Obligatory ending.

Tunes in my head: Academy Fight Song by Mission of Burma
Books of a page: Lolita by Vladamir Nabokov 
Atmosphere: WHOA HOLY SHIT GOTTA GET READY

Yes, I've changed and evolved as a person over the past year.

But this is a new start, isn't it, my dear?

Let's see where the next year will take us.  

Hopefully as far away as possible.

Take me to another place she said
Take me to another time

"if I could, I would
 but I don't know how" 

Night falls, assails.

Tunes in my head: Belladonna by Siouxsie and the Banshees
Books of a page: Lolita by Vladamir Nabakov
Atmosphere: Exhausted.

and now we sit here, stuck together
paper and glue, lace and leather
one thing not as strong as other
musician and fan, child and mother

we get torn apart, twisted and frayed
like the chicken and the egg it laid
what happens when the bond breaks, rust
existence sans meaning, love without trust

when the time comes for one more breakdown
the pillow becomes trapped in an eiderdown
is there a few more years to tell
the difference between hope and the spell

what happens when the cello moves away
the staples are ripped from the page
the screen doesn't make so much sense
without the final scene or the correct tense

We will pay the price, but we will not count the cost.

Tunes in my head: Dreams Never End by New Order
Books of a page: Song by Seamus Heaney
Atmosphere: Broken

Suddenly you were gone
From all the lives you left your mark upon

We waste our time here. We really do. We sit in our bunkers and watch as all of these moments pass by like some wind, hastening our demise.

I was reading the story of a man who passed away on a forum I frequent a couple of years ago. He wasn't like that. He was the sort of person who crammed everything into life he possibly could. There's even a quote on one of the band's DVDs, that's immortalised him in the eyes of us.

Thirty one years isn't a long time, is it?

And yet it was all he got.

He lived every single moment of it, as far as I know. Yes, he complained about his problems, like we all do. But he got up and did something about them, he stuck it to them.

That's what we should do.

Live each moment to it's very end. Have our tussles. Experience.

Because in the end, what can we do when we haven't?

In the end, I don't even think this one "insignificant" person knew how much he touched a person's life. He may have only talked to me a few times, but the way in which he lived and the way in which he talked and listened touched me like he did so many others.

He often thought he was nobody's hero. But yet, all of these outpourings of emotion occurred upon the news. All of these people who wished that he would be there for one more story about a Westerner in an Eastern society, for one random conversation about music, for anything.

Life is short, and can be grasped from us at any moment.

Live every moment, the good and the bad, as they are.

Thank you, Keith.

Until the spirit, new sensation takes hold, then you know.

Tunes in my head: Disorder by Joy Division
Books of a page: Song by Seamus Heaney
Atmosphere: Whoa, I kind of can't hear out of my right ear. 

Introversion is such an interesting concept, you know?

Why do we people hold ourselves back from experiences, from ideals?

We have a fear of being hurt, perhaps. We sit back and look at the prophets crying, at the dead bodies, and go, with a sense of pretension amongst ourselves "hah, look at us, we hide and don't experience their pain."

But at the same time, our pain is what makes us as people. When we suffer through pain, we grow as people.

We see these people with absolutely no positive traits within them whatsoever, flaunting about their arrogance. And yet it succeeds for them.

So why do we, the introverts with some talent, hold back?

It's a good question, I suppose.

Maybe we don't feel the need to make our presence felt like these egotists are? Maybe we're comfortable where we are, we're content with our own lives. And so we don't intend to make the escape.

But is that needed? Do we need to escape from our own shells?

We sit and watch as the people we want, the goals we need to achieve, get taken from us by less deserving individuals.

Why do we sit back, in the fear of pain?

I don't know.

Woke last night to sound of storm.

Tunes in my head: Piper by Phish
Books of a page: The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy by Douglas Adams
Atmosphere: Asleep.

This is a semi continuation of yesterday's post.

I was talking about this girl who I've seen around who I think is amazingly attractive. (Will, you know who I'm talking about.) And so I was talking to her friend about her. Not even the whole "get me with her" spiel. Just the general stuff, what's she like, blah blah blah.

It turns out that she's apparently one of the most self-depreciating people that my friend knows, all because of the efforts of one ex-boyfriend.

Now, what drives people to destroy others like that?

What drives us to absolutely decimate a person's psyche? To make them think that they are nothing?

This girl seems like one of the sweetest, nicest people ever.

And yet there's the impulse to drag her down.

Is it jealousy? I know that when I see an attractive girl, I feel a bit envious of their looks, even when it's a friend, and even when I know they have issues of their own. The fact that I find them attractive makes me wish about myself.

So, did this bastard decide to destroy this pretty girl out of jealousy?

Or maybe it's a desire to make sure nobody else could ever have her?

How selfish of him.

How do we combat this epidemic? How do we build people who are in their heart good people up to believe that not everything they do is ultimately destructive?

That is the question, Moon.

The feelings have just run cold.

Tunes in my head: Love Will Tear Us Apart by Joy Division
Books of a page: Act of Union by Seamus Heaney
Atmosphere: Meh.

Attraction, hmm.

It's a strange beast, I think. The mechanics behind it, what we look for, why we look for those things.

Why is it so fucking hard to actually make a match, to find somebody? I have these experiences of people saying they're attracted to me. But because I refuse to hurt them, I decline their advances politely. Yes, it hurts them, I know.

And then, when I'm attracted to a person, as it happens rarely (VERY rarely), it never seems to work out at all. The stars aren't aligned right, they find someone better, some other fucking bullshit.

Why? Why are we so picky?

I mean, from a purely biological standpoint...it makes some sense.

But from an emotional one, it doesn't.

Everyone has good and bad within us. We have positive traits and negative traits.

This is absolutely unavoidable.

So why do we hold out hope for the perfect person when they will never come?

It will never happen, and in our hearts, we know that.

The movements in the brain.

Tunes in my head: Things Behind The Sun by Nick Drake
Books of a page: Damned To Fame - The Life Of Samuel Beckett by James Knowlson. (Only eighty pages to go.)
Atmosphere: Grah.

I hate myself, and everything I am.

I hate not being able to move.

I hate cracking when I was meant to stay aware, stay strong.

I hate people worrying about me.

I hate pushing myself.

I hate the way I look.

I hate the way I act.

I hate the way I am.

Intensely personal.

Tunes in my head: Sentimental Hygiene by Warren Zevon
Books of a page: Lolita by Vladamir Nabakov
Atmosphere: Melancholic.


I miss you.

Not who you've become.

But who you were.

I know there's no chance of that changing.

But I can still write it down.

I can still scrawl down my hopes onto the page.

Why?

There's no turning back the clocks now.

Because someone else sets them.

Even all of the moments in a box are fading away slowly.

The point of it all.

Tunes in my head: The Rainbow by Talk Talk
Books of a page: Damned To Fame - The Life Of Samuel Beckett by James Knowlson. Yeah, I'm taking my time and really biting into it.
Atmosphere: Paradoxical.

Is there anything worth dying for, really?

In the past, people have died in the thousands, in the millions for some ridiculous cause that there's an easy way around. You had warlords who would force people into wars it was impossible to win. And so they ran off the side of the cliff like some demented lemmings.

But in this day and age, is there anything worth the ultimate sacrifice?

You hear these stories of people killing themselves for love. But is love as intense as this worth our demise? Is an emotion meant to be what we die for?

I don't think so. To die for someone would be to deify them. And no matter how good they are at things, and how much you care about them, nobody deserves to be elevated above the level of humanity.

No matter how good they are.

Is there a cause that deserves people to run into death blindly for it's own satisfaction? I don't think so. I don't think much is worth sacrificing the moments of humanity to come.

Life is short, at best. And so we must squeeze every moment out of it we possibly can.

Because before you know it, it'll be taken away.

Disappointment.

Tunes in my head: It's Ice by Phish
Books of a page: Damned To Fame - The Life Of Samuel Beckett by James Knowlson
Atmosphere: Depressed.

To work so hard and fall so short.

It sucks, it really breaks one's confidence.

But...what can I do now?

All I can do is appeal and beg and plead.

This is the story about how we forget to remember.

Tunes in my head: Under African Skies by Paul Simon
Books of a page: Damned To Fame - The Life Of Samuel Beckett by James Knowlson
Atmosphere: Good.

I wasted my teenage years.

I mean, you all have your stories of debauchery and getting knives pulled on you and stuff.

Coming from my sheltered environment, I never had many of those. I've never been arrested, I've never trashed a school.

Now, yes, this is good in some aspects.

But don't those experiences colour us and make us stronger as people?

I'm going to be thrust into the real world soon. Am I ready?

A lyric.

Tunes in my head: Wealth by Talk Talk
Books of a page: Damned To Fame - The Life Of Samuel Beckett by James Knowlson
Atmosphere: Sweaty.

they say i wear those things on sleeve
fourty two times a day
they ask for one more song from michael
and beg for a different line
what can i say but thanks, no thanks
my heart is my badge of honour
when told to hide all i do is lament
the world's horrors all around

they say i hold these things too clear
too clear for one to touch
all to be done is point and stare
at the bleached who leads
mumbled words and quiet whispers
over the radio's hum
of a bleeding soul with a million listeners
where do we go from here?

michael sinks and sleeps the dream
at night he resurges resurfaces
what can we do when the feeling is gone
when all is left is straight
there's no duality without the passion
the one we all feed off
what is left but words too blunt
to convey emotion mystique

We looked for a ledge to precariously place ourselves on.

