The Insidious Ugliness

Sometimes I feel as though ugliness is a creeping, growing thing. An insidious mould that clings to things, transforms them from what they were to what they are. It creeps into our very minds and memories, until we can't even remember the way things used to be.

I sometimes wonder what my life would be like if I were really beautiful. How much easier would my life be if all I had to do to get by was smile?

The answer is a lot. But that's not what I'm for. If I'm for anything.

In the end, all I ask you for, reader, is to try to remember the way things were before you were made to forget.

Cheerioh.

He said, "Son, you be sure careful mind,
There are about so many evil witches,
Men who hate the Son Of God, you'll find,
And whores, devils, and sons of bitches.
They'll hurt you if they can son,
Oh, they'll hurt you if they can."

But he never told me what to do,
If I was the one who was dealing the pain,
But when back then all I knew,
Was that even the evil still see rain,
On the just and unjust alike indeed,
Yes, on the just and unjust alike.

Strong and tall, brave and true,
Eyes like stars and hands like hope,
One of the best, and one of the few,
Please God throw me some rope.
I really need a hand here Lord,
Dear God I really need a hand.

So I walked and ran a million miles,
And faced some terrible aches,
I wandered through a sea of smiles,
And bet on high, weighty stakes,
"You gotta be innit to win it boy,
Damn, you gotta be innit to win."

Win I did, but at what kind of a win?
Laugher and loss are a plenty here,
In the valley of inventive, curious sin,
You'll let loose all you hold dear.
You see what you love turn grey and dead,
Yes, you see all you love turn grey.

Run far and fast, and stay away from me.
I'm the one they warned you about,
Get yourself far away, somewhere you can be,
A place where you never have to shout.
You can whisper in your special place.
My love, You can whisper in your place.

Cheerioh. X.

Going Away.

This is where you are, 

This is where your heart beats. 

Though you travel wide and far, 

This is where you are. 

Underneath your cotton sheets. 

This is where I am, 

You know you'll find me here. 

Fight it if you feel you can, 

This is where I am. 

Buried in the deepest fear. 

I know you know me, 

Though you turn and look away, 

Here I am for all to see, 

I know you know me. 

And I know, I'm here to stay. 

Here we were and here we stay, 

Though you turn and look away. 

Here we are and, long to stay, 

We will not ever go away. 

We will not ever go away. 

Tear Me Apart.

"They claim their labours are to build a heaven, yet their heaven is populated with horrors. Perhaps the world is not made. Perhaps nothing is made. A clock without a craftsman."

I'll tell you something I don't know.

What is the difference between potentially anything,

And definitely nothing? 

Which would you rather have? 

Why does the snake eat itself? 

Because it did? 

Because it will? 

And, how?

Why don't I want anything?

Imagine a lie so untruthful it has to be believed.

The lie of existence in its entirety. 

Why don't I care for this world?

Why doesn't it matter to me if we burn our mother?

Why don't I care for your rape?

Why doesn't it matter to me if our spark keeps burning?

Why don't I care if it goes out?

Why doesn't it matter to me if this rock still spins?

Why don't I care if it stops?

None of this means anything to me. 

But why?

They don't.

All these jumbled thoughts tear me apart.
They do.

Why do I care if these people forget me? 

Why do I need you, the strange boy I never knew? 

Why do I care what you think?

Why do I need you, the girl who was as distant as anyone? 

Why do I care if you to love me?

Why do I need you, you who I discarded so lightly? 

Why do I wish you thought of me? 

You mean so much to me.

But why?

Imagine a truth so real it is impossible to believe. 

The truth of nothingness. 

Why do I want any of you? 

What is my life?

Why did I start? 

Why will I end?

And, how?

Am I anything? 

Am I nothing?

Which would I rather be? 

I just don't know. 

"God, help me. 

Deliver me to paradise.

Amen."

Rowan.

Rowan indirectly requested that my blog include more 'Rowan'.

So, I'm writing a post about him. This is a picture of Rowan I took, feeding some birds:

I went to the school 'Trinity Christian School' (also known by me as 'That awful place') with Rowan for some years, that right now I can't be bothered remembering the number of. It was he who while I was there commented that I was so depressed I looked, "Like a skull with a clown wig glued to it". After my triumphant escape from it, we remained friends.

I don't recall exactly how we became friends, but that in of itself is wholly unremarkable, as I have an awful memory for that sort of thing. I also don't remember how I became friends with almost all the people I would regard as knowing me well, including David, who I would say knows me better than anyone.

In a circle of friends, there is always one person desperate to cause some kind of mischief. In my circle of friends, that person is almost certainly Rowan. In a good way. On the Trinity 'Muck Up Day' He famously caused a muck up so horrendous that the cleaners refused to clean. There were little white foam beads everywhere and everything was sticky. Also his parties are, without getting into detail, famously eventful. Extremely eventful.

