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

Ticking clock.

I've been thinking about what I should do with my life for a while now. For a bit, I wanted to make art. But I realize that art isn't going to get me anywhere, or make me happy, or something that I'm even very good at.

I like writing, but as of current, I don't have the stamina as a writer to stick to the point of an idea for the length of an entire book without losing my audience to boredom. Hell, I have difficulty with it in some of my longer blog posts.

But I like telling people things through writing. I don't think I've thought anything that no one has thought before, but what I can do is express thoughts that other people want to express, but might not be able to.

I don't know what journalism is like as a profession. I don't know any journalists personally, so I have no idea what kind of personality suits the job. But surely looking into it can't be a bad idea.

I want to do something though, something to keep me occupied enough to forget how much I hate myself, and from what I've heard journalists have to think. A lot.

My life feels like a ticking clock, and I have to do something with it.

Ulcer.

If there is one thing I really hate, it's mouth ulcers. I had a gigantic one in my mouth over the last few days. It interfered with my eating, talking, drinking, breathing through my mouth, sleeping, and pretty much everything that involved moving the muscles of my mouth and face.

Now, I am a self admitted masochist. But I like a very particular type of pain, that is, intentional and immediate. Not passive and constant. Running a marathon does not turn me on.

So with this huge sore, I had had quite enough. So I took my tooth brush and scrubbed all the infected tissue right off. It feels a lot better now. Less like something is eating the inside of my mouth, more like a pretty girl slapped me very hard in the teeth.

Anyway, this whole thing is pretty much a metaphor for my life at the moment, that I can't be bothered more cleverly veiling like I usually do with these kind of stories I tell you. Right now, I'm carrying a lot of dead weight that is going to be hard to let go of, and as soon as it is gone, it will transform my stress of lethargy, which eats away at my physical and mental health and takes the joy out of the things I love, to the stress of activity, which sharpens me up and makes me better, and happier with myself.

I just need to get in there with my metaphorical toothbrush and, gross as it is, scrub that fucker till I cry.

Oh, and I really did have an ulcer. I didn't make that up for convenience.

One Day

If you saw me,
Would you let me find you?

If I found you,
Would you know me?

If you knew me,
Would you love me?

If you loved me,
Would you stay with me?

And if you stayed with me,
Would you let me die before you?

And if you let me die me before you,
Would you still see me?

Because, I see you.
And I'll find you,
And I'll know you,
And I'll love you,
And I'll stay with you,
And I'll let you die before me,
And I'll still see you when you're gone.

One day.

Minds At Night.

It's late at night.

Late as it gets.

It's dark outside.

Doesn't get darker.

It's raining down out there.

Down, down, down.

In the morning the world will belong to humanity.

People will drive cars to work.

Eat their breakfasts.

Solve their little niggling problems.

Love each other.

But for now...

Something else has taken over.

I don't know what to call it. 

I don't know what it is. 

All I know is...

Strange things happen. 

In our minds. 

At night. 

We don't talk about it much. 

Nor do we think much of it.

And unless it's a special occasion, we forget. 

But the fact remains. 

Strange things happen. 

In our minds. 

At night. 

Do they tell the future? 

Some say so. 

Others say that it is just the by-product.

Of the supercomputers, in our skulls', magic.

But the fact remains.

Strange things happen.

In our minds.

At night. 

Things that would make you afraid to sleep. 

If only you remembered them. 

Things that tug at dark corners. 

Things that grow.

And breath softly. 

Things that make you scream.

And run.

Oh God how I ran. 

Things that make no sense in the waking world.

That die, as if exposed to the vacuum of space. 

Are they malevolent?

Who knows. 

But strange they stay.

By night they come. 

Are your eyes getting heavy?

Mine are.

Are your limbs weak?

Damn, I'm tired. 

Are your thoughts slow?

Mine are like treacle. 

But I can't sleep.

How could I sleep?

After remembering the strange things.

That happened in my mind.

This night.

The Devil take me.

Satan's a lesser fate. 

Someone save me.

Please, save me.

From the strange things.

In my mind.

At night.

Six Hundred And... One!

This is my six hundred and first blog post. Not all of them are published.

I have regaled you with misplaced commas, spelling errors, syntax confusion and accidental repetition, and various other gramatical mistakes six hundred times before this. Sort of. I still want to make this a landmark post, because I can.

I started my blog on a laptop computer called Gerald, who (Whom?) I loved dearly. He had in-built wifi, and a not particularly large collection of music that I listened to all the time, and which a reasonable amount of is still in my now expanded library. His back-lit keys were a pleasure to press, usually at night, which is when I do the majority of my blogging.

He met his end, sadly, when I smashed his display trying to closed him on an earbud I mistakenly left between the keyboard and the screen. I was shocked and inconsolable for  terribly long time, in which I requested of my mother to get him fixed, to no avail. If I hadn't smashed him, I'd probably be a windows user.

The next computer I was given was an awful hand-me-down from my sister that I named 'Sally'. What. A. Shitbox. Lost her charge in thirty seconds from unplugging, the keys were NOT back lit (forcing me to resort to usb lamps and ect) and were barely readable from age. She got so hot when I used her for long periods, of nothing but writing and music, that I used to put ice blocks on her from the freezer in an extraordinarily suicidal attempt to keep her running. I had a dongal for internet I had to plug into her, which functioned haphazardly, at best.