Tunes in my head: No Language In Our Lungs by XTC
Books of a word: Damned To Fame - The Life Of Samuel Beckett by James Knowlson
Atmosphere: Okay

What is the whole point behind stability, anyway?

Are we just scared of the fate of taking a risk? I mean, we could jump off the cliff and become poets and painters, leaving behind our debt, our grounding.

But do we? A few of us do. A few of us decide that it is better to be an unemployed thirty-one year old writer in a dilapidated cottage in Belfast than to be some lecturer at a university in Dublin.

The most of us, however, decide that it is best to simply sit and watch our potiential run by us as we go by our ordinary lives.

Just a random thought, I guess.

The peeling away of feeling.

Tunes in my head: Spare Change by Michael Hedges
Books of a word: Night Drive by Seamus Heaney
Atmosphere: Headache.

So I'm suddenly not allowed to feel anything, to allowed to express emotion, to convey sympathy or doubt or fascination or anything of the like to anybody anymore. Thanks.

--

I was reading the Phish biography today. And, as Les Claypool put it, it turns out that the people who do everything to help others, to make them comfortable, "Mr Happy", end up losing their battles as a result of this manic determination to make the world a better place.

What's the fucking point, anyway? You try so hard to make everyone else smile, you make yourself look like an idiot, and then they never appreciate it anyway. They never even take the effort that you put into making them happy into account.

I kind of feel sorry for the Santa Claus's around in the shopping centres. The kids appreciate it, I suppose. But do the adults take into account the happiness that is brought? Probably not. They'll just go right on with their daily business of making the kids feel like they're unimportant and insignificant in the general scheme of life.

If someone ran around in a clown suit, a few people would smile, and most would laugh at them, ridicule. Surely this is a way of showing how unappreciative we are of people who go out of their ways to make us smile.

Do we ever take into consideration their feelings? Maybe they make us smile in an attempt to hide their own misery and pain. It's the whole notion of the clown once again. Behind the makeup that they present to the public, they are truly sad and miserable.

But will the people care? Of course not. The people will merely go about their business as usual when the person reveals their pain. Or even worse, they'll decide to add onto it, see that as noble. They'll see "oh, everyone's lumping their crap on this person who does everything to keep us happy, who will throw themselves off things and put their own feelings aside so that you can be satisfied with what you have.

Yes, they put aside what they feel forever in a futile attempt to make you feel content with yourself.

Do you ever take that into account? Do you ever take what they hide into consideration as you go about your daily life with your perfect girlfriend, perfect homelife, perfect job, perfect everything? Do you ever think of them when they turn up bleary eyed, having made you smile the day before? Do you ever think of them when they crack some dry joke, in a futile attempt to make their friends smile?

I feel like I'm slowly slipping under.

Tunes in my head: Another Night by Camel
Atmosphere: You know.

I CANNOT DO ANYTHING RIGHT. PLEASE LET ME OUT OF HERE. I'M NOT AFRAID. I TRICK MYSELF LIKE EVERYBODY ELSE THAT I CAN MAKE THE CHANGE TO SOMEBODY ELSE'S LIFE. I WAS WRONG.

She won't move and I'm holding her head.

Tunes in my head: Pink Frost by The Chills
Atmosphere: Hungry

As a society, humanity is completely insane.

Just to put things into perspective, really. There's an uproar over the Mayan calendar which so many people are misinterpreting, there's people fawning over celebrities like they give a damn.

--

Silence in itself is a beautiful thing. Who here has listened to 4'33" by John Cage?

If not, go and listen to it.

Why should we need to say what can be left unsaid?

Take Lucky's monologue from Waiting For Godot, for instance. He is pushed into speaking, so he says something of no consequence.

Do we need to say what can be left unsaid? Of course not. Some things are better left unsaid.

And then again, some things need to be said before the oppurtunity is gone. How much you absolutely despise someone. How much you love someone, to the point where you'd die for them.

Silence is golden.

So is breaking it.

Can we live our lives in silence? Probably not.

I'm dying here. Lack of social interaction, they call it. I'm not talking to people and it's starting to really wear me down. I got out today just to watch some movies and enjoyed it intensely.

But at the same time, being forced to talk to people, even these people who I love to bits, would kill me after a while. I'd go through the motions.

And that's nothing that I would enjoy.

Even despite the hotheadedness and the emotion that I put into everything, I need a respite, a break sometimes.

And that's when silence comes in handy. Silence is brilliant when one needs to just tell the world to fuck off and leave them alone. Silence is great when I need to withdraw within my own thoughts and break myself apart inside for my own pleasure instead of breaking myself apart for somebody else's.

Isn't that why we do it, why we utterly disintegrate? So the people around can gain some satisfaction at seeing another person fail?

We are sick as a society. We enjoy other's failings.

As much as we say that we want them to feel better, a part of us sees their strengths and our flaws and thanks ourselves for seeing them die slowly.

Sickening, isn't it?

Unfortunately, it's also realistic.

I don't want to disappoint you.

Tunes in my head: E-Bow The Letter by R.E.M.
Atmosphere: Tired.


wipe my name from the papers
from the whiteboard inside
was i really there at all?
or was i bludgeoned behind the curtain?
the same old game played in circles
running around chasing each other
say the name that scares you the most
i recognise it as your own
as your own way


rip myself from all the corners
photos aren't that valuable now
spineless person sneers from behind
the same joke as funny as ever
i'm being devoured from within
the showers inside hiding sin
i just want to go far home
is the walk worth the eternity
the eternity to wait


you say there's no memory of me
even as i show the artifact
anything but me is what makes the smile
are those the rules to play?
where's my consolation?
for a life lived in the bunkers
the streets of manchester are not so warm
so jealous of the taste of youth


i'll give up my prize for a touch
for one last glance of the wounded
it's a ritual to part and turn
but what says it must be strict?
and now the bloody fist drips
onto the pages on the desk
rubbing the relief onto the paper
and the smear is erased


the pages torn from the diary
and scorched into smouldering flame
please i cannot take the punishment
i'm drained of all life remained
can't you see the things i am?
or is it gone with the last memory?
when the moments fade into lapse
do i become the invisible one?


i'm grasping for air beneath the stones
that bury me alive in this prison
can you keep me for a little while?
with your care and your thoughts
i may be crushed within
but a single grasp is all i need
to keep in your mind
and to let go to die

If you can't feel the symptoms, it won't effect the cause.

Tunes in my head: Quadrophonic Toppling by Phish
Atmosphere: Struggling to stay awake.

DISCLAIMER
The following post was written at 3:15am this morning in my diary. If you do not wish to read the account of someone suffering severe sleep dep, stop now. This post may contain minor grammatical errors. It is, however, quite real. At the time of this writing (5:54am) there has still been no sleep. Yes, I'm kind of nuts. I know. Please feel free to comment on the below. No illicit substances were consumed before the writing of the below post.

--

As I write this post, it's currently 3:15am. No, I will not make out with your friends. Sorry, girls.

Anyway, I'm in the middle of listening to Big Cypress, Phish's NYE 2000 festival, where they played from midnight to sunrise. Of course, something of this nature, with no substantial breaks in the music, must be listened to as a whole.

And so here I am, scrawling.

Why do we push ourselves to do things like this?

Is it because we lack confidence in ourselves, and so we feel the need to push ourselves in order to prove our worth?

Or is it a form of flagelance? Do we do this silly and sick runs of endurance in order to punish ourselves?

(of course, listening to heavenly twenty minute jams is hardly punishment.)

(the sleep dep, however.)

This would normally be the time all of the confessions would come spilling out, where all of the skeletons would tumble out of the closet.

Not now, though.

Why do I force myself to write now, instead of merely letting it come as it does?

Is it because I now see the creative path as something merciless that must be used for money?

Maybe.

Hey, maybe I could write a theatrical piece on the effect of sleep dep on the human anatomy, on the human psyche?

That would be killer.

Somehow the late nights are starting to kill me. I used to be able to stay up until 4:30 every weekend. It just hit 3:25 and I'm really struggling.

Nearly halfway. Another four hours and this will all be over, Liam.

If I had any brains, I'd have started at 10, and so would now be approaching Piper or Roses.

But now I've got to live with the torture.

It's part of what we are. Living with our own self inflicted pain.

And now the ending to Quadrophonic Toppling. The Siket Disc is one of the most interesting albums ever recorded. A collection of improvised, ambient jams, with no purpose beyond their initial creation. The way I see it, however, it makes for perfect late night music. At only 35 minutes, it doesn't overstay it's welcome, either.

My writing's seriously starting to approach illegibility. Time to sign off, methinks.

Towards the watertower.

Tunes in my head: Nightswimming by R.E.M.
Atmosphere: In pain.

Why?

I'm not sure all of these people understand, but I know what's going on.

It's always about somebody else. It's always about focusing on whoever else's pain, it's always about making them feel happy.

