Monday, May 10, 2010
Friday, May 07, 2010
Thursday, May 06, 2010
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
And be sure to check out this blog too--I think it's dead, but some cool stuff there: http://ping.fm/glY5K
Check out this awesome article on which is better: P90X or the Insanity Workout: http://ping.fm/3Ls5x?&id=4184947
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Check out this awesome article on which is better: P90X or the Insanity Workout: http://ping.fm/3Ls5x?&id=4184947
Monday, April 26, 2010
And be sure to check out this blog too--I think it's dead, but some cool stuff there: http://ping.fm/glY5K
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Yeah! Kicking and roaring back into life, like a corpse galvanized by electricty, some primitive Frankenstein who's been stopped and frozen in a dark castle for years until some enterprising and slightly morbid young scientist broke in and sank iron needles hooked up to some mobile power source DEEP into his neck and then:
ZAPPO!
Back to life, twisting and dancing, face all spasmodic and falling down nex to the laptop so I can type out some words, some phrases, toss around a few metaphors and signal weakly to the world that here I am! Here I am! Look at me! Read my ramblings! Pause and wonder at what these few paragraphs may hint at, at what sort of wonderous and marvelously intriguing human being could just toss these off like VOILA!
I had a dream last night in which I ascended the side of a castle, a motel sort of castle with balconies and fire escapes and paused about three floors up to gaze down at the bay and watch a massive hammerhead shark slowly cruise past in the river below into the great waters beyond. It was at least as long as a school bus and it was all mottled grays and blues and looked serene and deadly and incredibly cool. I paused there, looking down at this vast behemoth, and thought: wow. Hot dog!
It was a crazy dream. It involved a motel style castle which was clearly haunted, clearly in that its occupants or interior designer had gone out of his way to make it seem so. All dark and atmospheric, tres cool. You walk around in it, and all the motel castle rooms are empty, abandoned, the doors either opening to cavernous nothings or simply locked. Except there were a few occupants there, and one lot were a trio of exceedingly attractive girls who had rigged up a trap behind one of the doors so that when you opened it you 'accidentally' knocked one of them over and caused her to drop a ton of something or other on the floor. It was all part of their plan to reel you in, a black widow net of misunderstandings that ended in your death.
I ended fleeing their trap by leaping over the balcony and falling five floors into the swimming pool below, which was cool because it wasn't a regular contained in a cement hole kind of pool but rather sort of the ocean flooding into the bowels of a ship kind of thing, because the motel continued down into the pool, flooded rooms and balconies and the like, so that one side was all interesting and filled with dark caverns and red railings and the like. The true owner of the castle motel was down there, you see, and I was going to face him down.
I don't recall many other details. It was very cool though. I remember feeling proud of myself, of my subconcious, for having concocted all the details. Thinking, man, why can't I put this stuff together when I'm at my laptop, all ready to write? Where's this much vaunted creativity THEN?
Sheesh. Ah well. Some wise sage said that passion is the first draft, and the craft lies in redrafting the first draft into a second draft which is then presented to the world as a more finished product more liable to communicate your message to the masses who will then be able to confer upon you the august and weighty title of WRITER. Cool, eh? This would then be the first draft, which, when redrafted, will make sense.
Wait till then with baited breath!
ZAPPO!
Back to life, twisting and dancing, face all spasmodic and falling down nex to the laptop so I can type out some words, some phrases, toss around a few metaphors and signal weakly to the world that here I am! Here I am! Look at me! Read my ramblings! Pause and wonder at what these few paragraphs may hint at, at what sort of wonderous and marvelously intriguing human being could just toss these off like VOILA!
I had a dream last night in which I ascended the side of a castle, a motel sort of castle with balconies and fire escapes and paused about three floors up to gaze down at the bay and watch a massive hammerhead shark slowly cruise past in the river below into the great waters beyond. It was at least as long as a school bus and it was all mottled grays and blues and looked serene and deadly and incredibly cool. I paused there, looking down at this vast behemoth, and thought: wow. Hot dog!
It was a crazy dream. It involved a motel style castle which was clearly haunted, clearly in that its occupants or interior designer had gone out of his way to make it seem so. All dark and atmospheric, tres cool. You walk around in it, and all the motel castle rooms are empty, abandoned, the doors either opening to cavernous nothings or simply locked. Except there were a few occupants there, and one lot were a trio of exceedingly attractive girls who had rigged up a trap behind one of the doors so that when you opened it you 'accidentally' knocked one of them over and caused her to drop a ton of something or other on the floor. It was all part of their plan to reel you in, a black widow net of misunderstandings that ended in your death.
I ended fleeing their trap by leaping over the balcony and falling five floors into the swimming pool below, which was cool because it wasn't a regular contained in a cement hole kind of pool but rather sort of the ocean flooding into the bowels of a ship kind of thing, because the motel continued down into the pool, flooded rooms and balconies and the like, so that one side was all interesting and filled with dark caverns and red railings and the like. The true owner of the castle motel was down there, you see, and I was going to face him down.
I don't recall many other details. It was very cool though. I remember feeling proud of myself, of my subconcious, for having concocted all the details. Thinking, man, why can't I put this stuff together when I'm at my laptop, all ready to write? Where's this much vaunted creativity THEN?
