What I did for Christmas

So, what did I do for Christmas? Well, I'll tell you.

First, I went outside and breathed the fresh rainy air. But I smelled brimstone down the drain, and saw red eyes staring at me from the darkness. A voice came from it, saying, "Free me from this sewer with gold and I will grant you three wishes. But beware, for some who wish for material desires... Hey! Hey! Come back!" For I was already walking away. My grandmother always told me never to trust strange drain creatures.

Anyway, I kept walking along, and was accosted by a desperate man who begged me for rubies to feed his children with. "I must have rubies!" He said, his filthy beard waving in the wind, "For my children's hearts grow cold as stone!" He smelled pretty bad, and was being very rude, so I poked him away with my umbrella, telling him I had no rubies, but maybe try a jeweller? Hearing my refusal, his mad white eyes rolled into the back of his head, he transformed into a large yellow rat, which scampered away.

The rain was letting up at this point, and I decided to use my umbrella for a walking stick for a bit.

I was pretty hungry, and I couldn't find anywhere to eat. But I noticed a banana tree growing in the middle of the road I was walking. Its fresh ripe fruit appeared there for the taking. I shook the tree a little and caught one that fell. It was delicious, I can tell you.

However, the tree was apparently haunted, and a spirit or ghost emanated from it, and threw all this rubbish at me. "Thief! Thief! Die!" It screamed angrily, tossing old bones, egg shells and all manner of disgusting things at me, most of which I avoided through cunning and agility.

Thinking I would be stuck there forever with the vengeful ghost, an old woman in a rusty red pick-up truck rolled up. She offered the ghost a chicken from the back of the truck, and it agreed to leave me alone.

She gave me a lift further up the road. But when we stopped at her little crooked house, I saw that her mother was an ogre, ten feet tall, all covered in warts and was feeding on a human leg, so I took my leave.

On my walk back home, I saw a huge yellow rat running through the gutter with a ruby the size of a walnut clamped in its teeth. I nodded to it, and it bobbed its head in response.

I decided to catch a bus the rest of the way back. A young woman rode it with me. In her arms rested a jar, it contained formaldehyde and in the that floated a golden egg. "It's the egg of a Phoenix." She told me, "When it breaks open, it will cover the earth in flame, and in a day and a night, a new race of man and beast will rise from the ashes. It will live for ten thousand years, and then lay another egg."

It had been in her family for generations, but she had to sell it, for her landlady charged a high rent, and was an ogre who ate her brother and bound his spirit to a banana tree.

We talked at little more, till her stop. Mine came soon after. I found a dollar on the road outside my house. I tossed it down the drain to the creature who was trapped there. I heard it sigh as it was released from its imprisonment.

I had a glass of wine with my dinner, and went to bed.

Hurrah!

This is how drunk I am:

According to the stamps on my hand, I went to at least three clubs I have no memory of whatsoever, and a couple I kinda feel a faint recollection of.

I'm pretty sure that everything went to plan. Pretty sure.

Have no doubt, I'm completely smashed as of this moment. The only point of this post is to demonstrate how good I am at typing while drunk.

Continue with your day.

How to: Be a person.

Step one: Be born. It is likely that if you are reading this, you were at one point, born. You may have been forcibly squeezed from your mother's womb, or you may have been the result of a Caesarian Section. Both are applicable types of birth, and fine choices. You may have even (potentially) been grown in a scientific vat if some kind, and been decanted rather than 'born'. This, however unlikely, still counts in my opinion.

Some people think that people are people before they are born, which is fair enough I suppose. I lack any significant evidence to agree or disagree with them.

Others think that being assembled rather than grown could be a legitimate form of person-making, however technology is yet to compete with human ambition in this area.

Step two: Develop an identity. This is a crucial step, and more difficult than one might think. Use whatever genetic advantage you have been given, and piece together ideas from parts of the universe in your brain around this centre. Your identity may require adjusting as you age: Don't worry, this is normal.

That done, congratulations, you hopefully now possess a consciousness.

Step three: Experience reality. This is also a befuddling action to take, and it has been rated by some as, "the greatest thing ever" and others as, "A completely awful nightmare" depending on objective viewpoint.

It is generally agreed that people must experience at least some reality, even if it is largely fabricated. If you do not experience any reality, you may not qualify as a person, but perhaps only a body with no mind. If you wish to alter your reality, there are many courses to take including but not limited to:

Losing all possessions.
Use of recreational chemicals.
Changing or gaining some kind of religion.
Space travel.
Total isolation.
Meeting strange or interesting people.
Etc.

Step five: Die. Once you have experienced as much reality as you can, it is generally agreed that the best course of action to take is death. Some people believe there is a part of your personhood that will continue to exist after you die, others disagree.

Every person who had ever lived has or will die, though there are people who believe that certain exceptional individuals never died or never will, such as Elvis Presley, Jesus, and Charlie Sheen.

However, it is fine and natural for you to try to avoid death for as long as possible, by eating good foodstuffs, avoiding certain chemicals, freezing your body in cryogenics to be revived later, keeping physical trauma to a minimum, and regular exercise.

Follow all these steps, and it is doubtful anyone will argue with you being a person. If they do, then argue back that you are, or better yet, act surprised that they would even suggest such a thing, as this is what people do.

Good luck.

Feminism: It's Good

There isn't much to this post. Just an acknowledgment by me that feminism is good. And while I'm not incredibly familiar with the feminist theory, I'd like to describe myself as a feminist, among a great many other things.

Mirage

If men became monsters,
And preyed on those they loved,
Would you still care for them,
And their soft hands, however gloved?

Their caress, would it still dwell within?
Is this flesh, nothing more than red flesh?
Are our bodies but fine, and paper thin?
Mere bonds against for our souls to thresh?

And if a monster grew so tame,
That it loved you as a son,
Would you still laugh to see its pain,
And broil it with your gun?

If a man becomes a monster,
Or a monster to a man,
Do their true selves seek to conquer?
To escape this, if it can?

What are we then, but cogs?
In a spinning whirling plan?
Are we wandering through fog?
Ending as ignorant as we began?

Mirages flicker before us,
As we wander through the desert.

We call them time.
And life.
And death.
And hope.
And despair.
And beginnings.
And ends.
And monsters.
And lovers.
And mothers and fathers.
The greatest of these illusions,
The strange idea,
That we are all seeing the same things.
And that any of them are different, to the sand of the desert.

Apologies:

Sometimes the gaps between my posts on here are greater than others.

I'm not going to say sorry for that. Many folk do. This is MY damn blog. I'm not being paid to write on it. I try to make it entertaining if I can. If you don't like my late night ramblings, then go elsewhere.

Oh no, I didn't mean it. Please stay.

Look, if you're a reader who is annoyed by the infrequent nature of my posts, I'm sorry. I like you. You're sweet for reading. And if you genuinely enjoy the content, then thankyou even more. But I'm not apologising to myself for not writing. I only write when I get the jigglies for it. And that is more than enough.

Love and Kisses, Zaphod.

Kobo

I mentioned a couple of posts ago that my faithful ereader of many years screen smashed. I'm buying a new one and it's fine.

Many people complain about ebooks, and how they aren't, 'The same,' or they don't, 'Smell nice,' or that they don't, 'feel right'.

What I think they are really talking about is the emotional connection that a person has to a book they cherish. And the emotional connection that I had with my tired old Kobo ereader (that mum bought me from the now defunct borders, because buying books all the time was too expensive) was there. It was real.

I maintain that we should not love the paper of books, but the content of them, and to a person who cares about what a book says, the format it is in is irrelevant . But still, I do feel a twinge when looking at the ruined screen.

T'was too cruel and ironic a fate that your screen smashed when I accidentally dropped the single volume collected works of H.P Lovecraft on you, which is a very real and very heavy book.

Rest easily in silicone Heaven, with all the iPhones from 'will it blend?', exploded 1980's Blackberrys and Casio calculators that got left in jeans pockets when they went through the wash.

Goodnight sweet Kobo. You were as cool a lump of plastic as ever there was.

Psychic Football

I've an idea for a new fictional sport. But first I need to do some clarifications of definitions.

When I say 'Football' my idea is with what we Australians know as the game of soccer. It's played with your feet, head and chest - no hands. It's quite tactic based, and very much to do with feint and bluff, as well as aerodynamics of spheres (or whatever shape a football is). The specific physical abilities of the players on the team often varies a fair bit, unlike some types of football Australian's play that just involve big beef steaks that know how to plow other guys over.

Having said all that, I'm sure this would work with basketball, or some other competitive group sports. Certain types of hockey maybe. Water-polo would be nifty. I dunno.

Now, to clarify what I mean by 'psychic'.

