Soft Poster Boy

Certain marital complications have led me to the conclusion of that there cliff, over which I happened to have fallen, and below which I now sit. And certain uncertaintities in regards to above matter have led me into the wilderness of the outwardly-loined halves of the human equation, somewhere I'd spent the best part of forty years avoiding. Like its creators, it's not a pretty place — Sticky and Diffuse, to name a fuse. But my habitating of it was, of course, inevitable.

Sometimes I feel a bear, who, after losing out in the mating stakes, has resigned to fates of permanent sleep, leaving little time to feel back. But I certainly don't growl like one, and, while on occasion mistaken, I'm not Gecko-Roman — at least not inversely. Mainly I'm just a Soul-Searching, inwardly motivated sock-stuffer, destined, as I am, to suffer. Oh dear, what am I? What've I become? What's my lot? Oh, I'm just a nobody— Quick! I must write this down. The world must know!

Elephant Limbs

If I said I was forthright, would you hold yours against mine? And so poses a thousand bleeding hearts from their respective pepper clubs, each with that long look of pale, sexless yearn. Get Out There, you scream, waving pantomime pelvis and hazarding Nothing-To-Lose — May As Well Try, the latter said with even more exclamation,--- But do they listen? Of course. Do they heed? Of course not. You throw hands, smash fists, and turn backs (yours), then stamp, like their collections, on out a there. They gaze at swung (and swinging) door, with a long look of sexless , pale resentment and self-pits, and then return to backwarding a course to the womb.

Even a stampede of their collective amounts only to quiet, inoffensive complaint. What hope? Who knows. Am I getting a forkful of compensation? Of — course. You know, I sat with the old girl last night, and asked for advice (hers), and she said — Dear, I fear I'm no help here: (yes, in rhyme!),--- and simply returned volley to her cross words. That almost, in itself, gave me the answer. So in the next, I informed them that they were so utterly hopeless, not even I could do a thing, and stomped off the grounds: One of my finer performances. 'Course, must be admitted that this didn't exactly achieve the desired effect, or indeed any effect, desired or not, but you can't accurately say I didn't try.

Ghost Talk

As certain upstairs apparitions have recommended, I could just keep stamp-throwing conclusive helloes — in other words (4), vague pleas — Please! — for Response — in the hope they have the desire-effect, but that runs the risk of coming off a pitying pap, and would betray my effervescence cool, which, logically, should dictate utter non-shallots over the matter,--- Dear sir or madam, this is being writ as both a Hallo and a G'bye, just in case one comes to be more apt, so you, dear, have the matter in your court. What It concerns, is, I'm sure you know, unneeding of explanation. Neverthelesser, Human Relations seems to have hid its secrets well, from me most of all, and that sudden cliff-edge silence has, for the second (and even third) time, left me barking up the tree of the Soul— Is it too much to plead to plead one small sentence? On any matter, of course, dear, although an explanatory one would ease moi the moist, particularly as a final. Oh woe, what did I do?,--- So, you see the problem? You can't just moon about with words like those. If spots were switched, I'd treat it like canned-meat — as in something I'd sooner delete than eat — and never again stick so much as an eyeball into the matter. But what is the matter? (With me? How much time have we got?)

I've bin scuffing my head for reasons, but I can't stumble 'cross the right Juan. It's really got me baffling. Was I too bold? Was I too c-ruel? What could it possibly be, wonders me. The No-Gos I hang with? My Scarlet Lady frequenting? What? What? ——————— Q. in the hall. How does one word such a thing?---: Dear, dear. Hey! Yours sincere:— Obvious, you know. But there is no way without having to say Bye Bye Pride. Exclamatory optional. D'ya notice my cleaver use of thick-blacks above?: A less sensitive me would now say all of 'em are thick; but I'd add all everyones are too,—— Thick is what makes me me and you you. What a dirty mind! What controversy! Outrageous — Did he, I mean Did he, just say that? Some would argue that despite its underlier, it's noting it that be the worst. Ah. What's that a-hangin' from my Akubra®? Why, it's a cork: Please, once more, indulge my Ghost Talk™.

Bad Bones and the Sag

That old phone don't ring no more and that sweet old sun refuse to shine (at least not on my watch — although the glass ain't top-notch), and that empty bed (how sad a sight!) is as empty as it always was, and much emptier than it once wasn't, almost as if, by force of miracle, a cast has spelled my doom, no matter how persuasive my offer (or how slick my hair-gel) —: full of every waxed positive, abounding with compliments — of the stonewash nature —, and even, on occasion, with a fistful of fresh, fat cash (though not in the way you think — if you indeed do — nor in any logic-based way), --- No, like, as it is, I've told, when the skin settles off your bones, so too does any chance of peeling off knee-highs, and so too does, by rights, health and entire happiness: whole happiness — as in, round the Horne — is full of itself back in those less-hunched, less-lessoned days of yore (and mine). But what's the use of spilling milk over it? How could that improve it?