Nonetheless, she was a stubborn bitch (As toshiba computers were back then) and worked as a medium for self expression long after any sensible computer would have curled into a ball and, presumably, exploded. When I bought myself a new laptop, she was literally falling to apart, and still turned on. You could see the electronics from underneath the warped, curled metal casing. Stubborn, stubborn bitch.

My next laptop which I, as I mentioned, bought myself, I named Wilson, and he was the paragon of 'Okay'. Not great. Pretty unremarkable. His tilt screen was awful, but his keys were sort of felty, and super-fun to press. He caught a virus (or ten) one day and died quietly, without a fuss. He was the first computer I started to take around with me, so I could write on the go.

But carrying a computer around isn't a lot of fun, and after grovelling in a most uncharacteristic way, I was given an iPhone for a present from my mother, which was what I used to blog in between Wilson and my current computer. Pegasus is his name, and he is a magnificent beast of a Macbook Pro, if I do say so myself. He has a Monet print on his lid, and I love him to bits.

As a child I developed a coping mechanism of talking to people who weren't there and replying for them to deal with hard problems, something which originally was helpful, but which sadly evolved into a problem of its very own as my brain changed, particularly in puberty. Writing has helped replace this as a tool of self counsel which has been invaluable to me. The first person I speak to whenever I have a problem is my blog. And that's why I blog so much. :P

It's called the Sky Sailors Handbook because sailing ships have always been my favorite symbol of freedom. I crave freedom in all its forms, but most importantly I crave the freedom of the mind. To put a man in bondage and chains is easy. But it is far harder to stop him walking through the mountains of his imagination. In fact, if he still thinks he can, and he lives, it is impossible.

Cadge me, cut my hair, strip me of my clothes, and rob me of light and warmth. I will still feel the wind in my curls and the soft wooden planks of my sky ship on my bare soles, I will still step lightly through dusty libraries and echoing halls,  I will still swim in blue, kind, oceans, I will still be the hero of a thousand battles, and the lover of a thousand beautiful women, in the palace of my heart.

That's what my blog is, for me. The hope I can share a little of that with you, whoever you are.

If I were only good looking, I'm sure hollywood would make a movie about it. Hahahahaha. Have fun.

What You Used To Know

A talented liar speaks and believes it.

A very talented liar makes everyone else share that belief through their passion.

But the best liars change the past, and make the world itself forget what is true. Then, what he or she says is the only thing that can believed.

But it still isn't the truth.

Don't believe the liar. One of us has to.

I've already forgotten what I used to know. But you can remember.

The Best and The Worst

Sometimes it seems like all anyone does is tell everyone else how shit everyone is. If I said to someone on the street, "Are people generally good?" I think that the answer would most of the time be, "No". And I'll tell you why.

A man called James Cameron (relatively) recently made a science fiction film about a future where humanity has successfully reached another planet that the humans named 'Pandora'. This planet was a vigin to the defilement and molestation of man, and the humanoid natives (Tall, blue, feline and very good looking people) have an actual nervous-connection to their homeworld that no human has, in the form of a usb plug that comes out of the back of their necks and goes into trees, or some shit. The human tech was ugly and clunky, the natives' natural skills were both more complex and more functional.

The movie was called, "Avatar".

The whole thing was incredibly beautiful and expensive. No argument.

But what the average viewer probably doesn't realize about that movie is that it is horribly, horribly cynical. The tree-hugging-usb-necked-smurfs didn't make that movie. Humans did. Humans making a movie about how humans are planetary rapists, that spread themselves like disease.

Sure, you could say that the movie was a possible future, one we could avoid, but the movie sure didn't say that. It was just "Hate yourself" from beginning to end. Hate yourself, you ignorant, evil, stupid, arrogant mother-raping BASTARDS. Yes, YOU!

That was honestly the theme.

Why would humans fund and make a movie like this? Because that's what we think of ourselves.

I don't think that.

Do you know what a human is?

Let me ask you something else then.

Do you know what a human life is? How unlikely it is? What it has the potential of? How complex it is, how wonderful it is? How hard it is for everyone, everyday, to get up and just keep on going in spite of how damn hard it is? How there are huge parts of our brains devoted to not ending itself because it is so easy to do? And how amazing it is that those who live do anything at all worthwhile in addition to all this hardship?

The Superman is good, bold, beautiful, selfless, and everything for him is easy. He's just like that.

But the man. No, he is weak. He struggles. He bites into what he's given, even when it's poison.

Humans aren't wise. All the wise humans are long dead.

The weak didn't die. The wise died. Because the wise knew the futility.

The ones who were left were just stubborn. The creative, the resourceful, the hopeful, the dreamers of dreams and the ones who held onto life with broken fingernails. Yes, The Bastards. That's who you are descended from. Hard bastards. Mothers who had another child after ten of them died, fathers who fought lions bear-handed and won. Children who grew up in strangling thorns, brothers who held each other as they bled, sisters who struggled through tide after tide of impossible odds, just so they could do it again tomorrow.