There is a character in x-men called 'Charles Xavier' who is called a psychic. He rolls around in his wheel-chair reading people's thoughts, projecting visions, making people forget things they used to know, and most importantly, fighting intense mental battles of wills with other psychically powered individuals. If he has complete control over someone's mind, he can control their every action. He can't see into the future or anything. Just mind powers. That's the kind of psychic power I'm taking about.

So. You produce two teams of eleven football players, all of whom have psychic powers. They play football as they normally would. But they are joined together as teams in unions of interconnected minds. They all know exactly what each other is doing at the time, and they act almost as one organism.

Or they would. If the other team wasn't spending a considerable amount of their concentrated mental energy trying to thwart that interconnectedness.

And vice versa. It is as much a battle of the mind as it is a contest of tactics and athleticism.

Why am I thinking about this at three in the morning? Who knows. But I like the idea of this sport where not thinking about the way you are going to score a goal, and thus not give it away to the goal keeper of the opposite team, is a legitimate tool in winning a game.

Perhaps I haven't explained how it would work in enough detail. But it seemed like something worth sharing before I forgot it.

A Well Run Dry

There is nothing that makes fury more furious than impotence.

But really. Putting aside gender metaphor, is there nothing more that infuriates you than knowing that you are right, but not having the words to express your rightness?

I feel much like many have before me, an unwilling soldier in an unwanted war. But all I can do, as I fire my rifle at endless enemy after endless enemy, and stab at the unending necks and chests if of my foes with my bayonet, is continue.

I really do feel as though my options have run dry.

Has the well of my creativity run dry so soon? And if so, where to did it vanish?

Make It Happen?

I absolutely love electronics. Especially small electronics that are portable or pocketable. In fact, any pocketable piece of nifty technology generally makes me weak at the knees.

A huge part of what makes our species so powerful is our ability to harness technology. And the idea that I could take a small sliver of that power, be it in the form of a smartphone, e-reader, or multitool, and slip it into my pocket makes me uncommonly happy.

Marvelous. Totally marvelous.

My trusty old kobo e-reader's screen cracked recently. I liked using it for book reading over my iPad when my eyes got sore from glassily gazing into the LED screen and giving me headaches. The excellent battery life of a week (or even two) between charges was the result if its super low power e-ink display. The only thing I ever really disliked about it was that:

1. It wasn't backlit, making it impractical for nighttime/bus reading.

2. It didn't have a touch screen, which rendered it difficult to use for books with footnotes or picking particular chapters.

Therefore, when I was scouting the web for a replacement reader, I got unreasonably excited over the new 'kindle paperwhite' which has an in-built easy-on-the-eyeballs screen light and a capacitive touch screen.

For those that don't know, there are generally three types of touchscreens in modern devices.

1. Infrared.
This is generally considered to be the worst kind of touchscreen, it uses a series of cris-cross infrared lasers over the screen to tell where a finger or stylus is breaking the pattern, and responding to it. The disadvantages to this are that the screen has to be set in, making the device's thickness increase. It's also not that responsive. But it has a great power consumption rate, which made it popular in e-readers and mid nineties PDA's that ran on AA batteries. A pretty clever trick, considering the comparatively pitifully short battery life of most modern smartphones.

2. Resistive.
This is form of touchscreen works by having a slightly squishy screen that can tell where it's being poked. It has a whole lot of pressure sensitive dots underneath the screen, which will react to fingers, pencils, pens, anything. My girlfriend used to have a phone with this kind of screen, and she liked it because she could text with the ends of her long pretty fingernails. This sounds great in theory, but in practice it means the screen itself is often rather ugly as it can't be made of nice clear glass, but some kind of plastic. But it worked well enough that it was the screen used in many old android phones, and loads of PDA's. Great with 'digital drawing' devices that some artists use.

3. Capacitive.
This is the kind of screen iPhones, Samsung Galaxy's, iPads, and android tabs. A very responsive, attractive glass screen, it functions by running an electric current through the glass itself. Our bodies constantly have a slight bit if electricity in them, and our fingers, when they touch the screen, zingle through it letting the device know where they're touching. It also works with electrosensitive rubber/foam, which is what the ends of iPad styli are made. Nine out of ten touchscreens are this type.

So here's what I want to make.

A touchscreen e-ink mini laptop just for writing. Super long battery life and only basic documents, email and browsing capabilities. Plaster the outside and inside with solar panels. Voila. Perfect travel companion for the writer, student who needs a reliable machine for note taking, or anyone who wants to be able to email their family back home when traveling overseas. Frequently when traveling charging devices is tricky, as you can't always get power adapters to fit foreign ports. So long as you have light, this thing will charge. Fit it with free 3G like in many kindles, and it's still low power enough for great use of the solar panels. Who needs a colour screen if all you're going to do is write on it? All flash storage, it's essentially a kindle paperwhite with a keyboard attached.

Anywho, we have the technology to make all this happen. We just need to apply it.

I love the modern age.

Folks

People may rape each other, and fuck the earth with oil spills, be racist, hate truth, love lies, kill things for no reason, and generally engage in acts of savagery and barbarism, but when you meet them, get to know their lovers, have a drink or two, find out what they fear and desire and are desperate not to be, you can't help but like them.

That's how I feel anyway.

The need to feel

Is it this bitter wind,
That blows in from the south,
That strips our skin and flesh,
Eats our hearts, livers, lungs
Or is it only sensation?

Do worms feast upon us, as we writhe?
Or is it just us, pretending we feel them?
Is there truth to pain,
Or do we make our own?

Is it joy that brings sunshine to us?
Or does the sun rise first?
And if the sun rises first,
Why feel joy at all?

Is it loneliness that shakes us?
Or is just that we need people to work?
And if we aren't really lonely,
Why do we shake?

Do we lust because we like to?
Or do we lust because not to means death?
Are we driven by desire?
or are we driven by species wide desire for preservation?

Are we greatest of apes,
Gods of our world?
Or are we wooden puppets, dancing on string?

Invest In Science

"Sarah Palin has repeatedly stated that she wishes to see creationism taught in our schools. I believe that every Christian (and indeed every American) should be opposed to this. What science has taught us does not invalidate religious faith, and to those evangelical Christians who believe otherwise, I would respectfully say that you are placing too much faith in the power of science. Not that science isn’t powerful: We now know, thanks to rational thought and the testing of hypotheses, that evolution was the driving force behind the breathtaking diversity of life in the world. And we know that the earth has existed far longer than we have. Science has given so much to the experience of being a creature on this planet. But it does not render our spiritual lives irrelevant.

The anti-intellecutalism that has become the hallmark of religious conservatism in contemporary Christianity (and many other religions) will only set us back–not only economically and politically but also spiritually. We must invest in science; we must teach our children the scientific method; we must share with them the myriad discoveries that the scientific method has brought us. And we must do all of these things in classrooms that are in the business of teaching children how to learn, and not in the business of teaching that faith in God is incompatible with the intellectual rigor and creative innovation that have been the glory of our nation’s past. Christianity loses in that bargain, and so, too, does America."

- John Green

The King in the North

Not long, not long my father said
Not long shall you be ours
The Raven King knows all too well
Which are the fairest flowers

The priest was all too worldly
Though he prayed and rang his bell
The Raven King three candles lit
The priest said it was well

Her arms were all too feeble
Though she claimed to love me so
The Raven King stretched out his hand
She sighed and let me go

This land is all too shallow
It is painted on the sky
And trembles like the wind-shook rain
When the Raven King goes by

For always and for always
I pray remember me
Upon the moors, beneath the stars
With the King's wild company

- Song of the King in the North

Armpit Hair

So it's been raised times over the last couple of days among my friends. Seems to be a hot topic among us for some reason.

Apparently (stress on the apparently) some women are choosing not to shave some of their hair off their bodies. Such as legs and armpits.

I'm going to say it once,

I straight do not give a shit. I'd be a pretty crappy libertarian if I wanted to make women shave themselves. But personally, I feel a lot of women do feel more confident if they get rid of 'unsightly' body hair, put on make up, and all that flim-flam.

When I want to feel confident, I put on a fitted suit jacket. Maybe it's the same thing. If it is, go for it. If you don't want to, don't.

Albuquerque

I always thought 'Albuquerque' would be a good name for a horse that one would take on an arctic voyage and had to end up killing to stay warm, and for food after the iron rations ran out, before being rescued by a monk that lived in a cave near the north pole.

The Elements of the Howling

It's nights like this,
That the winds howl.
My windows are sealed,
My door, locked.
The bedclothes wrap fever tight.
The darkness, still, like a blanket of silence.

But the winds howl through me.
Like a paper bird caught in the tempest.
I can feel them, blinding, shouting,
Begging.

They clutch at me like starving children.
They beat me and mug me, in the alleys off the streets of my own thought.
They claim to love me,
They rape me,
The ask for forgiveness,
As they mercilessly torture me.

