Sixth Station

Brambles and rambles.

2009-11-21T22:56:00.011+13:00

I'm tired.

Je suis fatigué.

Stanco.

Cansado.

Urgh. I've just finished four of my examinations. A feat which not only murdered my hands but also managed to kidnap some brain cells while it was at it. Stealthy bastards.

And it gets even better. I have just had four dance performances in the space of eight hours and one yesterday, which have, as a joint effort, killed my knees. Like there's deep crater-like welts there that I have to deepen every time we do those goddame rolly-pollies. I sympathise with the moon. It must get awfully uncomfortable having stupid rocket ships scar you even more.

I donno, I put a bandage over the raw skin, but I'm not sure how long I'll be able to maintain statue-like stances without looking in pain instead of giving grimaces to scare the living daylights out of blank faces.

Maybe I could channel that pain into somewhat of a grimace, but I've never been that great thinking on my feet. Especially in such overwhelming circumstances. Oh well. Three more to go.

On a much happier note, I am thrilled to get started on reading the ever-surmounting tower of books tittering dangerously on the edge of my bedside table, especially the surprisingly hard to find Les Miserables. And I've managed to procure The Books Of Albion by the Mr Peter Doherty himself which was also very exciting. :) I should be able to put up one of the stories I found especially wonderful from it on the other blog in a short while. I really love his collected ramblings. It's kept me fixated for hours. Utterly insightful stuff. My mother was all "I don't know how you can read that scribble, child. I don't know what you see in him, the drug-taker that he is." [This being exclaimed in broken serbian/english]. She doesn't understand. She's like the rest who've only looked at him in the fag in his mouth rather than his eyes which tell another story. The eyes that see a world so different to this bland one. He details dreams. In the broadest and most specific sense. He kind of reminds me of Barrie. He was that unconventional type. Maybe that's why I like him so much. Meh. It's beyond me why I like anything, really.

There's an underground assassination plan of presidential proportions due north-east with a chance of dark hypocrisy and inevitable bullshit. [In such dire cases, course language intended.] Don't misplace your umbrellas this summer.

Here's hoping for some sunshine.

Dun dun dun...

2009-11-10T18:44:00.005+13:00

Not even 6 posts after, and we're already back at square one. NCEA examination extravaganza. Step right up. Hey you there, with the sullen face with the tell tale signs of insomnia. Oh and you, the one stabbing a hole in their thumb with that 99c pen. Yes, you. What do you mean I've got the wrong person? Do you understand who I am? Me holding your future in the palm of my hands doesn't irk you? At all?

Well, no bother. No one gets out of this examination alive and well. Capiche?

NO. ONE.

Cue horror show piano punches and maniacal laughter for effect.

And you're screwed.

Find the equation of the tangent when curve is y=3(x+8).

Oh you are worse than screwed.

Can you feel this?

To be whispered phrazes.

2009-11-05T20:37:00.007+13:00

YAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAY! I still haven't stopped smiling since I got it 3 hours ago.

It's wonderful. ^.^

Let's celebrate with some visuals.

Look at those eyes. Sigh. You really don't get that colour much, anymore.

Nothing, nothing can dampen the spirits now. Hear that disposal of assets accountancy papier? Rien rien rien.

Typos in Disillusionment.

2009-10-13T20:31:00.003+13:00

Frick. For the first time in a long time, inspiration has succeeded to evade me, and I have to friggin' get an Excellence in the creative writing this time 'round otherwise I'm gonna hate myself for all of eternity.

All that's been floating around in this hollow head is a copy of a copy of a copy of an idea. Friggin' copies. Friggin' redundant crap. Nothing is original anymore.

Reword it as much as you like. Floral-ise the vocabulary. Add some wit and a dash of realism and what do you get? Freaking over-done sadistic dispositions.

Screw. This.

Ghosts of Tennyson, Bronte, Wilde and Barrie; help a sister out, please?

Would be mutely appreciated.

Cheerio.

A nightmare.

2009-09-23T23:43:00.008+12:00

A bird died. In my hand. It fully died. Its wings stopped giving way and its lungs collapsed in a heap on the linoleum floor. It's helpless. These things scientists tell you about adaptations and interspecific relationships and trends of survivorship. The bird still dies.

I find we are sometimes so absorbed in the dissection of humanity that we miss the chance to experience it at all.

At the end of the day, that bird in the cage, perched as Experiment's pet, is really no bird at all.

It's you.

You're shut in by your failed hypothesis but you don't feel it. You're numb. You'll figure out a piece of the world someday. And yes, you'll be famous. And yes, you'll be respected and quoted. But then you'll die, realising the awful truth of the situation. This theory you spent your measly 76 years on will soon be lost to the dying sun.

