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.