They blow through me,
The winds howl like wolves gone rabid.
The winds none but I could hear.
I am their father,
Their brother,
Their lover,
Their son,

But never would I call them friend,
The winds that howl,
That chill my chest.
My lungs.
My throat.
Chilled to ice,
So that breath comes in ragged gasps.

Eyes are heavy.
But the winds blow on and on.
Rattling my bones.
Shaking my heart.
I beg them to let me sleep.

But to the hand of what man are the elements of this earth heedful?
So too the elements of madness.

Believing is Hard.

Every long day of our cruel, bitter and unlovely lives,
The bastard, the bitch, and the sinner survives.
He could be that random bloke with a gun,
Who shot up some local kids, just for fun,

Or it might be the girl who gives a self-sure sermon,
Before she goes out to give herpes to an unknowing virgin,
Or it could be that man who drinks instead of loves,
And ignores his wife and all the serving she does,

Maybe it's the kid who egged your car,
Or the boss whose shouting went too far,
Maybe it's your neighbor who lets her dog shit on your lawn,
Or that guy who you took home who left before dawn.

Those bastards, those bitches, those sinners survive.
And as much as the faith you had, you try to revive,
It gets harder each day to believe in the great, the good,
The hard working, honest folk, as you know that you should.

The bitter sad anger of humanity is surely clear,
We should go out each day, well dressed in our fear,
That some awful person will stab our backs,
And then walk away whistling to cover their tracks.

But then, as much as those people we might resent,
Would you or I, given the chance, do any different?

The only way to make the world sane,
Is to try, and try, and try again.
To believe in the wondrous things humans could be,
And right now, that greatness we should all try to see.

To say I'm not the best chap at the task, is fair,
But still, try seeing the good, even when it's not there.

Smoothness

The handle of my knife protrudes from beneath the pillow I rest my head upon. When an infant I had no pacifier, rather, my mother would give me some small smooth object for me to hold in my hand, to quiet me. My knife handle is hard, a dark brown wood, surrounding the cold fixed steel of the blade. A thing if beauty, as David once said, to see and to touch.

It was a birthday present from my father. I used to use it for carving, and sometimes when spear fishing to clean my catch. But I don't do those things anymore. I lost the will to carve after my rejection from the school of art, and one needs to be near water to spear.

Now its job is mainly for something comforting to grasp when the night is strange. I wouldn't use it to stab someone. It doesn't have a hilt, I'd probably just cut my fingers. It isn't really a weapon. It's a Bowie knife, clipped point. Long. More threatening certainly than my Swiss Army Knife, which I always feel would be a laughably stupid thing to use in a fight.

But I still get afraid at night, during the day too, but that isn't when I need to sleep. Just the smooth feel of it under my fingertips calms me.

I don't find it that strange that I do this. We each of us find solace in materialism, in what we can know is, "Really there". I like to feel the realness.

Mother Of Pearl

I've lived and loved with lovers,
Some I've even spoken to.
I remember many, and forgot others.
But they begin and end with you.

I'm a bitter old man,
And an odd little boy.
I'd forgotten my plan,
And been used as a toy.

But when you live so long,
And so briefly, yes that too.
The most tired endless song,
It's hard to decide what to do.

But you make decisions easy,
A smile from you and the spinning ceased
You don't care that I was sleazy.
You make an end to my vile inner beast.

I love you, lady, mother of pearl,
I love you with all of my body, and brain.
Though you were lost, my living girl.
It's always been you that kept me sane.

A Better Solution

I hate conflict. I hate fighting, arguments, war, battles, disagreements, and all that stuff. As childish as it may sound, I really do wish we could get along.

The very first Terry Pratchett novel I ever read was 'Sourcery'.

At the beginning if this book, Death, (the person) comes to the wizard Ipslor the Red.

Even at the time of his death, Ipslor is a powerful wielder of his art. Cradling his eighth and last son in his arms, he admits to Death, (the black robed, impassive, skeletal figure), "All my magic could not save her," He stares out at the gathering thunderstorm.

Death replies,

"THERE ARE PLACES EVEN MAGIC MAY NOT GO."

Ipslor looks down at his son, smiling. He says, "I would have done it all again. Children are our hope for the future." Even as he watches, the clouds darken, and roll in. The rain starts.

Death replies,

"THERE IS NO HOPE FOR THE FUTURE."

"Then what," bitterly retorts Ipslor, "is the point?" Thunder booms above. Lightening cracks in shards of light, all too close.

Death replies,

"I'M SORRY?"

Desperately near to the end of his life, Ipslor finally says, "What is it that makes life worthwhile?" The rain is heavy, the thunder now deafening.

Death thinks for a moment,

Death replies,

"CATS. CATS ARE NICE."

Ipslor curses Death. And Death evenly responds that many have. The wizard is struck on the tip of his pointy hat by a stray bolt of lightening, and dies.


I am no wizard. I hold in my hands no great power, no great skill, any more than the talents that any woman or man may possess.

I, too, have cursed death. I have used any and all the powers at my disposal to make a life stay alive. Futile as it may have been.

One time, a friend of mine was sitting with his friends. I was there.

"People criticize war, y'know. 'War, what is it good for?' and all that pacifist bullshit. What wankers. After all, armed conflict has solved many more problems than peaceful measures! I don't know how anyone could justify being against it in the modern age." and he looked right at me, in the eye. Challenging me.

His other friends all nodded in agreement, 'So true', 'too right'

I replied,

"Yes. War solves conflict. You shoot a man, he can't fight back. But that's not the point. The point is, that it causes so much death, so much suffering, so much pain and horror and sadness."

And they all said, almost in unison, "Oh yeeeeaah..."

As if it hadn't occurred to them.

I, a person who is against such actions, was just as offended as my best friend, who is part of Australia's armed forces. This was because, in his words,

"It's me and my friends who are killing and dying for them,"

I see the reason why we have men to perish for us, I have only the greatest respect for them. I see why it is that we make war. One can't just throw away one's weapons and say, "Guns are BAD" and expect to survive.

But it doesn't mean have to be satisfied. It doesn't mean we can't try to find a better solution.

I don't want to believe that liberty is a bitch, that must be bedded on a mattress of corpses. And I won't.

Doing Magic

I only have one talent. Being able to learn tricks.

I'm really not good at anything else, but I've discovered that in every situation, there is always a trick you can learn.

There is a trick to getting girls to like you. There is a trick to turning strangers into friends. There is a trick to making people laugh. There is a trick to making people fall in love with you, just as there is a trick to getting yourself to fall in love.

There is a trick to dancing, painting, writing, surfing, and smiling.

There is a trick to coping with horror, there is a trick making people think that you believe what you're saying. There are tricks to saying awake, and going to sleep.

There are tricks to make yourself stay alive.

I was younger, nine or ten, and playing with a coin in my uncles apartment. I had just been informed that my mother was going to die, probably soon. If she lived, they said, she would be badly brain damaged.

I played with that coin. I could make it spin around my fingers. I flipped it up and around, in and out, with the dexterity of a boy who is yet to gain any cumbersome muscle and has just figured out how all the tendons in his hand fit together.

It was then that I knew, there is a trick to everything. My mother lived, in the end. She has no cancer, and no damage.

And now, as I lie here, flattened by the strange shapes that attack me when I sleep, and the crushing sadness that stays with me during waking hours. Transfixed by the weirdness of things, that the world is the wrong shape in my head, I wonder why it is that I am the way I am.

But, as with all things, there is a trick to living like this. I'm sure it is easier to learn than many other tricks, that fortunately I have never had to learn. And thankfully, it is a trick that I taught myself a long time ago, in much more terrible circumstances.

I was made this way, and my friends who sometimes worry about me, don't. Because I was also made with the ability to learn the tricks that make me able to deal with my problems so well that some people don't even realize they're there.

I'll always have a few up my sleeve. :)

Praying to The Aliens.

I don't like aliens. And more than that, I don't like the idea of aliens.

Let me elaborate.

I like vampires, witches, warlocks and wizards. I like the TV show True Blood, the Harry Potter books, Lord of the Rings and various other fictional things. They range from amusing distractions to nifty reads, to profound literature.

I do not think those things exist. I know there are people who think that vampires, witches, warlocks and and wizards actually exist. I think those people are silly. I even know that there are people who think they are those things, for real. I think they are exceptionally silly. However, they in no way bother me. Oh sure, every now and then they go crazy and kill someone, but I would think that is also true of perfectly 'normal' people who do normal things like become lawyers, play video games or work in florists. I find them to be a largely harmless bunch of oddballs and fetishists. And if they enjoy it, if it makes them feel better, then power to them.

However, I do not like aliens. I don't like X-Files. I don't find the idea of aliens existing, abducting, flying around in saucers etc, to be in any way interesting. I think it's boring.