You'll meet your fellow sceptics. The rationalists. Up there, somewhere. They'll be perched at a sturdy table launching cards at each other. Gambling. Their crumbling faces, bitter and desirous. They'll barely look at you with their red-rimmed eyes but they'll tell you; “Sit, and watch the cards.”

They'll flick back and forth. Back and forth. “Do you see the velocity in which they move? Can you see the insignia? Can you tell the spade from the club?”

Truthfully, you'll answer, “No.”

And there will come a drunken slur in response from a seldom sober Voltaire; “That's you're life as you know it, kid. Welcome to the club.” Here he'll throw his hands up halfheartedly and proclaim, “Welcome to the time of your life, you wasted corpse.”

I say keep your expensive theories. I don't want 'em.

A bird died in my hand today. I hope it lived.

2009-09-21T22:46:00.005+12:00

Love, love, love.

People throw it around like it's nothing.

Well I'm sick of it.

They don't know what love is.

I don't even know what love is, but it sure as hell ain't that.

They've never felt it.

You wouldn't hurt the one you love.

They only love the illusion, the glory.

The quickened heartbeat blinds the sight.

It's only lust.

Love, love, love.

Gallons of the stuff, right?

To paint a thousand words.

2009-09-20T23:11:00.006+12:00

I admire Leonid Afremov. His every work amazes me. I mean, to the casual on-looker, they may look like any painting of an old European town, or a standard mid-action portrait shot of a person. But when you look closer, you see it. The endless brush strokes that harmonize the paintings and burst, telling stories of their own. The acts in which he captures people may seem ordinary but when he paints them, their act is amplified in meaning as he wills them to be through passionate extensions of the brush and they transform into blossoms of metaphor. He shows the world as he sees it.

Beautiful. It's weak, but it's the first word that comes to mind.

Ah, the taste of liberty.

2009-09-17T19:16:00.002+12:00

MOCK EXAMS ARE FINITO.

Hussah! Call the trumpets, bring your aged confetti and bedraggled dress for it is time to forget forget forget forget. Forget that you'll be doing the same thing in two months time. No no no no no. Forget forget forget.

Instead, look at disinterested Beatle-boys and remain transcendent. Yes yes yes.

Oh, no.

Amsterdam.

2009-09-12T22:12:00.005+12:00

It's beautiful, ain't it? I like to think so.

So yeahh. Procrastinating, as usual. Mocks are those tedious and painful things that I tend to block until absolutely necessary. Then I cram. It's terrible, and not at all fun nor advantageous when you get down to it, but I do decent. More time to read, I s'ppose. Which is always a plus. Currently, I'm 'devouring' (since, according to father, I 'eat' books) Anna Karenina, by the famous Russian writer of 'War and Peace' Leo Tolstoy. He was a recommendation, ironically, from my father, who's very patriotic and has a strong conviction when it comes down to education, ethics, and politics. When I told him that the majority of the best writers of the 19th and 20th century came from Britain, he laughed and proclaimed that I had seen nothing yet. So thus this perseverance in european literature. Next book is The General and His Labyrinth by Gabriel García Márquez, who is spanish and is very well acclaimed. Should be good.

I dunno. I've yet to make a definite decision over which is better. It's difficult because each culture has its own merits. Sigh.

On other news, NASA sent mice to defy gravity. In a magnetic field. Yup. Me and Keegan had an in depth conversation/debate over ethics on this. Apparently this may help all of humanity, with aid in extra-solar rendezvous with the moon and practical electrical advantages were also discussed, but this seems a little too Dan Brown to me. I dunno. T''is not right to tamper with nature. I mean poor mice, right? What did they ever do? They have to freaking turn their bones to mush so you can conclude your hypothesis. I dunno... We might be digging our own graves with this one.

do you Know?

2009-09-09T00:27:00.004+12:00

The Time magazine man got owned. By wit and dental plan.

Admirables.

2009-08-28T21:46:00.010+12:00

You know, there are people you look to and then there are people you look up to.

There's a distinction there that I'm too tired to make.

Seeing as I've read my way through several books this winter break, I've compiled a list of a couple of people that one learns to admire because of their originality. Whether it is in life or death.

1. Rabe'a al-Adiwiyah.

"...a great woman saint of Sufism, [she] was seen running through the streets of her hometown, Basra, carrying a torch in one hand and a bucket of water in the other. When someone asked her what she was doing, she answered, ‘I am going to take this bucket of water and pour it on the flames of hell, and then I am going to use this torch to burn down the gates of paradise so that people will not love God for want of heaven or fear of hell, but because He is God.' ”

2. John Green.

For finding a love in famous last words. My favourite line of his was "To me, [the Civil War] was the war that spawned a thousand good last words." Don't know why, it was just an original approach.

3. Oscar Wilde.

For being able to fit philosophy that would've taken Victor Hugo thousands of pages to fluently communicate within novel context into less than 200 pages. For having the guts to call all art "quite useless", albeit my prejudiced opinion to the contrary and for writing some of the most beautiful descriptions only contestable with Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre.

