2007: If only I could remember

I finally feel well enough to write this, so here it is.

2007 was a year that started out well, but wasted no time in taking the express route into the abyss. No small part of that was due to my seemingly excellent career choice, which to date has been responsible for a lot of unnecessary stress, hardship, and illness. Not to mention the disappearance of a large portion of my savings.

It was a year that put a hole in my heart and made me look at some things that I had thought to take for granted.

Truth be told, a lot of it was so horrible that I spent equal amounts of time in a drunken stupor, trying to forget about it. Or trying to cope. I can never be sure which. I watched a lot of things fall apart over the course of the year. My health was the worst hit, and today I still have a weight in my chest. If it acts up again, I'll probably end up going in to be checked for lung cancer. I'm not so pessimistic to believe it may actually be the case, but you know, after what happened this year, I wouldn't be surprised if I got saddled with some unforeseen legacy.

Of course, there were a few good parts of the year too, and I'll try my best to remember them. First thing that comes to mind was meeting the guys the first time in the Superstore parking lot. We all didn't say a lot, but there was power in that meeting, which also may have been the first, last, and only time all four of us were in the same spot together. Thinking back to it now, I'm surprised the world didn't split in half or something. Same with meeting the folks from the MG community.

I also broke the provincial barrier and experienced Eastern Canada for the first time in my life. Montreal was a fun experience, and my grasp of French is improving for my next trip there - hopefully sometime in the upcoming spring or summer.

2007 was also the year I met a particular artist, who painted a particular painting, and whom I'm hoping to see more of in the new year, regardless of distance.

I'm going to break tradition and not to a best/worst of 2007, lest I devolve into a three-page rant about all that was wrong with the year. There were a lot of good games, good music, and just generally good shit to be had, but just as well, there was equally bad shit.

There, I think that about covered all my bases. I'm not making any plans or expecting anything huge to happen in 2008. Like the rest of you, I'm now just going where life takes me, as any kind of long term plans I've laid have all come crashing down. And that, in the end, could end up being a very good thing.

Anyway, I hope you all had a decent new year's celebration. I'm going to lie down again, as my head has begun swimming again. I suppose I can make one new resolution - avoid zombies. Both the drink and the dead kind.

This

Pretty much speaks for itself.

Klaus, you drive like my mother

I hope you all enjoyed my little mini-stories over the last few weeks. I really didn't have anything to write about, but it's never good to just stop writing. So I threw those together to just ramble through some things on my mind.

But anyway, onto a more serious note.
It's the Christmas season. And I'm working the front-lines in retail.
Notice how I didn't say it's Christmas. Because Christmas is a day that marks the simultaneous orgasm of nearly a month and a half of continuous marketing orgies.

I could go on about capitalist pigs, bullshit marketing, the phony holiday spirit, blah blah blah. It's the same shit every year. You were probably bored of it last year, let alone three years ago, so I'll spare you the diatribe.

I'll just say that I'm not pleased with the season. With the people. Or with their attempts to be godawfully cheap. You know the type of people. They're cutting corners, for whatever reason, and expect frivolous discounts. At the cost of my ever-increasing tic in my right eye. You know the one.

On the positive side, after the Christmas madness is over, I've got my eye on some tasty new videogames. Lately I've been playing some Hellgate: London. It's kind of a half-finished title at the moment, so I'd recommend holding off on it a while longer, but I've found it a much less infuriating alternative to the endless (and pointless) grinding in WoW.

Also, a friend of mine hooked me up with a Wilco album, insisting that I'd probably like it. I must say, after listening to it front to back to front, he couldn't have been more wrong. Where's the Mogwai, please?

Thoughts in Repeat

The doctors thought it was narcolepsy, but like all angsty teenagers, Jim thought otherwise. He had been through hell, and worse, he didn't make it through. Not in one piece anyway. Jim was a special child. His mother had fled in the middle of the night with his older sister, leaving him to the clutches of his alcoholic father. Jim's dad was, by day, a well respected journalist, but like all in his trade, he could only manage by drowning his life in alcohol when it wasn't absolutely necessary to be sober.

And when he was drunk, he tended to vent. Violently.

And so for his entire childhood, Jim alternated between having the snot beat out of him at school, and having the snot beat out of him at home. Violence was the answer, and inevitably, it wore Jim down to the breaking point. Something happened, though Jim always says he can't remember what. In the end, it doesn't matter anyway. The next time Jim woke up, he was halfway across the country in an airport terminal that smelled of stale curry and rubbing alcohol.

Jim adjusted well to his new surroundings. He was put in foster care - a relative angel compared to what his foster parents called the "usual raff." Still, Jim regularly slipped into melacholic trances. He would lie for hours, staring at the ceiling. Barely breathing. His body wouldn't move, but in his mind, Jim was a million miles away.

Insect wars and petty ambitions. Shaky diplomacy and a stiff backhand. A life spent for a life gained. Stars in my hands and a moon at my feet. I don't feel anything anymore, and I can't explain why. It's so hard to face, and there's so little to say. The answer to everything is death. Destruction. No amount of diplomacy can face against this thing. No amount of love can fix this, as it was love that bred it. Grass, subtly slipping by under wing. A safe place to rest for a moment. Death and the defiance of it, the life that continued to burn. One could go and not be missed. Many more have gone and not be missed, so what is but one? One person. One moon. One sun. One life.

To Jim, a normal life was a completely alien concept. His brief relationships always ended in awkward disappointment, when interested parties would find that his brooding and aloof personality wasn't a cover. In fact, he had no personality, and was perfectly content to stare at his ceiling. He sought no companionship and felt no loneliness. To many, it was a state to be pitied, and many hoped it could be remedied. But for Jim, it was nothing. A triviality. Many find him pleasant to be around, and even liked him. But in Jim's mind, they liked the pieces of him. The pieces that had held through the torture that had broken the rest of him. In essence - in his own mind - he wasn't a person. Just merely some parts of one attempting to hold itself together.

Not that even that would matter. One day, Jim got a splitting pain in his head while he was in the midst of one of his trances. He was seeing the future, when suddenly, the vision was consumed by fire and noise - a cacophony that left him nearly blind out of one eye for the next few hours. He had saw something terrible. But life went on. Life itself was often times terrible, and he thought nothing of it.

The next day at school, while sitting in class, Jim fell into another trance. In it, he watched as a fellow student stepped into the classroom brandishing a rifle. He swept the class with gunfire, but most were saved because they ducked under their desks. Most, except for Jim. Who remained in his desk, stuck in a trance-like state.

The coroner said he probably died a painless death. But like all angsty teens, Jim knew better. He knew that he had already died long ago, probably not long after his mother had abandoned him. In his final trance, time seemed to move backwards, like a film reel in reverse. In it, Jim watched his life, what passed for it, flick by. All the things he missed, he gleaned. Up to the point of his birth, where everything became hazy. All the pieces he was missing were there. At the point where his life ended, his life also began.

---

It was the year of children. Twenty deaths. All younger than twenty. Where was the sense?

Treble .45

My world was vertical, the orange sherbet horizon cutting through my vision like a hazy thunderbolt. I was on my side, and that's all I could really discern. My thoughts swam drunkenly between hazy reality and vivid daydream meanderings. Hallucinations really. I imagined in some remote part of my brain that they were brought on by blood loss. I could feel the warm tide creeping up my ribs. An image of frost clotting my blood swam lazily through my mind. Maybe I would make it. Maybe the frost and snow would save me. Pfeh. Whatever to keep me calm.