What then when I need a hand, when I need something of a friend to take me and make me smirk, make me smile?

It's such a fucking double standard, isn't it? It's always about you. Never about anybody else.

Expect from others as you expect from yourself. At this point, you can just go and disintegrate somewhere else.

I can't wait for the end.

I can't wait until I meet the ocean.

Isn't that the whole point of this? To find the ocean and slowly flow into it?

My flow is being stifled, then.

Zither.

Tunes in my head: Mock Song by Phish
Atmosphere: Okay

Here it comes, motherfuckers, the inevitable relationship post that we all know has been brooding for so long.

What attracts us to people, really? Some will say that it's our own preferences on a purely physical manner. We have characteristics, and whoever fulfills them will automatically be most desirable.

And on a purely physical level, they're seemingly right. But maybe not?

On my level, I have a preference towards green shades of eyes and red hair. And yet I've only ever been attracted to two girls with green eyes. Whereas I've been attracted to more girls with blue or brown eyes.

It's strange, though.

And when you take the red hair into consideration, this theory becomes even more ridiculous. I've NEVER been "in love" with a girl with red hair.

So why do I so outwardly desire those characteristics, and yet inside, don't even go for them?

Is it because I see them as so utterly unattainable?

Or is it because I hide what draws me to people?

What are we attracted to then, as people?

I've always said to myself "I'll never date a girl who isn't intelligent", and I feel like this is one thing that truly draws me to someone. Not that they have to be genius level, just smarter than me would be absolutely ideal. (that's not too hard, is it?)

I find that I have problems conversing with bogans, say. I can't find what to say, they usually say fuck every other word, nobody gets anywhere.

But then again, what defines intelligence?

In my case, I don't think that's the correct word, really. It's a silly word. But it...encompasses what I mean.

I mean, I'm interested in people with an interest in literature, who I can actually converse with and feel somewhat intellectually satisfied by on occasion. (No, Kristy, as much as our nihilistic conversations are fulfulling on that level, I don't feel attraction because of them. Or do I? XD)

Maybe I look for someone who draws some sense out of me, who can actually get some coherent sentences out of me sometimes. Not many people can, can they?

So how do we define attraction? I don't know.

I like to think it's someone who can gain something from my existence, who I can gain from their existence. Not a parasitic relationship. But one where both people come out of it the better, the stronger, the wiser.

But isn't that so hard to find, anyway?

If it's not physical, if it's not intellectual, if it's not emotional, what is it?

I give up.

She's got time.

Tunes in my head: The Musical Box by Genesis
Atmosphere: Meh

I'm so sick of talking about me.

Tell me your stories.

I'm up and I'm down.

Tunes in my head: Taste by Phish
Atmosphere: Falling


Wear it on your sleeve, right, Michael?

What happens when we wear our emotions on our sleeve, leave them raw and open for the world to see, for the people inside to spit on them?

We got mocked. We get criticised for being so overtly emotional.

But I don't really see the problem in being open about these sensitive things, in actually being honest?

People who just mumble out an "I'm okay" often have things wrong with them. But by hiding them behind this shell, there can never be any resolution, any solution to their problem. By simply taking it in, they lose sensitivity, and eventually just decay and die.

But people who express their pain get lynched by the mob, don't they? People who say "hey, fuck it, I need help" basically get hung by the people who couldn't give less of a fuck.

I can't even express empathy for things anymore. I can't even say "oh, yes, I know how you feel" without being attacked for things. What the hell did I do? Nothing. I merely say "you have my sympathy" and I basically get clawed at and torn apart.

So now, what do I do?

Do I sit here and become cold, become emotionless and lose the integral part of me?

Or do I sit here and continue to emote and express, and continue to get criticised for "no, you can't be depressed, stop whining."

Like it or not, I am human. What happened when you needed a hand, when you were telling me of girls who would sit so far out of your reach? I was there. I would sit there and comfort, and talk.

And now when I actually need a hand, you do nothing but slap it away.

The conflict rages.

Blaze the walls, break them all.

Tunes in my head: Stand by R.E.M.
Atmosphere: Curious

The story of Brivs Mekis is an intriguing one in regards to the notion of identity in society.

Basically, the story regards this schizophrenic man in Athens, Georgia. His house was divided in two by a brick wall. On each side was different household implements, different pets, different settings, completely different lives.

As he had split personalities, whenever he changed from one personality to another, he would proceed to move to the other side of the house for a while until he switched back.

Nobody knew of this life until after his death, when they searched his house, and found hundreds of copies of a book - Life: How To Live.

Now, how can we say that he did not have a discernable identity? Of course he did, that's just logical. He had more than one.

Were they both important, distinct? I'd say so, even though I never knew the guy, and I obviously can't ask him now.

But what says identity can't be split into chambers, into sections? It seems like a perfectly rational thing to me.

What is identity, anyway? Is it who we are?

Or is it who we are to a certain group of people?

On my own personal front, people generally tend to see me as the most batshit insane person they could possibly talk to, who would stop at absolutely nothing to make people laugh and smile. He often fails, yes, but it doesn't mean he stops trying. He's just always there to help out, to be there.

But there's also a sense of darkness within me. There's this overwhelming wave of sadness that can sometimes swallow me. There's this sense that all I'm doing is merely waiting for the next drop off the side of the cliff. There's a side people don't generally see, but a select few know exist.

And even then, there's possibly more. The select few may see me as the wonderful, sweet person I apparently am (I don't see it myself.) Of course, maybe I don't want to fully expose myself. Every time I truly do, I get nothing but pain from anyone I do.

Do we hide sides of ourselves from others?

If we do, are we really showing off our true identity, or are we merely placing up the facade?

Every time we close each other.

Tunes in my head: Shiny Happy People by R.E.M.
Atmosphere: Sore

What is the appeal in being uncontained, being rough, being improvisational?

We see these people with their flaws, their difficulties, their failings. And yet we don't see it neccesary to iron them out.

Now, if we were true perfectionists, we would. If we took other humans as we took the rest of life, we would.

But we can learn to embrace other people's annoyances and flaws. We learn to enjoy the dulcet tones of snoring.

Why? Is it because of our desire to make people happy?

Or is it mere acceptance? Is it merely some attempt to make others happy?

I actually enjoy seeing people's flaws. I know that I myself am one of the most flawed and defeatable people in the face of the planet.

So seeing that other people have them too makes me not feel so bad about my situation, sometimes. It brings a sense of empathy, which is always handy.

Yeah, this post makes no sense. Sorry.

I've got no space in my head.

Tunes in my head: Funky Bitch by Phish
Atmosphere: New mobile, woot.

As humans, we are too preoccupied with technology.

I just got a new phone (a Nokia N97, for you technophiles) and am utterly fascinated with it.

Why?

I dunno. I always said I'd be against the whole proliferation of technology, the obsession with phones.

And now I myself am getting sucked endlessly into it.

As a whole, we are generally fascinated with shiny things.

But why? Is it just for being new?

What happens after a few weeks? Will the new Ferrari get tossed in place of the old, beaten down Audi?

It's never too late to get up and go.

Tunes in my head: Doing The Unstuck by The Cure
Atmosphere: Thoughtful

I could write nothing here and it would mean more.

The thrill, the sweetest chill.

Tunes in my head: Fragile Dreams by Anathema
Atmosphere: Uplifted

Why do we have doubt within ourselves?

Is it because the moment of doubt is so much more potent than the moment of elation?

I basically taught a class today. And apparently I did extremely well. But even afterwards, I still had this lingering taste of doubt flowing through my mind.

I got the oppurtunity to do what I love - write. And to be paid a significant sum for it.

But what do I do? I doubt the fact that it may happen. I doubt my abilities to do what I apparently do so well.

Why do we do this, humanity?

Can We Hear

Tunes in my head: Sitting Still by R.E.M.
Atmosphere: Creative

where do all of the children sleep
under stars where boys cannot see
under sun shooting stares at them
kitchen man is not impressed
as breaking down of things concurrs
get so far and no-one knows
sitting time and wasting plan
nothing more than standing still

I don't usually do these, but...

Tunes in my head: Natural Science by Rush
Atmosphere: Desolate

I thought this one was good.

--

10 things you wish you could say to 10 different people right now

1. You know how much I love you. You know that I'd do anything for you at anytime. I don't know why, but I would. I'd like you to actually appreciate this and return it. I feel you take me for granted a bit.

2. You've changed too much, look at what she's done to you. You've gone from someone who I can trust to someone who disgusts me.

3. You make me cry a lot. Sometimes happy tears. Sometimes sad tears. But always a raw emotional response whenever I think of you. It's strange, but what can I do about it? It's who I am, and you know that better than anyone.

4. Hurry up and come back already, I barely know you and I already miss you to bits.

5. I don't know, dude. I feel bad that she's taken my place somewhat. And I know she destroys you. I want you to get out. But I can't do it. And I don't want to at the risk of your happiness.

6. Do you really realise how many people hate you?

7. Even though I may have told you to some extent, there is still nothing I could ever say or do to ever encompass the respect I have for you.

8. You're a fucking arsehole. I specifically ask you not to do things that I know would make me out to be an idiot and you do them anyway. Thanks for ruining my chance.

