Odds On

Like clockwork, or similar such cog-based mechanisms — anything that stresses some sort of clinical inevitability (your choice, really) —, I have slunk far beneath yet another self-imposed quota, evidenced, as per norm, by a virtually unconscious article dutifully chronicling the failing, or failings, in question, one frighteningly, albeit predictably, similar to its numerous textual antecedents hereon, the combined mass of which should tell you all you need to know about this two-penny-on-the-dime operation. In short, like operation.

Infats in Fiction

Sung backwoods: Can we get kinky tonight, like Cocoa? I've oft. (en) considered doing it thusly, with the dwindlings up-front like a side-two classic, but only now have I (hum). And why now? Why, I'm surprised you have to ask. In fact I'm downright disappointed. To go further into detail about the erotic and racial implications of hot chocolate would quell any remaining sense of subtlety, so answer I shall not. You must realise I've worked too long and too hard and too sweatily on embedding the clews to risk a careless tear at the behest of my slower readers. But I will say that the following sounds like a preceding for a reason — read on, Josephine!

Some non dits: Hello, blossoms, Fink Fingers here, noting the weather. What sunny potential for a time when my cultural mound has more than halved, and my first choice co-op critic has fled, leaving me with a remainder who makeshifts a therapist's couch at every op. on which to spill his sizable guts and the occasional vestige of coitus. Now I can officially recall a bigger, brighter world and paint an ever bigger, brighter picture of it, which, like all masterpieces, will be too precious to sell and too ugly to look at.

Some hum truths: a deeply familiar face sprung from a quick flick, most unexpectedly, and instigated that funny mix of the shy and the sly the best grins are made of. Though far too brief to set in stone, I got the impression that the intervening growth was pleasingly undrastic, much like yours. Consequently I was flung back to days of progress via proximity (preferable to progress via transmission) and sent into a wretched state of flutter, from which I'm yet to emerge. In effect it's a state whose true shame — measurable to within point-five millilitres — depends on future events, events rooted in effort if ever there were, and thus likely to be displaced by a prematurely resigned F—it. But he remains nonetheless vigilant, and wonders how long a smile at it all can really last.

The Fertile Present

From the relative safety of retrospect, it is of course easy (often dangerously so) to dismiss outdated worldviews as failures of imagination or humanism, implying in the process that enlightenment is much more the product of the soul than of the culture. But were we swifted back to times of slightly greater ignorance by some point-proving deity, I'm certain, in as much as I can be, that we'd bugger up contact with non-agriculturalists too. Ethnocentrism, while not insurmountable, does appear to be prevalent to a certain extent in all cultures, and this could be attributive to a logical, possibly even biological, human reaction to foreign cultures of any sort, particularly when the former dominates the latter. This reaction is invariably compounded by the respective technological advances of the two cultures, with the more advanced claiming a higher place on the evolutionary ladder as a result. Consequently, they not only treat the other race as technologically inferior, but psychologically inferior as well, laying the foundations for what can only be a torturous future for interracial relations.

Phallocentrism, by comparison, goes a little deeper. The implication that womanhood is defined by manhood is widespread indeed, and still very much in effect today, often deeply ingrained in religious belief. Thus the advent of feminism relied on the assumption that manhood was a symbol of gendrical independence, and that a move towards the characteristics of masculinity would yield greater freedom. This assumption eschewed fundamental elements of the feminine psyche on the basis that they were 'weak', a further example of viewing masculinity as superiority. Of course, simply wearing pants and opening doors unassisted was hardly going to change matters, and the strong continued, and still continue, to exploit the weak. It also had the unfortunate side-effect of perpetuating the myth of phallocentrism itself, which overlooks the very reasonable argument that there could also exist a form of yonicentrism, whether subconsciously implanted by maternalism or developed as a yardstick against which a man could measure his power, similar to the notion of the savage and the civilised so often drawn upon in colonial times. In fact, I would argue that phallocentrism could not exist without some form of yonicentrism, and that its perceived power can only manifest itself in relation to the timidity behind traditional notions of womanhood.

Darwinism, or Survivalofthefitism, can be directly linked to these views, and is both the cause and effect of their continued existence. Because it is our reason for being (as we are), it is embedded deep in our behaviour, and even though so-called civilisation occasionally claims to provide equality for the muscular and meek alike, notions of inferiority stemming from power values crop up again and again, even if money has become the new benchmark. But it is also true that we now have a richer mine of knowledge than ever before, and we should not let its cumulation go to waste, biology or no biology. With this in mind, I think that now is the time for us to stumble over the vast mounds of academia in the hope of planting a brighter future on the other side, one free of war, discrimination, poverty, religion and art. You with me?

Clean Streets

Where I'm from — every-everywhere —, we conceive, discuss and execute our own trouble, though not and never for lack of fun(ds), and only often for lack of trouble. But while our hands jack our own pockets, the gazes we summon are as steely and authentic as inauthenticity can be, and often this proves to be enough. For instance, when some small, graceless critter moaned (in passing) "I'm a walking contraceptive," we snapped his lids with a gaze so contemptuous that he either got lead or laid, and we knew we'd never see him again. Similarly, a beanie-clad bar boy with a reckless mouth:— the sap was spat up and chewed out before you could say a time-consuming word.

"No, no, no. It's fucking intertextuality, man — and I don't swear or man loosely. As a Yous seatzen might say, it's creating a — ahem — 'dialogue' with the past. Suddenly we have a circular history, wherein the long-forgotten has as much place, and I would argue more, as the still-remembered, and the lucky pieces get renewed, modernised, spun again. Master D-D-Darren Deano did the same (to more acclaim) with his ho-hum popcorn — Dogs nicked the plot, Kheel B., its natural, indulgent conclusion, nicked everything. Records are the instrument, just as valid as guitars. Of course, the unimaginative can lean a little heavily, but hey, there's been worthless musicians too. Most of all, however, it's a bed for the voice to lay upon, forcing you to listen, to lap up its cadence, revel in its dexterity, get what the fuck its on about. Clean melodies, by contrast, can get across message-less — the world's better for having both. Sociologically, the hook-jacking also reveals itself as Fuck You function, with some even playing up the perceived thievery. Similarly, the voice — in your f— face — and beat — in your Rs — prove to be enormously effective in getting across one's point, not to mention pissing people off, which is often the point. And—"
"Shut up," said my addressee.

Name omitted, plot lax, delay legendary, result puerile, points wayward, grade C-, too beautiful for words.