Sheesh. Ah well. Some wise sage said that passion is the first draft, and the craft lies in redrafting the first draft into a second draft which is then presented to the world as a more finished product more liable to communicate your message to the masses who will then be able to confer upon you the august and weighty title of WRITER. Cool, eh? This would then be the first draft, which, when redrafted, will make sense.
Wait till then with baited breath!
Sunday, January 02, 2005
Ah, here we are. Two in the morning, and a new world awaits me tomorrow. Or not, as may be the case. 2005 seems to promise a dull repetition of the end of 2004, as far as I can see. The brief respite that was Christmas and New Years must now give way before the dull, dreary routine of work. Like the faith of a child in magic, it can only last so long in the desolate, despairing eyes of the real world. Woe! A tale of misery ensues. Work, work, work. Epicurus had it right. Just get all your friends together, move into a big house, grow turnips and sit around talking and having sex. Man, what a life. Instead: mortgage broker, extrordinaire! Me, at the telephone, chatting attentively with idiots. Me, at the computer, punching up tax information and running credit reports. Me, at the desk, nodding attentively as my boss drones on about stuff. Me, at the window, watching the world go by! Me! At work! Nullified!
Ah, drama. This is the winter of my discontent alright. A little indian summer to whet the appetite, and then back to winter. Reverse! Nein! No progress here! Back, back into the desolate wastes of permafrost and 1003 applications! Back to marketing and blehness!
Ah, drama. This is the winter of my discontent alright. A little indian summer to whet the appetite, and then back to winter. Reverse! Nein! No progress here! Back, back into the desolate wastes of permafrost and 1003 applications! Back to marketing and blehness!
Ah, my old blog, lost friend of antient (what does that mean, antient?) times. I assume it's just a fancy way of spelling ancient, but I shall not find out. Ignorance, hie to me! Sitting in my room at 4pm, doors kicked open, besocked and berobed, hair still crapped from clubbing last night and compounded by sleep, feeling stale, foetid, jaded and sophis-ticated. I think I shall have a beer, and then lie on the floor. What a pleasure, to pass the day in an old robe, a beer in hand, good music playing (Beta Band) and not a care in the world. At least, not now, not yet. Tomorrow, bring it, I shall whine and whinge with the best of them. Ha! Such a whiner shall I be that never there havebe a whiner likeme. What is a home without Plumtree's Potted Meat? Absolute shee-it. The glamor in self waste. Sometimes I wish I had a full body suit that would allow me to crawl through all the dark, creepy places of the world without fear of contamination. To slowly wriggle through the rooted claustrophobias of brambled bushes, to wallow and swim through dank canals, to loll about in it all.
My beer, where art though? Hie to me! Hie hie hie. Hehehe. Hello! If you could pick a book as an enemy, which would it be? Up until recently I would have picked Ulysses. Blasted thing. So smug and brilliant and obtuse and esoteric and dense. But now, having courted it slowly through the amber hued days of Christmas, reading it on the toilet and lying on the couch by the X-mas tree and sprawled out in bed and in the dying afternoon light outside on the porch, I've begun to come to terms with it, to enjoy its challenge. No longer do I resent Joyce, but instead feel a curious approval of his mastery over the language. James Joyce: not half bad! Tends to lose me at times, especially when Poldybloom is wandering around wondering about stuff too much. Stephen is fascinating - and tonight's main event, ladies and gentleman, for your reading pleasure: Stephen Dedalus versus Hamlet, Prince of Denmark! Nice matchup, that. Hamlet would win. Joyce curbed Stephen too much. Agenbite of inwit! Inward turning, Stephen disappears whereas Hamlet unleashes in Act 5! Loosen your drawstrings, men, and: unleash! Have at thee, Laertes, and you too, Kingy fellow, and drink up, mum! Remember me to Shakespeare, Horatio. Good lad. Now for a kip.
Old friends: David Gemmel's books. Aye, and begorrah. The kind of friends you'd take to a pub and have a few drinks with, no real excitement but good times, comfortable, fun. Early night back, not too drunk. So many. A library, well read, is a collection of personalities. Books bloom into Leoldystyle flowers. What does that mean? I don't know. Ha! Have at thee, Joyceypoos.
Something's missing. Ah, yes. Right, right. That beer. I have two left, in the fridge. Aureate shafts of ambrosia, contained within slender flutes of hollow crystal spires. I don't do the epic style too well. Or is that just the crappy style? Mr Joyce, care to opine? What? Agenbite of Potted Peat? Sorry, sit down sir. How dare you sir! Sit down, sir! Stately Plump Buck Mulligan. SPMB.
The sky grows dim. Dismal. That chalky white that I have grown so fond of. Can air be pellucid? The aphotic depths of the ocean are hardly so. Aphotic. Disphotic. Unphotic. The agenwit of inbite.
Hello blogos. It's been awhile, but I may be back.