The rest I won't pretend to remember.

However, some famous last words -dammit Green- from our dear long gone idols were very interesting to read.

For example; Ethan Allen, an American Revolutionary general, after his doctor tried to console him with "General, I fear the angels are waiting for you.", said "Waiting, are they? Waiting, are they? Well-- let 'em wait." Badass. A fighter even against powers intangible by human existence.

Then there was a Lady Nancy Astor whom, upon waking up to find her family all around her on her death bed, said "Am I dying or is this my birthday?"

Jane Austen was pretty clear headed, alike Allen when she died as when her sister Cassandra asked her what she wanted, she said "Nothing, but death." A true homage to her novels, I think.

She died with a flair only writers can really pull off.

Take the case of James M. Barrie, he died mid-paradox. Before he died he said, "I can't sleep."

Beethoven died with a sense of poetical depth "Friends applaud, the comedy is finished." Though, I really expected no less.

Byron was non-surprisingly frank; "Now I shall go to sleep. Goodnight."

My favourite comes from Henry Ward Beecher, who was an evangelist. Upon his death he said; "Now comes the mystery."

That just says so much. 'Cause whatever we endeavor to figure out in life, death remains the unreachable great unknown. The Everest of understanding.

And this guy, Dominque Bouhours, a French grammarian, sure stayed true to himself even close to something so surreal as the feel in weight of one's morality; "I am about to -- or I am going to -- die: either expression is correct."

Indeed, Bouhours. How particularly observant.

Les rêves français.

2009-08-19T22:26:00.010+12:00

Elizabeth Knox, Niki Caro and the wonderful casting director, I THEE THANK.

THANK YOU.

Suffice to say, I can barely contain my excitement for the 12th November. ^.^

I can't be bothered waiting for my slow computer to upload the marvelous trailer but go and watch it.

You won't regret wasting 2 or so minutes worth of internet time, trust me. Even if he is in only the most minimal of shots (grr. Why? Why must thy torture thee so? WHY? Those marketing people and their stupid ventures).

If anyone's in the mood for a genuinely good french movie, go watch Coco Avant Chanel.

Filled with pretentious nit-wits with their own agendas, that would not stray from stooping so low as to betray (you know, your typical late 19th to early 20th scandal-adoring society), this movie might just be like any other you'd have seen of its era except for its redeeming character. Gabrielle 'Coco' (who starkly reminded me of Jane Austen, especially since Audrey Tautou has a slight resemblance to Anne Hathaway), the protagonist, is the take-no-nonsense woman of this tale who fulfills her ambition as a fashion designer despite her (I still don't like him) recently-married lover's tragic death. Straw hats off to Audrey Tautou for her compelling performance, as always.

Things in moderation.

2009-08-17T20:32:00.004+12:00

I looked at my hand today. No, not in that deep, meaningful way you do when you want to explain the meaning of life or whatever. No. Instead, I looked at it from a superficial sorta way. I looked at its physicality more than its capabilities. I looked at the veins protruding from them, trailing a path of blood diversion. I looked at the smooth skin they were contained in. Like a sort of container for internal organs. Then I noticed a change of texture as the veins led to a certain spot of course skin from where I was burnt once. A splurge of imperfection on an otherwise uniform hand.

I guess all philosophy ever began with a single thought. Mine always come in couplets. Like I think about something, say a car, and then I think about what it means, say there's someone in there probably following the dictations of society. Or that I shouldn't get too close unless I'm feeling particularly James Dean-like that day.

When I thought of my hand superficially, it was weird. Like looking at an alien plant. Devoid your mind of meaning and look at the world with a scientist's eyes and you'll understand.

It's a sort of surreal feeling when you realise the world beyond you is out of your control. It's much bigger than you, they say. But they fail to specify how much bigger. Could be a couple of inches, or it could be oodles of light years. Statistics have a way of putting things into perspective.

The fault in being methodical.

2009-08-12T19:24:00.004+12:00

You know what I realised today? Came as a sort of epiphany, actually. Perfectionism, well, the ideal and all that crap we work so damn hard to achieve in this world is because of our fondness for the age old analogy "the grass is always greener on the other side".

You see my theory here is, once you get to your idea of 'perfection', once you get to that white picket fence bordering that artificially enhanced green grass you're so fond of, well. That... that moment of content you feel at having achieved your dream will fall short. When you're caressing your perfect swedish duvet and perfect gossamer curtains, you'll feel this sense of something missing seeping through each fingertip. And that green oasis you're so fond of, well. That will wilt and die in your mind.

You'll look through streets of inconsistencies and you'll find them alluring. You'll be craving, again, what you don't have. Cause humans, however they may try to deny it, however passionately they may debate me on this, they can't help but love chaos.