Dally en Route

At my most petulant, I can be quite the chemical. One thing, usually small, perhaps misjudged, but in no way ill-willed, and I'm off the good books, losing even the chance to explain. It gets my girders, I'll tell you. The following occurrence, however, is in no way an example, nor a rule-proving exception, of that pretty proven fact. No; it's this: Yesterday (or was it tomorrow?) ubiquitous Ben (hereon) was without his ubiquitous hat, leaving his top exposed. That was wrong, I knew that (as I knew (and know) that "ubiquitous" has been mishandled — though correctly — to such an extent that I'd advocate its permanent eradication, the penultimate of which — this notwithstanding — is superfluous). Like the boogie-to-the-boogie without the boogie-bang, Ben sans hat was an incongruous spectacle, not most because he'd shrunk a little in favour of a duller altitude. His insights were still prime Ben — "Why must every tone be dulcet?" being my favourite — but the naked scalp proved to be an almost insurmountable obstacle in the way of my Ben-schooled enlightenment. Unable to address the issue, I instead focused my attention on the other aspects of his person.
Thus: "Boy, you smell wonderful this evening."
"Pain me though it may to say, you ain't the first person to say that today," retorted Ben, with rhythm too good to go unnoted. Then: "Wait— Haven't you already done this with Harry?"
"Yes, but my readers' attention spans don't stretch back that far."
Ben emitted a smile-shaped grunt.
"I have to take issue with that," he said, "what with me being both your only reader and the person who reminded you of the prior post in question. And that's not even mentioning the time I caught you posting a re-run under a different title."
"But it was an ironic different title!" I protested.
"Irony isn't going to save you now, Hugh. You're going to have to face facts."
"Ironic facts?"
"Nope. Cigars though and through."
"Maybe on my death bed," I said, only half jokingly. I gazed around in that contrived, morose fashion of mine before returning to my quasi-gigantus colleague with "Tell me a story, Ben," and the cutest puppy eyes I'm capable of.
"Rightio," said Ben. "Yesterday, a dear acquaintance of mine said what I interpreted to be 'I issue profundity at ever turn' during a discussion we were having, fittingly about cigars. Consequently, I murmured an insolent 'if you do say so yourself' and stormed off to what I thought were greener pastures, only it turns out that what he actually said was 'I eschew profundity at every turn', and was, in fact, just him being coy. Now, coyness is something I certainly do not have a problem with, so naturally I hurried to patch things up."
"And did you?"
"Yes. All's well."
"Glad to hear it."
"Glad to tell it."
"Good."
"Good."

Like hair that needed it, we went our own separate ways, both looking back on the tenth step to not blow a kiss, and both regretting it later. Ben became a lawyer or a lawnmower, and moonlit as a psyche. I became mighty frank.

Words 196-211 are copyright Ben "Jay Mohr" Hansen, 2007, while 214-220 ever so slightly re-work a phrase of his origin. Any complaints regarding these portions should thus be forwarded to the Ben in question — unless, of course, you are the Ben in question, in which case I'll be gladly accepting any abuse you choose to apply to my person.

Bellydown in Blue

The failings of a self-servo coffee apparatus, tackled here for its doughnut deal, shut me back out into the rain empty-handed, and it was raining. Wasn't quite the collapsing straw, but it was close enough to hurt some. My contemporary, made of a stoop and somehow not Jewish, was more affable about the circ.; he had succeeded in his whim, and was eating it. But his presence was heartening, even amidst the jealousy, and the one thing stopping me from falling to my knees and bellowing.

Crowing the road, we each reached the other side (our goal, I think) and stood down underneath the boxcar sign in some anticipation. Deduction + the timetable informed us that the dusty old people-mover was to arrive somewhere in the next ten minutes, and in exactly those words. Noting this, we slunk further downwards and chewed the in-between time. My own attempts were via the voice-box. Speed: white.

"I'm close to soaked/my throat is choked/voice broke/and near-frozen/feel like I'm dozing/and I'm supposing/you're pretty cold too/bellydown in blue," I said, blatantly.
"Yes, I guess/but you're wearing less/you know it's L-E before S-S/yes, must be a lesson/to not put less on/to listen/while I'm addressin'/no woollen vest?/no winter's best?/but I digress/I'm cold, yes," said Mr. Bee. "Incidentally/that rhyme you sent me/did it really end that way?/well, evidently/but if you want fame/like some lame teen idol/next time don't integrate the title."
"At least this is the right place for it," said Ben, hopping off a street car.
"No — it's music, man. You don't read it." (Me on the defence.)
"Damn right you don't read it/you try and defeat it/with melody and harmony and strict line metres/need a bridge/need a verse and chorus/proper syntax or you're sure to bore us/and syllables/mostly ten/those low street thugs'll never beat Ben." (Ben on the attack.)
"You're missing the beat/this ain't no speech/your small white brain don't have the reach/your mind is blind/it just can't cut it/you say it's open but you already shut it."
"If my mind's white, what the swear does that make yours?/I'd say pure light but you ain't familiar with the laws."
"Light?/swear no/more like lightning/I'm as loud as J. Thunders and thrice as frightening/this ain't no impostor/ala Hawke in Gattaca/those words'll cost ya/'cause I'm blacker than Africa/I don't know if your attempts/are a joke or not/but one thing's for sure/I'm a true reverse-coconut."
Re-enter Mr. Bee.
"Down with love/lust/and all its followers/don't pay no mind or dollars/to no spitters or swallowers/just want a pretty lady/I don't pay/she don't pay me/we go to ballet and call each other 'baby'," says he.
"I win," said Ben.
But I won instead.

Laughing over mostly non-alcoholic beverages at the adjacent inn, we straightened the whole thing out. Turns out I won.

Never the Less

Incidentally, for those wondering, I do heartily apologise for the complete absence of indentation. When I began, you see, I had not the know-how to know how, nor even the thought to try, and since then I've utterly failed to rectify this, and only occasionally thought to do so. Now, I fear, it's much too late, even with the will of the world on my side. My only hope is to clench my teeth and power on, praying that mere consistency will cream over this oversight for all but the hyperpedantic, and that my gentle, loyal readers will grant me this small slack, perhaps in return for a raise in standard.

In other news (the world's most overused opening to a second paragraph), the slick mise en scène I've employed here has, for most of you, grown somewhat stale, if your fuming letters are anything to go by, so I've decided that it is time for a drastic, ne'er-to-be-completed overhaul. If you've any suggestions, please mail them to the following upside-down half-triangle:

45 Plywood Dr.
Hurstbridge,
Victoria.
3191
.

Finally, a word for the fellow scrounging around at the bottom of his trough: whatever woe weighed you down, please know that without knowing, advice is awfully hard to dish out, but that a look up every so often, and a thought to what has been achieved & experienced, presumably in the interaction stakes, will work wonders. Also note that the prior construction was ingeniously bookended with an alliterative triplet of the same letter, so if its substance is null, at least grant it the almost admiring shrug it so richly deserves and pick yourself, and your pen, up.

My Life in So Many Words

A pilot, endowed with lunkhead vowels and no chin to speak of (at least not highly), somehow held my attention for a large portion of this day, although I can't yet say whether this was the beginnings of brain debilitation or simply the resigned masochism of a flat tire. I should point out, however, that the pilot's activities were witnessed while I was sitting out the rain, so it wasn't as if I had much opportunity to leap through azaleas and compare clouds anyway. Still, there was plenty to do within, and it wouldn't have required much effort to ruffle up a time-filler or two. I even had a novel in my bag. Yet there I was, aimed at the tapping window for what must have been three hours, simply gazing at an unremarkable man ready a plane for take-off (or whatever he was readying it for).

Perhaps I admired his dedication under duress, or envied his solid, workaday bread-winning. Perhaps I had only the energy to take in, and not put in. Or perhaps I was simply drowning my day. Whatever the reason, it has prompted a stern reappraisal of the self. Is this where I want to be, watching pilots fumble about in the rain for hours on end? It's not a memory I aim to cherish, at any rate. But compared to the rest of my day, which now I can hardly even recall, it was positively spectacular — and that's probably the saddest part.

