About Me

My photo
I'm Ryan, and I don't particularly understand the importance of a Blog... but I'll Blog away anyway. Positively, it gives me a wall to talk to. I like having formation and fluency in my day. 'About Me'?... just read the Blog.

Saturday, December 25, 2010

Deck the Silent Jingle.

"It's coming on Christmas,
They're cutting down trees,
They're putting up Reindeer,
And singing songs of Joy & Peace,
Oh, I wish I had a river,
I could skate away on.

But it don't snow here,
It stays pretty green,
I'm gunna make a lot of money,
Then I'm gunna quit this crazy scene,
I wish I had a river,
I could skate away on."

Christmas was yesterday. Above, just there, is our Tree. One of two. Mum yelled at me for making it took 'sick'. It's plastic, though. Real, dead, trees mess with my alergies and are "too messy". Mum made me decorate the house on Christmas Eve. I'm not sure why, but I did. While on the ladder, my little brother walks out and said "on TV, they said ladders are more dangerous that Terrorists". I didn't really want to know that, but I suppose ladders are more frequently experienced than Terrorists.
I got a few things, all of which I like. No camera or Turtleneck sweater, but I did get some books and pavalova. Callan came up to see us, but mainly slept. Aden complained about the 'texture of ham'. I yelled at the Television for referring to Warren Zevon as a 'One-hit Wonder'. I strongly disagree. He had two 'best of' albums. Poor, dead, Warren. Skanky, fake-tanned, wannabe music-buffs have stained your illustrious name. You're a Genius.

"I've got a bitter pot of 'je ne sais quoi'
Guess what - I'm stirring it with a Monkey's Paw
Mata Hari had a house in France,
Where she worked on all her secret plans,
Men were falling for her sight unseen,
She was a Genius.
There's a face in every window of the Songwriter's Neighbourhood,
Everyone's your best friend when you're doing well - I mean, good,
The poet who lived next door when you were young and poor,
Grew up to be a backstabbing Entrepreneur.

Your protege don't care about art,
I'm the one who always told you you were smart,
You broke my heart into smithereens,
And that took Genius.

You and the Barber make a handsome pair,
Guess what - I never liked the way he cut your hair,
I didn't like the way he turned your head,
But there's nothing I can do or say, I haven't done or said
If I could clean my record,
I'd be a Genius."


Sunday, December 12, 2010

Rise, Lazerus, rise!

"As the cheerless towns pass my window
I can see a washed out moon through the fog
And then a voice inside my head, breaks the analogue
And says... "
"Another Blog?!", no one asks.
"Yes, another", Ryan spoke while staring at my reflection painted in the rear-window of my house "You see, I'm in that mood I call 'the Juggernaut' ... the mood where I inexplicable begin to feel aweful*. OCD sets in and I begin acting irrationally until I'm asleep and forget."
"Oh Ryan! Enough of that! Stop playing with the Christmas Tree and the dishes! Stop pacing. Stop being selfish!" replied no one in the same tone as always.
"Yes. Okay", Ryan muttered "only if you listen to me."
Awesome is good. Aweful is bad.
Why is some awe good while being full of awe is bad? Is it like an overdose?
Reason for this Blog; ? ? ? ? ? ? ?
I was watching television, a show about a murder was one. A woman was killed by a man she had never met. The last thing she saw was his eyes. A colony of wasps were living in her skull. Bugs where the mind used to be. I placed my hands on the sides of my head and closed my eyes and imagined it. That set me off.
I'm now in Juggernaut mode and I can't stop feeling like I'm damp. I reread every comment I've recieved on this blog. Most if not all praise me, one said "I expect big things from you in the future" and that made it worse. I don't think I'll actually amount to much. I guess many people feel the same. I don't want a statue. I want a calling.
It reminded me of my parents. Dad was too accepting. I guess he had nothing else to hold. He read to me and taught me. He taught me film and I taught him photography. He taught me Lennon. Only, he never helped me. He was my friend and more than my Dad. He never asked about homework or troubles. He asked how I liked my eggs and if I was thirsty. He rarely yelled and when he did, I cried. He never hurt me and offered strange advice. I often told my friends "my father is insane" and they'd laugh.
Mum left when I was four and I can't remember when she came back. She sent me a coconut once. And stickers. I never used the stickers. I broke the coconut on the steps out the front. She asked if I needed money for school. If Dad was looking after us. She'd organise to meet us at midday and be 2 hours late. I'd stand in the front garden waiting and cry into the lounge when I thought she'd leave again, expecting a second coconut with a note saying "To my Sweet-Pea. In off again. Is your father caring for you? That mans an idiot. xxx"
She'd turn up.
I noticed, even now, I feed off acceptance. I feel bad when adults don't like me. I thrived to befriend most teachers I had. For the most part, it worked. I've always had a lot of friends over all demographics at school. I don't fight. I just worry and build. And write.
I remember when Caitlin called me selfish. I remember being lost for words so I just slumped on my bed and pretended to be interested it the light, cut by the curtain, centimetres from my face on my purple bedroom wall. She called me selfish twice after that, on different occasions, once when I thought I didn't deserve it. I've probably insulted her more than I realise. Its my nature. I don't find truths offensive, usually. Most people are used to it. I hope she is.
I worry no one reads this any more. Comments have lulled to ZERO. Views average on less than 2 per post. I guess I'm vein. Meglomatic? Egotistical? Selfish.
I need positive reinforcement. Gaaaaaaaah! I'm stupid.
You know, that means "To God". Have I said that. I mean it as good bye.