I had no idea how long I'd been lying there before somebody called for help. An hour? Two hours? Ten hours? It didn't matter. My hands had long since lost all feeling. Attempting to wiggle my pinkies, I found that they still moved - stiffly - though I couldn't be sure they were actually moving at all. When the paramedics did arrive, they turned me on my back. The sky was bright orange from the city lights reflecting off fluffy clouds, and snowflakes fluttered down lazily on whispers of a breeze. Some caught in my eyelashes, and I was amused at their attempts to escape before their inevitable demise. A few more moments of life. A few more moments. Some escaped. Some didn't.

The paramedics were asking questions. I couldn't hear anything they were saying. It was all gibberish. I could feel my brows furrowing in frustration. As if to say, I'm dying here. Could you at least keep it down while I'm slipping away?

Of course, paramedics are never the best at reading body language. They hoisted me onto a stretcher and hauled me into the ambulance. It was warm. Presently. It was actually burning.

---

She was the third in a week. A black body bag was no place for her.

Eschatology

And thus, our world was ended.

But would you believe me for telling you that we're going backwards? That this life - my life - is playing in reverse?

I was there in senile ignorance the day the world was made. Molten clay scooped from cosmic dust. By God? It does not matter. Leave it to humans to attempt to explain something that has no bearing on their lives. Always they looked back, when the real threat was right ahead of them.

From the mud and reeds we built a civilization. It fell down, but we always put it back together.

Technology and faith were the hallmarks of our civilization. The two always worked with and against each other, more alike than any would admit. Consider it a hand-me-down from our apish forefathers. The capacity for thought permitted the use of tools, but could never function properly without a satisfactory explanation of why - whether deluded or not.

Humanity grasped for space, but utterly failed. A new player - greed, always attached anchors where humanity needed wings. And thus the seams of our existence began to unravel, tugged in all directions at once.

I walked among you, and for a while we were equal. But then for a time it was you that became senile, and it was I that became naive. When the cracks became apparent in your veneer, you turned to your leaders for guidance. And thus, it became apparent how your systems would fail. Democracy, it is said, is a great thing. But it celebrates mediocrity. It is a peace-time means that fails in crisis. When the greatest powers needed leadership - direction - they instead fell to squabbling and politics. And thus, we are as much responsible for our demise as they are.

I watched as the fighting grew to wars. Great and terribly wars. The first was an atrocity of politics. The second and atrocity of ideals. The third... was the darkest aspects of humanity laid bare, and it was finally the crack that became a fissure. Though humanity survived it's own attempts to exterminate itself, the seeds were sown.

As the end drew near, I watched my own birth. Through the crumbling ruins of Earth my cries rang out. Our little blue marble in the cosmos fell to the same dust that made it, and through its death, I was born, and I now descend back to its beginning. I am as I was made. I am Hope.

The only thing we could do was sing and dance to death and heartbreak

Frank studied the suds that had collected in the bottom of his mug. Each frothy bit was a speculative thought on nothing, on futility, on himself. He was a former cop. A former husband. A former father, and perhaps a former human being, although sometimes the mangled corpse in his chest that passed for a heart would find it in itself to warm.

Tonight was a particularly lonely night. Frank sat alone at the bar, with nothing but a frosty mug to keep him company. Normally Mick joined him for a drink in the dying hours of the day. Mick seemed to be perpetually on the rocks with his wife. While his whining was sometimes irritating, Mick was a good sort of fellow, and despite the tears in his beer, he drank as well as the next guy, and Frank was always grateful for the company.

However, something happened the week before that had changed the usual routine. Mick came in one night with a steely gleam in his eye, and a spring in his step that Frank knew could only mean one of two things. Either Mick was furious. Or he'd just been shagged. A chain of vile profanities excluded the latter option. Something was up. Instead of his usual self-doubt, Mick seemed adamant about something.
"Frank," he said. "I'm going to do it tonight. I'm going to ask her."
"Ask who?" Frank muttered between sips of cheap piss.
"My wife. I'm going to ask her why she's sleeping around."

Frank nodded. He worked to suppress a wry grin. Why wasn't a good question. Why was the kind of question a fool asked when he wanted to get punched in the face. Why was the question that made a man into a former man.

And of course Mick would learn this lesson. He'd learn it, and it would be the last lesson he'd learn. The next day, Mick confronted his wife and grilled her for answers. Helen's always been something of a bitch, but she knew when to keep her mouth shut. It would've been better if she'd just have left Mick and skipped the drama.
When it finally came out that three inches wasn't enough to float Helen's boat, Mick didn't know what to do. All his well thought out responses and retorts, his piercing accusations. It didn't mean a thing. In the end, the only retort he could manage was to tearfully explode his brains over the kitchen wall with a borrowed three-fifty-seven. Helen had been making a pot roast that night, when she heard the sobbing coming down the hallway, she turned just in time to see Mick pull the trigger.

Frank shook his glass, the suds now dissolved to yellow residue at the bottom of his glass. The barkeep eyed him warily as he started to pour another drink. It was swill, but it did the job. Just as sure as old Mick did.

Helen was psychologically destroyed after Mick committed suicide in front of her. When the police found her, she was huddled in the foetal position against the wall opposite Mick's brain display, weeping uncontrollably. The smells of burnt roast and human gore was one the investigators said was both nauseating and strangely comforting at the same time. Helen was committed to a mental institute to help her recovery along. Whoever she'd been having midnight trysts with disappeared as sure as the morning, because Helen only ever received one visitor - Frank.

Frank recalled all the times he had visited Helen in the institution. He looked down into his fresh mug and made a disgusted face. He didn't go to comfort her, oh no. He went to recount all the nights he'd spent with Mick. Helen was a fine woman, oh sure. But what had happened wasn't suicide in Frank's mind. It was murder.

It reminded Frank of his own wife. She had disappeared with both children in the middle of the night in the middle of a spring thunderstorm. The only clue Frank ever got was a letter left on the kitchen table explaining that he wasn't the man she thought he was when she married him, and that his job on the Service had changed him in ways she didn't like. Why, he wanted to ask. But thought better of it. Although perhaps things would've ended up better if he had.

The next day, Frank had responded to a domestic disturbance, with reports of gunshots fired. The Service was, as usual, understaffed, and Frank was the first on the scene - alone. The rest was kind of a blur in his memory. When the dust settled and the spent brass was counted, Frank had practically executed an entire family. His badge was revoked, he was ejected from the Service, and demonized by the public. But that was a long time ago. And Frank recalled distinctly what Mick had told him at that time.
"People will never remember you for when you were strong. They'll only remember that one instant when you were weak. When the façade cracked and you lost it - even for a minute."

"Even for a minute, Mick," muttered Frank as he downed his beer. "Even for a minute."
Rising from his stool at the bar, Frank paid his tab and then staggered out into the cool air. He had enough alcohol in his blood to kill a small horse, but the fresh summer air made him want to go for a drive. Why? He asked himself, as he turned the engine over in his Grand Marquis. Formerly a family car. Now a rolling casket.
Why?

An Excerpt from somebody else's life

Life is irony. And it was never more true than when an old crone told her preacher one day that the devil's shadow is always longest closer to the light. Never was this more true than with the preacher's own son, Don.

Don was an irreverent sinner. While his father spent his time in his study pondering life and the bible, Don spent his days feeding his numerous addictions, and worshiping a completely different, feminine shrine. Don was the kind of guy who couldn't get enough from life. Anything he wanted with a price tag, he bought. Everything else, he fucked the hell out of until he was bored. Five less brain cells, and there was no doubt that Don would've been a modern mongol, his genes so interwoven into society that everyone could trace their heritage back to him.