You aren't shit. You aren't a rapist. You're ignorant, sure, but that's hardly your fault. You're not evil. And if you are arrogant, so what? You deserve to be. You're fucking amazing. Look at what your kind has done, look how you have tamed an earth that has tried at every turn to crush you, and still tries as hard as it can to end your life.

You are the product of a world that hated the idea of you, and from that hate you found love for it enough to care that you were hurting it, love enough to side with it, to loathe yourself.

You're incredible. I salute you. And I have no clue as to how you do what you do.

But for God's sake, keep it up. I know you can.

Honor and Importance.

I've been told that in Japan, it's common for a person, if they feel they have lost their honor, to simply drop off the radar of society. This could be that they got a C instead of an A in a class at school (or however they grade folks over there) or because they got pissed at their boss and were fired, or a multitude of other reasons.

I don't know where they go. Become homeless? Go to Prague? Turn into a fish and swim into outer-space?

But all jest aside, the degree to which people put ideals is something I admire.

I don't admire the pitfalls of duty to wrong causes and judgement on others those people fall into, but for all that, a person with a complete sense of what is right, good and the courage to stick to it, inspires me. Not all honor is like that. But the really good people of this earth possess that quality.

I'm not honorable. Not everyone can be. But then not everybody is special or important to the world. I'm content with my lot. The idea that everything and everyone would be fine if I left this earth suddenly, comforts me. I don't have the burden special people must do.

I'm no one, and I'm fine with it.

The Choice Is Yours.

"Well, go on, do me in you cowards! I don't want to live anyway, not in a stinking world like this!


Oh, and what's so stinking about it?


It's a stinking world because there's no law and order anymore! It's stinking world because it lets the young get onto the old, like you done. Oh, it's no world for an old man any longer! What sort of world is it at all? Men on the moon, and men spinning round the earth, and there's not no attention paid to earthly law and order no more!"


Do I have a choice?
What makes me do,
Whatever I do?
Is it me?

What force guides us?
Sets our actions in motion?
It is the flow of time?
Or human emotion?

Is it that same force,
That makes stars spin,
That makes women weep,
And that makes men sin?

Is it that same force,
That makes the seas roll,
That makes mountains tumble,
And the reaper take his toll?

Who makes the world as it is?
What reaction makes love?
What hand turns the silent cogs,
Shrouded in an unseen glove?

What makes you so sure,
You control yourself?
What makes you so sure,
You have a choice?

We are all clockwork,
The semblance of life,
It fills us, clouds us,
Makes us want to believe.

It makes us want to believe we are more.

More than a line in the sand, in the face of an incoming tide.

So we do, with all our clockwork hearts.

Exceptional

Someone once told me that I was, "An exceptional young man." I have to agree.

What exceptional means, is the exception to the regular. An exceptional phone would be one that explodes and burns the hand of the person trying to use it. Very few of them do that.

An exceptional sheep might be one born without the ability to grow wool. There aren't many of those sorts of sheep. They all froze to death before they could breed. Highly exceptional.

An exceptional lawyer would be one that never wins a case, ever, in his or her career. That's very rare.

An exceptional space-flight might include three of the four crew going insane and jumping out of the ship, where they asphyxiate and explode in the vacuum of space. Not many space-flights end like that.

The problem with words like, "Exceptional", "incredible", "phenomenal" and "extraordinary" is that they aren't specific enough.

There are plenty of things about me that are exceptional, just nothing that makes me exceptionally good.

This brings to another point I want to make. Despite my former statement, I often say, and I say it now, that I am a pretty normal bloke. But most people, when I say this, respond with, "Nobody is normal!".

There is such a thing as normal. It's just relative. And for those of you who will now say, "Well, if normal is relative, it's valueless".

NO. Just because something is dependent on its environment does not mean it isn't THERE. Time is also relative. And time definitely exists.

Here's an example of the relativity of normal:

There is a room filled with people. They're all women over the age of sixty.

In addition to all these women, there is one teenage boy.

In this room he is, for the purposes of the statement, the least normal.

But then, suddenly, a grey little alien appears.

Now, by compare, the boy is very very normal. Much more normal in this group to the other humans.

I am normal. Put me in a room of old ladies, and I'm not so much. But compared to everyone I know, and everyone in the world, I am very normal.

No one is exactly alike to anyone else, so yeah, one could make an argument that 'No one is normal'. But uniqueness does not guarantee anything other than itself. It doesn't make it good, nice, useful, worthwhile or any other adjective you can think of.

There are now seven billion human beings on this earth. Are you really so arrogant to believe that there is anything you can naturally do that someone else cannot do better, that you have some special unrepeatable quality? Dedicate your life to something, sure, you've got a chance to be better than anyone else. But as you are? Nope. Humans aren't beautiful unique snowflakes, anymore than snowflakes are anything other than a whole lot of white crap when you mush them together. We are common, and for every child born, you are becoming just that little bit more common.

You can disagree, or argue that you and you alone are without a true equal. But I can tell you right now, someone else reading this probably thinks the exact same thing.