Saturday, December 11, 2010

Festivities. Family. Wizards.

"He hung himself with a guitar string
A slab of turkey neck and it's hangin' from a pigeon wing
You can't write if you can't relate
Trade the cash for the beef, for the body, for the hate
And my time is a piece of wax
fallin' on a termite
He's chokin' on the splinters

Soy un perdedor
I'm a loser baby, so why don't you kill me?
(Get crazy with the cheese whiz)"
Ah, I don't actually know what these lyrics have to do with this post ... but I don't think this song is easy to intergrate. I demand intergration, however. I love this song.
I'm smiling.
The dog on television, Cujo, he isn't smiling. He is bloody and tormenting a woman in her car with her child, Tad. Rabies. Who needs it. Not me, that's for sure.
It is, as I write these words, 6:16 pm. I thought it was 3:00. I've been home alone all day. Cleaning and organising and wishing I was more original. I wish I had more iced tea. I wish I had nimbler fingures.
Christmas time is a nice time. Little Miley (I plan on uploading some photos in the next post) was shouting yesterday "Samdafs Tummin!", which roughly translates to "Cousin, did you know Santa is coming?"
I kept saying "Gandalf's coming?!" and she'd look at me madly and say "Noo! Samdafs!"
I wish Gandalf were coming. He'd offer me some adventure and I'd tag along and meet Orlando Bloom and we'd injure elephant monsters and Fire-eyeballs.
As you can probably tell, it's a slow news day. Caitlin got a pet pig. Thats not my news, thats hers, and she called him Boston. Great name. I would have offered a few others;
Piggy Sue
St. Pignatius
Little Hog-kinson
Eh? Eh? How about them? Hahahaha. I like Boston too.
I was so sad to find how expensive 'Harry Potter TV universal remote wands' are. I thought of flicking wrist and seeing the volume increase ... takes my breathe away. Although, its more work than flicking my thumb. But its cool work. I would sacrifice that small slice of energy for a chance at electronic wizardry designed for 8 year olds.
Oh! Tomorrow I'll upload a picture of my Christmas tree.
What do I buy people for Christmas... hmmm... I hate choosing gifts.
I have attended two 80th birthdays in the past two weeks. Impressive, yes?

Friday, December 3, 2010

Full Dark, No Stars

"If you read this, I love you."

"Each life makes its own immitation of immortality.
Fiction is the truth inside the lie.
French is the language that turns dirt into romance.
Get busy living, or get busy dying.

He had a massive stroke. He died with his tie on.
Do you think that could be our generation's equivalent
of that old saying
about dying with your boots on?"