Honestly, I have no idea why I'm picking over this so obsessively. Maybe this is proof that there is something to it, that it's not simply an incident my mind has landed upon by accident. Was my father a laid-off pilot? Was my mother a veritable encyclopaedia of plane-preparation trivia? No. Heck, I've never even been on more than one plane in my life, and they've never held my attention outside of that. Why, then, should this mundane task imprint itself so forcibly on my mind that it feels like all the secrets of my life and its failings are contained within it?

God, my autobiography's gonna suck.

Sexless (H. Brimage Notwithstanding)

All right, first Harry says, "Hey, chaps, what time we seeing this movie? My credit's running out soon," and we're like, "I think it's around 6.30, though there is a 5.45 session, so I guess it depends on which session would be most convenient," and then he goes, "Maybe the 5.45, as I need to get back by 11," but we're like "No, we think the 6.30's better", so he's all "OK, that's cool. See ya," and we hang up. So I go to the station, right, to catch the 5.29 train, and Tom's already there but he's wearing this black beanie so I thought he was Anh Tu, but when I got close I realised it was Tom because he looked like Daniel Johns from Silverchair, and Tom looks like Daniel Johns from Silverchair, especially that time when he was wearing the same sort of white braces with nothing underneath one time when he answered the door, which is the sort of thing Daniel Johns has been wearing for the publicity shots for the new Silverchair stuff (by the way, I think "Straight Lines" is kinda OK. It's fairly mainstream, but it's nice how he uses off-kilter chords in the chorus while still being accessible).

Anyway, me and Tom get on the train which isn't late for once and we sit down and I say the moon must have eaten a lot today but Tom informs me that he doesn't think it's quite a full moon, and I say it doesn't matter if it's full or sort of full because I just said it'd eaten a lot today and that could mean sort of full. Then we arrive at the station and we go up to the cinema and we see Ben in his usual red monkey outfit wearing headphones. We go up behind him as we're not sure if he's seen us yet but we don't really surprise him and he just takes off his headphones. He tells us he's the only one there and Harry just rang him and told him that he was gonna be five minutes late and Tim isn't there. Then Tom says the big building in front of us has nothing on Ben's penis (which is apparently really, really big, although I've not seen it yet), and he says that Ben should lie down next to it so we can compare it but we don't and just get to talking about something else instead. And then Tim comes and we're still waiting for Harry but the session's sold out so when Harry comes we have to go to another cinema.

We get to the other one in time and it isn't sold out so we get our tickets and go in and sit down (from left to right, it was Harry, me, Tim, Tom and Ben on the end). Harry asked me if I'd seen the ebay ad before and I tell him no I hadn't but I laugh along with him like I had and knew how weird it was, and then Tim tells me, as he had told Tom earlier, that the Chaser should do a road test of the ad and die. Then we saw an ad for the new Die Hard movie and Harry says it looks over the top (Harry's the dumb one). I ask Tom if he brought his diary and he says no he didn't bring his diary why do I ask and I say so he can mark down Die Hard in his diary, but he says he doesn't need to as he's already written it down in his head. And then we watch the film and we finish watching the film and leave. And we go to the station and there's 23 minutes to our train so we go to a supermarket to eat dinner and I split a four-pack of doughnuts with Tom because I saw some in the movie we watched (I ate the chocolate and pineapple one, he ate the pink and normal one with jam). And we go on the train and Ben says you know how royals are biscuits in [long word I can't remember] but are basically just sugar well this is sugar in [long word] but is basically just air or something, and he says something about those old guys on the Muppet show.

To be continued...

A Million Ways

Today was one of those over-familiar days marked by a noticeable absence of occurrences. Despite it being winter, the mercury was in the slightly-too-hot for most, if not all, of the day, and I was forced to sweat about in little more than a figure-hugging T-shirt and an ambiguous pair of undershorts, an outfit which departed quite drastically from yesterday's chilly wardrobe of German trench and snug Penguin leggings. But gripes with the weather soon proved to be on the extraneous side of the day's events, for early on a thing occurred (let me preserve the mystery for a sentence or two) which was to change my memoirs forever.

I had just finished work on my latest exposé, High Society, about the prevalence of drugs in modern life (I hope no one beat me to that title), when that blasted doorbell (two slugs, last June — I'm surprised it still works) startled me from my chair. Dragging myself to the front door, I was rather bemused to find myself face-to-face with a fellow author. He seemed to be holding an impressive wad of manuscript paper, the visible of which bore the unmistakable stench of laboured prose. Showing the distraught-looking penman in, I asked him the nature of his visit, to which he responded with a resigned glance at the dogged pages in his hand. Knowing all too well what this meant, I plonked him on my comfiest chair and fetched a vile of bitters. Snatching the glass from my grasp, he thanked me kindly, swug it, and passed out. I picked up his manuscript.

Hold on. He had only written two pages, and a rotten two pages at that. This was hardly the point where you go about abusing the hospitality of your contemporaries — that comes when you hit a dead-end at page 175. The nerve of the fellow. And me too tired to seek revenge.

Some minutes later, I climbed into and had a shower. Despite water restrictions, this gave me that lovely feeling that everything was going to turn out all right — provided I significantly re-worked this (the ending in particular) come memoir time.

Bound By Yore

You know, it almost seems shameful. Stubbornly persevering, as evidenced hereon, is not the noblest of pursuits, nor is it worthwhile purely as an exercise in unflappability. In fact it bears a closer resemblance to pop-baiting, as if its continuation is merely a manifestation of vain hope. That being the case (he admits nothing), I'm liable to stoop further into base swipes at base targets, in a bid to appeal most broadly, and most blatantly. This, however, has not expressly occurred as of the yet, and its lack hereof (pardon?) is either a gratifying reassurance (a reassuring gratification, if you like) or the deepest damnation of this undertaking thus far — I can't decide which. But whatever the label, it must be said that the pressures of a stadium are, in that respect, a welcome absence — and horrid either way.

This led to my most controversial stain: a small number of pieces made under slight duress. It is said what's past is past, but they still seem to determine my future, at least in terms of how I'm viewed by the uninitiated. These pieces, however, were not the product of a switch in alliances, and they most certainly were not a temporary batch of propaganda I cooked up to aid my escape. Moreover, they had nothing in them, save for my ignorance, which in any way compromised my loyalty or aligned me with my captors. Though I most definitely regret them, and indeed am ashamed by them [see first sentence, remove "almost seems", replace with "is" — ed.], I do not feel I should be held accountable for my motivations unless stupidity itself has become a punishable offence in my absence. I admit that speaking of unsevere conditions was an unwise act under the circumstances, and revealing my mostly apolitical stance did not help matters. But my err was not malicious in the least, and had I known then the ramifications it would cause, I would not have gone through with it.