9. Why can't you die?

10. I don't know where this is going. But it may end up good or bad. It'll be an interesting ride.


9 things people may not know about you

1. I still bite my nails.

2. I hate eating. Really.

3. Sleep is a rarity for me. It's hard especially in this heat.

4. I could once speak semi-fluent Spanish.

5. If you have green eyes, I will love you.

6. I don't actually enjoy drinking, contrary to my heritage.

7. If I could be a politican, I would run like hell to Europe.

8. I've never wanted nothing more than to be in a successfulish band.

9. My mind can run in circles and be a blank whiteboard.

8 ways to win your heart

1. Have a cute smile.

2. Be open to new things, experimentation, new music.

3. Affection.

4. Read as much as possible.

5. Know there is a time to be outgoing, and a time to be insular.

6. Make me smile.

7. Be yourself, it's most important.

8. Love me, for who I am, no matter what happens between us.

7 things that cross your mind a lot

1. The past.

2. The present.

3. The future.

4. Wishing.

5. Music.

6. What could have been.

7. Novel ideas.

6 things you do before you fall asleep (not in order)

1. Listen to music.

2. Brush teeth.

3. Wish.

4. Reminisce.

5. Try to make someone smile.

6. Generally, fail.

5 things you notice in the opposite sex

1. Personality.

2. Eyes.

3. Sense of humour.

4. Affection.

5. Openness.

4 things you wish you never did/had

1. Given up.

2. Been run over. Not by a car. But by people.

3. Let go of things dear to me.

4. Been convinced to do that subject.

3 songs to describe your life

1. The Sweetest Chill - Siouxsie and the Banshees.

2. World Leader Pretend by R.E.M.

3. Anything But Me by Phish.


2 things you want to do before you die

1. Make someone happy. Truly happy.

2. Make my impression on the world. Artistically, preferably.

1 confession

1. I am who I am. You all know who that is. Because I am so different from most of you, I'm so alone. I don't know what to do most days. And I'm more scared and afraid of life than anybody thinks. It sucks. But what can I do? The few people who actually can access me choose not to. So I sit, alone. And it fucks with me. I wish for impossible things. Knowing they will never come to fruitition. It only makes me more alone, more miserable. It's only a matter of time before the break. I'm not okay.

The echo of whomever spoke.

Tunes in my head: Bouncing Around The Room by Phish
Atmosphere: Miserable.

I wish.

I wish I could do something about the people I care about. They're quite few in number, really. Some say I'm massively caring. But the people who know know that I only care fervently and few.

And those people are the ones who I can't do much about. They seem to be constantly sad, they seem to have problems that are out of my reach.

So what can I do? Try and fail or sit and feel horrible?

Both are pretty shitty options.

Formal was quite good, but I spent too much time thinking. Even though that person has such a bright life from my perspective anyway, I was just thinking about how I could make it a little bit brighter, a little bit happier.

How I could access the darkness I have glimpsed and wash it all away.

There are others who seem to be in constant pain, in agony. And yet I try and try and try to make them happy, I do anything. I make myself look like an absolute idiot and degrade myself in front of them for it.

And what do I get for that?

Nothing but pain and tears.

I'm still waiting for the moment of happiness. Just one that I create. Whether with someone or not.

But what can I do?

I wish I could make people happy.

But all I seem to do is wish impossible things.

My hair's on end about you.

Tunes in my head: Terrapin by Phish
Atmosphere: Insomnia

It's ridiculous, even. Our need for companionship. We put our hopes, our prides, our needs in the hands of people who could possibly fail in their endeavour to make the other happy.

But yet we still do it. We still aspire to not be alone, we still wish to take a few companions on this strange ride.

It's not even neccesarily in a kissy kissy let's make out sense, per se. People can be platonic companions on the ship. They can sit in the seats at the front of the lifeboat and discuss the virtues of Robert Smith with much passion and valour.

I'm depressed, guys.

I remember this time when I really needed some help. It was not massive, it wasn't life threatening in any means, but it was extremely rough at best.

I got abandoned. Completely and utterly abandoned. It's not neccesarily most of the people's faults, I can't blame them for it. Some I can, but whatever. That's not the point, really.

The point is that I felt so alone in my moment of need. My moment where I needed people to rally behind me for once, who was there?

Nobody.

And it fucking sucked, to put it lightly. It was one of the worst things ever. Because there were several nights where hey, I needed some fucking help and there was nothing I could do about it because I didn't know who to reach to.

I didn't know who I could trust, and I still don't. Yes, people do get preoccupied with things, the notion that I'm the centre of anybody's universe aside from my own (and even that one is questionable) is ridiculous.

But there are times where people should put down what are doing to help. The English homework that people are working on is rather, in fact, very insignificant when on the other end of the line is a person holding a knife to their own throat. Or a similar sort of situation in terms of emotional potency, you know?

When there is a breakup of kinds or an emotionally traumatic event or even just a random breakdown in the middle of the night, there needs to be support there when one needs it. You can't just go "oh, you'll be fine, shut up."

People do that. All the time. It gets rather infuriating.

We all have our own problems, and we all deserve to have them heard. There is no reason why we should be unneccesarily, unfairly condemned to silence.

But when we don't have someone to listen, to hear the words we sail upon, what choice do we have but that torture?

Fuck you.

Tunes in my head: This Corrosion by The Sisters Of Mercy
Atmosphere: Die

LOOK. THIS FUCKING STOPS NOW. IF YOU HAVE A PROBLEM WITH ME, YOU TAKE IT UP WITH ME. NOBODY ELSE. IF YOU WANT TO SAY SOMETHING TO ME, YOU SAY IT TO ME. NOBODY ELSE. I CANNOT FUCKING STAND THIS SHIT.

Jewel of Wilson's foul domain.

Tunes in my head: Tela by Phish
Atmosphere: Sleepy

Why are we compelled to create art?

What exactly is that magical feeling we get when we've created something truly great?

Do we do it for the misty eyed moments when we're playing the melodic jam of our lives?

Do we create for the purpose of writing lines that amuse?

Artistry is a tough thing to create.

So many try, so few succeed.

So few actually create something worth crying over, laughing for, engaging with.

Most of modern art is disposable. It's listened to for three minutes and forgotten promptly thereafter.

Why do we still create, then?

He was just like Jesse James.

Tunes in my head: Poor, Poor, Pitiful Me by Warren Zevon
Atmosphere: Sore

You'll notice I haven't been writing here much recently. (yes, only in my world is every other day "not often".)

I feel that I'm becoming slightly stagnant as a writer.

Nothing much has really happened to me recently, so I'm running out of things to say.

And what is to be said is for the novel.

The HSC finishes on Thursday. Perhaps after then I'll get a job or what have you to break the creative deadlock.

It's all I can really do now.

He blew him to Johannesburg.

Tunes in my head: Rolane Chorale by Warren Zevon
Atmosphere: Angry

I remember when things were ideallic and nearly perfect.

I was writing constantly, it was a period of great creative strife.

I'm trying to recreate it.

It's not quite working.

Is to recreate the best way to do such things?

How long can you stare?

Tunes in my head: King by Marillion
Atmosphere: Grumpy

What happens when we love?

What happens when we love someone we're not meant to?

We feel conflicted.

We feel like we shouldn't be doing this, we shouldn't be feeling these emotions.

But at the same time, we can't control our emotions.

And it feels kind of good to feel that way.

Even though you know that it will never come to fruition.

Somehow this is a better thing, really.

A fantasy that isn't ruined.

I'll pull the thorns from your feet.

Tunes in my head: Be Mine by R.E.M.
Atmosphere: Grumpy

it's a sort of here comes the flood
lumina tastes like fear
i look up and what do i see?
a band of u.s. marines playing death
i can smell the sweetness on your breath
here we go again
tastes like fear so sweet
so fast so numbing
there's a desert where palm trees sway
near some form of wild heaven
aluminum tastes like hope
bittersweet lollipop
imperative mood imperative moves
still slightly delayed
here we go again

We're replaying 1961.

Tunes in my head: Living Through Another Cuba by XTC
Atmosphere: 4068/50000

In reality, we're just reliving the Cold War all over again.

There's all this tension with a region of the world (The Middle East), but there's no actual fighting being done between us and them (thank god.)

Can the Americans just not stay out of war for five seconds?

There's no reason for them to be getting involved in these issues at all aside from their own greed.

It's rather ridiculous.

Surely the fucking Yanks can get their nose out of someone else's affairs for five seconds?

I mean, I do admire Obama, no doubt, and I enjoy the fact that he intends to get out of Iraq ASAP. But they should never have been there in the first place.

And even if there is a withdrawal now, there is no excuse for how badly they have fucked up Iraq and Afghanistan and the general balance of power in the Middle East.

The fact that they're supporting someone in the Israel/Palestine conflict further complicates matters.

It's not so much that they're supporting Israel, but just that they're getting involved unnecessarily in such a volatile situation.

No matter their position on the world stage, it's unacceptable. And will lead to our demise, sooner rather than later.

A little addenum.