I'm on my 3rd Novella of Summer. Doesn't look like summer. Although, focusing on Horror Novels (as I like to do) it never feels like Summer. 2 & 1/2 Novellas down. So far, so good. One, I loved. The second wasn't so. It was quite average. The 3rd ... interesting. Lemme explain;
1922: This one's a story, told in hind-sight, about a farmer, father & apparently terrible husband. It opens with the line "To whom it may concern, my name is Wilfred Leland James, and this is my confession. In June of 1922 I murdered my wife, Arlette Christina Winters James, and hid her body by tupping it down an old well."
I admire his openess. Only, he's writing from the year 1930, and a great deal has changed. I loved this story a lot more than I thought I would. It's strange to sympathise for a killer, although I've always been interested ...
As a kid, I always was interested in Serial Killers. I blame my Comic Books. I had trouble embracing real life - mainly due to the lack of Heroes. Batman & Superman are just dabs of ink. Super Villains, however. Very real. Strange traits and all. Their showmanship. Their ability to conceal their identities. The ghastly smiles, curled lips hiding perfect white teeth - the same teeth that have invisible stains. The Heroes were just gaunt men with badges, acting on intuition. Elderly women recognising faces from a late night broadcast. Advances in technology.
... anyway, back to the story. It follows the inspiration of murder as it evolves into a plan. Shortly after, it evolves again into an act - an imperfect act. Then a series of lies are born, each stemming new branches of deceit. Each branch, baring some rotting fruit leading to such a tortued experience (ripe with many horrid repercussions) through out the remaineder of 1922. It creates the feeling that this is 'Wilfred Leland James' Great Depression'.
Big Driver: This is the one I wasn't to fond of. It follows a girl, Tessa Jane, whom is a Mystery Novelist and very familiar with thinking up crazy mysteries and marvellous ways of catching bad guys. She's sort of depicted as 'that kind of shallow, empty novelist'. A series of 30+ books all of the same characters and only slightly different events. She lives alone with cat and enjoys driving at night time. She is good friends with her elderly neighbour.
One night, returning home, she gets a flat tire and - after waiting for some time - is discovered, alone, and raped. From this point, she experiences fear and an delusions (including plotting revenge on the rapist, aided by her GPS named Tom). The idea seemed interesting. The first half was extremely realistic, but it lacked 'ompf' at the end. The revenge got interesting, then it struck out and became too fantasy-like. Too 'clean'. Too 'fairy-talesque'.
The current Novella, A Good Marriage, is about a woman discovering her husband of 27 years is a Serial Killer. It has a lot of potential and is, so far, quite good. A bit glossy and simple, but really interesting to read and a creepy concept. Especially when contrasted with Bob Anderson's (Husband/Killer) wonderful attitude to life. He's happy, wise and compassionate ... and yet rapes and kills women during his business trips. It's fun to read, but I can't handle big doses. The ending of this one will make it. Here's hoping for a strong finish!
That's all.
If you haven't ever tried a horror novel, or even a short story, I'd highly recommend a few. Its easy to find them cheesy and weak. With the right author, however ... its unlike anything else.

Saturday, November 13, 2010

Diane. It's 5:35, 14th of November, 2010 ... and lemme tell you ...

"Now, I'd like two eggs.
Over hard.
I know, don't tell me; 'it's hard on the arteries', but old habits die hard.
Just about as hard as I want those eggs.
Almost burned.
That's great.
And, I'll have the grapefruit juice, just as long as those grapefruits.
Are freshly squeezed."

Not lyrics, no. Better. History. Good history.
This Blog is about ... lets say;

Nooooooooooow, Schoolies is often painted as the drunken tool-fest that it usually is. Luckily, I'm not friends with many tools. There are a few. For schoolies, we're not going to the Gold Coast.
We're going else where. A girl has a holiday house which seems to have become the

equivalent of Las Vegas for us young people. Nine friends and I are renting a party shack for the week, near the girl's house, so that we can party all day and ... party all night. I'm not looking to prove anything to girlies, I'm not looking to "down more booze" than any one else. I'm looking to
enjoy the beach (which has been impossible most of life - due to the distance AND translucent s
kin of mine). So; cooking, barbequeing, drinking, musicing, beaching, Indian Head-dressing (wait for it).