In the end, even my fiercest critic has to admit they were no more ill-willed than any schoolyard prank. Indeed the writings themselves, composed with a friend of mine by way of a mishandled dictionary, were intended to be realised as such. Neither of us entertained the thought of them maintaining their illusion for more than a day or so. Certainly we wanted to expose what we perceived to be a growing trend of undiscernibility among the editors that be, who were then beginning to swoon for anything that merely sounded like it could mean something, even if the thing in question was so inscrutable that there was no way of knowing. But we did not, let it be said, aim to discredit one target in particular. We simply intended to undermine that line of thinking as a whole. Thus our grotesque creations, as composite and vulgar as Frankenstein's, made no concession to meaning whatsoever, and were consequently adored by the above. Our point was proved to an extent far beyond our expectations, and by the trial we were beginning to realise that perhaps it had got out of hand. But surely by now it should no longer be relevant. All reverberations faded long ago, and only in dwelling does the event still exist in memory. The past doth not make the man. If my future is sealed, at least grant me a happy now.

A Muff is a Muff

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The Law of the Low

I was watching television the other day — one of us was perched atop my wardrobe, reaching metallically for a two-pronged reception — and I noticed, for what I deemed the first time in recent memory, a distinct lack of soul-searchers. I was thusly unable to identify with any of the preening cut-outs on offer, whose only concerns, it seemed, involved either violence or romance, and often both. Where are all the black-skivvy boohoos vainly scouring the heavens for impossible answers to impossible questions? Where are the open-mike coffee bars emitting badly articulated howls of existential contemplation? This sorry evidence led me to the conclusion that we, the What Is Life? moguls, are a dying breed.

From the carnal crux of my spiritually uncloined lap, my ever-bouncing four-eyed lass agreed, saying that she too had observed the lack of televised kindred spirits. Her explanation, however, differed from mine in that its articulation was at a higher, more feminine pitch and featured shorter, more feminine words, although in essence it was as close to mine as atheism to nihilism. Later, when my mortal coil was being twisted and her rude rhymes censored, we traded brass-knuckle blows (a profoundly humbling experience, I'll tell you) and gave the issue another thorough spray. This time we concluded that if there existed mediated role-models of our ilk, our lifestyles would be stacked and weighed against these creations, and our prided sense of individuality would be compromised. Thus, we reasoned, television's narrow-minded approach was a disguised blessing for us blessed.

Following that night and its comfortable reassurance, we engaged in a morning meeting at Twee Heads, a small but faithful town in the hills where crime has been completely eradicated. Disrobing, we quickly illuminated the circle of fellows in orbit around us, who were similarly pleased to hear about the sneaky blessing, and set about making ourselves appealing targets. Having acquired both the texture and the taste, this is something I'd recommend to all couples looking to cement their relationship. Case in point: Team Randall, winner of both 2006's Love Of The Year award and the Shower Of Power award, not to mention his recent Indirectly Lowering The Tone victory. And he's a sole-searcher to boot. We may not have TV, but we'll always have this. I mean, the innernet.

Randall & Co. (Defunct)

It has come to my attention that that likely ladder of ours — cast your eyes south-east and scroll — is a matter of some contention, particularly in regards to justification and rank. One in particularly has wondered, aloud, about it, and my prompted reasoning was as far from adequate as such things can be. But, with the benefit of chewing time, I think I can explain, if not entirely justify, the process. Contrary to popular opinion, I do not slave over a hot oven, pen in hand, muttering to myself, and decide who has enhanced popular culture the most, then carefully delineate the remainders until I have an accurate assessment of the individuals' fingers. No — in actual reality (combine the two if you must), the process is far more superficial. Thus:

The easiest way to ascend is simply to be one of those rare creatures who actually devotes portions of their day — or week, as the case may be — to adding chunks of useless text to their page. Heck, at this point I'd take month — even year. If that fails (as it currently is), I am forced to resort to what I bravely refer to as Nostalgia. Hence the most notable intertextual relationship with the here and now is represented at the top of the pile, which in this case fulfils the previous criteria as well. The immediately following is more nostalgia-wallowing — a scant amount, to be sure, but its creation is synonymous with mine, so I'm due. Actually, if this logic had legs, Phan Phan Phan would be higher. Nevertheless, I'm 'ere to talk of the current Copper (fuck you, posterity), whose interrogation spawned this. His efforts show care, and the most recent shows cum. If it weren't for nigglings of the yes-but-I-doubt-he'll-update-again and compared-to-the-others-he-has-barely-written-anything ilk, maybe he'd be top dwag.

Whichever way you look, this ladder is a rare insight into what it means to be human. And what, you ask, does that mean? It means breath, it means lungs, it means Why The F— Am I Here? But most of all it means washing your clothes and using the toilet.

Bradwriaeth Am Byth

Though I am yet to be dubbed a boob, I certainly felt one yesterday. Dig: I was in the smoke, scratching away the guilty tingles down my back, when the expository creature — a lady, no less — approached and set in motion the series of events I'm now in the process of articulating. She was the first. Her ears, ninety percent covered by black Welsh hair, were worth each and every attempt to engage them (Freud would have muttered "engorged", no doubt). Her mouth, undoctored and pink, was worth tenfold, for it was where those compelling Welsh vowels escaped. Viewed from afar, I think it is, for a lass, the accent you bang on churches for.

She asked for directions.
"I think that's — oh — there-ish." But the accompanying finger's scope rendered this next to useless.
"Oh. Thanks."
"It's about forty steps down that street," interjected Ben, my companion for the occasion. "Hard to miss, really."
"Oh, thanks very much," she said, turning to the gangly, nerveless créme-hunk
"Yes, it's just there," I added limply. But her gaze was gone.
"Perhaps you could show me," she said — to Ben.
"I'm sorry, I don't accept propositions from attractive Welsh strangers," replied Ben, just as I was hoping he wouldn't say anything with wit in it.
She laughed (heaven knows why) and said: "What do you know about Wales and its strangers?"
"I know Mr. Gruffudd's one, and I know Wales is England's New Zealand, as Canada is America's Wales."
"And elephants are the ground's Wales."
They turned and gaped at my addition. I turned away, liking the New Zealand accent too.

A minute later, they were the sung heroes of the White Album's fifteenth track. No one loud enough objected. In a rare moment of malice, I damn near prayed for a semi to flatten that lewd display. Worst of all, I found myself with a pitched waist after craftily obscuring the Ben half with my left hand. It was hard to go home to a bad fridge after that. I mean, Ben knew I had a thing for Welsh women. That was my only avenue of conversation whenever we spoke. The agreement was that I'd take Wales and he'd take everywhere else. That's fucking fair.

Guided By Vices

Being merely superficial, the too-defined stain on his jumbo briefs was perhaps the least disheartening element in a ferociously contested field. The winner, by a king's margin, was the slyly composite Looks + Leers, which would quake even the sturdiest of timbers and give foul Chinaski a run for his whisky. But let us not underestimate gallant silver: a minuscule profile dwarfing a minuscule talent. Nor, for that matter, the unmistakable overhang of rotting attentions — attentions, mind you, that poetic justice failed to abort long ago.

And so I burnt those ugly homemade gatefolds, wiped melody from memory and detoxined the motherfucker in a long, frigid shower. If a certain lumberer had similar lackings, maybe he would have the same fate. But one hopes that one learns. Still, when pedestals prove to be a trick of the light, it's easy to overlook the cardboard that made it so, especially when the message takes a particularly grandiose guise. They are flesh and guts, after all; they dread a cold toilet seat as much as a warm one.