My beer, where art though? Hie to me! Hie hie hie. Hehehe. Hello! If you could pick a book as an enemy, which would it be? Up until recently I would have picked Ulysses. Blasted thing. So smug and brilliant and obtuse and esoteric and dense. But now, having courted it slowly through the amber hued days of Christmas, reading it on the toilet and lying on the couch by the X-mas tree and sprawled out in bed and in the dying afternoon light outside on the porch, I've begun to come to terms with it, to enjoy its challenge. No longer do I resent Joyce, but instead feel a curious approval of his mastery over the language. James Joyce: not half bad! Tends to lose me at times, especially when Poldybloom is wandering around wondering about stuff too much. Stephen is fascinating - and tonight's main event, ladies and gentleman, for your reading pleasure: Stephen Dedalus versus Hamlet, Prince of Denmark! Nice matchup, that. Hamlet would win. Joyce curbed Stephen too much. Agenbite of inwit! Inward turning, Stephen disappears whereas Hamlet unleashes in Act 5! Loosen your drawstrings, men, and: unleash! Have at thee, Laertes, and you too, Kingy fellow, and drink up, mum! Remember me to Shakespeare, Horatio. Good lad. Now for a kip.
Old friends: David Gemmel's books. Aye, and begorrah. The kind of friends you'd take to a pub and have a few drinks with, no real excitement but good times, comfortable, fun. Early night back, not too drunk. So many. A library, well read, is a collection of personalities. Books bloom into Leoldystyle flowers. What does that mean? I don't know. Ha! Have at thee, Joyceypoos.
Something's missing. Ah, yes. Right, right. That beer. I have two left, in the fridge. Aureate shafts of ambrosia, contained within slender flutes of hollow crystal spires. I don't do the epic style too well. Or is that just the crappy style? Mr Joyce, care to opine? What? Agenbite of Potted Peat? Sorry, sit down sir. How dare you sir! Sit down, sir! Stately Plump Buck Mulligan. SPMB.
The sky grows dim. Dismal. That chalky white that I have grown so fond of. Can air be pellucid? The aphotic depths of the ocean are hardly so. Aphotic. Disphotic. Unphotic. The agenwit of inbite.
Hello blogos. It's been awhile, but I may be back.
Saturday, September 18, 2004
The apartment looked empty. Something undefinable had left, been taken away, and all the furniture now seemed without luster, devoid of memories and personality. Though the sun shone in through the windows, and lit the large space with light, the apartment seemed gray and quiet. Almost melancholy. Reaching up to place the keys on their hook, Reginald allowed the door to swing closed behind him with a soft click. Home. Their home. His home. His home. He almost lacked the energy to move forwards, to go through all the small routines that settling down to rest involved. He could picture them, the numerous small tasks, each step a still frame of himself, frozen in action, numbered, till the steps culminated in his sitting with a mug of tea to gaze out the window and into the world.
Pursing his lips, Reginald shrugged his long coat off, allowing it to slip down his arms and catch on the crooks of his elbows, from which he swung it around and bundled it in half, dropping it over the back of a chair. Unwinding the old scarf, he moved towards the kitchen table, a clear expanse of light, honey colored wood beneath the window out of which he'd soon sit to look out. How often they'd sat just here, early mornings, the quiet rustle of newspaper pages, the delicate clink of saucer on cup. The warmth, the sound of their hearts beating together, in unison, unheard but... felt. Feet bumping under the table, the casual contact that never failed to excite, if only the slightest stirrings of desire.
Reginald reached out and allowed his fingers to trace the striated surface of the wood, a light whisk, a palping of fingertips over the wood, eyes raising to gaze out and through, over the rooftops of the college and into the verdant quad a block away. Silence. Midterm break, the campus deloused. Silence and solitude, melancholy sorrow and regret. These were to be his companions for the next few days till Maxwell came up to visit. To visit and distract, to make him laugh and make it all more bearable.
Where was she now? Out of which window did she gaze into the world? Ankles crossed under the chair, long fingers wrapped around a cooling mug of tea? Eyes hard and flat, the gaze of a person who has been hurt, who has been hurt and grown hard so as to not shatter. She always did that, Susan. Always clenched, always tightened and twirled away, a dancer who could not be caught. She'd strike as soon as you tried to raise your fist, as fast as a cobra, a small ball of potential anger and fury that waited, almost suspiciously, for a sign of danger.
Reaching out, Reginald pulled his chair out and lowered himself into it. The seat was cold, comfortable, familiar. But no longer did it resonate, did it match its other that sat, silent, across the table from it. Kill the fancies, kill the idle thoughts. Send the Judas goat through the herd of half remembered romantic dreams and hopes, and lead them all, one by one, to the rusty butcher's blade, to the rhythmic, lulling sound of the chop chop chop.
"Give me a reason to love you," she had said, stepping back from his outstretched arms. Give me a reason, and he had dried up. The words, his words, that had never failed him, stepped away with her, and left him alone. Alone in his mind, a mind that failed to fashion thoughts and emotions and reasons. He'd opened his mouth, and nothing had come out. Her eyes had defeated him, his reflection in them, what he had become to her. He'd remained silent, and then had offered, "I love you." She'd laughed then, a bitter sound, the sound that could bring down walls and scald the clouds from the skies, and turned to leave. Picking up her coat. Taking her keys, opening the door and walking away. Leaving him here, alone, the words all rushing back to late, making him want to chase her, follow her into the hall, the stairwell, calling out poems and entreaties, pouring lyrical honey and the deep, imperious bass of command about her head like a defender raining down Grecian fire and boulders on an attacking army.
But she wasn't attacking, and his best defense had always been offense. And it was too late now, too late, and he knew it.