Sadly his sense of humor is not always appreciated. But I assure you it is always ultimately well meaning. Well, nearly always, hahahaha.

Don't be fooled by his ragamuffin exterior though. A mind exists behind that charming adolescent face that I would only describe as 'Ingenious'. And it is that ingenious intellect that I am sure will see him well through life an in his future aspirations. His... Political aspirations. Specifically, Prime Minister of Australia. You heard me.

One of the things that I really value about Rowan is that he actually has a lot of balls. If he says he is going to do something, if he possibly can... He'll do it. He doesn't pretend to be something he isn't, which as someone who was nearly planning to professionally do that, I really admire.

I regard Rowan as a very close friend, and I believe he feels the same about me. And I wish only the best for him.

Also, if you want a post you have to ask for one.

A World Of Sin

If I could find every person who ever loved me,
And make them love me again,
If I could find every person who I ever betrayed,
And make them believe in me again.
Maybe then,
I would no longer be,
A child born in sin.

If I could find every cheated stranger,
And replace every jewel I stole
If I could find every deceived friend,
And tell the truth for every lie I ever told,
Maybe then,
I would no longer be,
A child born in sin.

If I could find every life I ever took,
And bring it back,
If I could find every bullet I fired,
And make it a gift of life,
Maybe then,
I would no longer be,
A child born in sin.

If I could find every hand who made my clothes,
And clothe them,
If I could find every hand who made my bread,
And feed them,
Maybe then,
I would no longer be,
A child born in sin.

If I could love whenever I hated,
If I could give whenever I took,
If I could heal whenever I hurt,
If I could look in the Devil's eye,
And feel no fear,
And no regret,
And no desire,
And no anger,
And no pity,
And see nothing that I needed,
Maybe then...

If I could take back my life,
And make it never so,
If I could snuff the seed of my existence,
Before it had the chance to take root,
In the gears that turn behind the curtain of the world,

Yes, then,
I would no longer be,
A child born in sin.

If we all could,
Yes, then,
This world would no longer be,
A world of sin.

But what an empty world it would be.

Hard Work

I look around me, and everything just seems, well, awful. 

So many people I know are troubled, by real, honest, measurable things. They aren't the fairy tale troubles of teens that have everything they want and nothing to do: They have real problems, the kind that are still persistently there after a good night's sleep and a cup of tea. 

I could moan about my own current problems, but I'm not in the mood. It won't help me, it won't help you. I'm going to tell you a different story. 

I know I'm not the most optimistic guy in the world, hell, if there is anyone who is ready to tell you how many african children are dying while you eat that cheese burger, it's me. When things are bad, it's hard to be optimistic, and hopeful. But I tell you, when things get worse, I mean terrible, it is so much harder not to. 

When I was much younger and chubbier and blonder, I read 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea. I was transfixed by captain Nemo's underwater paradise. And I decided that I wanted to be a marine biologist. Mum had been sick for a while, but I clung to a fantasy world where everything was blue, beautiful, unknown and waiting, just waiting for Joel to get in his submarine and figure it all out for everyone. I wasn't very good at my times-tables at that age, and I can remember that my uncle, who I was staying with at the time, told me, "Joel, you'll have to get better at maths if you want to be a scientist."

Then I realised, no, sorry, you can't be that, it isn't real, you have to be better, and you can't. And my wonderful crystal fantasy shattered. My uncle didn't realize what he'd done. He just wanted to motivate me to be better at school. But when he told me then that I wasn't good enough, I saw a great grey wall of failure looming. And I knew I wouldn't be able to achieve my dream. 

No one told me then, about hope. About not just dreaming, but working hard to stay happy. If someone had told me then what I knew now, maybe I would be on my way to looking at some kind of new mollusc while wearing a scuba suit. 

So that's why I'm going to tell you this now. Sometimes, things are damn hard. But if you want them to, they can be better. You've heard it before from a thousand mouths, a message of hope. But no matter how stale it might seem, I'm going to tell you again. Hope isn't dead, there is so much too look forward to, so many wonderful people and opportunities. So much life that is so worth living. Don't get bogged down by what is now and what was then, pull yourself up with the promise of what is to come. 

It isn't a crime to feel sad. But if you are too busy being sad to remember that things will get better, well, that's just a shame. 

So, whoever you are, I don't care, I just wanted you to know that today I don't hate you. I don't hate anyone today. 

I love you, and trust me, someone else does too, and more people are yet to. You'll be fine, go chase your submarine.