I also do not like people who think aliens exist. I find that mostly it is because those people have imbibed too many recreational chemicals, and have gone a bit crazy. The ones that I have met are paranoid, annoying, stupid and don't make sense. They think the government is trying to control them. They think that 'The truth is out there!'. They think that the reason why the world is bad is because people are blind to the truth that our water is being spiked and making us docile or that such and such is enthralled to the Queen of England who is really a space slug.

The real reason why the world is bad is much more mundane reasons: Greed. Arrogance. Ignorance. Fear. Hate. All boring, and all true.

I know that it is possible that there is life on other planets. But they are not grey litte men getting dissected at Roswell. Most likely, they are fungus growing on rocks.

Let me say this once and for all: Aliens are just pretend. They aren't real.

I'm not being paid to say this by the government. I'm not a mindless sheep. I'm not having my mind controlled by anyone. I just don't believe they exist, in the same way atheists don't believe in God.

If you tell me you believe in aliens, I will tell you this:

I believe that invisible pirates secretly spread mould all around food you don't put in your fridge so that you'll buy those fridges that they are selling you. And that's how they plan to control the world! Don't be blind to the invisible pirates! They're REAL. They want you to think it's aliens! It's a ruse! The truth is out there!

The Terrible Adventure

If you are a person, you have probably been afraid of death at some point.

It's strange to me that a creature could have this happen to them. Elephants, whales, lizards, and a whole host of other creatures apart from us morn the loss of a friend. But none do it for as long or as elaborately.

Then again, who knows, really, what it is an elephant thinks about behind its tired grey skin and its tired grey eyes? Maybe they morn for their whole lives. Those lives generally last longer than ours. Around ninety years. Maybe they, too, fear some reaper that will come for all in the end.

I'm not trying to be that annoying life insurance salesman. I'm just thinking about the oddness of life insurance. These are my three favorite quotes about death:

"Death is likely the single best invention of life,"
- Steve Jobs

"I am become death; destroyer of worlds,"
- J. Robert Oppenheimer (Who was himself quoting the religious text "The Bhagavad Gita")

"Death is the great democracy,"
- Neil Gaiman

You can look up those men's quotes in google if you are more interested in their context.

But, I will say this. The first is about the inevitability and frightening aspect of death, yet its use and necessity to life and change. The second is about the power of death, and the fear that comes with that power. And the third is about living amongst death, knowing it is always there, and feeling no apprehension about it.

Life, not death, is the greatest, most terrible adventure. Maybe when I become old I will lose my iron hate for the way things must die or change. In life, no matter how wretched, there are so very many possibilities. In death there are none, always. And I intend to change a few more times before I stop changing forever.

Do you? Well, intend or not, you will. Fear that. Not your mortality.

Will you look back on your life, and find that the past is a foreign land?

"All that happened in another country and besides, the wench is dead."

- Christopher Marlowe

The Fearful Me

There is a season for everything. A time to build and a time to tear down, sort of thing.

There are times to be fearless, to see nothing in the earth that could harm you. There are times to be fearful, but brave and steadfast against them.

But now, here, seems as good a time as any to feel afraid, not that I have a choice. Not that I like it. I don't.

Little strange fears flutter through me. Some of them don't make sense. Others are as clear and true as anything I've seen when walking in the world. They brush the murky depths of me, and wake deeper fears, long thought forgotten by me, that stir, and rear their awful heads again to torment me.

I'm afraid of many things. Physical things, injury, ravaging illness, savage animals, the violence of people against me. Mental things, madness, the uncertainty of mortality, abandonment, embarrassment, loneliness, poverty. Other things, harder to easily define, or even describe: dark feelings, sudden stares from strangers, the coldness in blackness, that which is unknown, the knowledge that changes you forever, innocence drifting away and the puppet-master pulling strings.

As always, I have no weapons in my fantasies, sometimes I cannot even run, or close my eyes. Only watch, while I am maimed, slain, broken, beaten, humiliated, mutilated, isolated and segregated. Over. And over. And over.

I understand that fear has a purpose: This, you must avoid. Fear is a warning.
But this torture I impose on myself, when I lie here, what use is it? What point is there to this? Why can't I stop?

When I sleep my dreams reflect my conscious thoughts. Weird nameless terror chases me, and I wake up as restless as I was when I laid down my head.

Fear is so close, always. Everyday The people love could be destroyed in freak accidents, every day I could be diagnosed with a disfiguring cancer, everyday could bring some new horror, ready to tear away everything I have.

There is nothing so weak, I think, than a creature imprisoned by it's own self. I think that is what I have become.

I have tactics for fighting the things that go wrong with me, adapt and so on. Cope and keep going. But there is no defense against this ever-ready paranoia. None at all.

No Regrets

Regret is an emotion, it means: If I had the knowledge that I now have, and if I lived my life again, I would live it differently.

Many people claim, "No regrets,". I imagine they must be horribly uncreative. If I could have my time again, I would change so much.

I would kiss people I didn't, invest where I would gain most, learn what would be most useful, encourage where I insulted, and live where I lazed.

How can you say you regret nothing?

Stars

Turn away your head.

As the world falls down around you.

As the ice bergs melt.

As your brother's children starve.

As the cancer grows.

As the tigers dwindle.

As your bank account empties.

As your lover drifts away.

As your life grows more meaningless.

Turn away your head.

And watch the sunrise.

After all, the sky is too dark to see the stars anymore.

Che

You often see Che Guevara's face on things.

Whatever else he was, Che was a rare man. As an author, renowned intellectual, physician, charismatic public speaker, consummate strategist and diplomat, he was certainly very skilled. But rarer than this was that he was truly a man who believed in things with an incredible passion.

I am a supporter of democracy. And as Che Guevara was a, more the, communist and Marxist, I don't believe he was right. I think communism is a poor system of government, too easily manipulated by strong leaders, as was the case in Che's Cuba.

But to say that he was a terrorist? No. I don't think that's true. He believed in his kind of freedom. Not my kind. To say that he was evil because of that is unfair.

That his face has become one of the most reproduced image in the western world would undoubtably break his heart. But that is what it has become.

He was executed at age thirty nine. His last words were as defiant as his whole life.

'Shoot coward. You are only going to kill a man.'

As human as they come, but as powerful as the human spirit is, it is broken with the human flesh.

I like Che, like many before me, not for what he believed in, but for the tenacious will that he believed in it with.

Cooling heart.

This earth has a heart.
This core stays apart.
Hot and red, round, soft and gold.
Deep far down, a billion years old.

This core stays apart.
The earth's breathing heart.

Sailing away on a cold river of souls.
A mother screams for her lost foals.
A maddened grieved mother cries,
As again and again her child dies.

What is it you do command?
What thoughts do you will?
On what land do you stand?
Is it fertile? Is it kind and still?

All what you have, all you gave,
All you left to come and save,
You can't glimmer, or touch?
Find the depths, and fear to clutch.

Dead lights! Morbidity surrounds.
Like strung up hopes, dancing clowns.

This core stays apart.
This cooling heart.

Mass Storage

Technology is cool.

This is my 32 Gigabyte usb drive. It's very small, many people mistake it for being a remote mouse port thing, for a wireless computer mouse. And just so you know, if you put a book in a text file, a whole book, it will take up about a megabyte of space.

For those of you who are blissfully unaware of what that means, which I hope is few, there are (roughly, not exactly) 1000 megabytes in a gigabyte. So, in my little drive, Most of which is taken up by the metal port, there is room for thirty two thousand books. I'd consider that to be a pretty decent sized library.

In that little tiny thing.

I'm impressed.

Big Arms

I'm weak. It isn't great. I hate it, in fact. I'd like to say that I walk through the world without noticing it, but it just isn't true. I'm weak. Weak as they come. They probably would have eaten me, in times gone by.

I don't know there's much I can do about it. Oh, I could go to the gym. I could make my arms big, and my legs strong, and my chest burst out of my shirts. But underneath, I know it, the weakness would still be there.

I sometimes wonder, what makes one weak like I am. Some people get angry. Other people break down. It's just a thing. Maybe if I had been brought up differently. Or if I had tried different things. But all this is just excuses.

So what's the conclusion? Nothing. Nothing at all. There is no conclusion. I've not resolved to do anything to change who I am, I wouldn't know where to start. I'm just going to stay like this. Until something happens. But I doubt it will.