Due to schoolies, I have very little money to spend. I have money on me which I can't spend because I'll need it for schoolies. I've never needed to save in such a way. I often think "Fake moustaches - sold!". Then, as I reach for my wallet I kick myself in the brain with my brain-foot. Money is hell. What is our dollar even backed by? Is it just a symbolic piece of paper of is it actually backed by vaults of gold or possession of water like it was back in the day.
The way old day. Waaaaaaaaaay old. Older.
People should trade in skill and talent;
Dance for food, cook for clothes, knit for massages, massage for a dance, etc.
Thats how it should be.

Hair. Today Caitlin dropped in (to Mudgee) to see me and gave me a mug covered with moustaches of varying stature, style and 'stachiousity. On the bottom, a directory of which moustache belongs to which famous moustached man. From Poe to Ghandi. I call it the Mugstache. It makes my every drink taste manly. Also, my hair is different.
That's all.


Thursday, November 4, 2010

(Double Feature) Toy Plastic Ring

Life is limited. Look beyond the exams and I have done very little (despite liberating Las Vegas from the mysterious and shadowy Mr R.E. House, waking a robotic army, making friends with a Ghoul named Raul (Raul the Ghoul) and, of course, watching a handful of great films).
Two points of intrest, the components to this literary duplex;
Eins; I did wedding photography and earned $100 for eating, drinking and sliding around on the floor with a camera glued to my face.
Zwei; Halloween. I liked seeing kids trying to Trick or Treat and learning Australians don't give out candy ALMOST as much as I loved naming them 'Halloweeners'. I wish Australia had more customs like that. I feel my childhood lacked that Hollywood lustre. Don't get me wrong, Americanisation is putrid in many ways, but their cinema has taught me a lot about 'the American Dream'. For starters, it's mowed lawns, neat moustaches and blooming dresses (which, sadly, masked a lot of racism and wreckless bravura). Secondly, it's unobtainable. Thirdly, if one cares to consider, it was living art. I'll get back to this.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

"Today this is my world
You'll be my girl
I'm awake
It's my world
Today this is my world
You'll be my girl
I'm awake
It's my world
Today this ain't my world
You're not my girl
I'm asleep
Goodnight world"

I don't like 'em.
Now, now, now, now ... I didn't say I hate love. I didn't say I hate family. I just hate weddings. The wedding that I photographed was great. Happy family, loving couple, cheery children and a few little rituals that I had not seen previously at a wedding. I've never been to a bad Wedding. However, I feel this is like saying "that's a very pretty dress" - pretty as it may be, I don't think I'll wear it myself.
Weddings, to me, seem unnecessary, expensive and exclusionary. I don't like being told that love isn't love unless it's recognised by a stranger. That it's less special unless you show-boat it infront of a crowd. That a flashy little ring symbolises eternal love. My dad lost his down the drain once, fished it out later. Eternal love. My parents are divorced and I don't blame the drain. I blame; Hollywood, money, stress and stupidity.
Biologically, humans fail at monogomy. An old saying says something like; "20% of Primate species are monogomous - one of which are humans. Even then, only 20% of humans are monogomous - most of which are crazy". Sadly, this fact isn't truth. In reality, only 2 species are described as 'True Monogomists'. That is to say; punishing infidelity, eternal care. 100% monogomous ... and no, Man is not one of them. Want to guess? Go on! Try it. They must be smart, right? They must have hands, surely. They must, in some way, remind us of ourselves! I bet it's the Chimps! No. Dolphins? No. Owls? No. Dogs? No.
Answer; Black Vultures & Angelfish.
Vultures are usually seen as evil, cunning beasts but gondarnit! They know more about love than you. Anglefish actually bind their skin together for life, at which point the male becomes nothing more than a sperm-producing organ. Romance!
Now, this doesn't mean I want to sleep around. I've never considered it. Instead, I want to prove my devotion through actions rather than through a stupid ceremony. Marriage was cooked by churches as a way to sell sex, if you ask me.
God doth proclaim; "No sex before marriage, or you shalt burn!"