It can't, quoth a new paragraph, nor can it hope to improve anyone within ear's range, --- Virtually it is but a truffle:— hard to swallow, harder to afford, but overall distasteful (couldn't we learn a lesson from that? —: and, in hope, we can't be lessoned by it). But what of it? Let's get the swimmers off and leap into the ice, like René and his alumni have always told and taught us, leaning, as they were, on life-to-the-fullest.

As Black as That

Firstly, to the matter of Heart — here owning to no one but itself — it must be said that, for all its obvious and peculiar deficiencies, particularly in relation to bloodless relations and reason, it is the thing — the thing — which we all stair-trip to obey, and which, when glimpsed through an unthought utterance or vulnerable glance (as opposed to keyhole or blouse), we spend an inordinate mound of time pursuing, often against the rigid and coolly sound laws of arithmetic we reserve for the menial. But the irrational part of the brain — opposed, as it is, to the lifeless organ behind the marimba — is not merely a built-in trifle that sheds the salt, for although it guides us, no matter how ill-advisably, through the ceaseless interactions we make a day and a life of wading through, it does not for a second make any of its caught-gooses feel anything less than utterly worthwhile, even for that of a right of passage with a wrong of outcome — Lesson Learnt; Now I Know — and even when it calls you an Idiot for having done it. Our maths half, however, whose responsibilities are greater only in the sense of Black and White, is never anything less than punishing in both mere feeling and mere fact when the result is anything less than correct, as no trance of emotion is ever achieved or vested upon its tasks — and that's how the world stays and goes round.

In contrast, the matter of Meaning does not come from either of these sources, particularly not the former. In fact, it derives from no less than fiction, whose lifeblood requires definition if it is to pump more than twice in the ear of the reader, listener, viewer, and whose envelope instincts insist upon a lack of ugly nihilism: the one thing in this globule village worth lacking. Can you blame us, then, if we, like the Frenchmen, seek it here, there and everywhere? Whether all this bears dwelling upon is up to the Heart to decide, or the willing to debate, but certainly it is worthy, in the least, of an endnote, albeit one that is firmly after the useful definitions; and though it may not be atop the list of pulse-racers, it also surely deserves a place among the more cob-webbed of the archives, along with the rest of academia's fat. There's been honours honoured on much less, after all.

For all intensive purposes, I'm not the only one gifted — and I use that entirely arbitrarily — enough to step outside the frame and stand back, finger on lip, and nod in that informed manner originally forged by the image-conscious among the gallery-dwellers. There are, in truth, roughly half a billion of us, and although, if you've taken my drift, that may seem entirely xenophobic, particularly in lieu of my own lack of colour, it is actually more forward-thinking than you, if to you this applies, would care to admit. The politically proper view is, as anyone with an ear knows, that every single human form on this earth is cut from the same industrial-size cloth, and thus all equally worthy of equal treatment. But this overlooks the factors of culture, from which no one can readily escape. The reason I have singled out the luckiest of the races as being the only ones capable of removing subjection and moving forward is because they, unlike the too-tanned, are not, in the general and popular sense, persecuted in the same manner as the rest, and persecution, I believe, is something which irreparably makes the Heart the Brain, and thus removes any possibility of reason or ration. Now, obviously they can't be blamed for this, for we are largely responsible, ashamed as I am to admit it, but they certainly can't be considered equal — at least, no more than a dog can. It's merely what they've been dealt, and if it were up to me, it would never have happened. And the same applies to the halves we seek, who are, bless them, all Heart — there was never even the threat of a brain in their history. And pretty Hearts, while perfect for one lifetime and one life, and utterly indispensable for anyone who isn't a rock, are not ably equipped to deal with the progressing of the species. That does not make their role any less integral — personally, I don't think I could ever live without them, and I adore them in the extreme —: all it means is that, in the broader sense, they are not fit to dine when important matters are afoot. Before you brand me a chauvinist as well, let me tell you that if the balance were reversed — that is to say, if we were all Heart and they balanced — I would be the first to admit that I and my kind would not be the people to turn to in matters of great weight, and, taking that a step further, if the tanned (et al) were the persecutors and we the persecuted, I would have no problem handing over the wheel.

If anything is going to change, these sensitive barriers must be broken down. Yes, it may offend people in the short-run, but there's backlash to every change regardless of its provocation, and the sooner we learn this, the sooner we can achieve what the least articulate among us refer to as Peace and Harmony. When people argue from the Heart against equality, I, let me tell you, am as appalled as anyone could possibly be, for Heart-based prejudice is the most nocuous substance known to man, and should never, ever be tolerated, but my argument here is stated with as much objectivity and logic as I or any man can produce, and with absolutely no guidance from that most persuasive of organs. Only superficially could this case be seen to resemble prejudice of any kind, and those who argue anything deeper are merely showing their own prejudices. If you can't see that I am against persecution of any kind (and especially the kind that we have dealt in our sorry past), then you're nothing more than a brainless fool, another of the many things stacked against us.