Blurs On A Wall

I'm always surrounded.
By the lost, the floundered.
And faggot haters.
And class traitors.
Long lost causes,
Bright Rising stars.
Kids with jobs.
And fast red cars.
But with me,
If you can yet see,
The more you look.
The less there is.
The less there is.
I've known those happy.
And those damn dirt sad.
The kindest hearts.
And the very, very bad.
The whole world loves you,
If you do what we say.
Don't do that,
Don't do this,
Don't fight him,
Her, don't kiss.
So many things,
To do, or not.
Without, you're cold,
And under it's hot.
But with me,
If you still can't see.
The more you look.
The less there is.
The less there is.
Cruelty is cruel.
Wetness is wet.
Is everything fluid?
Are the pieces set?
Does Satan hate you?
Is there anything left to?
Farmers toil,
Soldiers fight,
Doctors heal,
And priests are right.
There's no room.
Click click, boom boom.
Click click, boom boom.
Do you hate us,
Mr Red?
Do you loathe us?
And want us dead?
Well, even with me.
For all to see.
The more you look.
The less there is.
The less there is.
Just blurs on a wall.
Not a mystery.
Not even at all.

Atom Heart Mother

Strange

The world is a strange place. I don't blame you for not understanding it.

Personally, I'd love to make my own world. A place where reward is given for being good. A place where those who deserve it, gain respect. A place where those who love are loved.

But that isn't our world. Our world is so much stranger. And wilder. And crueler. A place where you can sell a human child into a world of rape for shiny objects.

You're not stupid because you don't understand your environment. I don't either. I just play along and smile and nod where it seems appropriate.

I dream of a world of heroes. But that isn't what we have here. We have what we have. Instead of heroes, we have you, me, your friends (fine people one and all, but heroes? No.) your family, and those other people.

I'm sorry. Please keep living though. Things might get better. Things might get worse. But it won't matter if you don't sit here, and watch events unfold.

That might not not be enough for you. But it'd be a damn sorry thing if no one ever says a sunrise was beautiful, because no one was there to see it.

Slumber

You who fear death,
Know that you fear,
For the best reasons.
Who among us can step,
Fearlessly, faultlessly,
Uncaring and heedless,
Into utter, endless darkness?
Raving Madmen. Fools.
And the dispossessed.
You fear death for that,
You stay alive for something.
You love, hate, and hurt.
And for this you live.
For this you do not die.

You are wise to fear death,
And to bask in your livingness.

Why Manson Was Wrong

This post might seem about on my faith in God, but it's really about my faith in people. If you're offended by my faith in God, or my faith in people, you can go fuck yourself.

Jesus once said this:

"Love your enemies"

And Marilyn Manson then said this in response:

"If you are taught to love everyone, to love your enemies, what value does that place on love?"

That was paraphrased, but that's the crux of what he said.

I don't think he's any more or less worse than any other celebrity. Some of his music is pretty cool, but I wouldn't call myself a Manson fanatic. He's a Shock-Rocker. He aims to make a scene. He's made a lot of money out if it.

The problem with your view Marilyn, is that it implies that when you 'love' in the sense you are talking about, you loose a certain amount of love each time you do it. That isn't the case. If you are generous with kindness, which is really what this is about, it encourages the growth of kindness. Love begets love.

If you hit a dog once, hard, it becomes afraid of you. Do it a few more times and you start to fuck up the dog. And soon you have a horrible snarling monster that bites and barks at everyone that approaches it.

If you treat a that dog well, it might become a nice animal once again. It might not. But it doesn't hurt to try, provided you put a muzzle on him.

And if you are kind from the beginning, then it won't happen at all.

People are no different. If you are good to someone, regardless of whether or not they are a dick, it won't ensure they'll be nice to you. But it won't hurt your chances. And it won't make the world a worse place.

But being horrible over again? That will. And then what? What have you gained by refusing kindness to everyone?

I'm not saying you should let people walk all over you. I'm saying you shouldn't walk all over people.

It's really not that complex.

My Facebook.

What I see when I look at my Facebook news feed most of the time (just the statuses):

I'm a whiny bitch.

I'm a whiny bitch.

I'm a whiny bitch.

This status doesn't make sense!

I'm a whiny bitch.

Some song lyrics!

Genuinely amusing.

I'm a whiny bitch.

Some song lyrics!

This status doesn't make sense!

Some song lyrics!

I'm a whiny bitch.

Topical discussion on something I may care for.

I'm a whiny bitch.

I'm a whiny bitch.

A close friend saying something I care about.

I'm a whiny bitch.

This status makes no sense!

Some song lyrics!

I'm a whiny, whiny, bitchy bitch. Love me or I'll cut myself.

Pride In A New Breed

I'm getting older.

So are you.

So are we all.

Slowly, but not slow enough.

Are we worth all this expense?

Is our sharpness, or keenness,

Our wit, our stings,

And the mastery we built,

Is any of it worth this?

This dying earth,

These crushed things.

Bent in the dirt.

Will these cities outlast us,

Will a new race of man look up,

On a new, green day,

With flowers sprouting through asphalt,

With strange new mammals,

Galloping through empty urban landscape.

And sunbeams shooting through clean air,

Will there be the ruins of skyscrapers swaying,
Hollow for a thousand years,

In the breeze of a better time?

Will the shells of cars rust in the dawn of a new age?

Will there be grass again?

Will the seas be blue again?

Will the earth heal?

Will the life come back,

Will the breed that comes after us,

Look up and out and around,

At the ruin of the old world?

Will they be better?

Will they outlast their cities,

And their star?

Would I be proud of them?

What are we breeding?

Will they learn from us,

As we didn't.

Make everything Ok

http://make-everything-ok.com/

Tear Down, Build up.

Most boys of any age like to see stuff blow up. It's a truth universally acknowledged, and hard to refute. Hey, when cars explode, it looks cool. I don't know why. It just does. The process of making that car looked cool to. The metal shaping, the welding, the magnificent production line that churns out cars at an often alarming rate. Damn cool looking thing.

The act of destruction can be something beautiful. Every time I see the blossoming rose of the atomic cloud with Vera Lynne singing along at the end of 'Dr Strangelove', I'm touched. The wonder of its power is breathtaking. Terrible, certainly, horrifying in its use on human beings, to be sure. But still... It's almost magical to see.

The act of a child being formed in a womb disturbs me. That such a complex, specific and potentially world-changing form could be knit together in such a small amount of time startels and frightens me. But nonetheless, it is fascinating too.

Creation and Destruction are human concepts. It is the way of the world that to assemble something you must disassemble something else. In truth, I find greater satisfaction in the making of something good, than the end of something not.

One can do many things in this life. But a cause for maintenance, healing and crafting is greater than one of senseless hurting. I say things all too often here that, while mainly true, are bitter, saddening, and cynical. But I always feel better when I encourage. And I seek to plant this seed of hope in you now:

Build great things, with the power you have, whatever that talent is. Let the things you would destroy, destroy themselves. If they are as bad as you think they are, they likely will. At the end of the day, the muscles the power your movements will loathe you less, and love you more. I know you can do this, because I know there is good, enough, everywhere.

It is its own reward.

Things.

Currently, I have the following things in my pockets, or on my person, not including the things in my bag:

Smartphone
Wallet case for smartphone containing various cards of proof, currency or entitlement, some cash and receipt for girlfriend's ring.
Swiss army knife, connected to small key ring with two keys.
Greek worry beads.
Sliver snuff box containing ten hair ties and a thirty two gigabyte USB thumb drive.
Brass spyglass.
Small jar of White Siang pure balm.
Portable gaming console.
In-earphones with remote and microphone.
One handkerchief.
Packet of extra chewing gum.
One steel band watch.
One ring.
One pair of dark sunglasses.

Dogs on a Journey

We are all but dogs
That wander in the moonlight
That bask in the sun.
That sleep in the shade.
That freeze in the winter.
And always wander.
Looking... For something?
For what?
Hoping... For something?
Don't know really.
Struggling on,
Through the searing wind.
The blistering cold.
The biting hunger,
And the gasping thirst.
What do we see?
What do we look for?
What do we cling to?
To make us think,
Tomorrow will be worth today?
Is it real?
Is it false?
Or is only the struggle,
The part that matters.
Whatever the answer may be.
So desperate.
What can you see that your neighbor cannot? Can you see the twist of light,
As it moves through the cosmos?
Can you see the impossibility...
Of its journey?

And for what?
Some faint, bright pinpricks.
Long after their king is dead, and their worlds are dust,

This is all they send to us.

Euphoric

Madness is not a prerequisite for euphoria. To be mad upon finding incredible wealth (be it money, knowledge, love or ect)
is only indictive of being mad.

When a sane man suddenly realizes his hearts desire is in his reach, he pops a bottle of champagne with his friends and says, "hooray!".

The mad man... Well. He goes mad.

So many people go mad when they feel instense emotion. What does that say about humanity?