Yet despite my best efforts (detailed above — ed.), the image of that Is He Retarded Or What? teacher engaged in unwedlocked consolidation with the world's vilest is still firmly imprinted upon my brain. Hm —: That taller-than-the-other-tall-fellow fellow once told me that asexuality must lend a certain grace to one's life. I thought that rather boring of him.

Alone in the Master Class

Angered and a little ragged, I had thrown the pile of manuscripts, acetates and watercolours at Professor X-Cow — my way of dealing with the too-discerning — and stormed off to my room, deadlineless but conflicted. At that point, I would have been content to have entered an unexitable sensory-deprivation chamber and be childishly spared of the judgement. But I persevered. Scouring the hall for a nervous minute or two, I found him and apologised. As I turned to leave, a metaphorical breeze (or something) blew open a page of my now-legendary Closed Book, and I turned back. With that nervous beating the self-censor does its best to avoid, I attempted to explain myself.
"It's my heart, poured, distilled and honed. If your life and smarts leave it lurched, where does that leave me?"
I failed.
"It's my shoes," he said, and walked off in them.
Actually, that made a whole lot of sense — and I hated him for it.

"This is what I worry about," I pined to weary Harry. "This is my book."
Harry scratched his chin, clearly not in the moment.
"All right," he said, somewhat despicably.
"All right? Is that all you can say?"
"Well, what'd you want me to say?"
"I dunno — something more articulate. I mean, I finally spill my guts to you after you've been nagging me for so long and all you can say is 'All right'."
"I haven't been nagging you. That was the real Harry."
I made an about face.
"Oh yes — so it was," I murmured. "Um—"
"Don't worry about it. It happens once in a while."
"I'm sorry. But listen, what do you think of old X-Cow?"
He laughed and shook his head.
"The smartest guy I know but for his manner," he said.
"I'm not sure if that makes sense."
"It doesn't. It's his job, not his pleasure. He may be the most qualified, but I doubt he gets the most enjoyment out of it. Heck, he doesn't pay for it — why should he?" Harry's eyes went parental. "He's a cultural superialist despite his preference for non-statement statements."
"Cultural superialism doesn't even mean anything — that's not even a word," I said.
"I know."
"Will you stop that? These arguments don't make sense."
"Undoubtedly, but at least remember King Kurt."
"Yech, no thanks."
"No, not them. The singular one."
"Oh."

Me on my top bunk, him on his bottom, the lights vanished. Not asleep, I grabbed my guitar.
"I wrote a new song, Harry."
"Mmm?"
"It goes like this: 'Fuck you, X-Cow. Fuck you, X-Cow. Fuck you, X-Cow'."
"A love song, then?"
"Yep."

I Love You, England

Dear diary: I have aired you for public consumption on account of your irrepressible profundity, without which the world would be the worse. By nature, your highly personal chronicling of the dailies are written without concession to clarity, due, in most, to a then-foreseen lack of audience, but that does not make them any less worth a while in public annals than the countless minutiae-mongers already clogging the drains. Nor does it mean the obliqueness should be scrambled into shape. What it does mean, however, is that your deeply penetrating insights into this condition of ours — you know to what I refer, brothers & sisters: this condition of the human! — is becoming obscured by a sea of gunky prosé, poured daily by giddy globules outstaying their entitled fifteen minutes (already too generous for most, I say!).

But diary — my dear diary —, I'm not simply here to defend your need-not-defending position. I'm here to encoil, for good, around your sickly moist form, your slightly incorrect sentence construction, your two-thirds there grammatical ability, your strict divide between meaning and sound, your profoundly unilluminating points, your inverted ugliness. I'm here to slip, forcefully but peacefully, into your spur-of-a-bored-moment cavity, cavort, as low-res has taught me, for brief, and wile away. Then, dear, I propose (I will) a more official union — with Ben's blessing, of course. I can see it now: us, barely able to control our buttock-seeking appendages, a windy, beautiful, bleak hill, Ben clad to the nines, carefully enunciating Do You Takes — we'll be horizontal before he can even leap one foot to safety!

Oh, my dear diary. If I must share you with the world, at least it is from the inside.

Asterix in Athens

Semi-returned from an unwanted brink, I've a true (I assure) tale to weave, one witnessed first-handedly. This time the setting is a palace.
"Sire?" (Here's where I caught wind of the situation, the speaker a small, bell-clad jester.)
"Ah, there you are," said a king of sorts. "Tell me, what is the nature of your relationship with Lord Yansen?"
"My relationship with Lord Yansen, sire?"
"Yourrelationshipwithlordyansensire."
"Well, he's my mentor, sire."
"Your mentor?"
"Yes, sire."
"And what exactly does that entail?"
"Well, sire, it entails him teaching me things what I don't already know."
"I see. And what things are these?"
"Usually, he starts by teaching me how to use the piano, sire."
"And after that?"
"After that he teaches me about acting."
"Pardon?"
"—Sire."
"I see. And is there more after that?"
"Um—"
"Um?"
"Yes, sire."
"Well, go on."
"Yes, sire. After that, he— He—"
"He what?"
"He—"
"He what!"
"...Handles me, sire."
"A fine piece of music, but I don't see what that has to do with Lord Yansen."

Well, you can imagine how this went down with the tour group. I mean, what are the chances? Heck, if I wasn't there myself I'd never believe it. But I was. And I do. And if I lie, may God strike me down.

The Return of Yodo

Conjuring a crooning Bruce Willis is as fitting an opening as this mortal can muster, and I'm sure the subject in question (that one, not that one) has no objection to being placed on a higher than usual podium. And to what do we owe this pleasure? Transport problems, apparently. But whatever the motivation, 'twas overdue, and no amount of nothing-to-says excuse that, not least because it's a — ahem — wob leg, whose nature and practitioners dictate ill-inform and sour, or at best tasteless, nothings. Perhaps, then, this unique (though it isn't) stand is a stand of credibility, forethought, thought-about opinions and the abhorrence of slavishly jotted daily minutiae, rather than the undoubtedly truer reality of I Can't Be Stuffed. Still, the pile's a feather higher. That counts for something.

While we're vaguely on the topic, I should probably say something about the other ladder-dwellers, who invariably rest below the above. Silver downwards are, as far as the World's concerned, dead, nonexistent and defunct, respectively. At this point, the most likely person to publish another boast is Tee Eff Dee, which is an unlikely state to be (in). The reason for this is that my gut has even less faith in the alternatives, who, one feels (particularly this one), were token leggers, carried on a brief wind of hype and potential before being laid to rest back in real life. That said, Time Away is a more desirable pursuit in the end.

So, yes, he's returned, whether for good, for evil or the mean. It doesn't bear stating, and posterity will hate it, but a feather's a feather.