Imperfection and mistakes and disasters have a sick way of keeping us alive. In a twisted way, they keep us from literally ending our lives in boredom.

If everything was perfect, what would become of stories? What would become of art? Of music? Of countless jobs that operate solely to fix problems?

Psychiatrists would be obsolete and then where would they be? They'd probably start making up their own problems to suffice for the utter lack of excitement in humanity. No more odd disorders. No more confidential affairs. I mean, they make their living on these holes we dig for ourselves.

What's wrong? Do you want to talk about it?

Those phrases wouldn't exist.

We'd be digging our own graves as far as I'm concerned.

There's a reason why perfection doesn't exist. It's against human nature. Eve only too readily proved it in the coveted Garden of Eden.

Perfection is just an illusion. A hanging idealistic desire that you'll never be able to reach, alike those contraptions they put on clueless animals to keep them running for that desirable food hanging from a steel rod attached to a headpiece. That desirable food consistently dangling inches away, no matter how hard you run.

Perfection is obsolete, if only to me.

When sundays lose their spark...

2009-08-09T15:14:00.006+12:00

Okay, so since I've been watching re-runs of old comedic routines on the Comedy Channel - they couldn't really get anymore straight forward with that name, could they? No obscurities to keep 'em guessing. No sir - there's a sure fire sign that it's been a particularly uneventful day. Well, okay, so there's this guy that kept popping up here and there - his name is Demetri Martin - and I gotta tell yah, funniest guy I've ever had the time of day to watch.

Seriously.

And he's adorable too. BONUS. Yus.

LQTM, ohkay well here are some memorable jokes. Like a joka-paluzza.

I think that when you get dressed in the morning, sometimes you’re really making a decision about your behavior for the day. Like if you put on flipflops, you’re saying: ‘Hope I don’t get chased today.’ ‘Be nice to people in sneakers.’
I saw a guy at a party wearing a leather jacket and I thought, ‘That is cool.’ But then I saw another guy wearing a leather vest and I thought, ‘That is not cool’. Then I figured it out: ‘Cool’ is all about leather sleeves.
I like clothes, you know. I dig fabrics. One of my favorite clothing patterns is camouflage. Because when you’re in the woods it makes you blend in. But when you’re not it does just the opposite. It’s like, ‘Hey, there’s an asshole.’ But when you’re in the woods you’re like, ‘Is there an asshole out here?’ They look like trees.
I wanna make a jigsaw puzzle that’s 40,000 pieces. And when you finish it, it says ‘go outside.’
I like parties, but I don’t like piñatas because the pinata promotes violence against flamboyant animals. Hey, there’s a donkey with some pizzazz. Let’s kick its ass. What I’m trying to say is, don’t make the same Halloween costume mistake that I did.
One of my friends has a stutter and a lot of people think that’s a bad thing, but to me that’s just like starting certain words with a drum roll. That’s not an impediment, that’s suspense! What’s he going to say? Car?? …or Carnival?? …Carburetor!?!? Man…
The worst time to have a heart attack is during a game of charades.
I like when good things happen to me, but I wait two weeks to tell anyone because I like to use the word ‘fortnight'.
I like video games, but they’re really violent. I’d like to play a video game where you help the people who were shot in all the other games. It’d be called ‘Really Busy Hospital.’
I noticed that there are no B batteries. I think that’s to avoid confusion, cause if there were you wouldn’t know if someone was stuttering. ‘Yes, hello I’d like some b-batteries.’ ‘What kind?’ ‘B-batteries.’ ‘What kind?!?’ ‘B-batteries!!!’ and D-batteries that’s hard for foreigners. ‘Yes, I would like de batteries.’
A drunk driver is very dangerous. So is a drunk backseat driver if he’s persuasive. ‘Dude make a left.’ ‘Those are trees…’ ‘Trust me.’
I used to play sports. Then I realized you can buy trophies. Now I’m good at everything.
I wrapped my Christmas presents early this year, but I used the wrong paper. See, the paper I used said ‘Happy Birthday’ on it. I didn’t want to waste it so I just wrote ‘Jesus’ on it.
My favorite fruit is grapes. Because with grapes, you always get another chance. ‘Cause, you know, if you have a crappy apple or a peach, you’re stuck with that crappy piece of fruit. But if you have a crappy grape, no problem – just move on to the next. ‘Grapes: The Fruit of Hope.’
I went into a clothes store and a lady came up to me and said “if you need anything, I’m Jill”. I’ve never met anyone with a conditional identity before.
My friend Steve likes cats. People are always saying “Oh, Steve’s really a cat person”. No he’s not. If Steve were a cat person it’d be, like, “Hey, Steve never goes in the pool”
If I ever saw an amputee getting hanged, I’d probably just start calling out letters.
I love women, but I feel like you can’t trust some of them. Some of them are liars, you know? Like I was in the park and I met this girl, she was cute and she had a dog. And I went up to her, we started talking. She told me her dog’s name. Then Í said, “Does he bite?”. She said “No.” And I said, “Oh yeah? Then how does he eat? … Liar.
I think it would be cool, if you were writing a ransom note in Microsoft Word, and it popped up, the paperclip and said, “It looks like you’re writing a ransom note… need some help? You should curse more.” The paperclip would be all messed up, you know? I never saw a paperclip with tattoos before.
Graffiti… I don’t like graffiti, unless it teaches me something, you know? Like “Oh, that’s how Alex feels about Maria. I wouldn’t have known if I had not walked by there, thank you.” Graffiti’s the most passionate literature there is, you know? It’s always like “Bush sucks!”, “U2 Rocks!”. I want to make indifferent graffiti. “Toy Story 2 was okay!” “I like Sheryl as a friend, but I’m not sure about taking things further”, “This is a bridge!”, “That guy’s right!”
I was on the street. This guy waved to me, and he came up to me and said, “I’m sorry, I thought you were someone else.” And I said, “I am.”
I want to get a shirt with a rainbow on it, but I don't want to seem gay. I'll have a rainbow, and under it I'll put, 'Not Gay' ... 'But supportive.' How did one group of people get to claim refracted light? Greedy gays.