Teenage Wasteland

Yes, that is a tan line from my holiday on my arms. Also here's the link to the real song like I promised:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x2KRpRMSu4g

Thanks for watching.

Silence.

Everybody needs somebody.
Everyone has a friend.

The people who know people,
Well enough.
To know, more than they know,
What they want.

You can't just explain to someone
"This is who I am"
And you can't make them know you,
Even if you want to.

The earning.
The learning.
The person who knows.
What you want.

You don't find them annoying.
Because they know how not to be.
You couldn't explain,
What it is,
That is,
Annoying,
Till the only person who isn't,

Is gone.

'Why aren't you doing that?'
Only they know.
'Why are you doing that?'
You don't even know.
But they do.

The plan is,
To find out,
Who you are.
You may not realize that that is your goal.
It is.
But a knife can't be sharpened on air.
You need.
A stone.

You're all so fucking annoying.

Queensland And Swearing.

I went to Queensland for a little while (It was great, I saw turtles) and as my service provider is the ever tiresome Vodafone, I had no reception or mobile internet access, which is why I haven't posted in a few days.

We stayed with my Dad's old friend, Scott.

It was quite nice there, though the company of a certain person who demanded that I believe in aliens, agree with him that "The x-files is all based on true stories", read magazine articles about how the government is trying to control our minds with the water supply, admit that my computer is full of toxic chemicals/is destroying my mind, sit very quietly and attentively while he berated me about the failings of my generation, and various other outrageously annoying and unbelievable things, none of which I did, got me down a little.

It would be hypocritical of me to claim that all people who are a certain number of years older than me are judgemental, rude, technologically illiterate, and prejudiced against anything they do not immediately understand. It also wouldn't be true. That's why I'm not saying it. However I am saying that I felt justifiably pissed off that someone would think I am stupid, ignorant, lazy, weak, etc simply because, as he stated, I am not as old as he is. And that is all I have to say about it.

Now I'm going to talk to you about swearing.

In one of my favorite Terry Pratchett novels, Reaper Man, Death (The Grim Reaper) is sacked. This causes many interesting problems for ordinary people, involving there now being too much life-force that isn't being drained away, and things that wouldn't usually be alive, are. In particular, one of the characters (The wizard Mustrum Ridcully) begins swearing, and the swears come to life, turning into little insectoid creatures that buzz around the air and cause a great deal of amusement. Mustrum swears at the annoying Swearword-Creatures which only causes even more of them to spawn from his speech! In the end, he is forced to say other words such as "Poot!" and, "Dang!" in an attempt to relive his feelings, completely ineffectually.

The reason why Mustrum Ridcully couldn't just say 'Poot!' and 'Dang!' instead of 'Sh*t!' and 'D*mn!" is because of the very unusual property that inhabits swear words. You see, swear words aren't just ordinary words, like 'fridge' or 'run', but pure expression of emotion in speech.

Put a willing test subject in a brain scanning machine, like they have in documentaries and films, and watch parts of his brain work on a computer monitor while he speaks to you. Those are the language parts of the brain, get a tumor there and if you recover, you'll need to learn to speak again.

Now make him punch a punching bag, instructing him to "Pretend the bag is something you hate"as he angrily lays into the bag, a different part of his brain lights up, the emotional centre.

Now instruct him to not punch the bag, but swear at it. The same emotional centres of his brain light up, he is not just speaking, he is attacking verbally.

Swearing is not a lack of creativity in speech. If you are making dinner and you smash a plate, you don't stand there calmly and creatively describe what just happened, and then clean up the mess. Why would you do that? You know exactly what happened: YOU SMASHED A PLATE! You don't need to confirm to anyone exactly what it looked like, the hopeless glide of the porcelain as it fell through the empty air, the delicate tinkling sound it first made on contact with the sterile tile floor, which evolved quickly into a crash that fills your ears as it scatters into a hundred irregularly jagged pieces.

No. You say the 'F' word under your breath. And then you feel a little better, and go get a broom. You don't need to swear. In fact, relieving you tension in any angry way subconsciously reenforces that angry feeling. It is better to maintain a calm composure and deal with your frustration by thinking about something nice, like how nice the dinner your are making smells, to teach yourself not to be an angry person.

But it just feels so good. And anyway, it's hardly going to damage you in any way beyond that. I think swearing is great: The place where language meets emotion. So power on humanity, express yourself in whatever way that you feel comfortable with, provided your mother isn't in the room.

Who?

Who will torture you long after the last sadist has grown bored?
Who will hate you with a will that lasts longer than any else?
Who will care if you fall, if no one else is there?
Who will help you when you are as lost and alone as anyone can be?
Who will wipe away your tears when the only fingers left are your own?
Who will agree with you when the whole world calls you liar?
Who will know you as you truly are when all the earth's people call you friend?
What kind of person would call you kin when all the world shrieks "Freak!" when you appear?