His father tried hard to imagine that Don's open nature about his misdeeds was somehow a kind of roundabout apology, but he could never get his son to see the damage his behaviour was causing. The two were infamous for their heated arguments. The first was when Dan arrived home late one night, practically beaming over the fact he had just deflowered a girl no older than 16. The preacher had wanted to skin his fornicating hide for that, but after a battle of words that lasted longer than a drunken tantra session, the two finally met amidst a foggy moral middle ground. Nobody knows what dark deals were struck between the two, but it was said that the love of a father came out ahead over a love of God's rule that day.

Of course, Don continued his lifestyle. A high paying job paved the way for a new car and ample funds to spend on near endless nothings, distractions and baubles to amuse his ever-shrinking mind, and whatever mind he was stealing bodily contacts from.

That is until one day, Don made perhaps the only intelligent decision in his life. With a full bank account, he decided that the best way to make more money would be to take a course at the nearby University. His father, for once, looked on approvingly.

But the lifestyle went on unabated through the first year of University. After switching courses numerous times - rumour was for reasons beyond academics - Don ended up in a philosophy course. The deeper lessons didn't penetrate the eternal fratboy's mind, and even then, the all-pervasive lifestyle continued. The preacher's son an eternal playboy. That is, until he met Terry.

Terry was a moody and disturbed individual, but there was something about him that was immediately likeable. He had deep, sunken eyes that seemed to pierce like javelins, and his apathetic swagger was accented by the fact that he chain-smoked harder than cinder block factory. Despite his often scathing outlook, Terry exuded a kind of aura that seemed almost comfortable. Like he was the most bad-ass god-smacking creature on the planet, and not to worry a bit because he liked you just enough to let you live.

For the first time in his life, Don found an uncompromising critic of his lifestyle. Terry was single, and so comfortable in the fact that he could practically scorn couples into submission by his mere presence alone. Don often invited Terry to parties and binge-nights. Terry would often take a long draw on his cigarette before answering.
"You know Don, those parties'll kill you. The people. They're not really people. They're vampires. They'll suck your soul out."
In the span of three clipped sentences, Terry would have drawn another cigarette to extinction and lighted another.

Don would often ignore his cynical friend. Sure things would get sucked out through the course of the evening, but Don never saw any vampires. All he saw was the same thing he had worshiped since he was practically old enough to tell the difference between a man and delicious, sexy women.

Of course, that all changed a few months later. Terry, who seemed to grow more disturbed - and all the more likeable - as time went on, developed a habit for disappearing for weeks at a time. When asked about his unexplained absences, Terry would often brush it off as "None of you're Goddamn business."

While he was never a social animal, Terry did have a circle of friends. Or rather, people who identified themselves as his friend, but he merely tolerated because they weren't completely retarded. Don was one of these individuals, and contrary to whatever alcohol-fuelled delusions floated in his head, it was Terry that kept him around, and not vice versa.

Terry was amused by such pursuit of carnal propositions. It was a neverending spiral. Once one acquired a hunger for sex and material wealth, it only grew. It could never be satiated, and as a result, Terry treated Don as both a foil, and a lab-rat style amusement.

Of course, whatever drama the two developed ended one shady September weekend. Terry had been gone for two weeks already before anyone thought to look for him. It was Saturday afternoon when Don rolled out of his bed to answer his expensive cell phone. The voice on the other end tore a ragged hole in his existence with nothing by a fine point of news.

Terry was dead. He had been found in a run-down apartment with three gunshot wounds to his chest and head. Somehow, in perhaps the greatest fuckup in the long, miserable history of human fuckups, the police listed his death as suicide. Either Terry truly was the biggest bad ass - so bad it took three shots to off himself - or an even bigger bad ass had gotten tired of Terry and decided to remove him.

It came out during the police investigation that Terry wasn't who everyone thought him to be. He'd been engaged once, but like all great cynics, Terry hid his powerful source of darkness. His fiancé had fought for years with a malignant tumour. In the end, Terry's vast family fortune and all the best doctors in the world weren't enough to save the girl. She died bald and practically skeletal in a hospital bed, robbed of both surface beauty and dignity by little more than a few pea-sized nodules.

Bankrupt, broken, and alone, Terry isolated himself from society for years before finally reappearing to try and make things work again. His life at the University was to be his last step back into the world of the living. However, Terry himself - at that point an avid smoker - wasn't destined to live. A coroner's report indicated that Terry had developed the early signs of lung cancer, and probably wouldn't have lived much past 40.

Life is Irony. It was the title of manuscript found at Terry's home address. He had been writing a book. Part memoir. Part melancholia-fueled fantasy. In it's quickly yellowing pages, Don found himself, and finally realized where he was and what he was doing. What's more, Don found what Terry had been trying to instill in him for their brief friendship. Purpose. And perhaps more, a sense of dignity. Maybe the guy had just been worried that one day Don would catch something and his nuts would fall off.

The eternal playboy woke up to find himself the son of a preacher and friend to a dead man. That sobering thought soured Don's taste for extravagance. And even then, so many questions were left unanswered. What had really happened to Terry? Why was he away from home when he died?

Fourth year rolled around without warning. A name consistently turned up in absence. Don disappeared for months at a time, and nobody really knew where he went. One day he just disappeared entirely. Strangely enough, nobody, save his father, the preacher, ever asked questions.

And how long had his shadow become by that point?
Ah, but life is irony. Even the preacher, so long in studying his bible, sat one night and couldn't find the answers.

And then one chilly December afternoon, he disappeared too.

In Open Air: Part 3

As I pitch back into my chair, headphones secured tightly around my head, I think in earnest about the state of the world, and how the truth comes in spades from your faithful advertisers and big-talking wankers elected to be nervous and ineffectual.

I've dreamt about a day when I can turn on a radio, instead of hearing the white noise of a world's population tearing itself apart, I'll hear a common voice with 6.1 billion nuances. Make that two voices, because I've always been obstinate. Two voices. One great, grand vision. And myself. An insect. A mosquito that drinks the lifeblood of idiocy. As I pitch back, I listen...

Join now and get 50% off your - invasion began with a bang this morning, the Operation was called a success by - Penis enlargement pills, half off only from - Hell. That's the only way I can describe it. It was like - the future is bright! Remember, you're only two clicks away from security, and peace of - mines cause an estimated %&#00 injuries a year. Give generously to - the royalty reviews haven't addressed the &$%##. The people still want - a sex shop on every corner, even besides the churches. It was %*&$ @*$##, and there was a Cinema &%$#@#help*%$# - the government's been secretly monitoring our *%($^m$#e - And the lord said, let there be %&@#$$turn$% - %$&^this@$ $% shoes, dresses, and our world famous %$# - and there it was, the most beautiful car I had %*$(#thing%($@) - #)$%(@ you dare, you'll $%&#@#off.

And there it is. The voices are quiet. For a minute, the endless machine is silent.

Is this the end? No. There are no ends, save one. There are no happy endings. There are no sad endings. The only end is death, which when you think about it, is the end of sadness, happiness, and everything in between. Everything from the first breath to last is an interlude. A moment to pause and examine. An artist. A writer. A life within a life. An image in a window, the gates to the soul blown open.

Invariably, we all succumb at one point, to what amounts to a never-ending pressure. We all bargain with our souls and lose, and we - despite our resoluteness - say yes, when the answer should've been no.

So in this... three windows. Three doors. Three stories. This is an ending. But it is not the end. There will be a thousand tears shed after this, and there will be a hundred joys. But there will be but one end. And this will not be it.

In Open Air: Part 2

The news bordered on madness, but it always did. It was never a matter that it was insane. Just a matter of what we could swallow as "normal enough," to get through our days without asking questions. Disaster was everywhere. If you could have given it a face, it probably would've been me - the messenger.