Tunes in my head: About To Crash by Dream Theater
Atmosphere: 2077/50000

By the way, this blog will probably be fairly quiet while I'm actually writing. I'm sure I'll still have the time to post a blog once a day (maybe once every couple of days) but I wouldn't be expecting any massively cosmic rants.

Words of the prophet on the city walls.

Tunes in my head: The Spirit of Radio by Rush
Atmosphere: Excited

What motivates us to write in these little white boxes?

Do we actually have an aim in these snippets of thought?

I'm sure some of my fellow writers would. They would try to persuade a reader over to a particular line of thought.

On my end, I merely write to entertain and to engage.

In April, some of you know that I wrote a play. Sleeping Monkeys. A torrential love story, ending in a happy ending (yes, what the fuck. I NEVER end things happily.)

The amount of joy I got when finishing it up was immense and intense.

Life got put on hold for thirty days.

This time, I'm writing a novel for NaNoWriMo. I alluded to it early.

Fifty thousand words, thirty days to write them in.

Of course, they picked a fantastic month to throw it in. It's not like I'm busy or anything.

But I will get it down. Anything to get that sense of satisfaction, right?

The journey of the first novel begins in an hour and twenty two minutes.

We'll see if I survive it.

I was hearing something else.

Tunes in my head: Marquee Moon by Television
Atmosphere: Headache

To wander is to think.

To think is to dream.

To dream is to believe.

To believe is to hope.

To hope is to get let down.

To be let down is to fail.

To fail is to repeat.

To repeat is to wander.

Piece by piece you perform your story.

Tunes in my head: The Funeral Party by The Cure
Atmosphere: Depressed

What job do you all see me in in the future?

Isn't it obvious?

Tunes in my head: 2001 by Phish
Atmosphere: Depressed

tears apart

we carried on
we carried alone
bricks to build a bridge
stick to break the stone
at least there's something
we left behind
for other people to learn
to see and to hide
we never talked

under dull red
under water bed
tears to flow on by
fears to leave us fed
at least there's something
we left behind
a bridge to walk upon
underneath the raging tide
we never talked

we ran away
we ran astray
alone to gain some peace
at home without a piece
at least there's something
we left behind
a piece to weigh us down
a shortened trip to ride
we never talked

under bed sheets
under snow, sleet
a fervour, almost crazed
wooden walls to be erased
at least there's something
we left behind
a hole in some forbidden keep
some thought that we'd always find
we never talked

Two lyrics.

Tunes in my head: Everybody Hurts by R.E.M.
Atmosphere: Lazy

from the edge of the world

clasping hyena smile
taken to testify
all the while
the sheltering sky
turns to dust
and falls away
all stars must
turn far away

we're going down
under the sea
so far down
things never seen

day is done
and nothing changed
sickly fun
book turns page
so short lived
change and back
does it give
some way back

we're going down
diving for her
so far down
past the edge of the world

--

the sounds of a dark alleyway

secret smile
of long lost child
smiles within
the poison skin
reach for taste
with much post haste
do we really understand
or maybe we don't comprehend

a flirty laugh
in acidic bath
fulfulling look
and frailness took
dark alleyway
no-one to pay
she gives her services for free
it's not as if she repsects for she

Darkness with an empty smile.

Tunes in my head: Wearing the Inside Out by David Gilmour
Atmosphere: Empty


So yeah. Realising someone's actually pretty just because you sat down and had a decent conversation is pretty awesome.

--

Leaving was never quite my proud.

The sudden nature of life saddens me, I guess. One day something can be there, the surest, most stable thing in the world.

Last year, Richard Wright died. He seemed an institution of the English music scene. Someone who would seemingly always be there in the shadows, adding delicate piano licks or whirling organ chords or searing Minimoog solos.

Little did we know that he was battling cancer for a long period of time, and probably only embarked on the last tour with Gilmour knowing that it would be one of his last.

Do we understand what we truly have until it's gone?

Sometimes. The audiences at this final tour were so appreciate of him, giving standing ovations at every show.

It's nice to actually embrace it on occasion.

But still, we have our things torn from us. And it really does destroy the human psyche when it happens.

I cried when he died. I'm not ashamed at all to admit that. This sarcastic extrovertness and the very real introversion that he exuded was something I felt I could truly empathise with.

Do we really know what we have until it's taken from us?

If you expect me to care, I won't.

Tunes in my head: D.I.Y. by Peter Gabriel
Atmosphere: Sore

So Ancient was really nothing to worry about, and was so piss easy.

Uh. That was all for now, me thinks.

Go and get yourselves some Hunter Thompson, people. He's an interesting guy.

The rain pours down, steam on my head.

Tunes in my head: Silent Air by The Sound
Atmosphere: Wet

The notion of the flood is one that scares me.

Yes, I was inspired by being in the shower. Hey, it inspires me for some strange reason.

What happens if we're all underneath a sea of water or ash (for all of you Ancient historians out there) or radiation?

Everything of society just buried. Lost forever. Or at least what seems like forever. Maybe not if we're discovered, but it's not likely. I mean, the discovered cities of the past were found merely by chance.

And then what happens, once it's gone underneath the ether?

Do we cease to exist?

Imagine a society underneath the ground, if you will. One devoid of sunlight, of any contact with anything above the surface.

Would it be as idealistic as some have written about? Or would it truly just be detached from anything above?

The notion of a floodland is interesting. Water washing it's way through society's cavities, drowning us all in it's wake.

Uplifting thought, isn't it?

Would that be so bad?

Maybe if we can die in the arms of beloved, maybe. But who actually finds their loved ones these days, anyway?

It was only two years later.

Tunes in my head: The Village by New Order
Atmosphere: Creative

I walked out of the flat and into the misty boulevard. Sights of Soho in the rain, which clouded the streets. The clitter clatter of heels and hells crashing down onto the cement, like some out of tune, out of time symphony playing Pink Floyd while staring at a TV showing increasingly Kafkaesque films. (Are they doing an adaptation of The Metamorphosis, I wondered.)

I lit up a cigarette and let it caress the insides of my mouth, delicately kissing the ulcer on my tongue. The smoke was a strange sensation - knowingly malignant and yet ultimately and fleetingly satisfying. Much like sex. A sense of relief from the tedium humdrum of modern life, tearing it's way through my delicate lungs.

Across the street, a cheap fare is asked for, and acquired. The actress drifts off quickly and quietly into the knowing and yet foreign arms of some desperate Londonite. The sort who would have led the girl to some headline in The Daily Mail, some which would shock many of the readers. Whether it would be some cocaine fueled binge that would lead to a sense of notoriety and 15 seconds of fame, or one that would leave the parts of her which were discovered in the books only read by aspiring red light travelers. I did not know the eventual outcome. I could merely predict that she would not be there upon the next glimpse into the shadows of underground life.

It was ten thirty in the morning.

So evil must die.

Tunes in my head: Grass by XTC
Atmosphere: Bloated

moonlight shines upon the darkened soul
gleams and sacrifices to the bonfire
the fiendish grin of the night's teeth
looks through and gets taken higher

in the cramped chamber breathing
comes close and comes harder
fingers pulling, breaking at the strings
echo through the mind of a martyr

the glisten of water hits the windscreen
new as falling sand on the beach
the clearing comes the goal is near
it seems within such close reach
(i take you over)

what is there to be seen in dark
nothing to the naked eye
the badge of honour is some sort of pain
but not one to decry
(i take you over)

it tastes like fear coursed in stream
and yet continues to flow the flood
it's just another dream and not as found
takes a while to be understoof
(i take you over)

--

An exercise.

What do you all think this is about?

Three weeks in my bed.

Tunes in my head: Down With Disease by Phish
Atmosphere: Shitty.

i've got blood on my feet
like anaconda flesh
it's not very strange
when looked at from here
it's not valourous feat
to escape from the war
get so far from range
out of some minor fear

it's what keeps me
it's what keeps me
it's what keeps me
grounded in here

i've got some kind of raise
from people who stare
it's all so so weird
to think of those dreams
all walls can be raized
and escape can be made
from what we once feared
if for just one day

it's what keeps me
it's what keeps me
it's what keeps me
grounded in here
believe in me
and i can fly free
receive in me
annd i can die free

i've had some deceive
from some eagle's nest
they learn to detach
so scars will concede
it's all a deceit
when they go to fly
they will reattach
when time comes to give

it's what keeps me
it's what keeps me
it's what keeps me
grounded in here
believe in me
and i can fly free
receive in me
and i can die free
so don't cut me
from the hand that feeds
i'll shake it so hard
it falls to it's knees
don't cut me
from the hand that needs
i'll bite it so hard
it will always keep bleed

A slap on the hand for when you're asking.

Tunes in my head: Barbarism Begins At Home by The Smiths
Atmosphere: Achieved.

It's amazing what flaws can do for us, right?

If we had never taken the risk to make a mistake, society would not be where it is now.

But something that could be seen as a personality flaw or a physical one may be endearing for others. (conflicting perspectives, right?)

Having different coloured eyes may be commonly seen as a flaw, but someone may find it really sexy.

Even scars, and I'm not talking the sexy Brad Pitt-esque ones. Scars from acne or mountain climbing or something. They may not neccesarily be typically attractive, but people may find them cute, sexy or even beautiful because of this imperfection, because it's atypical.