My Fat Heart

I was recently sensitive to nonconscious pieces in this collection of ours, usually of little importance in the Scheme Of Things, usually overlooked. Hitherto, my famous sensitivity only extended as far as fleas landing on dogs — gallant compared to most meat-heads, but narrowly confined to traditional notions of consciousness. It's all very well and good to feel that Thin-Skin Sonic Boom — Poor dog, poor flea; poor you, poor me! — for things that are aware of their existence (awareness = sensitivity potential), but when it comes to things of wood and plastic, or gauche or steel, we have more than a little trouble caring. After all, our concern could never be reciprocated, or even acknowledged, were we to extend a hand of empathy their way. Now, this may be an insurmountable barrier to the image-conscious, but for me, it's an admirable challenge to rise to.

My first tentative steps into super-hypersensitivity were easy enough — I envisaged life as a plank and lay on the floor all afternoon — but when I began to think about hammers and axes and nails, I hit a wall. How can I be sensitive if I'm always being bashed by or into things? It was no good trying to convince myself that these thoughts, or indeed any thoughts, never crossed these emotionless objects — logic hath no place in heart! I was beginning to understand why this was such a criminally unexplored area. To cheer myself up, I spent the remaining daylight weeping over collarless Rex and a magnifying glass.

The breakthrough came when I attempted to get to the heart of a pane of glass — As long as I'm not broken, I'm a success! —, which yielded an improbably elating sadness distinct from my knowledge of Facts. Yes, we were both transparent (fragile, too), but I realised that a lack of emotions means that it's up to me to pick up the slack. In the eyes of the world, it matters not who's weeping, as long as someone is. Everybody — nay, everything — needs understanding, needs the feeling that it/he/her is not alone in this hurtling void, that someone is out there, shedding salt for their predicament or offering arms to fall into. And if everyone had that, hey, maybe there wouldn't be so many prob-a-lems!

Paltry in Motion

Though presently archaic, that semi-abbreviated rhubarb cake, given to me by two collaborating friends, was perhaps the most enjoyable meal in a week. The enjoyment dwindled, ever so slightly, when I discovered that the joke I extracted from it was, for all intents, utterly imperceptible, but hell, I was used to that — I don't intend every sensation as fodder for my muse. Now, where was I? Nowhere was I. Apologies: for no reason I can discern, cake turns my sneer inwards. Compensating for the arrogance of temporary contentment, perhaps? No, not that cake — it's past tense for a reason. The present cake is of a different cloth entirely: chocolate, the obscenely moist variety. Scatters the brain, too. Did I mention that?

Having reached this point, you're no doubt wondering what, exactly, I'm getting at. Well, bless you: you obviously aren't from around these parts. Nevertheless, here's a gallant stab at elucidation: cake, particularly the initial rhubarb, has a way of shaking one about in ways that other foods — beef sandwiches, for instance — are incapable of doing, if only for lack of effort. And the mentioned shaking (more metaphorical than physical) encompasses a general lack of straight-down-the-line reasoning and motivation. Have a civilised discussion with cake and I'll have a fit. Case in point, here: inject what you may where you may, but don't expect to cure the fog.

So, what have we learned? Well, firstly, cake, in this context, is powerless. Well, secondly, cake, in most other contexts, isn't entirely as powerless as it may seem, it being an innocent slice of cake and all. Thirdly, the catch-up, as I now dub it, has the distinction of being utterly indistinct from non-conscious catch-ups quality-wise. The same source bears all, and little can interfere. It's either beautiful or tedious, depending on your ilk. Me, I say it's paltry in motion, twice because it actually means something.

The Myth of Divorce

Gripping my jeans rather uncertainly, I shifted six degrees left. There, in the headlights, an even stretch of asphalt, disappearing somewhere out of eyeshot, revealed itself, suddenly and shockingly, along the curve, with clinically applied streaks of white paint and other cars. A sudden chill sloped down my spine, coming to rest somewhere in the rear-crotch and warming my lap, neither act disrupting my terror. Slowly, somewhat surely, I kicked the clutch to Off, and the engine followed. The ensuing silence was marked by a distinct absence of sound, notwithstanding my grimly impassioned yelps and the roar of other cars.

Newly appointed by the roadside, I made my ingenious bed and lay down peacefully, passers-by my infrequent radio, slowly lulling me with inane afternoon questions. When the moon and its minions crept inexorably into view, I found my dreams and the night was over. I was on the roadside. The next day's heat was beating up my blanket. Rising with typical morning legs, I climbed back in front of the wheel and grazed some more highway. The mood on such occasions, as all but the dimmest attest, moves towards the bleak, with highly damaging detours of unprovoked joy offering unwanted contrast. The weather, too, lowers, from sensitivity or cruelty, somehow by design. In such foul spirits, the surrounding political machinations lose their cloaks, and the love of others feels counterfeit. All we can do is drive on.

When a bad mood's rising, the arts dip. You may have noticed, at certain points, that smelling the roses along your walk is as pointless as it seems on paper. I thusly hypothesise that emotions, as they are, don't breed discrimination, as is so often thought, but lead to lower discernation. If you view such an opinion with the disinterest of distance (I'm assuming you have no connection with the person in question), you will also no doubt spot this correlation. The falsehood of the previous assumption, as I see it, has nothing to do with the opinion itself; rather, it has to do with its failure to identify the intrinsic link discrimination has with base, some would say crude, logic. Now, this logic is something we all possess, whether we admit to it or not, but the wise among us have educated it — indeed, have evolved it — to the point where its conclusions are as well-informed as we ourselves are. The discriminatory, on the other hand, have not interfered with it one iota, and its ill-informed assumptions remain at the forefront of thought. Education, then, is still the key, as it is in so many other areas. The sooner we realise this, the sooner it will be.

Bobbing For Porcelain

Under uncertain amounts of ocean, reaching for something unattainable, waiting in that roundabout way. That is to say, I've woken up now. The crux, however, is decidedly more trivial, borne, as it was, from a public lavatory. Here's the mood: the sound of a successful flush had just risen from one of the stalls — to this narrator it was merely an ersatz change-room, I hasten to point out — and a gasp along with it. The former, unremarkable under the circumstances, the latter, somewhat discomforting under the same. But it is for the third sound, roughly four seconds after the second, that I'm here today: "The cistern works!". Suddenly the resentful group of uptights and perverts had common ground. The knowing among us chuckled while the baffled sped up whichever process they were currently involved in and hurried themselves out of there.

When at last the jubilant alien emerged from the miracle chamber, we were rather deflated to discover it was an attendant of sorts, holding a box of tools. The mood instantly retreated to Soiled and Uncomfortable, and every exchanged glance was promptly returned to its rightful owner. Restoring to the harsh but blessedly un-public-toilet-like sunlight of the intervening street, we scattered to from whence we came and hoped passers-by did not notice our re-entry point. For me, the whence was a grossly exaggerated elephant tusk-cum-seat, where my peers were. For the rest, I care not to know.

I'm fairly certain there's a moral here.