Everyone wants the truth. But not really. Everyone wants reality delivered to their door. But not really. Given the privelage of knowledge, the idiots seek to bend it to suit their tastes, to clean their hands and to hide their responsibilities for what transpires every day. They want good news stories, so that they can be convinced that what they're doing is good. It's not, and I've seen that.

A century of books, billions of pages, thousands of paragraphs, hundreds of sentences, and one word. A population of 6.1 billion is standing at the precipice with ears cocked to hear this word. Some are covetous, and believe this word will give them what they seek. Some are powermongers, and believe the word is power. Some are hopeless romantics and think the word will heal broken hearts and pave roads with golden intentions.

It's none of these things. One word. It's the death groan of a world overburdoned. It's the last gasp of a suffocating child. It's the last hope for a future buried under generations of vileness.

And yet. It's the first star in the night. That first breeze of spring, the breath of life that so many have learned to live without. It's that burst of intellect that brought mankind upright and face to face with the bomb. May they never find the beam.

So in a sense, the word everyone is trying to hear is power, it is something to be coveted. It is something to, at the very end of everything, be heard.

Nobody knows what that word is, but all know that when they hear it they will both quail with unspeakable terror, and also breathe a death-rattling sigh of relief.

Words, as hollow as they are sometimes, are a very real force. If one word is a world, begun and ended, then each sentence is a history, every letter an epoch. Do you recall each one?

In Open Air: Part 1

It wouldn't matter if it was pouring rain, driving snow, or blistering heat. When the brush meets canvas, the sun itself would quail at the radiance put before it. The expression of the human soul is just that bright. And even so. When pen meets paper, reality itself would bend and break, drawn down into a yawning black abyss.

What black being would this be? None other than the same. Humanity holds within it a collective reservoir of stunning triumphs and broken dreams that we only vaguely draw upon during our lifetimes. And yet, at times, it's all too easy to open a window to this swirling morass, the collective legacy, memories, ideals, beliefs, successes, and ultimately, failures, of humankind.

The birds singing, the bright sunlight, the unending hum as thousands of cars and trucks rolled up and down the nearby highway; it was all an outside distraction. The Artist cared little for the world around her at this moment, for her entire reality was composed of a picture, hovering in her mind's eye. Instead of birds chirping, the colours and tones were her music, and each brush stroke was an ambiance akin to divinity.

Of course, these moments of bliss were just islands in an ever-increasing tide of chaos and stress.

Life itself was born into high aspirations marred by the harsh intrusions of reality and its henchmen, as if Lucifer himself was given leave to regularly rob heaven of its comforts. But, in these moments of suffering and defeat, there is a small measure of justice. Inspiration, the fickle and stormy some-times cohort of love itself, was born on a scorched battlefield between all the good and bad things in life. On that silver lining, all of art was born, and through it, humanity finds itself now at a crossroads.

Whether at the best of times or the worst of times, art flourishes. But as the Artist now demonstrates, pragmatism has struck art through the heart, and she feels the pain acutely.
Her brush hovers, poised mere hair-breadth from the canvas. But the motions do not come. The sounds of traffic intrude on her sublime existence.

Something is happening...

A robot heart

For a robot boy, who dreamed he was a lion.
Our lives in these empty spaces...



Also:
Give them blood and they'll love you for it.

In My Eyes

Some of you should be checking your inboxes this afternoon.

I did a little bit of recording yesterday, and while I' m greatly annoyed at the poor quality of the recordings, the end result wasn't too bad.

Other than that, I have little else to report. It's been a rather strange week, but then really... what week isn't?

A fine spectacle

It's like a black hole. Every time I look at it, I'm amazed at the destruction that was wrought. I wouldn't wish it on anyone, and yet here I am. Looking at myself in the mirror, wondering if in fact that's what is going to end up happening.

I really don't know what I'm saying. Not anymore. Not for a long time. Any kind of certainty I had in myself is faltering at best, but I suppose that's not something interesting, so I won't write about that.

Instead, I'll write about trees. At an art exhibition today, I saw many paintings and pictures of trees.

I thought to myself, why trees?

Trees. Of all things. Maybe it's a record of what they look like, so when they're all gone, we can still imagine, and pretend we see them through our foggy goggles and musty breathing masks. They'll be like old story book pictures that we were shown as kids, when our grandparents told us "look, this is the dodo."

And we would gawk, and imagine a bird so stupid that it would let itself go extinct. Perhaps that's the tree. Perhaps our children or grandchildren will look at paintings of trees and say "stupid trees. Went extinct because they were stupid." Oh, because of our morbid fascination with armoirs and designer architecture and heated hardwood flooring. The trees went extinct because they didn't know to get out of our way when we wanted houses.

It's not hard to imagine that when the trees are gone, we will hang pictures of them on the walls of our houses, when instead of wood, the walls will be made of bone. Animal bone at first. Then human bone, as it becomes realized that it's more abundant. That way, you'll always have a little piece of grandpa to hang his picture from when he's gone.

Would that creep people out, knowing that their house is made from the skeletal remains of other people? Most could be pragmatic about it. Some would think there's something seriously wrong with building a house of bones. Say nothing of the fact that a house of wood is just as macabre and dead. Except wood was stupid, and evolved with the rich, warm, woody tones that we learned to adore.

In a sense, it'd be even more disturbing to hang a picture of a tree from a wooden wall. This is just my rambling, and some have no compunctions about living or dead things, provided they're not human. Just a silly double standard. When a tree falls on man, it is a tragedy. When a man fells a tree, it is profit.

So trees. And bones. And kibbles and bits. And bits and bits and bits.
Yeah, I've rambled enough.

21

Today I turned 21 at 10:06 a.m.

I don't feel any older.
I don't feel any younger.

In fact, the only thing I feel is a tad bit ill. Probably from all the alcohol last night.
Anyway folks, very little to report at this time. In the grand scheme of things, this, the 20th October, is a day like any other in the year, and will only be made famous by infamy.

Lets hope it stays plain.

Glue Glue Glue

I finished Hey, Nostradamus while sitting in the waiting area for my flight between 11 p.m. and 1 a.m. this morning... yesterday morning. I haven't slept at all since two days ago. Flying on that jet and attempting to sleep was like attempting to sleep in a metal coffin strapped to rocket boosters as I hurtled through the umbra. I've flown many times, but I've always been uneasy in aircraft, as a passenger.

Airplanes are the safest means of travel in the world, but the margin for survival in the face of that seemingly infinitesimal chance of something bad happening is almost zero. After reading a story that showed how death can create such ripples and dysfunction, I just couldn't sleep. Instead, I spent my entire flight watching television -- probably more TV in one sitting than I've watched all year.

Mostly, I just sat and thought about the book I had just read, how it, in its sublime ways, illustrated so many thoughts of my own that I've been grappling with for the last few years, and how even like it's subject material, the book breaks formula, and spits on any kind of equation that would, in theory, bring closure to the reader. It was a story within a story, and even then, though it's fiction, it weaves outwards too.

It gets you to thinking about your own dysfuctions, and about the things that broke you or made you better. It puts into perspective the dramas of our lives, and shows that even the most crooked people have their reasons for appearing so.

The book was inspiring, but on the same note, it got me to thinking about how futile my own craft has become. I can write words, great tales, and accurate recountings of events. But lately, it seems that I'm just not able to write about what I'm thinking or feeling, at least not without the urge to clip certain parts or crop the truth, or add dramatic flourishes to emphasize certain points.

I don't feel comfortable writing about penetrating matters anymore. It always invites the wrong type of criticism, and to be frank, I'm not interested in having anyone else cross-examine my flaws as a human being. I'm already painfully aware of each and every one down to microscopic fucking detail. Instead, I'd... just once, like to be able to write something honest and clean and true, and feel that weight come off my conscience like it used to.

