on them.

Art excursion tomorrow. Woot!

Red.

It bit into my hand. Sinking in deeply, drawing blood out steadily

Warm.

Salty.

Like a sea, a sun soaked sea.

Red.

Beautiful dark arterial redness.

Flowing down like a torrent of rain water through a city gutter in a storm.

The pain comes in now. First a sharp sting, settling down into a steady ache.

To cut yourself is to know what you are, what makes you, what hurts you, what it is to be human.

Feel the pain of your world. Bask in it, like a lizard on a rock.

Everyone Has Problems

We all have problems. Big ones, small ones. Constant ones and brief ones. But I feel that one of the things that defines us as people is the way we deal with them. Do we act violently? Cruelly? Stupidly? Angrily? Do we attack needlessly, do we simply block out the world or quietly attempt to deal with whatever it is? Do we punish ourselves, or others, unjustly? Do we cope with it well, or badly? What ways do we cope with it, with things, people, or something else?

I'm not even making a point here. I'm just rambling. You go now, deal with your problem, whatever it is, in whatever way you think best. I promise I won't judge you, and you can always talk to me about whatever it is. I might try to help, if you want. But if you don't want my help or don't want to talk, I totally understand.

Stay Cool.

I Have A Hat, Therefore I Win The Argument.

As David would say, What the sh*t.

No way.

That is like, the most hilariously random thing ever to happen to me ever.

I went home, and laughed because I couldn't think of anything else to do.

So imagine you had a bullet that you had to shoot the president of the united states with and you know you won't be able to. Saying, "Ah well, never-mind" you shrug, block one ear and fire it straight up in the air.

The bullet flies up into the sky, bounces off an airplane wing, curves down, pings of a light post, through a hundred civilian crowd striking none of them and hits J.F.K right in the temple as he is gliding past in that convertible.

Thats basically what happened. Only I wasn't given life in prison.

Also, I hate guns.

But that was a pretty good metaphor for what happened.

It isn't this hat.

Me, A Mirror?

My mind was just described as a broken mirror by a friend of mine. Because it does the job of:

"Refracting ordinary things into shockingly original and beautiful patterns that can enrapture for hours - but, ultimately, something that is broken."

I was rather chuffed.

Creatures Come, Take My Body.

I watch the black silence trickle out of your ear like warm milk from a mother's teat, if milk were black. I cherished the moments we had had together as you deafened, became blind, senile, and finally, dead.

What are you?

A precious gift of knowledge?

A terrible wonderful mistake?

A self realization?

A messenger?

A world of hate?

A realness I've never before had?

A desperate chance?

Stab me! Stab me here! Look, you can see it beating through my skin!

And must I now begin to feel the things I've never ever felt outside of emotional empathy for others' feelings?

To feel it myself. The rawness, the rage, the redness, the hot darkness. Beating in me like a second heart.

So I shall lie in your sky, in agony, hooks in my flesh, pulling me across the blue dome of heaven.

Burning alive for all eternity to light your world?

Yes. For you, I would do that.

Choices, Choices.

So today I made a decision, and even though failure was certain regarding my choice, I made it anyway. And when I failed I was deeply, greatly wonderfully satisfied with myself in a way that I never have been before.

Because I had never done that particular thing before. I could have not done so. I could have just gone with it without fighting the way I always do and probably will do ever after now.

But just once I made a choice and screwed the system.

We all have the capacity for choice. And we always have a choice, no matter the situation. But sometimes the consequences for our chosen action are so great that, given a choice we will nearly always choose just one, the other totally disregarded.

We have the choice, when driving our car, to intentionally crash it into a pole. But we don't, not because the choice isn't there, but because it has great consequences.

We have the choice to spend all our money on chocolate.

We have the choice to burn all our clothes.

We have the choice to throw a brick through a window.

We have the choice to run out of class to the nearest pub.

We have the choice to do anything.

I chose that other unchooseable choice today. And I loved it, and its consequences will be wonderful.

Wonderful bad, just to clear things up.

"If you limit your choices only to what seems possible or reasonable you disconnect yourself from what you truly want, and all that is left is compromise."

- Robert Fritz

DAVID!

This is David getting a blog mention.

DAVID!

Mental State.