Leaning forwards, feeling old, feeling tired, feeling as flat as an old truck tire run into the ground till it had burst without a sound, Reginald looked out through the window, unseeing. A whole day lay before him, an afternoon of slowly sliding shadows and collecting dust. He could sit here, sit here for the whole evening, into the night, and nobody would stop him. Somebody might call. He's inbox was always overloaded with missives from around the world, both old friends and past students. But today, this one day, he was alone, and nobody would come.
She had been beautiful though. It was no excuse, but god damn it, he was a man wasn't he? He was made of flesh, and hormones could still make his blood boil. Great men fell, stumbled. It was part of being human. And ah, such beauty. Long tresses, rivulets of copper gold, clean and supple and smelling of youth and innocense and wisdom beyond his ken. And her skin, so smooth, that he'd spent hours afterwards just running the worn pads of his fingers over her declevities and curves. Along the flanks of her back, the rounded hips and the long, long thighs. Her hair spread around her head like some aureate aureola, a mediavel halo that outdid that of any saint. Tarnished gold.
Give me a reason to love you. Love. Beauty. Flesh. One so familiar and intimate, the other a series of unexplored vistas and hidden valleys. Sweet nectar and honey dew. He'd drunk deep. If you're going to fall, dive. He'd fallen deep, deep into the shadowed recesses of her body, and had revelled in what he'd seen as his rediscovered youth. For a night he'd risen, had felt his soul soar in the night's winds and eddies, and felt the moon bask on his immortality.
But. She'd known when he'd walked in the door. The sensation of impending doom had consumed him so on his walk back to the apartment that by the time he'd opened their front door his face had been consumed with what he'd done. Not sin, but his weakness, his folly. She had been beautiful, but ephmeral, and now she was gone, gone with all her hard edges and sharp angles. Gone, and his apartment was just that now. His. Looking at his large hands, once powerful enough to crush that of others in his grip, but now so weak, so mortal, the skin thinning, losing its natural elasticity. Gone, gone gone.
Maxwell would be up soon. With his loud voice, his booming presance, his hearty laughter and propensity for drink. Maxwell would be up, and with him would come reprieve, understanding, back slaps and subdued silences. Understanding, and while Maxwell would never commend such a thing, in his silence at the end of the night, after a bottle of fine scotch, there would be understanding and through that, acceptance. Reprieve.
Give me a reason to love you. Because I want you to. Because I need you to. Because you have to. Because I'm better than you, and you need me. Because you should be thanking your lucky fucking stars I'm with you at all. Feeling himself collapse within himself, a slow crumbling, Reginald felt something undefinable being taken away, some small flame gutter and go out, and looking out the window, he felt himself at one with the empty apartment.
Pursing his lips, Reginald shrugged his long coat off, allowing it to slip down his arms and catch on the crooks of his elbows, from which he swung it around and bundled it in half, dropping it over the back of a chair. Unwinding the old scarf, he moved towards the kitchen table, a clear expanse of light, honey colored wood beneath the window out of which he'd soon sit to look out. How often they'd sat just here, early mornings, the quiet rustle of newspaper pages, the delicate clink of saucer on cup. The warmth, the sound of their hearts beating together, in unison, unheard but... felt. Feet bumping under the table, the casual contact that never failed to excite, if only the slightest stirrings of desire.
Reginald reached out and allowed his fingers to trace the striated surface of the wood, a light whisk, a palping of fingertips over the wood, eyes raising to gaze out and through, over the rooftops of the college and into the verdant quad a block away. Silence. Midterm break, the campus deloused. Silence and solitude, melancholy sorrow and regret. These were to be his companions for the next few days till Maxwell came up to visit. To visit and distract, to make him laugh and make it all more bearable.
Where was she now? Out of which window did she gaze into the world? Ankles crossed under the chair, long fingers wrapped around a cooling mug of tea? Eyes hard and flat, the gaze of a person who has been hurt, who has been hurt and grown hard so as to not shatter. She always did that, Susan. Always clenched, always tightened and twirled away, a dancer who could not be caught. She'd strike as soon as you tried to raise your fist, as fast as a cobra, a small ball of potential anger and fury that waited, almost suspiciously, for a sign of danger.
Reaching out, Reginald pulled his chair out and lowered himself into it. The seat was cold, comfortable, familiar. But no longer did it resonate, did it match its other that sat, silent, across the table from it. Kill the fancies, kill the idle thoughts. Send the Judas goat through the herd of half remembered romantic dreams and hopes, and lead them all, one by one, to the rusty butcher's blade, to the rhythmic, lulling sound of the chop chop chop.
"Give me a reason to love you," she had said, stepping back from his outstretched arms. Give me a reason, and he had dried up. The words, his words, that had never failed him, stepped away with her, and left him alone. Alone in his mind, a mind that failed to fashion thoughts and emotions and reasons. He'd opened his mouth, and nothing had come out. Her eyes had defeated him, his reflection in them, what he had become to her. He'd remained silent, and then had offered, "I love you." She'd laughed then, a bitter sound, the sound that could bring down walls and scald the clouds from the skies, and turned to leave. Picking up her coat. Taking her keys, opening the door and walking away. Leaving him here, alone, the words all rushing back to late, making him want to chase her, follow her into the hall, the stairwell, calling out poems and entreaties, pouring lyrical honey and the deep, imperious bass of command about her head like a defender raining down Grecian fire and boulders on an attacking army.
But she wasn't attacking, and his best defense had always been offense. And it was too late now, too late, and he knew it.