I know who will,

Do you?

Plastic Love That Flows Like A River.

It's interesting when people love you. When they sacrifice time they could have with other, cooler people to be with you, to talk to you.

Love is a funny thing. I frequently say I don't believe in it. But it's not that I don't believe it exists, it obviously does, though not as obviously as you might think. I don't believe in it in the same way that I don't believe in, say, Barack Obama.

There are people who don't say, or don't think, "I believe in Barak Obama!" it isn't that they don't believe in his EXISTENCE, they just don't believe IN him.

No, I don't believe in the love that our culture frequently plays upon in movies and books. I don't believe kind of love that takes a bullet dramatically, buys a ludicrous number of roses, cures Alzheimer's in thirty seconds, coughs up sweet words through lungs full of blood, and freezes to death in the Atlantic ocean because there is only one bit of driftwood.

I believe in the kind of love that is dutiful, hard working, the kind of love that is ugly, monotonous, sad, cold and cruel. The kind of love that sacrifices, and puts up with abuse. The kind that staggers and slips and struggles through a torrent of bullshit to lend a hand to you because you need it. The kind of love that gets down on it's knees and scrubs a floor with soap three times a day, every day, for forty years, because somebody has to. The kind that sifts through a baking hot desert, where every grain of sand is a crushing failed attempt, to find the cure to a disease. And most importantly, when there is nothing wrong, doesn't look for ways it can prove anything. It knows.


That's the kind of love I believe in, and it isn't the kind that 'lovers' talk about. It's hideous what kind of horrible burdens people will shoulder, and how long they will shoulder them, in the name of love.

If nothing else, you have to believe they are doing it for a reason. God help them if they aren't.

You can always tell the difference between plastic love and real love.

I'll leave it to you to figure out how.

All The Little Children

Sitting on this bus, I suddenly realize something.

Little children really piss me off, when did that start? Unless the fond occasion of them completely ignoring me, They look up at my devilishly handsome visage, and it is usually this mix of emotions contorting their tiny faces:

Fear.
Curiosity.
Judgment. (especially little girls)
Obvious dislike.
Desire to annoy.

Like this kid here. Blonde. Sunburnt. Cute as a fucking button with those dimples. Wearing some shirt his hot mum picked out for him this morning (Hot to me, not him. YOU! Mind, gutter, out)

He looks exactly like me at that age, he's even sticking his arm out the bus window like he wants it to be chopped off by a passing car, just the way I used to.

Don't get me wrong, I don't care in the very slightest if some random kid, somewhere in Bosnia or something, is tragically having the mangled remnants of a formerly functional arm amputated by a white clad doctor after an unfortunate traffic collision involving limbs being stuck out of windows when his mother wasn't looking, I just don't like SEEING it happen in front of me.

I'm sure if me and this boy, who I have randomly decided is called Hans, got to know each other we would both learn to like each other, even love each other as brothers, I teaching him how to talk to pretty girls, pick locks, sleight of hand with loose change/bank notes, and other useful Man skills, and he in turn teaching me to remember that on the inside of every long-haired cynical cheating, lying, thieving, blogger is a child still, yearning to remember what it felt like to enjoy being in a world so full of innocent wonders.

But on this short bus ride, Hans and myself really just don't have the time for that schmaltzy shit.

My inner child is a cock. I know it, My Inner Child knows it, and Hans knows it, I can see it in his smirk. My Outer Child, (i.e me) is a cock too. But he's also better at getting away with it, having had vastly more experience. So screw you Hans. See you when you grow up.

Besides, how can you have bro time with a kid when his mum is that hot?

Trade Sugar For Treasure

The sugar man will take away all your loneliness and pain,
His powers will work out the puzzles in your aching brain.
He's got magics far stronger than any living, breathing witch,
And if you let him, the sugar man will make you his begging bitch.
Drive out demons and have the stamina of a young, strong wolf,
The earth will be yours to shape as clay, the seas yours to engulf,
See into other's minds and run a hundred miles, with no wink of sleep,
Read a library of books in half an hour, and over mountains deftly leap.

But in return,

The sugar man will know you,
The sugar man will own you,
You'll lose something precious you never knew you had.
And when you one day find this, you'll be just a little sad.
You'll never, not ever, work off the shame,
You'll never, not ever, be the quite the same.

BELIEVE IN EVERYTHING.

Let it slide,

Fight everything.

Believe in everything,

Destroy the world.

Believe in nothing,

Save the earth.

Stay alive,

Kill something else.

Die today,

Never take a life.

And finally,

Deal with it,

ignore it,

Or don't.

And forget what you are made of.