Face it you guys, I actually am different. I mean... I hear things that aren't there. I have violent mood swings that I've learned to control, am very paranoid and I have strange horrible nightmares most nights. Plus there's my leg thing. I don't say much about it but it hurts most of the time to varying degrees.

I mean, right now as I'm writing this I'm actually being abused by something in my head.

I always feel shit bad depressed at about 2-3 to 5-6 in the day, even if the day has been awesome.

I'm sorry okay, but some people seem to think that if they just ignore the problems they aren't there, but they are. And I wish sometimes people would acknowledge that instead of just dismissing them as not real things or that I'm over exaggerating them.

I needed to have a vent, 'cause I try not to complain about that stuff and this is what a blog is for.

I'm sorry, and I hope you don't stop reading my blog just because of that. Who-ever particular person you are. Probably Jess, 'cause your always reading my blog, lol.

Megan Fox And Molasses

I'm Joel and if you challenge me to a duel, I will run away like a sissy girl. Bo yah mo' fo's.

So I hear Megan fox isn't going to be in the next transformers movie. Some other hot chick is going to have to smooch Shia Labouf. And that just makes me sad. Not the hot chick part, the, "forced to kiss Shia Labouf" part. She should be kissing me.

DEFINITELY.

In 1919 the Boston molasses disaster killed 21 and injured a further 150 people when a tank containing 2,300,000 gallons of molasses exploded, sending a wave of sticky black goo traveling at about 70 km an hour through part of Boston.

Sticky, Tasty, Deadly.

Jess, This Is What a Muskrat Looks Like.

I often say, "I'm as tired as a muskrat sandwich" and today Jess asked me after saying such a thing, "Joel, what is a muskrat?"

This is a muskrat Jess. In all his furry glory. (At the time I said, "its kinda like a rat, but fatter", slightly fail there Joel)

What the Duck?

What do I even want? I don't seem to want anything. That I don't already have I mean. I want my Ipod... My computer I suppose. My books. Y'know, the distractions. Otherwise I would be bored stiff.

But I mean, the things that you can't buy. The things you have to earn, or discover, or find.

I don't seem to want any of it. I feel like I should want something, But I can't figure out what it is.

I haven't been very interesting tonight, so here's a picture of a duck.

it took me, like, all of 5 seconds to find on Google so yeah.

Hey, That's My Name!

"Joel, I'm calling you from a cellular phone, a real cellular phone, a handheld, portable, real cellular phone." - Martin Cooper.

The first thing ever spoken on a Cell or "mobile" phone.

Die Already.

Just die won't you? Why won't you die? What is wrong with you? You cling to life like a piece of shit clings to the toilet bowl. Flush after fucking flush you just stick on.

I want to live. I want to love.

No you don't. You just think you do, its programmed into your DNA, "Survive, Breed" otherwise life wouldn't exist. Just die already. I've stomped on you so many times, and every time you get up. Why won't you just die?

I don't want to die.

Yes you do, look at your self, crying and cowering and waiting for death, begging for it. I'm giving you a gift, can't you see? Just thank me and take it!

Nothing? You can't even speak? Come on freak, dance! That's what you are for isn't it? Dance in a cage to amuse the people? Dance or Die, those are your choices!

SPEAK TO ME, FREAK!

Nothing?

Pathetic.

The Secret Life Of Joel

"When Life give you lemons, eat them, you dumb shit."

-Chris Law.

Words of wisdom indeed Mr. Law.

The question is, would you all believe me if i told you I sneaked (snuck?) into peoples back gardens at night and stole their washing off the lines? Then took all that stolen washing through a trapdoor under my bedroom carpet, and tried it on in front of a floor to ceiling mirror, giggling and licking my lips all the time?

'Cause it might be something I'll say.

'Cause it might be true.

"You there! Yes, you young lady! Would you like to passionately kiss me? You would? How jolly. "

- Joel Hollands.

So we did. A few times. Then a few more. Then she went away and I went to get a drink of water.

What the crap am I writing? This is the worst blog post ever.

Hahahahaha!!!

Ahem.

Okay I'm better now. *Thumbs Up*

Blue Porcelain Eyes.

Blue porcelain....

...Eyes? Holes. Leading into a well of strangeness, of foreign languages, of bizarre causes.