Maybe each night while I'm out here, I'll write about something. Like I used to.

Hey Nostradamus, thanks a lot

I apologize for not updating in such a long time. Actually, that's a lie, as I'm not sorry at all. In fact, I've been asleep for most of the last week. When I wasn't asleep, I was at assorted doctors and specialists, who proceeded to poke and prod me to determine what damage the last year has caused.

As it turned out, I'm still in relatively good health, although I'm still getting used to seeing myself in the mirror without huge dark circles under my eyes. Doc said my blood pressure is still normal, and whatever weight I've gained in my year away isn't so much that I should be overly concerned -- provided I get to exercising.

The novelty of having me back home has already worn off, and in my boredom, I've spent money I should be saving on books. Lots of books. First on the list was Doug Coupland's Hey, Nostradamus!, followed by a copy of Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse 5. On bringing these books home, I elicited a strange look from my mom. Picking up Slaughterhouse 5, she shot me a weird expression and asked if I'd ever read it before. I haven't, hence why I bought it, but she was under the impression that we would've read it in our time at school.

I had to bite my tongue to remind her that school is where they sent us to read drivel posing as literature, and besides, I've been in a stasis lock for the last year. A lot of stuff that I would otherwise be aware of has passed under my radar. As such: funny story. My doctor, as he's got me hooked up to several apparati, begins to berate me for not knowing several blues personalities.

No, I don't know the king of blues. I'm vaguely aware of Eric Clapton. What's that? Doctor, I'm feeling a little light headed, could you ease the pressure on my artery? Doctor?

Fun times. So in essence, the last week or so has been a marathon of sleep, doctors, books, and strangely enough, new clothes, as much of what I took to Drayton has fallen to tatters thanks to the abuse I put them through.

Looking at the clothes, I can only imagine that I must've looked about as beaten up when I got home. Let's hope I'm not destined for the same garbage bin.

Maybe nobody ever has

It's very simple, really.

The difference between me and them:

They want to be free.
I will be free.

They want to be happy.
I... I will be happy.
Someday.

It's the difference between fruitlessly coveting something, and knowing in your heart you won't rest until you have it.

On that note, it works both ways. One can know deep down within their being what will, and will not come to pass.

My metaphysical rant for the day.

Feeling a little Eel

Damn, this bugger of a virus is persistent. First, it went for the lungs, and when those were sufficiently damaged, it moved to the throat. Now that I have no voice, it seems that it's fair for it to begin ravaging my sinuses, causing my nose to run almost constantly, although no amount of blowing seems to bring any relief.

As I'm writing this, I've got two wads of kleenex stuffed up each nostril in an effort to stem the tide. None of my formidable arsenal of drugs and decongestants has had any effect thus far, so I'm resorting to more physical techniques. God blast me if this isn't the most goddamn annoying infection I've ever had. And on top of that, I tried going to work today, but instead of getting actual work done, I spent the whole day blowing my goddamn nose. Now I'm three stories behind, and I'm still blowing my fucking nose. Fucking virus. I will personally see your pestilence wiped out with extreme prejudice and pleasure.

Watch now as I catch a spore-born teratogen from this house.

Oorgle

So.

It appears that I may not be going to Vulcan after all. Which is just fine in my books. It leaves me a lot more freedom for moving around on weekends and whathaveyou.

I've been sick a lot lately too. I don't doubt that it has something to do with the house I'm living in right now. You just don't have leaky ceilings and then expect no mould or other foreign gross shit to start growing up there. It's pretty much chronic lungsville for me. Whenever I get a weekend off, I go home and the first thing that happens is my lungs go through a purge cycle. Not pleasant, but really, what can you do?

Anyway. I guess the pace quickens with WoW. I made the hike from Aldrassil all the way to Goldshire with my neglected level 5 Druid, who will from this point on be affectionately known as Scuzzy McHoebag. Seriously, I think Tracy was jealous or something.

Although... it was kind of awkward when Trevor started checking my avatar out. You alright man?

Edit: No sooner did I write this, than I got a phonecall from Vulcan. Oh boy.

Allotrope

So.

I made the trip out to Tracy's yesterday, for some quality time with the gang.

The highlight of my night was playing Metroid Prime 3 for the first time, and nearly tossing the controller in frustration. Seriously, using the Wiimote for the first time is like trying to masturbate without using your hands.

The game was fun though, when it wasn't trying to be retarded. In hindsight, Dan, I made that battle harder than it needed to be. One hypermode would've saved both of us my embarrassing display of ineptitude.

On that note, I'm thinking I should pick up a Wii in the near future. Maybe I'll pick one up with my last paycheque when it comes. Lord knows I need the practice, and I wouldn't mind playing some Twilight princess and Metroid.

In any event, sorry, no picture this time. What? Don't look at me like that.

Conundrum

A conundrum presents itself. My resignation is in, and I'm done at month's end.
No sooner than that, and I get a call from a friend in Vulcan. His editor is leaving for greener pasture, and they're in need of an experienced individual to run their show.

I don't want to. But on that note, I don't want to leave a friend high and dry while I'm looking for work anyway.

It's a tough decision. I really want some time to myself. But on that note, I want to have funds handy for the spring.
Anyway, I'll probably not get any sleep tonight as I think it over.

Photo: One of the cars from Thunder in the Valley, which I covered a couple weeks ago.

Fashionably Late

I had a couple pictures that I was going to throw up here a couple weeks back, with some kind of blurb about The Simpsons movie and hanging out with Dan, Trevor, and Tracy, but on getting home, I just crashed into bed and forgot all about it.

Until now.

But I don't really have anything to say anyway, so there.
Dan, if you want more pictures of hot girls, you need to bring them. Bring them, and I'll take care of the rest. Oh yes.

Lunar Posting

There are still some people that think the world is flat. This, I don't understand, because we're in an age after we've seen the other side of the moon.

Disaster Follows in all its Five Perfect Forms

This from a music festival I covered not long ago. I actually meant to put them up a while ago, but naturally, never got around to it.

The first two are from a band called Rake. I guess they're getting pretty big in the scheme of the music industry. Mind me, any band that says they opened for Nickleback as if it's something to be proud of might need a bit of fine tuning. But alas, that's their playpen, so I'll let them play in it.



Their sound was unique... until their lead singer started in. Then the whole thing became rather reminiscent of Our Lady Peace. That's not a parallel I draw lightly, but it is there.



Their lead guitarist would regularly strike poses that made me think he was about to go Hulk. Other than that, he was pretty good at tearing eardrums out, etc.



This last fellow is a human beat-box. Listening to him go, I'm seriously baffled at the sheer logistics of it. I'm not even going to try to explain how it sounded, as the effect would surely be lost in this medium.

Anyway, just thought I would share these leftovers from a fairly awesome music festival.
Hope you enjoy the pics.

I'll have eclipse photos sometime this week as well, although I really don't know when I'll put them up. Whenever I feel like, I guess.

Homeward

Not that anyone actually reads this anymore, but...

I'm handing in my resignation this week, and I'll be done at the paper at the end of September. I'll be moving back home as well.

By no means does this mean I'm leaving you guys behind, although at some point, I don't doubt somebody will imply that I am. Just keep in touch. I'll be sure to catch a movie and stuff with you guys in the future.

Promise.

On that note. Bioshock. Soooo goood.

Put the Chairs Away

It's been a long week.

I won't get too much into the details, as they're long and boring, and it's no mystery that few care. Needless to say, I'm exhausted, and very much looking forward to a little bit of rest and recouperation, hopefully on Tuesday evening, if the posse is still assembled for our outing.