Ill-Expressed But Pleasingly Titled

Thusly begins the retrospective false-start: there's rings beneath my perfunctorily amphibian eyes, inducing extra blinks and caffeinated rhymes therewith (I tried being explicit, but it sounded coyly convenient; you'll just have to put up), not to mention (meaningless phrase) sore gazes at the window and navel, respectively. Details dispensed, we progress: I would have certainly banked on being dwarfed by that knowingly counter-productive hate-monger, from pictures, from intuition. Not so, it turns out. Still, it's regardless in lieu of both the affecting object and the object of affection not being me. The former I diverge on often; the latter I would exchange with, if a likelihood, but not plead in the rain for — not with that fashion. A nip of television for Pub Culture enthusiasts, but not an opinion-brimming filigree for altaring. That status belongs to an unpredictably coloured head on a predictably uncoloured body, who shares a similar plus-half age gap, one guesses. That status, however, is not as a genuine reality — not in a mill. or so. More, someone to know. The difference is in the detail, and the detail makes no difference to me: neither seem really achievable. But hey, I'll take the unknown any day, along with a smile and a wistful liquid.

As a particularly outworldly supermarket drop-out once summed, there's metho in my madness. In this case, as opposed to his, it's metaphorical, representing something profoundly soulful. And I'm in agreement: if ever the 'tunity rose (nouvelle lingo), I'd go far out of my way to call beforehand, no out-blue poppings, no prompt re-stockings. This is gentlemen business. This is gallantry. The rest is down to that abstract white-board cleaner, whose lack-thereof existence is corroding, and a rather strained excuse. Oh but that won't stop good humour. I'll sing for every pleasing sigh they induce, out of key, despite or because of little help from my friends, not caring a wist for the lack of leads, and smile, too. Singing silent tribute, thankful like a good shepherd for all I've gained hitherto on those blessed grounds. Ahem.

In Swoops the Faux

From this angle, last calendar's not particularly impressive total of one-hundred and thirty-three seems all but unattainable, especially in lieu of the as-of-then twelve I've amassed thus far, but, like numerous proclamations before me, none of which, you'll remember, were achieved, I'm going to throw reasonable facts to rot and have another half-arse. Theoretically, an average one-a-day henceforth will actually surpass that number, and even two-thousand and five's superior effort. Realistically, it's black-board clawing.

Incidentally, this goal, like its ancestors, has nothing whatsoever to do with quality. As I've stressed numerous times before, it really is irredeemable on those grounds. Quantity, quantity, quantity: that's how you really waste time — and yes, that verb was conjured to simultaneously evoke a bazooka and a filthy blonde's bedroom habit. Come January, and this'll delete easy.

Occasional, But Hardly Often

As an awful philosopher/poet once mused, This is where mood twists in on itself, too tired to differentiate its various strands. The book itself (though I hesitate to put it in such esteemed company) elaborated along bland, broadly poetic, vaguely philosophical lines, none of which I'll be traversing, but the above introductory sentence (which took some cleaning up, I should add) does manage to inflict an inconsequential gash of rouge with its aimless stab at profundity. In the correct context, early morning emotions do woozily converge, sometimes to the point of numbness, and if you can tear yourself into the distance, it makes for a grimly amusing spectacle. That said, I don't mean the hitherto simply as context for the following, which would seem like the lowest of excuses in the circumstances. Nevertheless, it must be said that at this point, the more inroads the better.

And so we reach several hours beyond the spawning moment — quite an achievement in lieu of the majority hereon. Things of note? Well, the distant hymn of our nation's face giggling and applauding seems even more revolting from this distant vantage, although that's partly imagination's fault. And, interestingly, that bespectacled loud-shirt has advised me, indirectly, not to tinkle the ivory bowl just yet, lest it lead to problems down the tract. That was a metaphor, by the way. But despite the above's sinewy cadence, little of it links with the further above — a wooze of moods indeed. The gap has torn two distincts.

Though lacking the impressive temporal distance of the earlier two, this third helping (and at this point, I heavily stress that first syllable) has the advantage of cicularity — what an ugly word —, and here, adieu-less, it is: the evermentioned and bafflingly dog-eared edition alluded to hardly exists, particularly in a philosophical sense. But that, like Her respective parents' exporting professions, is of no importance of all.

Hip Hip

As of ten twenty-fours ago, your humble narrator reached another notch on his trail — in particular, the one which allows near-guiltless debauchery at the wrong end of the Pacific. His current milestone, irrelevant though it is, grows more impressive by the hour. Physically, too, there's growth: his hair, rather like mine, has decorated itself with a few signifying wisps of white; his face, lacking last year's heavy bristles, has a certain frog about it; and his fingers, here entwined with my own, have lost a good deal of vitality. Suddenly, the excuses require even more invention.

The celebration (suppressed, of course) reminds me of my own, also around this time — give or take ten. Soon this leads me backwards towards what was nearly a year ago. Built too close to the fault-line, memories come flooding back: three parts syrup, two drops wit. Sun! Road! Rain! Temporarily shelved unease! Thank God That's Over With! Cruel me knows it's not even destined to be a footnote. In this respect, him and I are also twinney. Sometimes we even discuss it as if it were the same thing, and in kinder times we might say it's worth its weight in while. As for the rest, it's I Did What When? and assorted distaste, occasionally elevating to true, responsible so-rrow and accountability, fake or otherwise. So what's to celebrate?

As of some minutes ago, the above two narrators were fairly adamant about a lack of candles and hoo-hah, fairly adamant about the humble route.

Just Tears

Rather amusingly, an acquiescent friend of mine once bemoaned the state of affairs in the world today, noting that when you're yay high in suffering neighbours, you can never be truly content. Though its heart is vaguely in the right spot, this flawed logic overlooks the simple reality that an entirely sad world is even worse than a partially sad one. Next to everyone knows that whirl piece is fundamentally impossible at this stage in evolution; happiness conflicts, and there's always going to be an angry or half-dead neighbour regardless of policy. With his (or her) reasoning, we should thus be stripping the grins from our cheeks and dourly trudging the streets with crudely fashioned apocalyptic signs, occasionally stopping to cry on a newspaper or berate a happy person. Sure, it may not make the place any nicer, but we'll be true! And maybe our guilt will by halved, too.

Whinging, by its very nature, is unproductive — or, more rightly, counter-productive. I, for one, would rather a fiercely optimistic philanthropist abroad than a grousing cynic, slipping on his or her tears when there's work to be done. And I'm sure ill-lotted Afro-kids would rather be greeted with a warm, compassionate smile than a hopeless quiver of pity. Samples: How Can I Bring A Child Into This Horrible, Horrible World! How Can I Enjoy Not Bringing A Child Into This Horrible, Horrible World? How Can I Justify This Gold Watch? Oh, the woe! It doesn't matter how bad it is, either; there are ways to make it worse — ways only the most wet-eyed bawler knows.

Despite its overexposure, smelling flora once in a while is still sage advice. I'm sure even hell can be enjoyed in the right light.

Inside a Radical

Obviously, the first circumstantial words are breezy, if mildly uncomfortable, and the patient observer inside sometimes even hazards perspective with an encouraging You're Doing It!, but once these formalities run dry, the next step, highly mutual as it is, seems ridiculously out of reach, and, as the scatologist might say, the conversation stalls. The self censors anything interesting on the basis that its sensors are not nearly tuned enough to discern, to a safe degree, what the response could possibly be; outside the moment, it reasons, is a minefield too risky to navigate. The problem with such a philosophy, as all us non-afflicted can attest, is that it's rubbish.