Leaning forwards, feeling old, feeling tired, feeling as flat as an old truck tire run into the ground till it had burst without a sound, Reginald looked out through the window, unseeing. A whole day lay before him, an afternoon of slowly sliding shadows and collecting dust. He could sit here, sit here for the whole evening, into the night, and nobody would stop him. Somebody might call. He's inbox was always overloaded with missives from around the world, both old friends and past students. But today, this one day, he was alone, and nobody would come.
She had been beautiful though. It was no excuse, but god damn it, he was a man wasn't he? He was made of flesh, and hormones could still make his blood boil. Great men fell, stumbled. It was part of being human. And ah, such beauty. Long tresses, rivulets of copper gold, clean and supple and smelling of youth and innocense and wisdom beyond his ken. And her skin, so smooth, that he'd spent hours afterwards just running the worn pads of his fingers over her declevities and curves. Along the flanks of her back, the rounded hips and the long, long thighs. Her hair spread around her head like some aureate aureola, a mediavel halo that outdid that of any saint. Tarnished gold.
Give me a reason to love you. Love. Beauty. Flesh. One so familiar and intimate, the other a series of unexplored vistas and hidden valleys. Sweet nectar and honey dew. He'd drunk deep. If you're going to fall, dive. He'd fallen deep, deep into the shadowed recesses of her body, and had revelled in what he'd seen as his rediscovered youth. For a night he'd risen, had felt his soul soar in the night's winds and eddies, and felt the moon bask on his immortality.
But. She'd known when he'd walked in the door. The sensation of impending doom had consumed him so on his walk back to the apartment that by the time he'd opened their front door his face had been consumed with what he'd done. Not sin, but his weakness, his folly. She had been beautiful, but ephmeral, and now she was gone, gone with all her hard edges and sharp angles. Gone, and his apartment was just that now. His. Looking at his large hands, once powerful enough to crush that of others in his grip, but now so weak, so mortal, the skin thinning, losing its natural elasticity. Gone, gone gone.
Maxwell would be up soon. With his loud voice, his booming presance, his hearty laughter and propensity for drink. Maxwell would be up, and with him would come reprieve, understanding, back slaps and subdued silences. Understanding, and while Maxwell would never commend such a thing, in his silence at the end of the night, after a bottle of fine scotch, there would be understanding and through that, acceptance. Reprieve.
Give me a reason to love you. Because I want you to. Because I need you to. Because you have to. Because I'm better than you, and you need me. Because you should be thanking your lucky fucking stars I'm with you at all. Feeling himself collapse within himself, a slow crumbling, Reginald felt something undefinable being taken away, some small flame gutter and go out, and looking out the window, he felt himself at one with the empty apartment.
Monday, September 13, 2004
Nothing to say. Nothing coherent to add. Tumultuous emotional state in which eager and vapid thoughts surface into my consciousness, only to twist, glisten and sink back into the darkness. Desperate ploys manifesting in retarded child thoughts, brazen and half formulated, tremulous and bitter. Absinthe has failed me. Stomach fluttering with a vague expectation brought about by a sharp desire for some undefinable event that will culminate in my simply going to sleep, exhausted, frustrated and bereft. The sun always comes, inevitable, no matter how much one may protest at night, plead and wrangle, curse and sigh. Fulminate. Fuligan fumes. I would that I would that I were the Sultanate. I would that I could castigate, berate the opiates that singe the surfaces of my cerebellum. Casus Belli. That is what I christen my cerebellum. Casus Belli.
ca·sus bel·li ( P ) Pronunciation Key (kss bl, käss bl)n. pl. casus belli
An act or event that provokes or is used to justify war.
The war is righteous, and unfought, held off, the armies delaying engagement in order to prolong the pleasure that comes from the self denial of an expected good. The longer they wait, fists gripping their weapons, eyes narrowing as they scan each other's lines, the greater the tension, the higher the expectation. Why fight now, why rush into some heady, narcissitic self indulgence when, by holding off with bated breath, you can allow the inevitable orgasm to reach a crescendo of mellifluous proportions? Eyes lidded, lips glistening, cheeks flushed, body fluid and poised, the cassus belli remains undefined, but that bothers not the armies. They will fight, determined to find the meaning for their conflict within the very heart of their aggression. In death they will justify their urge to kill. Licking the blood from the serrated edges of their blades, they will taste the fruits of their endeavours, and know the certainty that has eluded them through all their dusks and dawns. In crimson it lies, the answer, in the ultimate act of self assertion.
Casus Belli. I hold off fighting because I derive pleasure from the expected self knowledge I will gain which will illumine the darkness in which I now reside. In darkness I exhult, complacent and puerile, assured of adult hood by the belief that I can grow at any time by exherting myself, but choosing not to, for the moment. I am the addict who believes he can start at any time, but sees not the reason for starting just yet, believing that his own belief is sufficient proof to prove that he is correct in his self delusions.
Come, let slip the hounds so that I may course with them in the Elysian fields of my own suppressed creativity.
ca·sus bel·li ( P ) Pronunciation Key (kss bl, käss bl)n. pl. casus belli
An act or event that provokes or is used to justify war.