Leaflet Warfare

Sometimes it slips from mind — that chore part of this gen-er-ation — and after a long period of thus, the realisation that you, in fact, are, comes as an elated, elevated shock. Suddenly you stare out windows with a new sense of verve, and the drizzle and sunshine present nothing in the way of dispelling. Opportunities abound. You're part of the Y. Superficially, that's like being the previous one but with one less leg, but on the deep (lake-wise) level, it's wholly, uncompromisingly, one-thing's-for-surely above all prior letter-branded booms. So open the door. Look out at the salt, hands on hip, and inhale.

What to do? Oh, live with the similarly-minded in squalid ecstasy; climb very small mountains; rally together against carnivores and anti-terrorists. There's so much big, fat choice afforded us. What if I take this? What will I do when I'm ugly? What if I die tonight? With that in mind, I (and we!) may as well party like it was seven years ago. Don't you feel the rush? The rush of change. The rush of revolution. We'll succeed where every single hitherto failed. We'll fuck on the lawn. We'll mercy our enemies. We'll upthrow the gov. and undersell the tax.

The only way we can move forward is to forget the failures of the past. Come, all you Y Sisters, and roll your fillious fannies this way, with the roosters and the Movement. When we look back, crusted though we may be, we'll see Love, Spirit & Revolution, and we'll shed for nostalgia! We had an impact. Who else could you say that for? We may, may, be the last who do.

The Great Novel, we'll all write, upon ancient steps, clawed together as Kerry's road-trip rambling has taught us. And the dry, the half-dead, the gray, the bald will be splashed into irrelevance, like they should have been all along. If we's gonna lead, we's gonna have hair. Show it, grow it, know it. It won't get better without it. And the only way we'll win is if the women (say it so it rhymes) lower their standards, making everyone, essentially, equal. The next time I ask, say Yes! and put the boot up those conservative wingers with a swift lift of the skirt, and a nudge of your Y Sister charm.

Coats for the Betterment

As you may have know-teethed, I have uplifted that iconic still from Harold's moving version of Undie's sketch, featuring, truly, my true self, and used it as a somewhat of a something which goes just there (—>) and positively beams with graffito-optimism — don't you think? The skoon in question was one in which I, as the headmaster (street-wise, if you know what I mean), made my credit-inspired transformation into a tux Romana and leapt off down the street to unearnest Zapparhythms. Obviously my caricature’s past wasn't dwelt upon, being made primarily for an audience who are only sure of two things: its amateurism and its lack of graphic gagging. But certainly that history was there — in almost every frame; I made sure of that.

Credit where credit's accepted: Whenever you glance left, remember that that's my miniscule form but Hazzold's frame, and, apparently, Uncle's ideo (someone's graffitting too). On that bracketed latter, I have, for our sake, dubbed hum Deacon, purely so I can say that that wall there features some of Deacon's remarkable blues. But that's off the rack: The point I'm endeavouring is thus: Harri is responsible, primarily, for that there. Got it?

Pub Life

I'm sure there are many out there who, after being jerked around by the mailman, turn to that most eloquent of drink, drink, and bottom-up. Then, after dunking their fill, they crawl on home to mamo and father, and fridge.

"It's like the most great tamo-reeeeen," they scream. "Or the loveliest of tumbones."
At this point, they seem inwardly motivated, and their hair-pins fail to hold their thoughts in firm, proper place. But they do seem to be having a particularly good time, somehow. There's dim lights, wet spots and ugly sponges, but all in all it's an everyone's-invited.

And so the morale of this tale? Well, the troops therein are actually in good spirits today, thanks mainly to the good spirits they drank last night.

He Ain't Timber Yet

I have recently introduced a timid voice to the fold; a voice whose timbre resonates comfortably within the range of his bedfellows. Now that he owns a piece of land on my ladder, he as eligible for official duties in this timocracy, though by no means is he conscripted to accept them. Initially I thought he would be timorous about having to suddenly compete with the elite, but he seems to have risen the occasion admirably, even going as far as cultivating a whole yard of timothy upon arrival.

His main rival, who has, on occasion, lent his name to foolery, seems to be up to the old tricks again: three posts of tommyrot this time. Although these indicate he is at least refining his ultrasound techniques, I do not, let it be said, believe this in any way indicates a rebirth of reliability. In fact, I doubt there'll be a fourth for at least six-hundred months.