Joely Talks About Gadgets

Joel's Electronics review: The PSV

For my birthday, my family and I purchased a gift of a Play Station Vita, for me as a gift, in celebration. Also known as a PSV, it is the latest of sony's modestly successful Play-Station-Portable line of gaming consoles. It competes is this area agains modern smart mobile phones, many if not all support simple flash-style games that provide moderate amusement at a low cost for the casual gamer-on-the-go. But for those who want a more in-depth gaming experience while perambulating around, many choose the Nintendo DS, the PSP and some hi-power tablets that have a similar experience.

The PSV boasts a quite frankly beautiful five inch multi-touchscreen, dual button/analog controls, rear touchpad, front and rear facing cameras (You'll barely use the cameras), accelerometer + gyroscope sensors that along with a a powerful graphics and CPU make for a very immersive and versatile console. Sony claimed that PS3 level games could be played on the PSV, this simply isn't true, nonetheless the games are incredible. Apple can quibble all it wants about infinity blade II and the New iPad's orgasmic screen resolution, but it cannot compete with the PSV's frankly crazy-fun console happy-times that make your head spin and your eyes pop. Design wise, you can tell how much has been blatantly copied from the iPhone (Metal band antenna, the OS, and the capacitive touch screen), but that surely doesn't make those choices any less slick and delicious.

One can either purchase hard copies of games in store for the device, or (And this was especially appealing to me) buy them online and download directly to the device, as well as songs pictures and movies that can be pulled across from your PC/Mac computer. But if you want to do the latter, you'll have to fork over to sony up to one hundred extra dollars for a custom "Sony" memory card, as the animal has zip onboard storage space for your games and any media you want to have fun with. Regular SD memory cards will not work with it, which is a huge pain in the neck, and as many games can be whole gigabytes in size, you'll want plenty of memory space. Sony claims that this is to help to defend against piracy, but I am dubious, considering that is comes with no mem card of any size.

The greatest flaw this device has is limited and expensive game titles. Compared to the huge number of Apps available at the android or apple app stores for smartphones, and the well established Nintendo database of games, the Vita's selection is sadly limited, which was a similar problem that sony has had with the PS3 vs Xbox 360 Shenanigans (Why do you not learn sony?). A game on the device will cost anything from eleven to seventy dollars, add that to the fact that the games on the iphone/iPod Touch and Android (while by no means in league with the Vita's) are cheap as chips, and the easy-as-pie-to-pirate nintendo DS games are what it has for competition, and you have a very unhappy consumer.

The Ultra-Rich's console of choice, this is truly a luxury item. And unless Sony takes it's head out of it's ass and realises that, I predict that it will sell poorly. It's a gorgeous and stunning piece of engineering. But not for the everyman by any account. And if you do buy one, for god's sake, check on eBay like I didn't.
-__-

Men of Steel, Dark Knights.

Superman:
Is superhumanly intelligent (has an edict memory, can learn any language in moments, and has a flawless skill in any aspect of learning)
Shoots lasers/heat rays from his eyes.
Can freeze/supercool things by breathing on them.
Can fly, without any visible aid, at light speed, has superhuman reflexes and thought processing speeds.
Can see through solid objects (bar lead), has other vison related abilities.
Can hear anything that happens on earth if within its atmosphere, can hear if humans are lying through increased heart rate.
Can detect poisons and other potentially harmful chemicals by smell.
Is totally invulnerable to any conventional weaponry.
Superhumanly strong to an unprecedented extent.
Does not need to eat, sleep or breath and has unlimited stamina, provided he is exposed to our sun's light/radiation.
Is immortal, resistant to disease, eternally youthful, provided he is exposed to our sun's light/radiation.
.
Has an indomitable willpower.
Has access to highly advanced alien technology, passed down from his deceased father, greater than any human technology.
Is completely sane and well balanced, saves lives because he can.
Has a loving wife, and a dutiful son (sometimes :P).
Does not wear a mask.

Is harmed by:
The rare mineral Kryptonite.
Some types of supernatural power.
Weapons that have at least a greater power than an atomic bomb.
Is weakened by his emotional defects.

Is bound by his ethics never to kill anyone.

Batman:
Is extraordinarily clever (Genius human intellect, master of disguise, world's greatest detective).
Has an indomitable willpower.
Spent his whole life learning how to fight.
Has lots of money to spend on making humanly limited inventions to help him in his battle against crime,.
Is totally crazy, only fights bad guys because he was scarred as a child by his parents death at the hands of a mugger, protects innocent lives when he isn't sleeping.
Is single, has on-off relationships with few women (Cat-woman, Talia-Al-Ghul, others)
Has a crazy ex-girlfriend (daughter of one of his enemies) who mothered his even crazier son.
Is strengthened by his emotional defects.

Is harmed by:
Bullets, knives, punches, explosions, falling, radiation, diseases, cancer, ageing, stubbed toes, anything that you are.
Protects his identity with a mask.

Is bound by his ethics never to kill anyone.


Superman Vs Batman = Batman wins.

I know who is more awesome. Do you?

Softly Moving Inexorable Harmonies

The sand slowly falls from bulb to bulb.

Lights dwindle and shake, and burst and fail.

The earth grows hotter, and the oceans boil.

Our heroes stumble, and perish, are buried and forgot.

Inventions are built, and wonders are wrought.

Beings made only of words are written.

Questions are asked, and answers are hidden.

Ships sail on through the inky infinite.

Lives are spent freely and children are born.

Masters speak of other worlds and selves, their kinship to our own undeniable.

Baking thousand hour days, and freezing nights of equal length.

Squelching creatures, mouldering in the dark. Waiting for their time to rise.

Strangers that walk in honesty, come to change new places.

And a new order. For a changed home.

No Matter

I was, just a little while back, abused for voicing an opinion that no one else bothered to try to understand.

But, it doesn't matter.

It's not like I'm some giant enigma, I'm not too complicated to understand. But, I find largely people are more comfortable believing big simple things, and ignoring how things actually are, rather than tax their brains trying to figure out the way people really feel and what sayings really mean.

I'm not ashamed of thinking the way I do, even if you are. I'm not ashamed of standing up for my people, despite the wrong we have done, and despite that most people would rather believe that we are awful, than accept that we are just people, as with everyone else.

It makes me tired, to argue. I try not to generally. I just try to live, and maintain a little integrity to self while I'm at it.

What would you have me do?

You Lose

I was playing a game once at a fete thing, and it was obviously broken. The object of the game was to get your tennis ball through the hoop, an easy task. But no matter how many balls one threw through the hoop, a message in red LEDs would appear on the backplate saying simply, "You lose" and bark out an awful blare of machine noise.

What a bastard of a world to be born into, that gives no point or reason, not a gesture of hope but that we make for ourselves, and yet offers us no better option to live with.

In the real world, nothing you do will matter, nothing you say will make the slightest difference, soon you will be dead, and soon after that you'll be forgotten.

It's not as though our environment is vicious, or malicious, it just doesn't care at all. You are no more relevant to this human race than a lost grain of rice is relevant to solving world hunger, and the human race is no more relevant to the universe than a speck smaller than the smallest flake of dust, floating in an infinite lifeless void, is to anything.

You lose.

Broken Body

Arms that are as heavy as lead.
A back that aches in steady throbs.
Fingers, swollen with blisters.
Eyes red, dark ringed and itchy.
Lips as dry and split as desert sands.
A tongue that lies like a furry dead thing in a leathered mouth.
Legs that drag, shake, and bend at the knee when they shouldn't.
Feet that have traveled from tired, to sore, past agony into numbness.

Just... Lie down.
Rest a while.
Let the day end.
Drink in sweet water.
Recline on soft chairs, in the shade.

Let it all drip away,
Like rain falling from a roof gutter.
Drip, drip.

Meh.

My Sin Is Envy

"I might not be a smart man, but I know what love is." - Forest Gump

I want to be Doctor Frankenstein. God is too cruel to obey.

There was once a kind of argument that I knew I would lose, because I didn't have the heart to defend it. But there is one I have all the heart in the world to defend, but I know I will always lose.

I cannot do all.
I cannot lift the weight that is beyond me to lift.
I cannot run a mile that is more than within my body to do so.
I cannot feel an emotion beyond my heart to give.
I cannot think a thought beyond the ability of my mind to know.
And I cannot bare a child.

I cannot do these things.

But do not dare to think that every single woman alive is stronger than me in body, stronger than me in heart and stronger than me in mind. Do not think I would not perform her task, if it was within my power to do so, to all satisfaction.

I am not ashamed of being a man. But if I could change to be woman in body I would. Just so I could show you all that it takes but one caring life to make another, and it matters not of what gender in mind and heart that life is.

I love my unborn daughter, or son. I don't care if you think I can't do something a woman can, I know I can love. I know I can build. And I know that of it came to it, I would be all a child needed, just as all I needed was one person to guide me.