The war is righteous, and unfought, held off, the armies delaying engagement in order to prolong the pleasure that comes from the self denial of an expected good. The longer they wait, fists gripping their weapons, eyes narrowing as they scan each other's lines, the greater the tension, the higher the expectation. Why fight now, why rush into some heady, narcissitic self indulgence when, by holding off with bated breath, you can allow the inevitable orgasm to reach a crescendo of mellifluous proportions? Eyes lidded, lips glistening, cheeks flushed, body fluid and poised, the cassus belli remains undefined, but that bothers not the armies. They will fight, determined to find the meaning for their conflict within the very heart of their aggression. In death they will justify their urge to kill. Licking the blood from the serrated edges of their blades, they will taste the fruits of their endeavours, and know the certainty that has eluded them through all their dusks and dawns. In crimson it lies, the answer, in the ultimate act of self assertion.
Casus Belli. I hold off fighting because I derive pleasure from the expected self knowledge I will gain which will illumine the darkness in which I now reside. In darkness I exhult, complacent and puerile, assured of adult hood by the belief that I can grow at any time by exherting myself, but choosing not to, for the moment. I am the addict who believes he can start at any time, but sees not the reason for starting just yet, believing that his own belief is sufficient proof to prove that he is correct in his self delusions.
Come, let slip the hounds so that I may course with them in the Elysian fields of my own suppressed creativity.
Monday, September 06, 2004
Threats of hammer blows to the face. Tentative requests for company. Sizzling burgers on the skillet. We fear nussing, Lebowski, we fear nussing! The soothing tones of Eels as Mr E assures me that this could be my lucky day in hell. Back pains from sleeping on unevenly padded surfaces. Chess games in the park, with me coming through 3-0, victory Nixon style. Out of underwear, out of food, out of hard cold cash. New York City, a crucible for the weak, a mortar in which you are crushed down, all pretenses stripped bare by the unforgiving intensity of it all. Like standing under an extremely fashionable magnifying glass that seeks to determine your every fault and failing. Rise, stand tall, stare through the swollen glass and into the concentrated rays of the sun. Burn out your retinas, but find glory even as the sun begins to shimmer purple and crimson. New York City. The name itself dwarfs anything that can be found within its confines, it seedy, tumultuous borders, its desperation and strident beauty.
Hell fluid.
Hell fluid.
Monday, August 16, 2004
Stability, routine. Erecting structures around my movements so as to fortify my soul. Scaffolding, a series of ritualized actions and obervances from which I will not only draw comfort and continuity, but that might also serve to gently numb my mind. To dull the passage of days, so that each flows into the other, brothers, differances washed away, a gentle progression of ordered events with me as the boat, carried by the momentum I will generate.
Of prime importance is the need to regulate my sleeping hours. I clearly need about nine hours a night. Furthermore, I need to sleep during the same nine hours each night. From eleven to eight. No, I should try and sleep from ten to seven each day. It will be hard, but I can do this by focusing my efforts.
The goal of all this is that elusive, early morning clarity in which I can find a few hours to myself in which to drink a mug of tea and read or write. Let's work this out backwards - say I wish to be at work each day by nine thirty. I should therefor have to leave my house at nine. If I wish to exercise in the mornings, I would then have to be back from exercising at eight in order to shower, dress and eat breakfast. Let's slow things down - back by seven forty five. Which means I would have to be at the gym by seven, and thus wake up at six forty five. That means being asleep at just about ten each night.
Having read up on sleep, I've decided to adopt the following routines: take a hot shower just before getting in bed. All lights off at the same time, plunging me into darkness. It will also help that I am exercising just after waking up. So - waking up from now on at six forty five. My social life my suffer as a result, but sucks to my ass-mar, I don't have much of one anyway. And I rarely do anything of any use after ten anyways.
Sleep is the big one. Exercise should follow naturally from there - swimming, biking, running and lifting weights. I'll have to adapt Jenni's schedule to my own needs, but in short I believe that I will soon be excelling in all departments. Sleep, exercise, and the final element is nutrition.
Ah, nutrition. Breakfast, snack, lunch, snack, early dinner, snack. I shall endeavour to do that blood test thing, and to actually put some effort into diversifying my breakfast so as to maintain a healthy interest in it. Look into smoothies. Look into pancakes, and buying fruits. Honey, french toast, perhaps even baking my own bread.
But no more waste. I shall put into effect. I shall shower now, long and hot, and then read some Don Quixote before endeavouring to fall asleep by eleven. Set the alarm right now for seven thirty.
Of prime importance is the need to regulate my sleeping hours. I clearly need about nine hours a night. Furthermore, I need to sleep during the same nine hours each night. From eleven to eight. No, I should try and sleep from ten to seven each day. It will be hard, but I can do this by focusing my efforts.
The goal of all this is that elusive, early morning clarity in which I can find a few hours to myself in which to drink a mug of tea and read or write. Let's work this out backwards - say I wish to be at work each day by nine thirty. I should therefor have to leave my house at nine. If I wish to exercise in the mornings, I would then have to be back from exercising at eight in order to shower, dress and eat breakfast. Let's slow things down - back by seven forty five. Which means I would have to be at the gym by seven, and thus wake up at six forty five. That means being asleep at just about ten each night.
Having read up on sleep, I've decided to adopt the following routines: take a hot shower just before getting in bed. All lights off at the same time, plunging me into darkness. It will also help that I am exercising just after waking up. So - waking up from now on at six forty five. My social life my suffer as a result, but sucks to my ass-mar, I don't have much of one anyway. And I rarely do anything of any use after ten anyways.