Hooters

Apparently I've made the switch — and activated it. Henceforth here will be hindsought as the anew of a new phase; the second façadical opening in as many. Why should this be any different? Well, it looks slightly different. And it seems my options are limited somewhat; you may have noticed the lack of insightful italics below the links (and even when I plunged into a maze of aich-tee-em-el, I could not rectify this). Also, it's interesting and perhaps predictable to note that I'm currently falling well below last year's quota, and that figure only rose from null in the third month, its birth date. Now, either I could waste precious hand motions making up for this or sit back and let the whole thing slide. Most likely I'll opt the latter while pretending to do the former.

In other news, I'm sure there were much more important things discussed. Still, here it is. And, as all of my friends will testify, today was spent as a crusade for Sunny Boys, in the most literal sense possible. None of them, it seems, were willing to do the much more important things on the things-to-do. But can you blame them? You certainly can. Pricks. But we'll see whose fingers get stepped on on the cliff edge. And whose ears get twinged by passing bicycles. And whose industrial-strength bits and pieces melt off. They drink, they drive, they bloody form verbs from adjectives. Still, you've got to love 'em, don't you? No. Especially not the tiny one with the beard.

I'm sure their breath has more bait than every Pacific line while they're pouring over this. And it's worth every ounce. Long live long-livers.

That Time of the Season!

"Again!" I screamed, rising from my highly portable chair.
"Again?"
"Again!"

And so it was. After a few more agains, I allowed them a rest and a drink.
"What was wrong with the last one?" asked the troublesome among them.
"What was wrong with it?" I chuckled. "My dear fellow! What wasn't wrong with it?"

A time later, Ben opened his eyes and rose from the grass, mischief in his brow. He smoothed off his dinner suit and waxed the thinnest of thin smiles at no one in particular, then plucked the thermos from the makeshift and pummeled a delightful cup of hot chocolate. A thick brown mustache soon showed his appreciation.

"If I weren't such a bigot, I'd come over there and finger-wipe that artificial facial hair clean off. And I'd do it pretty damn lovingly too," said Harry, nodding convincingly.
"And if I weren't such a reasonable person, I might just let you," said Ben cooly.

Tom was in the ice box, rummaging for soda, as per. He had just finished wedding an arrangement of his kinfolk's concoction and he wasn't going to swallow it without the aid of non-alcoholic bubbles. Thankfully, the task turned out a complete success, and Tom and his soda soon shared a kiss.

"Again!" I called, prompting them back into Action mode.
"Shall we do it any differently?"
"Certainly not."

And that's how it went. That was my day. How about you? Did you have a good day too? I hope you did.

A Nation's Drum

It's sun-drenched today — I'm sure you've noticed. Believe it or not, I spent the best part of the early four on a corrugated roof, cork hat in tow. The stars were out, so the sky was empty. I don't think they're early-risers. Still, a naked sky is better than a blue one, and I remained rooted. Interestingly, there was a starving kid on the lawn. We had a long discussion about the fate of the semi-colon before he collapsed. My doctor's eyes pronounced his death.

When I returned in of doors, I dictaphoned some arguments about the over-reliance on dashes and the stop-start clunkiness of late, some of which may have been paraphrased from my recently deceased, and then made a cereal breakfast by cutting a rectangular eye-hole in the box. The rest of the morning was soundtracked by a certain singer-songwriter's Southern Hemispheric insights on what makes this place great. Him.

And now here I sit, feeling rather like sticking my head in some dirt. We've all had those days. I also feel like prancing about the garden. We've those too.

Now I'm going to put the first syllable in Tuesday and feast.

Ben's Got Back

As of a day or so ago, I believe. The fog surrounding him doesn't seem to have cleared very much, but, while I can clearly type, I can't talk. I wonder if he made it to his namesake's symphonic dabble on the night of his return. I also wonder if he brought the twelve roses I requested of him, each to complete, in conjunction with the others, two half-dozens, for I need them to decorate a currently roseless bed I one day hope to climb into — upon invitation.

Before he left, Ben informed me that art takes the long way round to where science already is. True, that.

From Here to Hurling

Events of late cast a streak down reputations, as has oft. been predicted. It seems that to truly break with tradition one must truly break with verve. Envious, as accused, I hurtled my fingers off at this whole world and found that my true carnal desire was to lack. The follow, I'm sure, you can picture: Me, hands raised, head back, knees grounded, screaming into the rain, below the balcony, my object fluttering her eyelashes coldly behind the window, hair in a bun, as per. And the following you may wish as aural accompany: "Me? Oh, just someone who rode a bus with you". The reply was vicious, in a hit-me-with-a-brick kind of way, and choice was whittled into merely leaving as quick as p. and chewing pride, dignity, lust. To slice ease through my embarrassment, I spurned six-hundred pages of poise and prose upon returning: self-pity and bile et cet., aimed at us. That's how the guilty artistes live with themselves. And that's how I found myself, guitar in hand, the following morning, murdering my favourite uplifting anthem beneath 'er window.