This love's for the gentleman only.

2009-08-03T21:09:00.003+12:00

Those Versaille boys and their blimps. :)

Que passo?

2009-07-29T21:56:00.009+12:00

You know what, man? If you got a guitar with you and a tune to hum along to, then even the prospect of having an assessed conversation with the French teacher trying to act like a kid again for the sake of authenticity [since things couldn't get anymore more awkward, why not pick up the ante, right?] for two whole minutes in clean, grammatically correct francaise can't bring you down. Si, si.

So, in the true art of procrastination, I've been playing Lua over and over and over. Nearly having memorised all of the chords, I realised that hey, that's a bit of an overkill. Soon I'll want to shun the song, and that would be horrible. So, I started searching around, looking through different tabs until I found Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley.

I gotta say, Leonard Cohen is a genius for writing the song, hats off to that guy, but you got to give it up for Buckley and his arrangement. The song is actually beautiful as is the fashion in which guitarists have handled and played it over the years.

I remember listening to it when I was little and it always made me sleepy. It was almost like a lullaby coupled with Jeff Buckley's soothing voice that harboured a deep-set raw emotion unrivaled by really any I'd known.

I must, must learn how to play it. Gah, it's been driving me up the wall for the past 2 hours. It's really tricky because of the strumming pattern you need to adopt and you must visibly do that in steady succession in correspondence with the regular chord changes.

Meh. I'll find out somehow. If I must watch Jeff Buckley do it over and over again, I shall.

Watch <----This is arguably his best performance of that song.

Granted, it is quite an old video, but did you see that? Amazing.

He's genuinely one of those artists that you can see changing things, you know? He truly was a legend.

Epic.

2009-07-26T17:04:00.008+12:00

http://failblog.org/

People can be such schmucks. :)

Innovative fire alarm.

LOL.

HOLY.

2009-07-20T21:21:00.005+12:00

Aw, Nicholas. You Adonis-like creature, you.

Road to nowhere.

2009-07-19T21:55:00.018+12:00

Literally.

It all started with an idea. A colourful, wonderful idea that encapsulated the height of spontaneity resulting in a chorus of fresh smiles on faces so downcast with monotony.

"We're off to see snow, kids!" He boasts in a most jovial tone, nearly breaking down my sturdy bedroom door. You'd think he was talking of the Holy Grail. "C'mon! C'mon! We've got to reach the mountain before nightfall!"

Now, here I am. Just imagine this. I'm sitting atop my bed, typing away at my laptop with my sister at my feet playing Spyro on the Playstation, when we get a bright-eyed man with a most perplexing resemblance to father barging in telling us of snow in a place that rarely gets HAIL let alone snow. Twisted, huh?

So we're all "Okey dokes, just calm down on the anxiety front." [I swear we saw a vein throbbing on the side of his temple.]

And he's all "Okay, okay. Just hurry up! Daylight's burning and time's a-flying kids!" [I was gonna tell him that daylight was burning anyway. I mean, that gloweringly bright ball in the sky is 3148.9˚c -give or take- up there. But I somehow felt that it wasn't exactly the right time for smart-ass comments.]

So we got into our coats in deceivingly warm looking weather and all gathered into the car after what seemed like light years worth of impatient beeps resonating from the rapid palm jerks of my father.

Hence, the start of the tediously long drive. Though, I must say I had the grand solace of having my iPod with me, and the runaway 2D views I was getting weren't too bad either. But then, after a while, every tall fern merged to look the same as its predecessor until all I could register was a variable green tangled mess. And Conor's voice just boarded on unintelligible, ceaseless noise. I was nearly going out of my mind here, people.