The fairer, in all their down-trodden wisdom, can no doubt spot this error. There's Another One, they say behind hushed palms, pointing helpfully. My three exes, entirely as lewd as that makes them sound, knew this, but four, seven and two months too late, respectively. If their lewdness weren't so rewarding, perhaps I'd regret my misleadingly scintillating and ultimately peeling (if you dig) conversations. But the past's for forgetting, see, not regretting (yecch). On the other hand, you must admit that cloaking one's internal moaning in safe, cold distance is as much a manifestation of the problem as it is a symptom of it. Myself, I admit nothing but ignorance.

For Lack of Spine

As a particularly thin and wispy piece of foil for Thou, I could, indeed, rasp lyrical about lacking discipline, overseeing unencounters which I, as him, presumably lean longingly for, or coal-hearted feelings, all things which inescapably drip from his fingers at the first op., but instead I shall take the podium myself for an uncharacteristic outpouring of deep sincerity.

It has come to my attention that my daily veil is infuriatingly opaque, even impenetrable, and though this revelation, if it can be called thus (one always knows, usually), was revealed under a fog of deep intoxication, where such things usually spawn, I know, from tip to toe, its worth is nonethelesser. It's true, in fact. I belong to the world of womb-wisdom.

Reasons I'll save for the appropriate In Person, but I may as well throw up a few Ern Malleyisms while I'm here, dutifully wasting your time: the guard is fiercely loyal, gladly fat and goose-like; the conscious still hold firm, as warily anticipating censors. As for the man in me, well, he needs a woman like you, obviously. La-la-la-la-la-la-la.

My Goodness

Of course, all I'm trying to do is shove that vulgarity to Page Two, away from all these ripe discussions and riffs, and off into further obscurity. You see, no reply from either end of the spectrum pretty much rendered its intention useless, leaving it naked, like an ex-slave in the sun, and awaiting the lash of further scrutiny; thus this. Nevertheless, its glaring pictorial stain does help break up the monotony a tad. Oh and while I'm here: whoever's in charge, can you align certain fates — stopping lifts, delaying buses, to name two — and allow some Fancy Seeing, along with renewed verbosity, uplifted appeal, extraordinary superhuman abilities and a wad of stinking cash? Well, some of it.

It's interesting how utterly pathetic pop's favourite word is unless expressed mutually, don't you think? That quavering voice between frenzied fists on altar glass— Really, I think we should all thank God that we haven't yet roamed into such ugly situations. And possibly thank him, too, for the lion's share of skirts. For all we know he could be a very reasonable guy. Worth a shot, at any rate.

Faith and Reason Converse

"There's one rather odd thing I've discovered."
"Mm?"
"What?"
"I said 'Mm?'."
"Oh yes, so you said."
"What?"
"So you said."
"So I said what?"
"So you said what."
"I said what?"
"Yes."
"Did I?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"Just then."
"Really?"
"Truly."
"Huh."

"Isn't conversation funny?"
"Not really, no — more depressing."
"Thanks."
"No worries."

March Appreciated

Friday: that hypocritic oaf and his sterilised stethoscope peered down at me through blatantly rimless spectacles, a foil, no doubt, for the absence of framed doctrines, and skirted, with a hint of skill, the latest diagnosis. His treatment, you see, was dealt with some confidence, almost smugly, and this latest development was a ghastly stain — must always smell of roses. When it became clear (when I finished wading through his slyly confounded consternation), I feigned a collapsing world (feign fire with fire), crumbling on the tip of the news, and sunk to my devious knees. My tears came easy, despite their artificial motivation, and I searched his sober face for a flicker of remorse.

It being post-February, I had a pleasing canvas of opportunity to brush passed, and the easiest of weather. Early on, I flirted gamely with the idea of spiteful, ugly, expansive notes, a final sprinkle of salt in the freshly opened wounds, but evil was not always my thing. Easy pleasure, after all, is next to worthless. Too, the month was still young. Beckoning buildings, peering piers and soulless sympathy bags awaited my call. Maybe I was wanted after all.

Bloggers Unite

Profusion Be Damned

Eyes feeling decidedly unhealthy, I talked a Ben — well, the Ben, really — off a ledge. The fact that the ledge in question was nonexistent, and consequently unthreatening, seemingly makes this achievement defunct, but I still think there's a certain pleasure to be had in clearing up befuddlements, even if I'm accepting unduly. Sleep is for suckers.

But I wasn't ready to let the B go so soonly. He is, after all, the only character I've got, and even that never extends beyond the recollection inherent in the name. So I grabbed him, gruffly, by the woollies and asked of him another existential nugget in a line too long to be merely repetitive.
"Desire's of no use, but then neither are desirables. And so, in conclusion, we must first tend our own flock before we flock around with other people's — or, if you so wish, other people. Can I go now?"
All right.

Dear boy. My one-man audience once was brimming with reaction, be it faint, stiff praise, or Never Again prayers. But the handiwork of these fingers slowed, almost to a halt, and never showed, if ever it did, a thing but faint obscurantism — almost to a fault. So the T (as in Om), must, must, must, and yet mustn't and won't, slide his data-entry fingers up the date, if only to cure the air of a two-man community which moves at perhaps the least compelling pace this side of fungi.

Life Stoops

Since I last penned: the stories I could tell: number many, as with all, but all, if not most, aren't worth telling. No longer thoroughly abstemious, excluding ubiquitous tea-fuel. Perhaps being a soiled human isn't all that, although no longer can I drift, conversationless, and peer down my nose despite my height. Obviously it's Ben's fault, and, consequently, his decision as to whether to shower himself in scorn or praise. Other pastures — one in particular — remain intangibly obscure, semi-solely due to my new clock, the rest falling upon what ever. So it's limbo.

I'm not raging, and I'm still yet to pay, but should I worry? I don't care to answer that. The shame lies, or doesn't, here, but my fingers repel these ones and those zeros, and good on 'em. I prefer a box of nothing. A mulatto soul so rare, I cherish little else. Only a few more lifeless sentences, innocent, though proven guilty, and we'll be out of here. Not yet worthy of a bankroll. Not yet asleep. Failed at that. You filled in? Good.

319th Anniversary Special!

The wise among us, generally appearing on the objective fringes, know there ain't no worth in being — especially if you're being nasty. Oh, how morals disappear in the wee hours! It's anniverserous to say so, but such a number is a celebration to these grubby fingers, and shall be celebrated regardless of three-in-the-morning nasticisms which a better lass than I would avoid. I can blame visionlessness, heavier than usual eyes, hitherto unused hours, but let's face it, it's my foot at fault.

Y'all wondering what's been goin' on, correct? Who am I to disavow? Thirstly the side: it remains unencumbered, strangely, even if one labels it not. That li'l' ainjil is alilt with more pressing persons, as one must guess, and this one minds less than ever. The word barrel is run, spent and dry. And t'at's all there was. Who's to object? One should not persist with those who don't exist, ay, Ben? Ayben if that person (what person?) did exist, that existence has no effect on this one — though irresistible, I can resist! I'm stronger than my frame lets on.

I can't dribble much longer, but I hope you, the proverbial, remember that number. Yes, the one at the top. It is of no importance, but I'm sure you can accommodate it. Do try.