"And it felt like church bells or the whistle of a train," I sang, attempting to maintain the strum while thumping my chest heroically.
"Jesus Jesus Jesus."
"As I pray that you will hold me dear."
"You had better get the heck off my property."
"When the sun— What?"
"You heard me."
"Oh. I guess this is goodbye then."
"No, this is me telling you to get the hell off my property."
"Heck."
"What?"
"Bye."

At times like that, the only thing you can do is sit upon the highest limb of a tall tree and chew awhile, so I went back home and watched television.

The News

For something's sake, I'd best inform you that The News is now Think Hollow. Why? Well, it's slightly less dull this way. Anywhich, it's had a few false starts as of late, but so's Rome. Hopefully things, as well as turning out relatively well, glance up. In other news, I seem to have developed that sordid case of lazy fingers that seems to capture everyone without an enforced deadline. Whoa whoa is me.

The Good Heavens

As you are all no doubt fully aware, the now-absent witnessed, sans permission, the whole sorry scene from the panoramic view offered by the key-shaped hole in the door we were behind, and no matter how present and diverse the spread of missing sheets, his forty-seven year old bones do not reacquaint themselves with us, and neither do the ligaments and skin attached to them. But our voices still boom down wind-swept streets and mottled fields whenever a free hour comes our way, knowing, as we do, that guilt is cleansed by feigning concern.

The offending scene played thus:

Me: My darling Nasturtium, how goes you this morning?
Nasturtium: I goes quite fine, thank you, sir. And yourself?
M: Myself is fine too. Would you care to hear a joke, little love?
N: I'd love to care to hear a joke, my bare bedfellow.
M: Then I shall hear you one.
N: Splendid.
M: You are, o lady of my love.
N: I are?
M: You are, my darling Nasturtium.
N: Then, my endearing dear, I thank you.
M: And I accept, little love. And to that joke I go now.
N: And I too.
M: What is it you get if you cross maize with a college?
N: I don't think I'm sure.
M: A unicorn!

And so on. You can understand why such an exchange sent him fleeing. Both of us regret our actions, and if we were allowed the chance to repeat our actions, we would not.

Tomorrow is our wedding, the second for both of us, having each seen the outs of premature love, and we are both going to be secretly hoping our friend appears and reconciliation is achieved. Before I go on, I should tell you we met while waiting for the 250 on a particularly rainy day. She had forgotten her umbrella.

It's funny how false starts lead to the very right person. For all intents, we will not be split henceforth. Not even such an event as above can twain us. My darling Nasturtium and I, culprits of our friend's hiding, are what's known as two sides of the same coin, and as inseparable as the same. Also, if it were up to me, this would be titled My Darling Nasturtium, and what a fitting title it would be!

Tiddle Oo

For those leaning out their balconies, here's news of Ben's reclamation of his throne, in lieu of a.) his superior bips and baps in the relatively frequent posters field, and b.) the fact that the previous occupant, salt-mouthed Harry, no longer meets the only criteria that got him the top spot: updating.

In other news, Undo has decided it wise to return to the fold with his paralleled observations on culture pop. I'll put his new address on the side when I'm bored enough. 'Sunlikely that it will be a beacon of activity, but hey, it exists.

Edged To Division

No longer will I be subjecting you, if you indeed exist, to top ten/eleven album variations every time my mind decides to change — not here, at any rate. In other words, I'm splitting my atoms, leaving my Eves untouched, by dedicating this mess before you to things on the fuction side of the fence, and devoting an entirely new page —now titled Think Hollow — to my flights of not entirely lying: badly researched essays and the like. Rather than write the ones I'm supposed to, with narrow frames in which to work, and horrendously closed off and utterly uninthralling matters of subject no herman being in their right mind would enjoy writing or invest any effort in beyond what seems to be required, I am going to employ most of my admittedly less than super pen-handling skills writing junk that actually interests me, and has no socio-something-or-rather value whatsoever, but which satisfies the highly personal requirement of "I actually feel like writing this". It will, most likely, end up being mostly focused on the aural side of things, but it has no particular theme beyond its nonness in the face of fiction, so anything on anything could crop up and and at will. Wow. Could that well be the first instance of two "And"s side by side actually making sense? I'm going to put that in bold now.

Anyway, that's the cut and jibe of the matter. There's been an ugly essay-what-ist rearing to get out all along, and recent internal compositions along those lines have inspired this sudden unleashen, although maybe the tubular bell himself, often dubbed a ball of something or rather, might have had a hand in it, much as I don't want to admit it. But mostly it's because I have the constant urge to post slightly updated versions of those top ten/eleven things every ten seconds, and it kind of jars with the rest of this junk.