Why do you hate me for feeling only what is natural for me to feel? Why am I not allowed to love my child? Why am I not allowed to say, aloud, that I would give my life for her or him? Why am I not allowed to say that I could provide, one and all, that my child needs?

I am not made of tin! I can feel! I can be! I am life! I am man! I am not, yet, obsolete! Do not yet say I am! That time has not come yet! I am half of a whole as of yet! The world is made better with me in it! I know it is!

I don't even believe myself.

Do what you will, pass what you like. I will never try to bare a child. I fear that the hope of it will be snatched from me. That fear keeps me awake. That fear, more than anything.

And as for you, shut up. You don't know what it is to love a woman, as I have loved and bled, even if you are a man. Not for what you are, but for what you demand of me, you hurt me. Deeply, so deeply. All the way down.

Go away. Leave me with my looming obsolescence. You have won. Just leave me. Let me rust without further ridicule. Please.

My sin is envy, but I would not be forgiven for it, even if it drags me to hell.

Life.

What do you need to build a city?
What do you need to build a life?
What do you need to love a city?
What do you need to love your life?

Don't build yourself. Be yourself.

What do you need to live a life?
And what do you need to be alive?

The Friends Of Mr. Cairo

Born Again.

"Dude, are you okay?"

Jimmy looked up from his hot chocolate.

"What?"

"I asked if you were okay?"

"Oh, right. Yeah I'm fine"

"Cool" Replied Bill. He didn't sound like he meant it. He sounded worried.

Jimmy drank his hot drink, and stood up. "I'd better go home" He said, in monotone.

"Sure" said Bill. "But, wouldn't you like a lift home? I can give you a lift"

"Nah. I like walking" He said, in monotone.

"Dude, It's raining." Bill sounded confused. But, everyone likes to walk home sometimes, right?

"I know" He said,  in monotone.

"She'll come back dude. You know how Sam is. She loves you." Said Bill. He wanted to believe what he was saying. Desperately.

"I know. I'll be fine." Jimmy said, in monotone.

"I'll call you tomorrow" So desperate.

"I'll be fine. Just fine." He said, in monotone.

"Dude. Just, don't, dude." Now Bill just sounded dumb. Dumb and desperate.

"See you man" Jimmy said, in monotone.

Jimmy left the all night cafe. It wasn't a long walk home, through this dark, crime ridden city. But it was long enough.

Water poured down in a flood. The mould that grew in corners, forgotten newspapers, litter, homeless people. They all blurred into one after a while. Death lurked in dark alleys. It was always so cold here. But his boots, his expensive jacket, a few hot chocolates, and most of all, the promise of the hunt, kept Jimmy nice and warm.

He looked over the main street. It was a right, then a left, then straight ahead. That was the way back to his apartment block. Jimmy turned left. Into a place he didn't know.

Walking. Walking. One boy. Alone. In a dark, dark alley. They'll be one soon. A bite on the hook. Please God let there be one soon.

Take the bait. C'mon. I know you're there.

"Hey, you."

Ahhhh... Those two words were music to his soul.

"Give us yer money, cunt!" Three figures, genders indistinguishable in the night. The formost, the owner of the voice, the leader probably, had a switchblade that glinted briefly, despite the all encompassing blackness. The other two were seemingly unarmed.

"Sorry, what?" said Jimmy.

"I said give us yer money!" Anger drowned out the rain.

"What if... I don't?" Responded Jimmy, slowly.

"Then I cut you up, bitch!" The would be mugger swished his knife, to show he ment what he spoke. The two behind him said nothing.

"Really? Is that just so" Said Jimmy. The flatness had left his voice. Something else was there now.

"Give us yer fuckin money, cunt!" The mugger seemed serious. That was a change. Well, friends did give you courage.

"No."

The word hung in the damp silence like a the beat of a huge brass gong.

"Fine" said the mugger, who spoke.

His last action was to leap forward, a slow, sloppy lunge. Ducking beneath the strike, Jimmy barely registered the man's short scream for mercy before his sharp white teeth closed on the throat, both hands holding painfully tight the hand that held the knife. Jimmy heard and felt fragile bones break under his fingers. It was beautiful.

With a sharp and easy twist of his neck, Jimmy ripped out the oesophagus of his mugger. And as he lay, bleeding on the night's pitiless street, the predator looked up at the mugger's would be friends.

"Run away" requested Jimmy. But there was no real hope, in his joyful voice, that either of them would obey his command. But obey they did. They didn't need to hear the sad, bloody gurgling of their leader to know they were in very deep shit. They ran. Fast.

Jimmy picked up his attacker. He was heavy. Much older than Jimmy was, at least twenty, and so, taller and broader.

"I don't like you"

The corpse gave no reply.

"Not even a little"

He dropped it then. A lifeless toy. No fun anymore. It had been all too quick.

Jimmy sighed. Maybe Bill was right. Maybe she would come back. Jimmy sighed again, wiped the gore from his mouth, and spat. Jimmy and Sam. That's what his tattoo said. How could she forget that?

Jimmy went back the way he came, onto the main street.

He turned right. Then left. Then straight ahead. Home sweet home.

He buzzed the door. No one opened, so he kicked it down. It wasn't even hard. That worried him a little. What if there was a break in? What if his mum was home? What if Jimmy wasn't there? He must tell the landlord.

He walked upstairs, till he got to his apartment door.

"James, is that you?" Such fear. What if something had happened to her baby boy?

"Yes mum." He confirmed immediately.

"You're home very late"

"Sorry mum"

"Would you like to hear the daily light?" Hopeful now.

Jimmy felt guilty as he had to reply, "Not tonight mum."

"Alright. I heard about Sam. I love you. I'll leave your breakfast on the table. Goodnight."

"Goodnight mum. Thanks mum"

His room was cold. He'd left his window open again, goddamn it. He bit his lip. I meant gosh darn it. 

Off with these clothes. Covered with blood. He'd have to get a new jacket.

He sighed.

He'd think about it in the morning. After breakfast. School tomorrow. Bill would be there. Bill would know what to do. Bill was older. And smarter. He could drive, even.

Jimmy, the serial killer, seventeen years old, born-again Christian, known in the papers as "The Animal" tucked himself into bed.

Everything would be better in the morning.

Ridiculous Ideas That Turned Out Great

Humans are incredibly cocky. We just come up with outrageous ideas, and then make them real. Aeroplanes, machines made of wood, metal, plastic, or canvas, capable of flying like birds. That was once just an idea in someone's head. Or skyscrapers, buildings so tall and with so many layers that thousands of people can inhabit them at once, for living, or work, or recreation. That was once just on paper, and before that only existent in a head. Telephones, a device that sends the voice of a person through the air and to another device for long range communication. This too was once just a thought.

Computers, cars, microwave ovens, combine harvesters, guns, refrigerators, submarines, digital cameras and indoor plumbing were all just ideas once. Then people made them happen.

Why it is that anyone believed that any of these incredible things would be possible at all is beyond me. But damn I'm happy they did.

Text To Jenni Out Of Context

Mortal

I'm going to die one day. My heart will still, and my blood will stop flowing, and my brain will cease firing electrical impulses, and my organs will shut down, and I'll die.

I've seen people go through it. And I know from my mother, who is a palliative care nurse, vaguely what it is like. And how ugly it can be.

I'm white, and by the standards of the world, wealthy. It means I'll probably live a while.

But, not forever.

Nobody has ever died before. People have different attitudes about it. Some see it as a gift, many a curse, others as part of a cycle, and others still as nothing particularly important.

You can fear it if you want. You can try and pretend that it won't ever happen to you, or that you're looking forward to it.

Some people (I am one of them) think that part of you, the part even perhaps that makes you YOU, continues to live after you die, and you go somewhere else. Others think that you turn into a different animal somehow, and live that life until it ends, and then turn into yet another one. Some others believe that nothing happens, that you cease, like a fire extinguished. But none of us can be sure.

I'll be honest. I really don't want to. I'm not keen for it at all. The very idea... Disturbs me.

I hope that when it happens to me, it's sudden. That the dread won't creep up, and I'll die laughing. Not soon please. Some years hence, but, sudden. A heart attack maybe. Or a brain aneurism that I don't even feel. Maybe I'll just go to sleep after a lovely day and night, and never wake up.

That's my wish. Obviously, I don't get a say, but that is certainly my wish.

Death, and the creeping knowledge of mortality seems to be a trait reserved only for intelligent animals, like humans, and perhaps other great apes, and almost certainly elephants, who morn their dead. Who knows what dogs dream of? But I know it isn't a wonder of when they'll end.

Live now, that's my advice, to you and me. Whatever it is that you do, do it. Because you won't be able to, always. That's what it means to be mortal.

The Heart of a Beast

"look mirror, I have her heart in my hand! She is dead!

No, my mistress, what you hold is the heart of a pig."