Sleep is the big one. Exercise should follow naturally from there - swimming, biking, running and lifting weights. I'll have to adapt Jenni's schedule to my own needs, but in short I believe that I will soon be excelling in all departments. Sleep, exercise, and the final element is nutrition.
Ah, nutrition. Breakfast, snack, lunch, snack, early dinner, snack. I shall endeavour to do that blood test thing, and to actually put some effort into diversifying my breakfast so as to maintain a healthy interest in it. Look into smoothies. Look into pancakes, and buying fruits. Honey, french toast, perhaps even baking my own bread.
But no more waste. I shall put into effect. I shall shower now, long and hot, and then read some Don Quixote before endeavouring to fall asleep by eleven. Set the alarm right now for seven thirty.
Monday, August 09, 2004
SHE CAME FROM THE OCEAN, A CREATURE OF VERTIGINOUS BREASTS AND FUNGIBLE ASSETS. THE OCEAN, IT KIND OF SWIRLED AROUND HER LEGS, LIKE WISHY WASHY WATER THAT DIDN'T KNOW IF IT WAS COMING OR GOING. IN THE END IT DID BOTH. SHE DIDN'T NOTICE THOUGH. NOT HER, OH NO, SHE DIDN'T NOTICE AT ALL. THE OCEAN WAS HER WOMB, HER POINT OF ORIGINATION, HER P.O.B. IF YOU WILL ALLOW ME TO USE APPRAISAL TERMS, AND HER EMERGENCE WAS WHAT MATTERED NOT THAT FROM WHICH SHE EMERGED. MY POINT IS THAT SHE DIDN'T LOOK BACK, SHE DIDN'T EVEN GLANCE OVER HER SHOULDER, FELT NO SHUDDERINGS OF REGRET AS HER LONG LIMBS SCYTHED - NO - STEPPED - NO - SLIPPED FREE OF THE FRIGID WATER. IT WAS A ONE WAY TICKET, A TRAJECTORY WITH NO RETURN, A FORWARDS MOTION THINGY WITH NO COUNTERVALING FORCE. OUT SHE CAME, FROM THE OCEAN, USING HER LEGS TO DRAW HER FREE, TOES DIGGING INTO THE WET, HARD SAND THAT SHIFTED AND ERODED INSTANTLY OUT FROM UNDER HER FEET, LEAVING THE WISHY WASHY WATER BEHIND TO SIGH AND SUSSURATE IN HER WAKE.
SAYING, COME BACK, COME BACK, COME BACK TO US THELASSA.
BUT SHE DID NOT RESPOND.
SAYING, COME BACK, COME BACK, COME BACK TO US THELASSA.
BUT SHE DID NOT RESPOND.
Monday, August 02, 2004
Oooohhhhhh I feel love I feel love I feel.... love.
I. Feel. Love.
Feel it, lift your arms as the euphoria gathers, your eyes closing, your mouth curling into an irrepressible smile, your body swaying with such sublte energy, so much that you can barely bother to express it, instead rejoicing in the power that suffuses your muscles and bones. You're riding the pegasus to the rarest heights, through into the thinnest air, the sun pared down, pure, white light that removes all imperfections from your soul and leaves you essential, without want or need, a simple ray of rising golden light, spearing up and into the very heart of all warmth and being.
Ah, to wake up feeling this way each morning instead of blearily slamming the alarm clock off and pushing the dead sheep carcase off the bed so that you can swing your legs around and look dumbly at the wall for five minutes before going to the shower to wash off all the blood so as to begin another day.
Feel love? I know the sheep did.
I. Feel. Love.
Feel it, lift your arms as the euphoria gathers, your eyes closing, your mouth curling into an irrepressible smile, your body swaying with such sublte energy, so much that you can barely bother to express it, instead rejoicing in the power that suffuses your muscles and bones. You're riding the pegasus to the rarest heights, through into the thinnest air, the sun pared down, pure, white light that removes all imperfections from your soul and leaves you essential, without want or need, a simple ray of rising golden light, spearing up and into the very heart of all warmth and being.
Ah, to wake up feeling this way each morning instead of blearily slamming the alarm clock off and pushing the dead sheep carcase off the bed so that you can swing your legs around and look dumbly at the wall for five minutes before going to the shower to wash off all the blood so as to begin another day.
Feel love? I know the sheep did.
Wednesday, July 28, 2004
She came from greece she had a thirst for knowledge. She studied sculpture at Saint Martin's College. That's where. I. Caught her I. I want to live like. Common People. I want to do. Like Common People. I want to sleep like do Common People like you do. Do you common people too? I took her to a supermarket. Zuper. Started there. Why? Started there. Pretend. She just laughed. Like a fifty year old man in drag, swishing his hand at you, gushing, a straight man, straight laced, confident, a little desperate, feeling the years closing in around him like scalding waters. Pretending. Faking it. Faking it so hard that it's starting to peel off. Peel off like Common People Do. The moment he gets home he'll fix himself a straight drink, a stiff drink, he'll call it, a stiffy, a regular booze hound he'll call himself as he looks himself 'straight in the eye' cause that's the kind of guy he is. Building himself up with phrases and idioms. Affable. Impressed with himself, believing that he is able to pull this charade off because he is who he is.