Soft skin, pink, freckled. speckled. Faded ink tattoos linger under the surface, purchased in drunkenness, meaning forgotten.

Hair. Short, the colour of a cat. A cat that lives in holes and gutters, covered in scratches, a veteran, who knows what it is the be dirty after a day of dodging speeding cars and fighting other felines for his world. A ginger cat.

Lips. Thin. Barely a deeper pink than the surrounding skin. Warm as a touch of fever, the taste of a rich loverly cut. Deep in your arm, delicious and painful as it is intoxicating.

Small breasts, White with veins in them, like a blue cheese.

Fingers like transparent spiders legs, ended in red painted nails.

A smile that could stop a revolution.

Slim, Small, Strong, The sent of burning estrogen hangs around her. Sweat and hatred in her embrace.

I've known her. Or have I?

The essence of an artist is deception.

Begin!

So my friends, it shall be Sunday for only a few minutes longer. Away with the weekend, the week, and the holidays.

I said that I would write a poem for every night of this month of holidays, while I have not really done so, I have at least written thirty or so posts, some of them poetry, song, thoughts or imaginings.

And always remember, I am the source of all Joelness in this world, no one else is a me.

Don't get knock off oddness, always remember:

The Sky Sailors Handbook, the Number 1 source for all your high quality potent weird.

Bye guys.

Coincidence?

Gott würfelt nicht.

Ego vs Pseudo-Ego II

I think therefore I am.

If I cease to think I shall cease to be.

How do I know that the whole world is not illusionary?

I don't.

So I think.

Very hard.

So even if it is, I have gained value.

Because I do stuff, I know I do.

If I stopped doing stuff, I wouldn't know about the stuff.

But how do I know, I'm not a brain in a jar?

I don't.

So I keep doing stuff.

Lots of it.

What have I got to lose?

Joel's "Lazy Morning" Breakfast Recipe.

Not the most original recipe in the world, but it is tasty.

Stuff needed:

(breakfast)

1 tomato

2 eggs

2 rashers of bacon

A tiny bit of olive oil for the pan

(tea)

milk, tea bag, honey/sugar, (depends on how you like your tea)

Method:

Put your favorite frying pan on the stove top, with a little bit of oil for flavor and lubricant.

While waiting for the pan to heat up, cut the rind off the bacon and give it to the dog, the chop up the bacon so the round bit has no fat on it, put the nice round bit to the side for a bit. Then chop the little fatty bits and stuff into squares of 'bacon bits'. Do not give these to the dog.

Okay so the pan should be hot enough now (To tell, hold your hand just above the oil), chuck the bacon bits in.

While that starts to cook, cut the tomato in half through the middle. It doesn't really matter how you do this as long as it is in half.

Mix the bacon bits up so they get evenly cooked. Then, push them to the side of the pan, and pop your tomato in, cut side down.

(you should put the kettle on now for your tea)

Put in the round bits of the bacon, and crack your eggs into the pan. If they aren't cooking fast enough, flip them over.

Get a nice big plate out ready for your breakfast.

Make your tea now to taste. I like mine with milk and some honey.

With your spatula, push the contents of the pan onto the plate.

Take it all to the table, put your iPod on shuffle, and eat with your favorite condiments, my favorites are Worcestershire or HP sauce.

Om nom nom nom nom.

Lol Unconscious Brain, Lol Google.

I just had an odd dream where I had to kill a guy with my bowie knife. He was wearing this like, this black armor, and when he took off his helmet he was kinda Asian.

Also I just saw a Google add that looked exactly like this:

Is there Really A God?

Does He exist? How can you know? What is life's meaning and purpose?

www.ucg.org.au

I laughed at google so hard, it seriously thinks it can solve all the world's problems.

Ego Vs Pseudo-Ego

I'll kill you.

no you won't

I'll do it.

you always say that.

I'm serious this time. I'll kill you.

Take itunes off repeat mate.

I'm not kidding! I'll do it!

Fine! do it now then!

....mumble-mumble-mumble-can't-right-now-mumble....

That's what I thought.

Now. Do what I want. Or I'll kill you.

...yes...

Good boy.

'My Baby Takes The Morning Train' Is The Most Horrible Song Ever.