So there you go. I might even be at the new place more frequently.

Oily in the Morning

Anyway, as I was saying, I was pounding the beat down Peanut Lane, my shoes in a right mess, when out of the corner of my eye comes a tear. Now, I'll admit I tried to avoid him at first — tears aren't the most illuminating of companies to keep, you see. But I soon saw reason (behind the boat shed, smoking a fag) and he convinced me to see straight. Straight wasn't in his office, however, so I went back to smoking, pleading on his doorstep with a handful of azaleas. But the deadly Mr. S. was having none of it — not even when I tried to force it — thus leaving me, again, I guess you could say, without sense; he took all my money too.

Two days later, I found myself atop a four-story car park, and I waved to him joyously, who, being a phobe, did not appreciate being used as a flag. Either way, his consternation had nothing of an effect on me, and I was free to prick my ears to this newfound car park friend:

"I spend the nigh un a walkun bed, and all swords of woiled things huppand. You know the drell: korpets wobblun, guy-scrabers, vunny-looking beeble — beeble oo need beeble. It was absloodly amasin. N then, uv cores, I waig up and it sall borun and nomul agin. *hack* Excuse me."

I listened in amazement. Withdrawing and paying him, I returned my attention to myself and asked if all was true. He told me no, all was not true — in fact all had been cheating on him for several years. I reasoned with him, who had just walked in on the conversation and I engaged in an act of fiction, and then I reasoned, in turn, with myself, saying that maybe the fault lay with several years. He then countered by saying everyone lay with several years, and I was not happy. To anyway who knew the both of us, as well as me and not happy, this would be already quite clear, but I say it to all those who may, for some reason, think we are the same, another person entirely.

This was a real corker, wasn't it?

Blind Pulling the Blind

Thank hock I made it beneath, just, N.Z.'s favourite number, plus two zeros. Yes, it was another of those worthy causes I throw myself in front of trains for, all in the name of defiance. Incidentally, that is also the name of the thing which for me has no end; something is being defied, yes, but what?

Yesterday I was out doing things — viz. eating curlies — and I happened to think up an appropriate ending to this.

The Flying Englishman

So off he treads, headed for the eloquence, rain and apparently decent cups of brown, and then to the hot hole for contrast and a cinematic backdrop. Here's a hat off to him. The second in as many months to do so, perhaps with differing reasons, perhaps not. Less of a coy fool about it, that's for sure. He who clinks the drinks obviously doesn't go for such cowardly deceit. Deceit is for lying, yet lying on deceit is mighty uncomfortable.

'Luck and see you as September closes.

A Sock for Justness

Feeling the steady flow of wistful at a time like this is like a tomb of flowers, i'n't it? You creep down ever so slowly, remove garb, nod to the partition and steady into temporary decline, where you, as a second person foil for the first, quietly and painfully admit the absence of a spine. It's not much fun wobbling about the ol' day-to-day, but it feels like a brace, and is as hard to break, especially. But for anyone with a spine, it would be like snapping a particularly easy-to-snap twig. I wonder if you can buy one. Still, there's no point coding the world's non-issues. Let's get down to the business of who puts what where.

Vicious Fancies

This is where it lops off the edge. Rather than cast my mind to the Monuments of M—™ , I have instead decided to be more accurate and slate my passing-fancies — the things fresh in the back of my skull. Once here followed a list. Now, not.

The Benefits of Boredom

I was on my way home from either school or a drinking session somewhere, and waiting at the station for a train that seemed to be punctual only to the hour. Gazing at my watch didn't make the time go any faster, surprisingly, so I fished my flip phone from my pocket and began mashing the buttons. After a while of doing this, I noticed the phone switch to camera mode and display a blurry image of the ground below me. This intrigued me immensely and I began snapping wildly at the surrounding environment, capturing this fence and that bin, and this discarded chocolate bar wrapper and that tree. Soon, however, I grew tired of this and I begun to wonder what I could do to make it more interesting. Then it struck me. What would happen if I took a picture of myself? Instead of merely theorising this thought, I held the phone out in front of me, uttered a small prayer and snapped. I opened my eyes. I was still there. Panting, I reviewed the picture on the phone. It was incredible. It was... me.

After snapping approximately forty four similar shots, I was startled to discover that it had lost none of its charm. Indeed I even began to hope the train would be delayed even longer and give me more excuses to further my Art. But, alas, the train did arrive, and its crowded carriages stunted my photography. I used this time to review the photos I had already taken. They were all incredible. To the casual observer, they may all look so similar that you'd wonder why I took so many, but to anyone with an open mind, they were a revelation. I excelled in subtlety. A slight change of angle here, a minor tilt of the head there and, in extreme cases, a change in location, was all I needed to explore the inner depths of my soul. And it never got indulgent. Perhaps that was the thing that surprised me most. No matter how many seemingly identical photos I took of myself, they all maintained a freshness and vitality that would put most galleries to shame.