We have personalities. Some of these traits may been commonly seen as negative. Shyness, condescencion, promiscuity. They're generally seen as absolute, pure flaws.

But yet someone may find them appealing.

If you're ever feeling down, remember. You are one of almost seven billion unique personalities (some of those identical twins are just that.) There is something uniquely appealing about us all. Remember.

It's strange. All of these people around are finding people who see the appeal in them and pursuing it.

Perhaps it's just a matter of time before it happens. Or maybe I need to overcome the crippling shyness and make the break.

Do we really need someone to validate our continued existance?
Maybe so.
Maybe not.

It's strange the contradiction between what we show and what we are. What if the reasonably quiet girl turns into a boisterous one? The nerd into the addict?

The power of the mind to take such a one eighty degree turn (some may say divebomb) always surprises and shocks me. Are we really just some discarded clay, to be molded into what people we are by our experiences?
Maybe so.
Maybe not.

These thoughts are what keep me sane, and drive me insane. Ah, the beauty of contradiction, right?

I'm not sure what I'll do at this point.

I think I may make some break.

I seem to forget half the things I start.

Tunes in my head: My Mind's Got A Mind Of It's Own by Phish
Atmosphere: Stressed, as much as I'm not showing it

Code.

There's something really intriguing about how the human brain works. Physically, psychologically.

And so we turn towards doing things in a certain sort of code. To hide whatever the actual intention is.

But have you ever thought what the outsider will think of this mythology of sorts?

As you probably all know, I listen heavily to Phish. And within their Gamehendge song cycle, there's an incredibly layered cycle of songs that all interlink to create the greater storyline. I'd be interested to get someone to listen to the saga without knowing anything about it and try to decipher the meaning behind it. I bet you they can't.

Similarly, if we were to discuss the intricacies of the HSC with an American or whatever, I'm sure it would be very difficult for them to fully understand it.

(maybe we should try a Canadian then.)

Gone are the days where simplicity was prevalent, right? And then there's just the inside jokes between what are sometimes large groups of people. Many people have heard long, florid explanations of what happens when you say it. Everyone should really read the first letters of each sentence in this paragraph, by the way.

But I know there's a few inside jokes that are designed just for the two of us. The little smirks between friends. The affectionate anger. The names that aren't real. When an outsider looks in on a conversation and the same person is referred to as Scotty, Scabby, Gecko, Basil, Didi, Bono and Fagatron within seven sentences, surely they get very confused?

Isn't this the purpose of the secret language?

It makes people smile and it makes people not in the know very confused.

For our American readers, Paper 2 of English is tomorrow, and we're all screwed.

You kiss me dead!

Tunes in my head: Fascination Street by The Cure
Atmosphere: Tired


What makes us love what we do?

It's strange, really.

Is it basically because of something purely physical?

Or is it because we see potiental in that person that can be furfilled through an intense emotional connection such as love?

And what happens when it's unfurfilled?

Do we feel a sense of disappointment, or do we just pick ourselves up?

I fear screwing up a person.

Damaging them, really.

Is this rational?

I love someone. At least, I think I do. It may just be a very intense attraction. In all honesty, I don't even know what I think these days.

What if I hurt her? What if I change her as a person, for the worse? Nothing has happened, and it's probable nothing will happen. But what if it does?

If I turned her into a crying wreck...what do I do then?

I don't know if I could handle the pain of turning myself into just a painful memory in the eyes of something I love.

Selfish and selfless all in one.

I want to avoid causing pain. I want to avoid pain as a result of this.

But I want to be happy...and I want to make her life just a little brighter.

Confliction.

There's a big enough umbrella, but I'm always getting wet.

Tunes in my head: Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic by The Police
Atmosphere: HOT

It's way too fucking hot today! Seriously, I am going to MELT on Monday. Three hours in a crowded classroom? Nooooo.

English was pretty easy, way easier than I really expected.

My mind's fried. Expect more when it's cooler.

I've reached that point.

Tunes in my head: End by The Cure
Atmosphere: Coughy.

day 01 | a song
day 02 | a picture
day 03 | a book/ebook/fanfic
day 04 | a site
day 05 | a youtube clip
day 06 | a quote
day 07 | whatever tickles your fancy

remember how it used to be
when the sun would fill up the sky
remember how we used to feel
those days would never end
those days would never end

remember how it used to be
when the stars would fill the sky
remember how we used to dream
those nights would never end
those nights would never end

it was the sweetness of your skin
it was the hope of all we might have been
that fills me with the hope to wish
impossible things

but now the sun shines cold
and all the sky is grey
the stars are dimmed by clouds and tears
and all i wish
is gone away
all i wish
is gone away

all i wish
is gone away

There's not enough white in the stars and stripes.

Tunes in my head: IfWhiteAmericaToldTheTruthForOneDayIt'sWorldWouldFallApart by The Manic Street Preachers
Atmosphere: Okay


Writer's block is a strange thing, especially for me.

I mean, personally, I write in a stream of consciousness style where I basically take the thoughts that run endlessly through my head and put them down onto the page.

So to not know what to write...is this an emptiness of the mind?

Or is this merely caused by stress or the HSC or whatever?

If so, this worries me. To write has been the escape from any stress or pain in the past. So if that avenue is escaped from me...I have a problem.

And if there's an emptiness of my mind (yes, make the jokes, I lost my mind many years before), then that worries me too.

We are human. We have such a wide array of original thoughts.


































...right?

And if we really do have such an array of these thoughts, why do we think it's hard to actually express these thoughts?

I mean, I don't feel I truly express myself here the way I want to. Others will say to the contrary. "Oh no, Liam, you're a fantastic writer." or whatever. Maybe they think so. But do I? Not particularly. I can't express myself the way I feel I truly want.

Maybe my expectations are way too high. Maybe the stress of the past few months and the next few weeks is really getting to me on a creative viewpoint.

Maybe, even, my time is up as a hub of creativity. I hope not.

I mean, it feels great to write. To actually get some semblence of thought out there, to get people to read what you think and sometimes give some feedback. It's a relieving feeling to actually get stuff out...to vent, in a way. Okay, sure, the blog doesn't actually have ears, but it's better than getting yelled at every time I try to talk.

(Sorry, I don't want to have a go at anyone...this time.)

Do I need new topics to talk about? Have I merely exhausted the possibilities that this current state have given me, and so I need a change? Possibly. Of course, then I'd require some more emotional pain to go through, so I can bitch about that some more. And I don't think anybody really wants that.

Maybe I just need to take a break from this blogging nonsense.

Or could I work on churning out longer form things? Only post every couple of days, and have them be some well rehearsed soliliquy on a particular topic, three thousand words worth. (if you got the pun there, good work)

Don't think so. Some people have said the strength of this particular "corner of society" is the raw emotion put into it. The fact that I do give my all to everything in here. It's me...in a nutshell.

Maybe even through the fact that I am so often talking to myself in doing these, as well. They're not just mental, but the fact that some of these blogs could be read as monologues or dialogues isn't coincidental. Some of the stuff in here was designed as a verbal piece rather than a written one. I'm sure you can all guess some of them, and I'm sure you can never guess some others.

Well...as can be told by the fact that I'm writing this here and not in some silly little book where only I can read it, I'm broadcasting my thoughts to the world, here. What does the world think, in response?

I don't know where to stop.

Tunes in my head: No Self Control by Peter Gabriel
Atmosphere: Exhausted

day 01 | a song
day 02 | a picture
day 03 | a book/ebook/fanfic
day 04 | a site
day 05 | a youtube clip
day 06 | a quote
day 07 | whatever tickles your fancy

It's amazing what devices you can sympathize...empathize
This is my mistake. Let me make it good
I raised the walls, and I will be the one to knock it down

- Michael Stipe

Makes me pull my hair all out.

Tunes in my head: High by The Cure
Atmosphere: Studious

We all have heroes, right?

I think I might show something that's inspired me as a writer.

disintegration by the cure

Oh I miss the kiss of treachery
The shameless kiss of vanity
The soft and the black and the velvety
Up tight against the side of me
And mouth and eyes and heart all bleed
And run in thickening streams of greed
As bit by bit it starts the need
To just let go
My party piece

Oh I miss the kiss of treachery
The aching kiss before I feed
The stench of a love for a younger meat
And the sound that it makes
When it cuts in deep
The holding up on bended knees
The addiction of duplicities
As bit by bit it starts the need
To just let go
My party piece

But I never said I would stay to the end
So I leave you with babies and hoping for frequency
Screaming like this in the hope of the secrecy
Screaming me over and over and over
I leave you with photographs
Pictures of trickery
Stains on the carpet and
Stains on the scenery
Songs about happiness murmured in dreams
When we both us knew
How the ending would be...