"My baby takes the morning train, he works from nine 'till five and then, he takes another home again, to find me waiting for him!"

Could you keep that music down please?

"My baby takes the morning train, he works from nine 'till five and then, he takes another home again, to find me waiting for him!"

No, really, could you keep it down, I find it really irritating.

"My baby takes the morning train, he works from nine 'till five and then, he takes another home again, to find me waiting for him!"

Please be quite!

"My baby takes the morning train, he works from nine 'till five and then, he takes another home again, to find me waiting for him!"

SHUT UP! SERIOUSLY!

"My baby takes the morning train, he works from nine 'till five and then, he takes another home again, to find me waiting for him!"

I'LL F**KING STAB YOU, IF YOU DON'T TURN OFF THAT MUSIC!

"My baby takes the morning train, he works from nine 'till five and then, he takes another home again, to find me waiting for him!"

GRAGGGH!!!

And that your honor is what happened exactly.

I Am Evil.

Everybody reading this post is wealthier, more healthy, better educated and will have roughly twice the average lifespan of 92% of the world's population. And the number of people in the world right now who are starving to death is so huge, that when calculating the statistics an error of a million here or there is easily excusable. Whether you care or not about those people, you will soon eat.

Soon I shall forget this and continue not caring.

That's all.

My Crocodilian Deal.

I opened a window. It was night time.

The moon looks very nice, don't you think? I like the breezes.

Swimming through the night air, just underneath the yellow streetlights, was a crocodile.

Its true.

Enormous and dark green, Scaly, huge bellied, pointed white teeth, yellow eyes shining,

In the moonlight, in the streetlights.

Gracefully he swam through the air, as long as a bus, his tail, swishing through the air.

Each of his scales, as big as your hand, and a hundred tooth grin like a con-man who knows

The lottery tomorrow, is gonna be fixed.

It was, pretty cool, you should have been there.

he stuck his gargantuan head,

In through my window.

And said in a deep, smooth, crocodilian voice, (yeah he could speak as well),

"What are you doing on a night like this, boy?"

He grinned his polished white teeth. Blinked a yellow set of eyes.

I told him, I was looking at the moon.

I told him, I suppose this must be a dream.

Hey, wouldn't you have thought the same?

"No boy," the crocodile grinned even wider as he replied,"This is not a dream"

Well I was unconvinced. But I asked him what he wanted with me anyway.

"What I want? No boy, its what you want that I came here to organize"

I asked him what he meant, even though I thought I knew.

"I want to make a deal with you boy, a trade, I give you what you want, you give me,

What I want."

I said I thought that was fair enough.

I said that the crocodile probably knew what I wanted.

He nodded his giant scaly grinning head.

"I sure do. And I can get that for you. All I want in return...

Is your face."

My face? What does a giant crocodile want with my face? I bet thats what you are thinking.

Thats what I asked him.

"Oh," he said in response, smooth as ever, "That's not important"

"The Important thing, boy, is you get what you want"

Well I thought this was a pretty okay deal.

What would you have done?

I said yes,

I shook a huge black crocodile claw. Sealing the deal.

I woke up.

I had exactly what I wanted.

But that was a while ago now.

It didn't last long.

And now, when I look in the mirror, I have no face.

Only I can see it. Or not see it I suppose.

Sometimes I look into the night, out of my open window,

And search for the crocodile who took my face.

The bastard.

You.

As beautiful as ice.

As witty as Oscar Wilde.

As kind as a grave yard's soil.

And as soft as an Autumn breeze.

You fascinate me.

Every time I lay my brush down to paint you.

Every time I sharpen my pencil to draw you.

Every time I click my pen to write about you.

Every time I ready the clay to sculpt you.

You lean over.

You smile.

You know its you.

You bat your lashes and laugh.

You find ways.

You walk like grace.

You sing like joy.

You trust like faith.

You love like bravery.

My muse.

Do lots of stuff.

Scratch an ear.

Eat some fruit.

Hold a hand.

Lose some dignity.

Push a trolley.

Build a bad habit.

Disagree with the leader.

Stay up late.

Have some fun.

Do some work.

Dance around.

Procrastinate.

Lose something special.

Forget a word.