I've hated you.
And and I've been the object of your
...Obsession.
And you've hated me.
And you've been the subject of my
...infatuation.
I've doubted you, sure,
And I've fought you
Tooth and claw.
The only way I can.
You've promised things to me,
That you didn't keep.
And you've crushed me,
Under your lovely boot heel.
But I rose again.
And again.
And again.
And you rose again.
And again.
And again.
But I can't do anything.
But know you,
As well as I know myself.
And you bastard, I don't know,
What you'll do.
But it better,
Be better.
Than what you did before.
Because I'll always be here,
To make you remember.
If it isn't.

I Really, Really Love This.

Knots And People And People-Knots

I like the night here in my room. I had a headache and have ben feeling woozy all day, but it's gone, I feel fine. Here and now, in the peace and quiet, the cold fresh air flowing into my room to breath in. My  feather stuffed blankets to keep me warm while I do. Nothing between me and you.

I'm not a great poet or a marvellous story spinner. I haven't thought anything very special in my life. I don't have much in the way of value to offer the world. I just keep doing what I do, because I can, and there's nothing else to be done.

Alexander the great, before he was great, was once famously challenged to unravel a knot of rope, and produce two ends. This knot, called the Gordian Knot, was notorious in that some of the then world's greatest thinkers had failed to solve the puzzle of it. Alexander did indeed try to undo it, but was unable to find an end to start with. So he drew his sword and sliced it in half, the pieces of rope falling to the ground. Then everyone clapped for the big cheater, and he went on to conquer half the bloody world, the bastard.

Nowadays, it's a bit weird if you carry a sword around with you day to day, as the people who fight for us now do it with guns, and all that stuff, that generally involves bleeding and dying and exploding and whatnot. It's all done for somewhat confusing reasons, such as what is written in an old book, and what's written in a different old book. Or because one rich man wants something another rich man has, and doesn't feel like saying please. Or because some people look different to others and just can't seem to get along. So they put bullets in each other and it's all rather dreadful and I don't understand it much.

Because of lack of swords, cutting knots in half with them is obviously impossible. If I had one, I can't imagine I'd be very good with it, the closest I get to a sword on a day to day basis being my swiss army knife. Alexander did a lot of very clever things, but cutting a bit of rope wasn't one of them. He wanted a united world, with him at the top of it. Who can blame him? And who can blame him for taking it with the edge of a blade? 

I don't blame the world for the way it is, either, or expect it to be better. A puppy widdles itself on the carpet, it's what a puppy does. A bloke has a problem with another bloke in a prison, so instead of figuring it out, he shivs him with the sharpened end of a toothbrush. But people aren't just lifeless ropes. We are riddles to be solved, and you can't solve a man by killing him. You can't solve world hunger by bombing the hungry. Every life of every child has the potential to be just as valuable as yours or mine, whether they live in sand, slime, mountains, mansions, slums, suburbs, pigpens or penthouses.

And if you disagree with that last statement, you can fuck off and die. Because you are the problem that this world really has. And I don't love you.

Of Me.

When you fall from the sky.
Dream of me.
When you crawl across the earth.
Dream of me.
When your mighty towers fall to the ground.
Dream of me.
When you train the land to obey you.
Dream of me.
When you beg for your children's lives.
Dream of me.
When you fear for your own self-destruction.
Dream of me.
When you dance to the pace of night.
Dream of me.
When you build a machine to pierce heaven.
Dream of me.
When you leave your bonds behind you.
Dream of me.
When you sail through the cosmos.
Dream of me.
When you are a slave to nothing.
Dream of me.
When your wings are clipped.
Dream of me.
When you fall from the sky.
Dream of me.

The knowing?

Why are you the way you are?

Is it because of randomness?

Is it because you have a purpose?

Is it because the world built you to survive?

Is it to learn the nature of everything, through your mistakes?

Why are you the way you are?
Ask that question.

Please.

In Defense Of Hate

Many people that I meet tell me that I shouldn't use the word hate. Because it's an "ugly word" or because it is "not nice".

Hate, in my opinion, is a type of love. And love is kind of like worship, or prayer. When you love, you feel a powerful emotion of a positive nature. Your thoughts and actions are devoted to the object of your love. As with love, when you hate, your thoughts and actions are devoted to the object of your hate. It's really quite similar.

When I hate, I have the same strength of emotion that I have when I love. It feels the same. It feels good, to not flounder and act with confusion, but to know beyond a shadow of a doubt, of this one, true thing. But unlike when you feel love, which makes you foolish and unenthusiastic, hate makes you sharper, and keener.

If nothing else, it is important to remember that it is only an emotion. It only affects the he or she who is feeling it directly.

No. Hate isn't 'nice'. But often enough, neither is the environment that causes us to feel emotion. Oftentimes, even for people in privileged situations, the world can be a hard place to live. It's strange. It's nonsensical. It's unpredictable. It's uncertain. And when one is run down, tired, hurt, worn, battered, bruised and generally at the end of the rope, it is hard to feel love. It isn't hard to hate. Can you blame someone for wanting some emotional solidarity?

You can love the wrong things and people. And you can love the right things. You can hate the wrong things. And you can hate the right things.

Is it right to hate a rapist? Yes.
Is it right to hate someone because they are attracted to someone of the same gender? No.
Is it right to love a Mass murderer? No.
Is it right to love your mother? Yes.

Trust me, there is plenty in this world that is deserving of hate. Plenty of stupidity, violence, fear and ignorance bundled up and given power that deserves hate from everyone everywhere.

To deny hate, is to deny the rights of an individual. We are free to feel. You cannot ban an emotion.

I will continue to hate. I will look at the ugliness in human nature, the strikers of children, the concealed truths, the binders and the swindlers and I will feel hate. And you can't stop me.

Are You A Cyborg?

Some people argue that when a person equips themselves with an artificial limb, they lose a portion of their humanity. Others say that this isn't the case, that one remains human, except with an artificial limb.

But think on this for a moment,

If you were to equip a person with a prosthetic finger, not as a replacement, but as an addition to the ten fingers they already have, it could aid them in doing things they already can, like wearing an extra ring or carrying an an extra bag, and also perform entirely new functions, such as particular fret work on a guitar (provided the technology in the finger wasn't the limiting factor), or if the finger was small, reaching into tiny crevices or incredibly delicate surgery.

Having said that, if a person were to carry around an object in their pocket that allowed them to access information they previously couldn't and perform mental tasks that they would otherwise have to perform themselves (an iPhone) is this not too a prosthesis, albeit for one's brain?

Does using my iPhone make me less human? Possibly. But I don't see why it is a bad thing. Our technology is an extension of ourselves. As it improves in function and reliability, it is natural that it will integrate with our bodies more.

What if you were to make a computer efficient, small, powerful, reliable, and run it off the electrical and heat energies in your own body, and mount it in your arm, or even directly to your brain?

We will evolve, with or without the help of God. And it will be wonderful.

And Nothing

What do you drink when the water is drunk?

What do you bleed when your veins run dry?

What do you think when your mind is empty?

What do you feel when your emotion is gone?

What do you hold onto when your possessions are stolen?

Who do you cling to when your lover slips away?

Where do you go when the world is a wasteland?

When do you go if all times are spent?

What force holds you together when the universe shatters?

What air do you breath when the sky is burned?

What home do you make when there is nowhere to live?

What life do you live when your future is erased?

What measure of hope can you bring to a sunless day?

What comfort do you feel when your loneliness is your only?

What smiles can grip you when your lips rot away?

What sights can you see when all colour has faded?

The answer is nothing, and no one, none, no-when,

Nowhere and nothing, and nothing, and nothing.

And nothing.

What is the only thing you should demand of nothing?

Everything.

Make a new world.

Let there be light?

Think Fading Flesh.

It isn't always clear,
And it isn't always clean,
It isn't always fair,
And it isn't always right.
But it's always what you have to do.

Dream of me,
When the day is done,
Lay your weary head.
Dream of me,
When the night is young,
And the sunset is just dead.

What makes a man a man?
Is it his heart,
His mind,
His memories,
The strength in his arm?

What makes a man a man?

What makes me a man?

The Dragging Transparent

Weary

Lengths

Soft

Light

Dancing

Answers

Silver

Night

Soiled

Hope

Boundless

Days

Empty

October

Winding

Ways

Foolish

Wonders

Cold

Ends

Burning

Hearts

Absent

Friends

Confused

Mashing

Colours

Swirl

Strange

Numbers

Golden

Girl

Dragging

Transparent

Folding

Space

Timeless

Journey

Dying

Race

Forging

Darkness

Quiet

Grace

Lonely

Soldier

Stolen

Face

Foraging

Treasure

Starting

Spark

Consorting

Harpies

Willows

Bark