But then we got onto a mountain, and then we saw the sunset through its surrounding brothers. When we stopped off on a lookout I gazed out at the sight and I must admit. I never felt so free as I did then. What I saw then made me realise how this world is so much bigger than me. So much more empty.

It's funny seeing a place that society and civilisation has not touched. Because it is then that you see where we have come from and where we are now. It's like a time-warp complex. You think you see the past but you've get an earphone in your ear that swears otherwise.

Thrilling stuff, I tell you.

As I'm contemplating this, the whole situation gets the metaphoric cherry on the top as father sees the snow-capped mountain off on the complete opposite direction to the way we're heading. Turns out, his manly-ego got the run of him again and he has no idea how to get to the snow.

Go figure.

So here we go, back down the way we came, looking like complete loonies. But hey, we got a picture of us with the mountain in the distance, something my mother made happen by bringing out the ol' rebellious side from the cracked draws. Yeah, she ended up positioning us on the steep road throwing, you know, possible impending death in the form of an oncoming car to the wind to get the 'perfect' view of said mountain.

Suffice to say we got a honk here and there.

Then, oh boy does it get better. As we're on the motorway back from Upper Hutt, we see a guy with a freakin' skinned pig on the bed of his pickup truck. Yup. Exactly what I wanted to see driving home from a long day of landscape watching. I mean the nerve of the guy, right? The dead pig, in plain twilight, for the world to see while he's driving home to, more-than-likely, eat the thing.

And then dad wants to take a picture of it, laughing at my fuming face in the rearview mirror while telling me to 'lighten up a little'. I mean, the nerve.

By the way he was going, you'd think he'd seen a cow doing a handstand or something.

In the end he got the picture but I was in no shape to retort with any of the snide comments formulating in my head as the blood... the bl... oh it was too much.

Sick and twisted.

The whole day ended up having this weird roadtrip-gone-bad re-run like effect to it.

Pointless stuff, but strangely, it was one of those few times where I think I genuinely felt alive. No joke. I think I have a soft spot for black humor. Or really just horrible misusage of irony.

Indie Patrol

2009-07-12T23:11:00.004+12:00

$2 AND no agist rates. Imagine that. [Though, $10 in those times was equivalent to $100. Yet even so, $20 odd dollars for a seat is still relatively cheap for such an event.]

He was quite the handsome lad, too.

And these guys made me laugh.

Or, more specifically, the guy in the middle. I've never seen a guy so hardcore about a ukulele since Cliff Edwards and Roy Smeck.

The fishermen of the skys.

2009-07-07T20:32:00.005+12:00

I never gave much thought to the Renaissance idea of the circle being the sole divine configuration of all configurations. I merely dismissed it as one of Michelangelo's famous justifications for a new way of constructive thinking. But tonight, I had reason to re-evaluate that epithet. As I sat upon my steps, too cold to endeavor jumping on a trampoline, I stared up at the night sky. Unlike any artificial beauty, the stars and the moon and the natural fragrance of burning firewood and pine caught ahold of me and rendered me speechless. But that's nothing new. What was, however, was the full moon and its subtle silhouette – some 30 centimeters away. This slight outline – alike a halo - had me transfixed. So perfect. So mysterious, it was. It's as if I could have put all of my inconsistent worries within its boundaries and left them there to uncover and peer at come next full moon, only to find them utterly comical and irrelevant.

Insomnia.

2009-06-30T01:07:00.006+12:00

So here I am, listening to unpopular songs on K-Rock that I nearly know all the words to by now and my eyelids are battling gravity. It may be a different day of the week, a different month and a completely new year, to no avail. I remain awake past midnight. Despite mother sending me e-mails going, "You should sleep at least 10 hours a day. That's what they say is healthy!"
Oh gobble. Give me a Kit Kat. Sigh.
I don't know. Like I feel so tired all the time. And I make up resolutions all the time saying, "You know what? Today I'm gonna go to sleep at 9." But it's not so easy, is it?To will your mind and lure it to a subconscious stupor so you can get the much needed rest. Because you start to think of things you could be doing instead. And then the dread of tomorrow catches up to you and you feel inclined to catch hold of the moment you have. That moment of freedom from work. That part of the day where you do the things you want to do and not what you must.
Gah. Some people call this insomnia.
I call this controlled procrastination.
And conscious stupidity.

Party, Party.

2009-06-06T21:53:00.003+12:00

Well, I'm back. From an 18th Birthday Party Bash. The classic get together coupled with our friends booze and incredibly loud music.

Fun.

No, I don't mean to sound so sarcastic. Sarcasm is a very dark form of irony that I tend to stray away from, because of its hurtful nature.