Do something clever.

Get called a moron.

Trip over a rock.

Guess exactly right.

Go for a walk.

Eat some junk food.

Get angry.

Say something kind.

Breath really deeply.

Have a cry.

Win.

Loose.

Come second.

Get a hair cut.

Buy something unnecessary.

Try again.

Blink four times in a row.

But no matter what you do, I'll still love you.

Probably.

Think About This.

A Curious Snail.

A snail crawls toward a leaf. It intends to munch upon it. A shoe or a foot crushes its shell in passing, with out knowing it has done so. The snail is still alive, its bowls and intestines ground together, mixed with grains of gravel, in unendurable pain. It agony ends when the sun comes out from behind the clouds and fries it alive on the pavement, and it becomes so dehydrated it dies.

There is more than 500 billion snails and about 6.5 billion humans in the world, so that means that even though I just made that up, it almost certainly has happened.

You may have even done it.

The City In My Heart.

There is a city. It is made of red clay and dust. Huge red clay buildings are stuck in the ground, they reach dizzyingly high into the sky, swaying gently. The streets are paved with crimson sand and emptiness. A cold ruby sun fills half the sky, sends its rays down on the abandonment, and bakes its loneliness into to the clay.

No one lives there.

No one goes there.

But in the sky, there is a face.

And the pair of eyes in that face hold all the sadness of the dead city.

As I stroke the bricks of the sky-scrapers, my hand pulls off tiny pieces, its stains my fingers with its colour. The streetlights are rusted brown, globes long since blown, power source long since diminished. There is no glass in the windows of the buildings, it has become sand as broken glass will after so long. Road signs stick out of the ground haphazardly, invariably bent, with writing on them that cannot be read, in a language that no one can remember.

I treasure my city.

It is the place where no one can go.

I walk my beloved streets.

I sit in the sand on the roads.

It is utterly dead, no living creature lives there, not one fly buzzes in the air, not one climbing vine crawls along the scarlet brickwork, there is not one worm in its sand.

Its beauty is only for me to see.

Its silence is wonderful, only for my ears to hear.

The softness, the coarseness, the smoothness of its contours and edges are only for my hands to feel.

I love my city. She is in my heart.

Very Silly Song.

I'll fight you, I'll bite you, I'll sing you a song.

I'll kiss you, I'll miss you, I'll string you along.

This is my silly song,

Why don't you sing along,

I want a Camel to bake,

I knew a funny man,

He ate a slice of ham,

And the leaves he will rake.

I'll meet you, and seat you, in a throne,

I'll stop you and drop you in the sea alone.

This is not hard to do,

writing a song for you,

because it makes no sense,

Why don't I do this more?

My shoes are on the floor,

And my socks are on a fence!

I'll snub you, I'll rub you, In some mud,

I'll hit you, and commit you, with a thud.

This is my silly song,

It goes for far too long,

Why don't I stop now?

Well, I shall tell you why,

my eyeballs are in the sky,

I can't stop, because I don't know how.

Zooben!

Strange Magic.

Dude... I think I'm going through Cola withdrawal symptoms. I'm acting all strange... and i have a lot of mouth ulcers. And that does happen when you withdraw from things... I need that delicious dark liquid wonder. The caffeine loaded goodness that comes only from the cola.

I need the magic.

The strange magic,

OF THE COLA.

Jess says hi you guys, lol.

Mouth Ulcers, I despise you.

Mouth ulcers make me irritable and sad. They make me irritable because of the pain, but they make me sad because they disrupt my usually fine and clear diction and ruin the sensation of eating tasty things.

THEY ARE SO ANNOYING.

I would have them on any other part of my body! anywhere! JUST GET THESE ANNOYING THINGS AWAY!

GRAGGH!

*Sigh* Never-mind. They'll be gone in a few days.

Ode To Coaches.

I wrote this poem on the way back on the greyhound bus from Sydney.

I was soooo bored.

This one's for you private, expensive transport system.

This coach I'm on

is small and cramped,

The toilet smells

and the floor is damp,

Surrounded buy strangers

I'm writing in the dark,

The dutch girl next to me

is reading Ben Elton's "stark"

The journey will continue

forever I'm sure,

Sitting on this bus

is such a bore.