Sometimes, just sometimes, I'd squeeze someone else's head in there, but they were much less successful and, as a result, much rarer. They were crass rather than intimate and personal; they had no point. With the self-portraits, I was exploring a theme, and each photo developed that theme; with the group shots, I was just having fun with my friends. Now, there's nothing wrong with having fun with friends, but really, it's not art.

Having thousands of shots on my phone was all very well and good, but nobody was seeing them but me. That was indulgent, I'll admit. So I decided to upload them to my website, which was probably the most significant development in my art. Now everybody saw them. And everybody loved them. I was afraid people wouldn't understand it, and there were a couple of people who clearly didn't, but on the whole the response was overwhelmingly positive. I had struck gold.

The great thing about the series is that it will always remain fresh and interesting. Why? Because I keep changing. It's a reflection of me, where I'm at when I took it. It's comforting. It's a friend when you're lonely. I hope you all enjoy it.

Loveless

We're Doing It For Love:
A Benefit Tribute Concert For Arthur Lee.
Coming soon. Beacon Theatre. All ages.

One and half masterpieces ain't bad.

My previous post, written before his death, was called "The Steaming Sounds Of Love". It was a reference to a Steely Dan song. The Dean of American rock critics, Robert Christgau, once made a passing connection between Love and Steely Dan. "Steaming" is a synonym for dead. Coincidental?

The Steaming Sounds of Love

A baker's dozen rode the pedestal to one of the more memorable speeches delivered in that hall, and there wasn't a dry ice in the house (mainly because at this point they were comprised solely of flowers). Upon completion, the dozen or so danced shallowly off the spotlight and strode out of view, to little consternation — the consternation of little — and the hall was left in the ruin it enjoyed for the majority. As the people rose from their flowery seats, a caution rang out from a police box and sent the usual labour into backspin. Each was burnt, singed and easily overemployed in their prospects, but it was undertaken in such a joyous manner that you couldn't help but stand back, lip your chosen finger and admire. Indeed the arising ecstasy was so infectious that three passers were bedridden by noon, and a cure wasn't concocted until the following.

The public usually don't address such matters formally, so it's up to ministers and paper-juicers to express either their consternation or joy or ecstasy in fancy small words, of the people. Too many times, however, these articulations are simply extracts of what could extend to several volumes, at least. And usually, they aren't concerned with the right angles, or imbued with the right moral sense, but their existence is as vital as a rising sun.

It is personally considered that each person worth their salt should at some point spin either 1997 or 2001's comebacks while clicking or viewing that early '90s sequel inspired by the much earlier rollercoaster, which has inturn spurned the latest projection sequel, during Christmas time.

As Expected

It seems Anh Tu has backflipped and started up his blog again. By the look of his first two posts, I'd say it was worth it.

Booty Becomes Him

There's a billowed black man crouched under some overhang, screaming things at Harry. Of all the things he yelled, only "Write 'bout pirates!" was comprehensible. Harry pretended not to hear and ducked behind some steep rocks near a beach cliff. But "Write 'bout pirates!" caught an ocean breeze and followed him.
"I can't! I can't!" complained Harry. "I—I'm too lazy. You're better off without me."
"But it was your idea!" reasoned the wind.
"Yeah? Well..." Harry shifted his gaze mysteriously and leapt into the surf.
The breeze laughed.
"You'll catch your death!" it called.
"That explains zombie fever," said Harry, emerging from the ocean like Rowan Atkinson in Dr. No.

I never saw him again. It seems he joined a Seona Dancing cover band and burnt out to death.
"You've poisoned this post, just like you did with that other one," I said to his grave.
It remained silent.
"Write 'bout pirates!"

The wind crackled like four unsolved mysteries.

Link

Here's that picture. Ignore the joke below and you should be fine. In an unrelated key, I slightly updated my top ten/eleven a few posts down.

Return of

For the passed few weeks, I've been mulling around Yorkshire pitching my sitcom ideas to washed-up executives wandering the moors (as some of you may have guessed), and I feel it only right that I should let you under my flood gates. Upon return, it has struck me in a rather wintery way that we, the people, are the product of they, the other people, and that this distinction, important though it is, is utterly trifling in comparison to some of the other ground-breakers of human conditioning. Nevertheless, its concoction was the third most important occurrence that occurred during my Yorkshire sabbatical.