I meant that it WOULD be fun. For the normal teenager of today, but I just felt like I didn't belong. And, I guess, that's rightly said. I did not know a single person in the room. Except for the birthday girl of course.

So while sitting in my designated chair, feeling utterly immobile because of my twisted ankle, I was thinking about how one can be surrounded by so many others, and can feel more alone than if one was alone in an empty room.

At least you don't feel the penetrative curious looks of pity coming your way when you're in an empty room. It felt like I was in a zoo. Only I was the caged lion - no, something more defenseless... hmmm.... like a caged kiwi of some description.

And then I thought of the song Dark Blue by Jack's Mannequin. It's a wonderful song, I only wish there was someone there to sympathise with me on that point.

Someone to actually say " well, I'm here with you".

Well, I've never been much of a party person. And apparently, alcohol gives me headaches, but that could just as easily be the techno/pop kurfuffle blasting through the speakers.

GAHH. I'm going to bed.

Night.

.

2009-05-26T19:10:00.004+12:00

Life is horrible sometimes.

Utter Pandemonium? Go-To People.

2009-05-24T20:28:00.009+12:00

I'm the advice-giver.

The one people turn to when all hell breaks loose. When chaos takes the steering wheel and they have no idea of how to handle this new, unknown development in their lives.

I'm not saying this to brag, and I'm not saying this in petition for sympathy or even recognition. I'm simply saying this because it is fact. And because I see this happen to others everyday.

I see that one designated person all the time. The one who never fails to be there for the ones who need them. For the ones who need someone to talk to because they believe their whole world is shifting and crumbling apart.

What these people don't understand is what they're experiencing is what we call change.

And change is normal. It's a little scary sometimes; and sometimes so much so that it makes you not want to face reality. To want to hide away from its vile visage. And sometimes, it goes as far as to make you despise it. So they need someone to talk to. Their go-to person.

Then sometimes - a much rarer occurrence, but an occurrence nether-the-less - sometimes, something extraordinary happens. Something so far out of our wildest imaginings that we almost refuse to trust its materiality.

Because, in a world like ours, good things are so hard to come by. So when they do happen, euphoria builds up in a person; like a butterfly going through metamorphosis. From a slight cocoon to this beautiful creature that flaps inside the stomach, making its way to the heart and by maturity, is too big to be contained so it soars through the throat and out the mouth and flies through the atmosphere, reaching anyone near. And usually, 9 out of 10, this person that the butterfly reaches is the person's person.

Change can be the most peculiar thing. It's not always welcome, but it's not always ill-received either, because you know what? Without change, we could never fully appreciate what we DO have.

And who is there with us when it turns our entire world around.

So this goes out to all those who are there for us. Who never fail to just be there, without an ounce of selfishness. When you're tired of hearing us grumble on and on about our happy/unhappy lives, know that we appreciate it more than you'll ever know.

We all need someone in this mad world, and I'm ever so glad it's you.

And on behalf of the go-to people; anytime, my friend.

Anytime, and times to come.

The Man on the Moon.

2009-05-20T19:39:00.009+12:00

Matthew Bellamy inspires thought. He truly does.

When I listen to Butterflies & Hurricanes, or Map of the Problematique, or New Born... GAH.

The list goes on and on, but my point is that he creates music that makes me think about things. Things out of the norm of trivial, ceaseless society drabble.

Are we truly alone in this world?

Are we not the only uniquely ALIVE beings in this universe?

What IS the universe exactly?

How does it expand and how did it come to place? What matter is it forever expanding into? When you look at how insignificant earth is in relation to stars like Betelgeuse and how stars alike Betelgeuse are not even a speck, not even considered to be an infinitesimal blemish upon the rich universe's ageless beauty (I guess you could view Betelgeuse as microscopic, although it would take an incredibly high-powered microscope to chance upon it.), you fully begin to feel disconnected to the thoughts in your head comforting you with empowering words of self-worth. You start to feel something bigger than you is out there. That all your worries are suddenly pointless and insignificant in comparison.

And what about the black holes; dead stars that live on in the destruction of fellow stars and objects of planetary proportion?

What happens to those that reach the fatal centre and disappear in its wormhole?

Do they go through time, like time travel?

What is our true purpose here on earth when we're so insignificant in the grand scale of things? We're not even in the scenery of our own extra-solar play.

God, I love this man. Whenever the night is cool and clouds are none too numerous, I go outside; climb atop my trampoline (weathered as it is); turn Muse up to its loudest and stare up at the stars. It's the most beautiful thing.

I never feel as free as I do in those moments.

Or so contemplative.

Or so insignificant.

But then I start to think; it doesn't matter as much because even if we don't have a specific purpose in this world, we survive each and everyday. And our mere existence in a world that could have completely obliterated our population in an instant -and in a world that came together by pure coincidence of a series of inter-connected accidents- is reason enough to celebrate.