So it's all come back round to breaking apart again
Breaking apart like I'm made up of glass again
Making it up behind my back again
Holding my breath for the fear of sleep again
Holding it up behind my head again
Cut in deep to the heart of the bone again
Round and round and round
And it's coming apart again
Over and over and over

Now that I know that I'm breaking to pieces
I'll pull out my heart
And I'll feed it to anyone
Crying for sympathy
Crocodiles cry for the love of the crowd
And the three cheers from everyone
Dropping through sky
Through the glass of the roof
Through the roof of your mouth
Through the mouth of your eye
Through the eye of the needle
It's easier for me to get closer to heaven
Than ever feel whole again

I never said I would stay to the end
I knew I would leave you with babies and everything
Screaming like this in the hole of sincerity
Screaming me over and over and over
I leave you with photographs
Pictures of trickery
Stains on the carpet and
Stains on the memory
Songs about happiness murmured in dreams
When we both of us knew
How the end always is

How the end always is...

Moon glow, moon glow, always need a little more room.

Tunes in my head: Corrosion by Pink Floyd
Atmosphere: Sleepy

day 01 | a song
day 02 | a picture
day 03 | a book/ebook/fanfic
day 04 | a site
day 05 | a youtube clip
day 06 | a quote
day 07 | whatever tickles your fancy

I don't know whose side I'm on...

Tunes in my head: Prodigal by Porcupine Tree
Atmosphere: Alert


The album In Absentia by Porcupine Tree is one of my favourites from this century. Released in 2002, it's diversity is one of the things that has really dragged me into a sense of appeal regarding it.

Two songs especially have really hit me from it, contrasting in musical tone and lyrical design. Despite these differences, in terms of general mood, they share a general feeling of utter hopelessness and desperation which is strangely appealing.

The song .3 (often referred to in contexts as "Point Three") is a brilliant example of minimalism and musical darkness. In this, Steven Wilson intones two very dark lines of lyrics over a bass led groove.

Black the sky, weapons fly
Lay them waste for your race

In invoking this scene, the music takes a turn from dark yet seemingly pleasing to anarchic, despite not changing in tone. The lyrics seem to solidify the musical picture, creating a highly effective portrait of darkness. The relentless groove of the song is finally contrasted with a ray of light - the strumming of acoustic guitar. Finally, the string arrangement of XTC's Dave Gregory seems to add a final touch of romantic sadness to the piece as it meanders to it's end. And so the song fades back into the distance from where it came from.

Finally, the album ends with the flickering, dying flame of loss. In ending the album with the song Collapse The Light Into Earth, Wilson leaves the impression of very dark album, one that is not entirely true until perhaps the last third of the disc.

Four simple, bright yet dark piano chords reverberate through the listener's mind. Gentle string arrangements to further add to the melancholic feel of the song. Hopeless lyrics to evoke an emotional response. Loss.

I won't shiver in the cold
I won't let the shadows take their toll
I won't cover my head in the dark
And I won't forget you when we part

Collapse the light into earth

I won't heal given time
I won't try to change your mind
I won't feel better in the cold light of day
But I wouldn't stop you if you wanted to stay

Collapse the light into earth

The dionysian fact is more earth than sea.

Tunes in my head: "it" by Genesis
Atmosphere: Satisfied


Expectations are a dangerous thing in this society.

We get ourselves all hyped up and we await some massive reward for waiting patientally for the months or weeks or days or minutes or seconds.

Unfortunately, the schizophrenic and impatient nature of our modern society means that we're never truly pleased with whatever comes.

It might be a package that people in the past would be pleased with, but due to our heightened expectations, as a result of the highly technological nature of our society, it doesn't really resonate.

I'm all for free distribution of music over the internet, but do we really appreciate music anymore? Probably not. The single is back in fashion, and I don't like this. There's no real appreciation for the album anymore. We listen to songs now...

We're always looking for the next craze, the next little thing to satisfy our urges. Nothing is ever enough, is it?

All time and seasons are the reasons.

Tunes in my head: McGrupp and The Watchful Hosemasters by Phish
Atmosphere: Okay

day 01 | a song
day 02 | a picture
day 03 | a book/ebook/fanfic
day 04 | a site
day 05 | a youtube clip
day 06 | a quote
day 07 | whatever tickles your fancy

http://www.nuklearpower.com/8-bit-theater/

To not feel.

Tunes in my head: Air Born by Camel
Atmosphere: Heavy

I've deleted this post twice already out of not knowing what to write.

What drives the writer to write? It's a seriously confusing thing, isn't it?

Occasionally it's like a masterpiece musician sitting at the piano, Rachmaninoff squirming out of his fingers like liquid. It comes seemingly naturally, there's no effort really needed. The thoughts just stream through the mind, they don't need preconception. One could be talking and writing those words at the same time. One hundred and fifty to two hundred words a minute where needed. In those magical moments, you don't control the words, the words don't control you. They just emerge, and it's somewhat magical, I suppose.

Sometimes, it's a lot harder. Sometimes you have to beat the sentences into submission. They don't really agree with you, but they come anyway. The writer kind of forces it out of them. Not saying that these aren't good posts, perhaps even the best kind. But it just doesn't flow as naturally.

And then, rarely, it's the whole "I did this today, I did that today" sorts of posts. There's nothing technically wrong with them, I suppose, but if the writer is truly dedicated to their craft, then surely they have something better to say on occasion?

--

Is there a psychology behind attraction?

I was discussing a certain young lady with someone today (you both know who you are...?) and it turns out there's actually physiology behind attraction.

Apparently, if you gaze at someone's forehead, you want them to go away or something, if you gaze into the lower half of their face you've thinking on a social level and below that is sexual?

Something like that.

Playing with hair is flirtatious, showing wrists means you feel comfortable around the person? (makes sense...the wrist is one of the most vulnerable areas of the body)

My question to you, I suppose. Is this conscious?

All of you know that the girls on the road are like apples we stole in our youth.

Tunes in my head: Ladies Of The Road by King Crimson
Atmosphere: Depressed, lonely, nihilistic.

I FUCKING MISS YOU.

I FUCKING MISS YOU ALL.

BUT I FUCKING MISS YOU THE MOST.

I'm pretty fucking lonely, guys. Even though I apparently have this wide circle of friends...I'm still really fucking lonely.

Why is this?

There's a void that's been left by you.

I know, there's not much I can do about it now.

But I figure you might want to know.

That's all.

I'm sorry, I know you don't like reading this. But I need to do this. For my sakes, for my sanity.

For tonight, goodbye.

Never never ever stop.

Tunes in my head: Fight by The Cure
Atmosphere: Depressed

Fuck, back down the maelstrom.

day 01 | a song
day 02 | a picture
day 03 | a book/ebook/fanfic
day 04 | a site
day 05 | a youtube clip
day 06 | a quote
day 07 | whatever tickles your fancy

We can all be romantic.

Tunes in my head: Humdrum by Peter Gabriel
Atmosphere: Tired

Rings Of The Cosmos


we walk in circles on the air of the sun
and don't move along until the day is done
even at times when the souls unite
there's some sort of flash the sparks ignite
so slowly we drive our car off the edge
and entrap this moment within the crumbling ledge
green headlights dart like sirens from dark
perhaps this moment will remain engrained?

Houses, Ordered

Tunes in my head: When You Sleep by My Bloody Valentine
Atmosphere: Alert


when the blue forms katie calls
and night hits twenty eight
when the red forms sadie calls
and day hits fourty four
we all go for walks at night
to avoid two and fifty one
walls close in kimono falls
and there's sun through paint

breaking time faulty plan
voices sing and garbage can
ordered houses don't meet rats
and secret is not hidden back

gentlemen walls into room and
delcares the third shortened
pans fly fans are swept
poster torn from the wall
caged in such escaping rooms
people like that don't get caught
but melted now secret flies
hits the bars and resounds so high

breaking time faulty plan
voices sing and men who can
ordered houses don't have this
secrets hide within a kiss

life and how to live it
is part of the game, the road
travel so far to fall just short
at the hospital bed
marlowe looks into the wall
and runs at the sickened sight
of two coffe mugs sitting
embedded and filled with ooze

breaking time faulty plan
voices sing like pelicans
ordered houses fall apart
and secrets are now forced to part

All the stars drip down like butter.

Tunes in my head: Let Me In by R.E.M.
Atmosphere: Good, actually.

Life's okay right now.

day 01 | a song
day 02 | a picture
day 03 | a book/ebook/fanfic
day 04 | a site
day 05 | a youtube clip
day 06 | a quote
day 07 | whatever tickles your fancy

What happens now?

What Happens Now?

Page sat down at the edge of the chair, a cold glass of water gripped in one hand, and a pen in the other. Slowly he stared at the walls.

Yes, the walls stared back. In a staring competition, they'd never lose, Page knew.

And yet he still tried. He still tried to beat them, because he knew that if one day, he did, then the whole rules of human existance could be rearranged around this one little victory. He knew that if these timber walls would one day suddenly cower from the challenge and retreat into a long lost wood.

Ironic, isn't it? They must be revisiting their friends.

So Page came into this room to while away his pointless existence. For hours at a time he'd stare. He'd stare in all different ways – from the ceiling, with a glint in his eye, with glasses on. Still, there was no retreat. Both the wall and Page seemed unrelenting in their desire to win this seemingly eternal staring contest.

Well, the wall did have an advantage, it was kind of nailed to the floor. And even then, it was nailed to one another. Backing away from this little contest would prove rather hard to it, even if it wanted to.