August has been a veritable disaster on all accounts. Recent developments are spurring me to likely move on job-wise sooner rather than later. I'm still planning on wrapping up one year, but I'm running out of reasons to stick around in this neck of the woods.

In any event, I'll be looking forward to the end of the month. It seems the hallmark of the month has been contempt, which I will be all too happy to bury with the rest of the shit from 2007 when the time comes. I can't even pretend to act shocked about it anymore. In some cases, it's as if an notion of decency or respect is only a thin varnish applied over a dense layer of malice and vileness, and one need only gently rub to be overwhelmed with hatred.

It's really quite foreign to me... having lived out here for nearly a year, it's given me a few new perspectives, but one that will remain with me for a long time is probably one of the most disturbing things I've yet seen in my life. Most of the general folk are just generally pissed off. And when they're not, they're looking for a reason to be. Being in the position I'm in, it's a convenient target to lash out at, and I've become all too familiar with the thin excuses people come up with to justify their righteous fury.

One needn't do anything to incur wrath, aside from existing and breathing, and occassionally uttering words.

It may be yours one day

It might be your turn one day. Your chance to sit on the swing and feel pretty for a day. It might be the best day of your life, or it might just be a day like any other.

I have no qualms about shooting weddings for free, if the need arises. I couldn't stand to be paid. When Bridezilla faces off against Momra, and all the floral arrangements look like Biollante, there's nothing you can do but smile.

I've done a lot of nice things over the last three weeks. Most people would be able to smile and nod, or pat themselves on the back, but I just feel empty. I've never been one to seek others' high opinions, but for once, I'd like to be left alone, neither hated nor loved. The two are so intertwined now that I just can't be bothered to differentiate anymore.

I'm so tired. I just want to... exist for a while, and not have to worry. Typical though, it's just a pipe dream, because there's no rest. No rest, no freedom.

Long Distance Memory Loser

Why I write:
It's because I feel like it. A fish needn't justify why it finds itself in water, when there is no more natural thing in the world.

This isn't meant for you. It never was. This is my playground, where my mind can skip-rope through the days and hours. While it is fun to watch, the line between fact and fiction is sometimes drawn, but I will never say where. This is my playground, I do not feel like saying where it starts and where it ends, where the edges of reality brush up against my own fanciful fantasies or dark visions.

Those who would read this as if it were a gospel to read through my life should recall their own childhoods in the schoolyards, and think of all the things they did when released for that deliciously small amount of free time. They should recall that not every game played as a child was innocent, but it's not polite to trial them now.

This rambling sojourn, now well into its third year of life, is not a testament to my life, though it may very well contain pieces of it. It is not the key into the deepest recesses of my being - a rare glimpse only seen after knowing me, in person, for years.

I hold no great or enduring love for the words and pictures that adorn these pages, but rather the freedom they grant me.

Thylacine Hunter

Every picture has a story, but not everyone wants to hear them.
This house is my house, and yet I don't feel welcome in it.

I'm asked to speak because they like the sound of my voice.
But they don't like what I'm saying.

It's not dinner time, but get your knives out anyway.
We're packing bags, but we're not going anywhere.

Maybe one day we can all talk again.
But that day is not today or tomorrow.

Threat displays are all well and good.
But I'm not trying to hunt for prey.

I'm not ready to vent just yet.

A Beautiful Place out in the Country

Not that it's exactly pertinent, but there's a bunch more photos where this one came from. I'm considering putting them up, but in that same breath, I'm questioning why I should bother. I've been hesitant to write anything over the last two weeks, and I'm afraid that if I started throwing pictures up, there'd be little more than useless three-text followups to go with them.

That's not how it usually works, but it may have to be in the near future.

Caketown

I suppose it's time I put something up.

The past week has just been a disaster of epic proportions. Make that the last two weeks. Trouble reached an epic 6.6 on the bullshit richter scale, and I was wondering if and when there would be an end to it.

And of course, there's always the horseshit icing on the cake, too. I've been having excruciating pangs (note - not cramps, dismiss the thought right now) in my abdominal area. My parents were saying it might be stomach ulcers, likely in jest. I'm going to wait to see if it gets any worse, or if it'll go away. My body's a bit retarded in the pain department. I often get stitches in my ribs and back that are painful, but usually go away pretty quickly. I'm thinking it's likely an extension of that, and will come and go over time.

Last exam I had at the doctors, he said I was in good health with no predisposition towards illness. Lets hope he's right.

In other news, my weekend off was nice. It's been the first chance in a long while that I've been able to run home for the whole weekend. Needless to say, I cranked the "relaxation" dial up until it damn near broke off. In such a state, there was very little differentiating sleep from waking, and the only thing I disliked about it was the fact that I knew it was going to end, Monday afternoon.

In any event, it's back to the grindstone for me. Take care, everyone.

Optimus Warhol, assemble!

Not quite Warhol's style, but I'd definitely hang something like this on my wall if it was high enough resolution... and perhaps printed on a laser cell.

It'd have to be classic Optimus too. None of this new-movie stuff.
Anyway. I'm still not feeling 100%. But internet will be hooked up at my new place next Thursday, so expect a slew of photo updates then.

Of Sirens

I'm not feeling well this week.
That's all.

Indy

My parents were camping just south of the town last night.

It was nice to be able to sit with them and enjoy some decent cooking for a change, instead of scrounging around for something fast at home. I hadn't seen them in well over a month, so it was nice to catch up on what the family is doing.

I guess Hospital Music doesn't come out until July 31. Silly me. Oh well, I guess I'll have to get it later, or just download it off iTunes and burn my own disk.
I've still got A Single Explosion playing in my head. Do I doubt that HM will be one of the finest CD's Matt's put out? Not at all.

*Above, it's Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Arc on an outdoor widescreen. Booyah!

Woof

Let's not have to load a dresser into a jeep for the next six months, shall we? Once was enough infuriation for me.

In other news, Hospital Music is out, and typical of Calgary's music stores, not a single goddamn one of them has it. I'm beginning to think of them less as music stores, and more as places where I go to waste a half and hour looking for a product that I know, deep down, they'll never carry.

Why, you might ask? Because, quite simply, it would make too much sense for a music store to actually carry fucking music.

Merde.

Anyway. I've got a three-and-a-half hour drive ahead of me, so I should hop to it. So many trailers to dodge, so little time.

A Rambling Walk: Part 3

It doesn't matter what you do for others.
Just what others you are doing.

It's easy to be dramatic, but let's not get confused,
when the faces of poverty look up, often we just spit.

We're all just limited by our own experiences, and only capable of what's within us.
Which is why so many are so capable of so little.

Everyone wants to be happy.
But some days, it's just not possible.

If it's all the same, we're all guilty of putting up walls,
and accusing others of being hard to reach.

To be straightforward,
I'm not much of a hero.

I can only love you as much,
as I hate the whole of humanity.

And I hate the whole of humanity,
as much as anything possible could.

It was my hand on the anvil,
the children amused with their hammers.

Now their head's are like anvils,
and justice's swift hammer knocks.

Expect not pity for no pity given.
For to do unto others, as you have done,
expect naught but the very worst.

But I will see you through it.

A Rambling Walk: Part 2

I've put my arms through the cogs too many times to count. All recoil at grisly tasks, but I've become a habitual martyr. Few things scare me anymore. Why would they? What is possibly left in the world that could elicit more than casual nonchalance?

It's the logical end of things. When the accusations start coming down, anything more than distinct apathy is considered too emotional. Any kind of sincerity is just immature. Could I have expected any better?

It's a logical end to the madness, that I should be expected to reach out and offer my heart, when doing so puts me at so much risk. It's theft, whatever the excuse. You cannot give what's yours with the intention of never getting it back, but in essence, that's what love is. Theft.