Higher up on the list is an incident that took place in a bar for trendy folks, the name of which aptly described how much life there was in it. I had merely chanced upon the small cavern at the end of an alley and decided to wet my palette non-alcoholically when out burst a steady stream of acquaintances, near-friends and a friend, almost knocking me to the tiles. In their hands, each had a snapping cell, which they all held in front of them and pulled faces at. Kudos for Ben for not once wrinkling into the 'Oh my God! I'm having such a great time! Whoo!' face in that batch, though.

After I had washed myself of that encounter, I was beaten to death by someone who I saw fatally fall off a tall building, and was glad that I was; there's good living left in me yet.

I Know You've Been Dying to Hear (Slight Return)

Well, here we are again, knee-deep in some more changes. The other changes aren't quite so drastic — excepting, of course, the mass delete.

Harry: My Love

[Deleted]

Definitely up there with the worst. Harry's fault.

Bye Bye Pride

Yours truly, the coward. You know.

Back in Bluestone

Well, over the passed few weeks I've been conducting a minute experiment with small-growth forests in the Alpine District of Melbourne, and now I'm ready (almost) to publish my results. On the whole, it was certainly worthwhile, and if I were offered a minute, I would do it again, but my findings won't exactly burn through academia. The problem was that there isn't that much about trees that we don't already know, and what we do already know isn't particularly interesting to anyone but tree enthusiasts.

That said, there have been times where boys of bold colours (A.T.T., B.H., H.B., T.F.D.) poked a nose or two in curiosity, and found the findings startling, particularly in lieu of prior hermitude. Some have attributed it to a bunch of correspondents in said place, whose free (for the most part) hospitality would have provided an attractive bonus on a trip, but this, regrettably, was mostly concocted to convince certain backers of my experiment that I would be in safe hands, and that worry shouldn't worry them. Although, had it been true, it would have been a very wise thing, especially considering things like over-solitude and swallowed funds. Right now, I really wish I had a less stale pen back then, and knew of more Alpines, perhaps intimately, prior. But that's spilt milk. 'Twas nice regardless of an empty side, and sometimes even because of it.

Oddly enough, I found two new species of trees. I told B.H. in a Fitzroy caf. last week and believe me, he did not. So I took him out to see them, and see them, he did. I think he believes now.

Fit the Fifty

I'm a statuette. If you ever care to see my ears, now's the time. Whenceforth poppings will be undertaken with considerable care, not to mention flair, and I will, as per, be sitting a statuette and listening a hawk. Don't listen to foreign reports. Don't haste your minds. It's not true. I'm stationary. I'm here. See?

Maxed On

Who's tied me to a log? If I'm not released soon, I'll have blade you all farewell. Someone must pop along and ink the quota, else the quota will be sunk. To call a spade a pair of surgeons' scissors is inconsequential, but nonetheless vital. Oh goth, I am off.

G'mornin', My Sweet Swivel Cat

Fancy seeing you here. I've just been out trimming the edges. But rather than a one-sided telephone conversation where I essentially repeat everything you say with a question mark, I shall instead fax you this here letter. Dear Madam/Sir. My name is not important. The hole I've dug is mighty comfy. Won't you join me?

Irving and the Bumps

Evidently I've been a tad incapacitated of late, but the fault doesn't fall entirely on my wee shoulders. I can blame age, for starters. Sure, it chugs just enough to get to the office, but sitting on that side of the press feels wrong, and inspiration is sapped from tip to route. That said, I must confess to having a good deal of alternatives at my disposal aside from that. But that's all cats and dogs. At least I'm sinking my teeth into this para.

Did I mention I sleep on a pile of boulders?

A Thin Sheet of Love

You know why people always make jokes about Tom Cruise? Because he makes everyone gag!

Ben and Harry's Sexual Awakening

It's not everyday I wake up with a humbug underneath my pillow — in fact today is the only time it has happened. A little black and white striped one. Unfortunately it had accumulated a rich layer of fur from the bed sheets, so eating it was firmly out of the question — firmer still after I accidentally sneezed on it. So I instead placed it on a bread and butter tray and carefully scrutinised it. It looked top-shelf. What sort of person breaks into someone's house at night to place a quality black and white striped humbug underneath their pillow? An odd one, that's for sure. And did I know any odd people? Well, put simply, no. I didn't know any normal people, either. I didn't know anyone. Right now (and then), it's just me and my humbug. But I'm not here to whinge; I'm here to wonder.

It occurred to me that a private detective might be useful, so I telephoned Aaaaaabcorp for a quote. The quote was ridiculous — $100 a day — and not particularly memorable, so I shelved that idea in favour of do-it-yourself. In the end, this may have been the wrong move, as to this day (well, I'm still in the same day), I'm still no closer to finding this humbug fiend. But what does it matter? Nothing was stolen, no one was hurt, and I have a humbug. If anything, I should be thankful that it happened. Still, no matter which way you look at it, it is mighty odd.

Anyway, just thought you'd like to know. I'll be off now.