William Shatner. Common People. Do. You? I took her to a zupertinni. Don't know why but I had to start it there. I had to. No choice. Zuppertinni. YOU SO FUNNY! YEAH? WELL I CAN'T - common people. Everywhere. Crawling out from behind the skirting boards, carapaces gleaming, legs clicking over the linoleum. Common People, everywhere, staggering around, blinded by their own communality, stunned by the very plebianosity of there lives. Never fail like Common People. Slide out of view. Dance, drink, screw, and all of this, all of it, the whole 'kaboodle' the whole effing inkydoodle taking place at the ZUPERTINNI.
The zupertinni. It haunts me. The name. Zuper. It's so. Zuper. It's the center, the eye of the storm, the rum in the coke, the coke in the vein, the vein leading right out of the epicentral brain, each one a spoke extending out from my iris, my retinal gorging, my bridge and lording, my zuper - zupertinni. Take me away, away from here, and put me in heaven. YOU SO FUNNY. YEAH? WELL I CAN'T SEE - like common people? In the - in the - zuper - but she didn't - understand - she just smiled and held my hand. Flat, barber shop, hair, job, smoke some scratch. Never ever ever ever ever ever (x2) get it right. Make that a double. A double, on the rocks, over easy. Bring it to a boil, and then shunt it out the window, so that it falls, slo mo, cam revolving around it, till at the last moment the cam pulls back, wide vision, screen now showing the entirety of the buildings's first floor. Fine. Let it hit, let it smash, explode, burst, rupture, splinter and then freeze frame. Rewind. Delete. Take the tape out of the cam, place it in your mouth, regurgitate stomach acid and melt that fucker down. Chew, slowly, carefully, swallow. Burp fastidiously, wipe your mouth, dispose of camera, and then hit pause. Pause. Because we have to go. We have to go to the - to the - zuper - the zuper - the ZUPPERTINNI - because we have to - lie in bed at night and watch the common people. Watch them dance, slo mo, revolve, rewind, pause, delete, chew, swallow, burp. Fastidiously. Never get enough, never get enough, never ever clever trevor might he ever.
Ah, yes. Enough with the hyperbolic use of erratic grammar in order to prove eccentricity and brilliance. Time for the quotidian, to excel in the plebian, to become, in effect, common, and by embracing my very normality, excel. Embrace it, become it, become a paragon of commonality, an exemplar. Some people are more common than others. She just laughed and said you're so funny. I SAID YEAH? Are you sure? You want to see this? You want to pay $5 and step right up? You have that sick yearning for sights that are forbidden, for people who want to eat and sleep and feculate while you dispeculate their lower intestines for the amusement of them all? For the common people, all of them gathered, congregated, united, bound and held in the zuppertinni. The.
William Shatner. Common People. Do. You? I took her to a zupertinni. Don't know why but I had to start it there. I had to. No choice. Zuppertinni. YOU SO FUNNY! YEAH? WELL I CAN'T - common people. Everywhere. Crawling out from behind the skirting boards, carapaces gleaming, legs clicking over the linoleum. Common People, everywhere, staggering around, blinded by their own communality, stunned by the very plebianosity of there lives. Never fail like Common People. Slide out of view. Dance, drink, screw, and all of this, all of it, the whole 'kaboodle' the whole effing inkydoodle taking place at the ZUPERTINNI.
The zupertinni. It haunts me. The name. Zuper. It's so. Zuper. It's the center, the eye of the storm, the rum in the coke, the coke in the vein, the vein leading right out of the epicentral brain, each one a spoke extending out from my iris, my retinal gorging, my bridge and lording, my zuper - zupertinni. Take me away, away from here, and put me in heaven. YOU SO FUNNY. YEAH? WELL I CAN'T SEE - like common people? In the - in the - zuper - but she didn't - understand - she just smiled and held my hand. Flat, barber shop, hair, job, smoke some scratch. Never ever ever ever ever ever (x2) get it right. Make that a double. A double, on the rocks, over easy. Bring it to a boil, and then shunt it out the window, so that it falls, slo mo, cam revolving around it, till at the last moment the cam pulls back, wide vision, screen now showing the entirety of the buildings's first floor. Fine. Let it hit, let it smash, explode, burst, rupture, splinter and then freeze frame. Rewind. Delete. Take the tape out of the cam, place it in your mouth, regurgitate stomach acid and melt that fucker down. Chew, slowly, carefully, swallow. Burp fastidiously, wipe your mouth, dispose of camera, and then hit pause. Pause. Because we have to go. We have to go to the - to the - zuper - the zuper - the ZUPPERTINNI - because we have to - lie in bed at night and watch the common people. Watch them dance, slo mo, revolve, rewind, pause, delete, chew, swallow, burp. Fastidiously. Never get enough, never get enough, never ever clever trevor might he ever.
Ah, yes. Enough with the hyperbolic use of erratic grammar in order to prove eccentricity and brilliance. Time for the quotidian, to excel in the plebian, to become, in effect, common, and by embracing my very normality, excel. Embrace it, become it, become a paragon of commonality, an exemplar. Some people are more common than others. She just laughed and said you're so funny. I SAID YEAH? Are you sure? You want to see this? You want to pay $5 and step right up? You have that sick yearning for sights that are forbidden, for people who want to eat and sleep and feculate while you dispeculate their lower intestines for the amusement of them all? For the common people, all of them gathered, congregated, united, bound and held in the zuppertinni. The.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)