I've heard it wrapped in all manner of excuses before. Sex is not love. Money is not love. A warm body is not love. All these things we try to equate it with are just material, tangible things that just end up replacing it. It cannot possibly exist in the world we've made trying to pursue it. But in the same breath - if this grand objective cannot exist in this world, how is it that I exist?

How is it that after having everything good beaten, stabbed, and stolen out of me, this broken husk of a human being pulled strength enough from somewhere to haul himself first to his knees, and then to his feet? What has he to fear, who has seen hell through the eyes of passion?

What has he to fear, who has seen the worst of humanity, and still yet stood and walked on?
Not much, and that is perhaps the problem. Because born of the past, and of the theft, is a misanthropic parody of who I am. Where there was once a shining knight, quick to aid and assist, there's now an embittered cynic who searches for worth in anything, but does not find it.

What champion is this? What monster now wears my skin as his own and speaks with my voice?

A Rambling Walk: Part 1

I had a dream once, where I fell from the sky and landed in her eyes. And she looked up at me for a moment before burying her head in my chest. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm so sorry."
Every dream is a lucid one, so I know it was a lie. A trick of my subconscious to try and move on. I didn't believe it.

Is it so bad now that I don't even feel better in my dreams? That I can't even have a sweet dream where I can pretend that, for a moment, things were different.

Cattle. Beef on the market. I look in the mirror and that's all I see. That's all I see because that's all I am, and all that I was. A product to trade. What's my value if I said I'd trade my libido for a pair of wings? I crave companionship less and freedom more whenever I think of it. There are times when I wish I could just open my non-existent wings and just fall, letting the gentle breeze catch me.

I've been described as married to my principals. Stuck up. Self-righteous. I have every right to be. When I needed people most, they were off in bed with someone else. All I've ever had is myself. The only reliable thing I've ever known is my own ability to pull through. Pull through for myself. Pull through for others.

It's a little known fact, some kind of perversion of the golden rule. I do unto others as I wish they would have done unto me. But I know it will never be. Talk of love, and lying under the shady tree, heartfelt embraces. I imagine these things, but I'm not moved by them. It's understood that these are things for another person and not for me.

Everyone has their targets set, they know what they want. Where's the faith gone that I once had that everything would turn out alright? Is it now that I'm some kind of insurance, that I will see to it that everyone else gets theirs while I'm left to none but mine? Is that my prize? To see everyone else's works come to fruition at the cost of my own?

Maybe it's because I don't have any goals. I just want to be, and to exist in a form I want. No superficial motivations, no desire to get laid every week, no hunger for money or extravagance. I've been told a million times that there's something wrong with me. But I'm beginning to believe it's less to do with me, and more to do with what others think I should be doing, how I should look, where I should go.

Coming from a world gone mad, and where nothing makes any sense to me (again, because there is something wrong with me), advice is often ignored. As are compliments and recommendations. I don't want to hear any of it, as often times people aren't even sure how to progress through their own web of feelings, let alone mine.

And even as I sit here writing this, I'm not sure I'm being entirely honest with myself. Maybe, deep down, I'm still just a 17 year old kid crying for someone to love him. Maybe I'm the monster that murdered that kid while he was sleeping. We'll never know for sure.

Stormseeker

A great crash, and the smell of ozone in the air. Panic.



Midnight is lit up like day-glow, the skies a vibrant electric purple.



Suddenly, we're lit like a supernova.



And then it's over. For an hour or so, the lights go out, and all that can be heard is the echoing boom and the heartbeat racing in our ears.

Thoughts put on ice

How's this for random?
Yeah. That's what I thought.
But I'm bored to tears, and I'm out of stuff to drink. Dry as a bone.
Yeah.
Time for a glass of water.

Bones

I don't think I can recall a time when I've been this tired. There are times, when I nod forward, it almost feels like my skin is peeling away from me, that I'm falling through myself, and continue to fall until a snap up, still and straight. I haven't been sleeping at night. I've taken to waiting on the computer for something, anything. I don't know what. A message? A sign? Some kind of digital Star of David to tell me which direction I should go?

Maybe I'm just waiting for a friend. Like some kind of fond memory taken from childhood that people can't recall... I'm thinking I will soon be added. A name, maybe. A face. Somebody you think you should know, but when you ask, he just smiles and kind of nods, before walking off, details hazy.

I don't think I can recall a time when I've been this angry, either. Working with the public has shown me that my some-time contempt for humanity is not ill placed. What hope is there for a species that can't hold a conversation without insult, let alone co-operate? Tonight alone, if my name came up once more, I would have started collecting dues. Valiant efforts slandered by bloodthirsty banshees, I'd rather see the whole party tumble and rot. It deserves no better.

And for what? A foul smell upon the air that can kill upon a breath. What then of the fools in the cars? What of the airplanes? The trains? What of medical malpractice, or lord forbid, being struck by lightning. People rail not against these things because there is no convenient handhold, no teat to grasp, no hand to bite. Give people freedom, and they will use it to gripe. Take it away, and they become sheep.

I care little for the braying of complaint. Do something or do not, but I will not tolerate such immaturity, nor the debasement of the language through slander.

Bad Reception

Lalala I can't hear you.
Lalala I can't hear you.
Lalala I can't hear you.
Lalala I can't hear you.
Lalala I can't hear you.

Bullets in the Box

Every bullet that's made for a combat weapon has the potential to kill a person.
How many people are being born in a day?
How many bullets are produced in a day?

If we pitted bullets vs. people, who would win?

Strangest Sight

Isn't that just the most bizarre sky you've ever seen? I was expecting it to be either pitch black outside, or kind of reddish from the sunset.
Instead, I got electric blue clouds. Go figure.

p.s. - Candy Apples. I am now amused.

Reality as my Paintbrush

I've taken a liking to qualitatively destroying my old work photos, and making dark and disturbing images out of them. This one is particularly eerie, as the horse seems to have lost his eye to the hellish blur. The fact that everything seems so "real" only adds to the disconcerting alterations I've made to the faces, and several other key points that the eye regularly travels over.

Expect to see more of these in the future. I'm hoping to hone the effects to the point that at first glance, the photo seems normal, until you actually get up close and then - *insert horrified reaction here* - IT'S NOT!

Ba ba baaaah.

Yeah, I'm just having fun now.

To sleep, and to dream

We sit in the snow, breathing.
And we sleep, and to sleep, we begin to dream.
And in dreaming, we begin to imagine.
Sitting in the snow, breathing.

No Updates

Not that it needs saying, but there hasn't been an update here in a while.
I don't think there will be for a while yet.

I think I'm going to wait for it to cool off a bit first.
And then we'll see if I can come up with anything that somebody else would actually like to read.

Then I think I'll update.

A Close Call

I was a hair and a breath away from accepting a job as editor in Nanton last night. I've since changed my mind, for a few reasons. Despite the fact that I would be working with some of my close friends from school down south, there's too much unfinished stuff up here for me to deal with before I decide to "advance" my career*.

So, I will be staying up here for the remainder of my planned time, as originally planned. It really is kind of a bummer, because I could've had a chance to move south again, but at the same time...

WE STILL NEED TO JAM!

Yeah, there, I said it. That, and there's still a few other things I need to wrap up here in town. I've been told that I should just look out for myself, damn what the other people think, but I've got a sneaking suspicion that I shouldn't burn any bridges at this point and time.

*By career I mean job. I have to resist the urge to laugh at anyone who says what I'm doing is a career.

Blues Eyes Goodbyes

Don't get up, I'm leaving anyway.

The desires of the heart call less for love,
and more for flight.
My heart does not beat for you anymore.

Great black wings of ebony feathers,
a hunter's eyes,
and the untamed weather.