We live in a most wondrous world. A mystery by design.

Ah, Love, Where Art Thou?

2009-05-18T18:22:00.003+12:00

Today has me thinking of our old friend. You know the one that caresses each heart once in a while, often catching each close acquaintance unprepared?

Yeah. That one. Love.

I swear, I see many people in love these days. It makes me happy, but then I see twice as many out of it. Who loathe it.

I pity those people.

And I truly resent those that made them believe love is anything but the best single aspect of life in the WHOLE WORLD. The one thing that keeps people living.

You know why I love seeing people in love? It's because I get to see genuine happiness. The kind of happiness that doesn't show up very often. I love seeing the things people are willing and DO do for the ones they love. The grander the gesture, the more the love. Or so the saying goes.

I believe that that is not always the case. Sometimes the biggest gesture, like a 14 carat diamond ring from your wealthy boyfriend can pale in comparison to a 4 carat ring bought with the savings your not-as-well-off boyfriend worked 13 hour shifts each day to accumulate so he could purchase at least a fraction of the ring you truly deserve.

That is what love is and what love does.

I, myself, have not yet experienced love. From what I gather, it is a risky and hurtful and heartbreaking thing.

From what I see, it's also the single most wonderful feeling in the world when reciprocated. One that creates the best years of your life.

That to me outweighs the heart-break.

I hope I'll find whoever I'm meant to be with.

I really do.

Because I'm looking for them, and I can only pray and hope that there's someone out there, on some far-off corner of the planet, that is looking for me too.

The Art of Art.

2009-05-17T17:25:00.002+12:00

I wonder where imagination comes from.

Is it a door inside the mind that opens to a world full of limitless possibilities? Is it a coping mechanism that helps us survive when life seems too mundane? Or is it something more? Something so unexplainable that even our imaginations, themselves, cannot begin to comprehend?

Wherever it is from, I am ever so thankful for it. Imagination is what transcends the boundaries of reality and asks the mind to think outside of its idyllic box.

It is the product of free-thinking. The kind of thinking that shapes revolutions, masterpieces of literature, of musical compositions and brings forth the ingenuity of artists such as Picasso and scientists such as Newton.

To think of it, everything we have ever managed to construct upon our considerably short amount of time here has been as a result of some creative reflection.

We truly are extraordinary people. This I believe wholeheartedly. Whatever shortcomings we have developed as a whole whether by will or by default. Whatever sins we commit, right or wrong. Justified or unjustified, cannot obstruct the fact that we can create beautiful things, if we take a second, if just a fleeting moment to close ourselves off from this rigid world and really begin to think.

The Art of Comfort.

2009-05-13T17:34:00.000+12:00

I was thinking today, while anxiously awaiting my turn to publicly humiliate myself in front of the entire french class (you know, that cruel and unusual torture of which teachers like to refer to as 'speeches' *shudders*).

I was thinking about comfort. About how we have perfectly evolved to be able to comfort ourselves when we're forced upon the clenching hands of loneliness.

And then, when I got home (well and intact, i may add ^.^) I stumbled on this;

"They fit perfectly, like two halves of a whole, and my hands were exactly the right size to cradle my skull. It seemed like another example of how well human beings are designed, that you were shaped to comfort yourself."

-Someday This Pain Will Be Useful to You by Peter Cameron

And then I lay on the floor and smiled when I felt my heart slowly d e c e l e r a t e.

And my breath even out.

Feeling that whatever happens, whatever I happen to lose next (as I'm prone to these circumstances), I will never lose myself.

The Complexity that is PEOPLE.

2009-05-12T23:04:00.000+12:00

I don't get it.

Is this a cosmic joke, something I haven't been let in on?

How can it be, that when you want to help people, genuinely help those about to make a hugantic mistake, you end up the bad guy.

I mean, when i think of bad guys, i think of those caricatures that we learnt to associate the evil ones with, as children, through cartoons.

Remember those with the mustaches that curl upward and into a semi-spiral at each end? The ones with enormous eye-brows and eyes as black as coal? The ones that scorch the innocent with their glowers and subtle smirks?

THEY are the bad guys. At least that's what we are taught.

As we get older, the definition of a bad guy seems to relax and take on different forms; as if trying on new outfits for a change of pace. They dress up as young men, as old woman, as mothers, as brothers, as little sisters, and eventually, they pull on the weathered garments of those you trust the most.

Then, there are times when they put on the scariest, yet the most familiar outfit of all. You.

And then what are we to do?

Do we hate ourselves for our new inhabitants?

Do we embrace them?

Do we learn to accept them as a part of who we are?

Do we revolt?

Fight or flight?

What happens when it wears you thin, leaves you barely clinging on to your own skin?

I don't know.

I wish i knew the answers to these questions. I hate this feeling. Absolutely LOATH it.

I hope things will get better.

I really do.