Yes, Page could have brought a chainsaw into the room with him, and the thought had crossed his mind many a time. But that would make the game way too easy. There'd be no challenge if the walls had suddenly come crashing down as a result of their foundations between driven to splinters by the constant and ever so painful rotation of tiny little blades with what had been termed “nasty, pointy teeth” by Page's friend Stephen.

Page was always up for a challenge. Even a seemingly impossible one.

And, of course, he did take into consideration the feelings these pieces of wood would have. What use would putting them into little splinters be? Imagine their poor families, Page often lamented! “They'd come home from school one day, sit down to eat a nice dinner of dirt, and the larch policeman would knock on the door. The mum, who undoubtedly would be a mahogany plant, would go up to answer it, leaving the children to cheerily munch away at their little dinners. When she came back, the tears would slowly erode away at the ground, leaving her to despise both the cruel nature of deforestation and the relative poverty in which trees lived in.”

And upon hearing this, Stephen would slowly back away for a moment.

I mean, sure, his friend was strange, Stephen noted to himself, but this strange? Maybe there was an effect that had been made by the little decisions in life. I mean, what could have happened that would drive Page to have some eternal staring contest with what is literally a solid wall.

Unless you chomp into it with a chainsaw, he added, and then noticed that he had forgotten to utilise the correct punctuation for the above thoughts.

Of course, Page wouldn't give in. It wasn't in his nature. From the age of five, when he had built this majestic little sandcastle in the pits at playschool. It was an amazing castle, to be sure. Full of pits and moats and murder holes.

But when the bell had gone to go inside for the latest lesson in this strange design of life (“Art”, Page recalled), he refused to move from his position – the figurative fort of sorts. And so he sat. And refused to give up his position.

For thirty five hours.

“An impressive, marathonic feat.”, Stephen recalled.

“What?”

“Nothing, I was thinking about that time when you were five and you built that sandcastle at playschool and it was full of pits and moats and murder holes and you wouldn't go inside for your art lesson and you eventually stayed outside for thirty five hours in an attempt to maintain your little dream.”

“Oh. Is the wall moving yet?”

“No.”

“Shut up then.”

And so the contest would continue on. Page would continue staring at the wood, encaspulating it's fine grain within his glance. The wood would continue to stare back at him, encaspulating his skin tones within it's glance. Stephen would sit, extremely bored extremely bored extremely bored extremely bored extremely bored extremely bored extremely bored.

Even to the point where he'd intone these words quietly, softly, underneath his breath. And they'd gradually become louder and louder, to the point where Page would hit him for talking too loudly.

“IT BREAKS MY CONCENTRATION!”, his eyes would scream.

Turn back the page.

Tunes in my head: Incubus by Marillion
Atmosphere: Depressed

It's amazing what things can bring back pain in flooding memories.

A simple word can just revitalise endless seas of memory.

A picture can resurrect the sensation of a petrol can underneath your nose, the sour liquid lightly pressing your lips.

The taste of strawberries slowly washing their way through your mouth.

The sight of a dismembered body hanging outside a car.

The warmth of an indian summer, the red sky blazing through the clouds.

Or the warmth of a loved one's breath against you neck as they doze off gently to a deep, deep sleep.

A voice down the phone, passively asking how you are, can evoke such a rush of emotion.

to mindlessly garden

Tunes in my head: Gardening At Night by R.E.M.
Atmosphere: Writing...

fourteen voices in my head tell me different things
this warmth in my head just won't be relieved
if i could get these friends out of here
then i'd be alone but so safe

all the time i walk there's never chances to think
when the time comes the yuppie screams to get out
all i can really do is yell over the ballroom
and still it trails off into the doors

i'm so lonely but my friends just won't leave me alone i'm never cold no my too filled head feels like home

when the actions are made i'm not sure of who does them
i go into chelsea to find the impossible answer
when the photographs flash the polaroid burns stares
another victim caught in the camera eye

all the kids come out to play when the teacher's sick
and havoc destroys the classroom with slow decay
when the gentleman comes forth his immaculate greeting
it's a kind of deja vu, something that's been heard before

We scar for the fencemen.

Tunes in my head: Travels in Nihilon by XTC
Atmosphere: Fuck off.

Fuck you, world.

day 01 | a song
day 02 | a picture
day 03 | a book/ebook/fanfic
day 04 | a site
day 05 | a youtube clip
day 06 | a quote
day 07 | whatever tickles your fancy

http://www.sendspace.com/file/9nav4n

Spiked with adrenochrome.

Tunes in my head: Fracture by King Crimson
Atmosphere: Bipolar

What drives us to teach?

Is it a desire to give knowledge to those younger?

Is it that feeling that we get whenever we notice someone has "got it"?

Is it just a money making scheme to pass time while we do something else?

Is it for the holidays?

Is it for the low paydays?

Or is it legitimately for the love of the children?

Do I know?

A few thoughts.

Tunes in my head: Erotomania by Dream Theater
Atmosphere: Red fishnets.

Fantasy is an interesting concept, isn't it? The unknown, and the fascination with said things. I mean, the moment something becomes real, we can analyse it, we can deconstruct it, we can test it's genetic makeup, we can tear it apart and put it back together, we can break it down.

The fantasy may become real, we don't know that. It may become real from some sacrifice. You may have to give up time, money, or even relationships in order to somehow birth this ideal.

But are you ready to dispose of the sick half-monkey that may come as the spawn of this pursuit?

I think Edward Cullen is interesting. Ideally, perfect and yet flawed enough to be appealing. But surely that is only because of perception. If one actually spent time with Cullen, say, in a kitchen, would he be as interesting then? (Don't go OMFG EDWARD CULLEN *GASM*.) Sure, he's a great little fantasy, I suppose, but when you actually make him real, it backfires. I mean, look at the negative reaction to the films.

What then, is the point of furfilling our fantasies? If we know that it will just serve to disappoint, why bother?

I think it's because we feel compelled to. Because we don't want to be forever asking "what if?", and because there is a chance that our fantasies may in fact become true. It might not be likely, but it's certainly possible, right?

But then again, the unicorn never arrives exactly as we expect it. There come arguments, there come disputes, it's just not the same as the fantasy dictates.

Perhaps this is for the better.

Perhaps the fact that our fantasies don't come true, that there is alteration and tribulations makes it better. When the obstacle is thrown in the path of furfilling the fantasy, we become stronger people as a result of our attempts to overcome them. The fact that the girl of our dreams may be heading away, or may be in the hospital still serves to further fuel the fantasy, and when these are eventually overcome, the taste of the reward is so much sweeter as a result of fighting for it rather than just letting it fall into your lap. When you eat icecream forever, it becomes boring, bland. But when you get that one enticing lick after a diet of stones, the aroma becomes irresistable.

What do you think?

Well, I am a rain dog.

Tunes in my head: Midtown by Tom Waits
Atmosphere: Fried.

Why do we listen to music? What's the appeal?

Some people listen to it in order to just dance to, utilising the rhythmic foundation and nothing more.

Some people listen to it in an effort to annoy people - "oh, hey, Miley Cyrus is METAL, yo."

Some people listen to it in an attempt to fit in with a clique, the core contingent coming especially to mind there. I mean, sure, some people like it because of it's music, but I think a vast majority are just latching on to the latest thing.

I listen to music in an attempt to detach, to hide.

To escape from the realities of the world.

I mean, when the pain comes, the best way for me to escape is through a twenty minute funk exploration or a quirky song about rain dogs or something along those lines, right? Something I can't empathise with?

Maybe.

Some days I look for something to empathise with, something rather emotionally charged. Something where I realise that my emotions are not alone, that other people do feel like I do.

I do, really. Even though nothing could really accurately and fully empathise with me (I mean, after all, we're all unique), there are songs that I twist and which further resonate.

It's the way to cope.

Sharing a piece...

Tunes in my head: Roland The Headless Thompson Gunner by Warren Zevon
Atmosphere: Eh

Just felt like sharing this AMAZING song with you all.



Roland was a warrior from the land of the midnight sun
With a thompson gun for hire, fighting to be done
The deal was made in Denmark on a dark and stormy day
So he set out for Biafra to join the bloody fray

Through sixty-six and seven they fought the Congo war
With their fingers on their triggers, knee-deep in gore
For days and nights they battled the Bantu to their knees
They killed to earn their living and to help out the Congolese

Roland the thompson gunner

His comrades fought beside him, Van Owen and the rest
But of all the thompson gunners, Roland was the best
So the CIA decided they wanted Roland dead
That son-of-a-bitch Van Owen blew off Roland's head

Roland the headless thompson gunner
(Time, time, time
For another peaceful war)
Norway's bravest son
(But time stands still for Roland
'Til he evens up the score)
They can still see his headless body stalking through the night
In the muzzle flash of Roland's thompson gun
In the muzzle flash of Roland's thompson gun

Roland searched the continent for the man who'd done him in
He found him in Mombassa in a barroom drinking gin
Roland aimed his thompson gun, he didn't say a word
But he blew Van Owen's body from there to Johannesburg

Roland the headless thompson gunner...
The eternal thompson gunner
still wandering through the night
Now it's ten years later but he still keeps up the fight
In Ireland, in Lebanon, in Palestine and Berkeley
Patty Hearst heard the burst of Roland's thompson gun and bought it