The night and moon's companions,
I sit some hours, listening to the earth's malcontent.

We both are unhappy,
with the exploits of men and women.

But perhaps more,
we are disappointed in ourselves.

The knives in the back have become old,
bony remnants of another life.

The colours of life bled through those wounds,
pools of vibrancy left in my final throes.

There is so much hope in the world now,
carnivores at the feast.

When something good dies,
humanity gathers and rejoices,
like lions at the feast.

Ask for so much, and I will give in turn,
but there are things that I do not share.

As the planet does, there are secrets and truths
etched in plain sight, and yet always sought.

Because those who seek do not know how to read,
how to comprehend the understanding I've tried-
and failed to impart.

Perhaps the simplest truth,
I whisper on the wind.

As it brushes past your ears,
someday you might hear it.

"Wake up."
"Wake up."
"Don't get up, I'm already gone."

Pontus

Well, so comes to a close another weekend off. I've spent most of the time here asleep, or out hanging out with my friends, most of whom I haven't seen in over two months. It was a nice retreat, and I wish it could last a bit longer. I've been working on some guitar pieces too; I think I might record them when I get home this evening.

Not a whole lot to report on other than that. Work was miserable last week, so I was really looking forward to this weekend, which by and large, did not disappoint. I'm not, however, looking forward to going back to work this coming up week, lest I get a three-peat of the bullshit that's become commonplace.

In other news, I've been pre-emptively offered the editor position at another newspaper in southern Alberta. But, I think, with my experience, I'm going to have to decline it.

In fact, I may have to forcefully decline it, as I'll be about done with journalism and all it entails sometime this fall... hopefully.

I'm looking forward to being able to finish a book in the near future. Which book, doesn't matter, rather just any of my works; I'd like to see at least one finished.

A Fool for a Tool

My otherwise good day was soiled. There comes a point where misinformation becomes harmful, and what I thought was supposed to be a public meeting was actually a confidential meet. I think they thought I was there to get a scoop. I was just mistaken.

More bad blood. I imagine soon there won't be anyone left up here who doesn't say my name with scorn, something to be spat off like an over chewed piece of tobacco.

It's a kind of twisting grief, to know that you're doing the best you can, and yet it's never quite enough. It's never known if the demands or too high, or if just my skills are lacking, but none of that matters.

I'm angry. Furious. Incensed even. But somehow tonight, I kept my cool. All that anger, all that desire to turn around and just obliterate something... it feels like a bomb went off inside me. I've only had such a terrible feeling once before in my life, and I thought that would be the end of it.

On one hand, I want someone to pay dearly for all that I've been through. It's that kind of blind rage that paints everyone with the same guilt, either through their action, or inaction. But on the other, I'm telling myself to stop expecting somebody to pay up. Sure, I've seen some pretty rotten people do some pretty rotten things to myself and others, but I can't walk around like some kind of judge and put that over their heads.

Call it a fatalistic futility complex, but I just really don't see a point in anything anymore. The day is a routine, and I care less and less about what I do at work. It's becoming more and more routine, and I just become more detached by the hour. I don't put stock in anything, because it's gotten in my head that everything just ends in disappointment.

It sounds pessimistic, but it's less so when it's true.
Things will change soon, hopefully for the better. I can't imagine them being much worse. It's almost caustic that there's nobody I spend time with out here. They're all older or younger, too ready to foist their single-parent problems or highschool drama on me like I'm some kind of free therapist.

I'm not. I've just had enough experience in dealing with my own problems that I've got a good idea on how others can approach theirs.
Usually that's the only step that's needed, is to realize there's a problem, rather than just being stubborn and stupid and thinking there's nothing wrong.
Guess it's getting to be time to take my own advice and admit there's something wrong.

Quite frankly, I'm a dead man in a living body. I'm waiting for someone to throw me a line, but the skeins aren't looking good.

In any event, this week just became shit in the span of an hour. I'm going to bed to try and sleep it off.

Europan Descent

It's a trivial question to ask me, if I believe in aliens. Of course I do, I see them every hour of my waking life. They walk in human skins and claim to be human, but they aren't.

Or maybe I'm not. We'll never know.

They say the future looks bright. I really want to know how they figure that, through all the smog and dust and ash. How can the future be bright, unless of course it's lit with the glow of a million atom bombs.
Because really, that's the only way you're going to illuminate the tar-black ambitions of human kind.

In a little bit of Time

Things are a bit better this week. The weather is finally co-operating. It's neither too hot nor too cold, but perhaps just a little too bright. I got some good pictures yesterday when a gentleman informed the paper that he had an apricot tree in bloom. Apricot trees are rare in Canada, and not only was his blooming, but it was already targetted by a swarm of bees. It's very likely that there will be fruit on it this year, provided no killing frosts come.

Thoughts of the week are a little less optimistic though. How are people to get anywhere with their lines of thinking? How can one try and handle another when they cannot handle themselves?
Drama Drama Drama.
Which seems to be the catchword of the spring. Being that I'm the Last Single Man in the Known Universe*, it's observation that shows me that many happy couples are anything but. As I've said numerous times before, anyone in a relationship is liable to become a fool. It's easy to behave in one's own capacity, but add another to the mix and it suddenly becomes a ritual dance of telepathy, mistaken intentions, appeasements, and bargains. Even the most altruistic man or woman becomes selfish in a relationship.

I don't know how many times I was told as I was growing up to just "be myself," and everything else will just fall into place. But the reality is this: nobody really wants me to be myself. To date someone, I have to become something they want. I have to be marketable.

I say, eat shit. I'm not putting on my "game," to pick somebody up. I'm not into ruses or make believe. I want to be able to sit around and chat with somebody as I always do, and not have to worry about saying the wrong thing, or looking good, or whatever the fuck it is that women want these days. Quite frankly, I'm well aware of my shopping-list of things that would make me a non-candidate, but all it would take is a little backbone to deal with that.

And it's at this point, I drop in the one-liner: They say future humankind will be jellyfish-like.

Yeah, no shit. We'll be so incapable with dealing with a challenge that just getting out of bed in the morning will be an effort on par with the invasion of Normandy. Nobody wants to work to get anything anymore. They just want destiny served to them on a silver platter.

Well, I've smelled destiny, and it smells a lot like shit.

*This is sarcasm, of course. As is most of this post, for those who'd rather get their pants in a bunch, post a long, screaming rant, and then realize three days later, oh, he's joking.

Dreams of Farfur

After a three hour bout of insomnia last night, sleep came as a demented affair.

In dreamland, I found myself bound to a chair in a dark room, with only a single, flickering lightbulb above my head for light. The room was grimy, and smelled of sweat, vomit, and blood. Barely visible ahead of me was the bloody but still discernable face of the Hamas Mickey ripoff, Farfur.

I spoke to him, although while my thoughts were in English, the words came out as babble. Maybe I was speaking arabic, I wouldn't know. All I know is that Farfur laughed, and then walked into the darkness. Then I could hear it. It sounded like screaming metal, but I knew right away. Somebody was sharpening a blade.

It was at this point that I heard a familiar voice talking to me, telling me what to do. I wiggled my hands free, but didn't make it look like I was untied. When Farfur came back, he held a wicked sword, probably intended for my neck. But I didn't give him a chance. I leapt from the chair and tackled him down.

Of course, the moment I tackled him, I found myself rolling down a grassy hill in the middle of a sunny afternoon. No sign of the the wayword mouse/butterfly anywhere, and the only smell was fresh grass and mountain air.

Weird. I also remember walking a perfectly straight dirt road through a rather grim looking forest, but I don't remember how that plays into either occurrence.

But anyway, yeah. I really want to know which part of my brain comes up with this shit.