Average Joseph doth reply; "Oh thy God! I loveth thee sex! I doth hate eternal damnaton! I shalt therefore give my body to the lord, have thy sex with mine wife and avoid doom! Genius!!"

Not genius, Joseph. You have handed yourself into the richest organisation on the planet, paving the way and promoting the ideals that kept it alive up until today - not because of your love of God. It's because of love of sex and fear of death. Basic. If the church owns sex through fear, it needs to sell it back to the public. The product is called MARRIAGE! Ta da!
That's all I have to say about that.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

"Screams and moans and bats and bones
Teenage monsters in haunted homes
The ghosts on the stair
The vampires bite
Better beware, there's a full moon tonight
Take a fresh rodent, some toadstools and weeds
And an old owl and the young one she breeds
Mix in seven legs of an eight-legged beast
Then you are all set for a cannibal feast"

Spooky is possibly my most used word, behind 'the', 'of', 'swiss' and 'and'. Halloween was swarming with the word spooky, but lacked the feeling. Caitlin's party had a creepy, big head scarecrow looking fellow in the garden. Spooky snacks in the shape of ghosts and the alcohol was maybe haunted. It made people moan and stumble like Zombies. All alcohol is cursed.
Knightrider is now on television.
It was a good night. I actually told almost all stories to do with one of my phobias; dolls & stuffed toys. It took about 2 hours to get it all out. In my audience were Caitlin, her mum, Karina, Rob... Dave maybe. I can't remember. I was into it. Deeply remembering what made me so fearful of life. Namely, my brother ... accompanied by coincidence and freakish toy-makers.
Back to what I said in my opening, 'the American Dream' was living art. A complete society that was certain it was perfect. Infact, like any living organism. Each cell uniformly acting similar, trying to avoid the Ghetto-cancer and forming their own Nuclear families - duplicating into new cells, spreading, expanding. I like the satire and beauty of what they (superficially) stood for. The moustaches, suits, smiles, dialogue.
... and remember, I ain't a fink - dig? Dandy baby, now it's scadoodlesville.


Wednesday, October 20, 2010

(He)man with a plan.

Ryan had reached enlightenment and occasionally, especially when focusing too hard, found he could see through walls as if they were made of pink cellophane. It felt like finishing a box of mints and finding, in the bottom of the box, a second box of mints. Needless to say, the second would also be full. Ryan knew how he would die. He also knew how he would live. Of course, such things are not for the public domain and are kept in a tin lunchbox along with his Star Wars toys (Chewbacca and Han, along with an Ewok & Boba Fett), German Dictionary and various Zombie related memorabilia from movies made in, around and after the 1980's. He(man) was finally at peace. "I have the power!"

Friday, October 15, 2010

He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts

Yes, he still insists he sees the ghosts...

The station had never been empty, never. Not since they day it was dug from the black soil. He came like a dream, in the dark directly, but unclear and hung like smoke - in the shadows. He stood on the station, unmoving - fireflies surrounding his stare. Like mist, a curtain for the moon. The sparking lights shone from his circular glasses, head skewed like a quizzical hound. There was always something dismal in the air. There was no sound, no smell, there was no emotion in his gaze, time felt irrelevant. It was irrelevant. Two tracks of seperation from the other platform, Platform 09., occasionally a trains would trickle by. A stagnancy of uneasy feelings and paranoid thoughts. Something hung from his stiff arm. A suitcase? A walking stick? An umbrella? The fireflies continued to swarm as the train approached, slowing in his wake. He never boarded. Never, not once. A perpetual wait, destination unknown. Not boarding nor never moving from his place. No one asked for the time, no one bumped or abused. The Firefly Man exists to stand and watch. An organic camera. A living lightpost. A friend to the lost and a doorway to my mind.

Where's My Mind?
Somewhere nearby, not elsewhere.
(The image took ages to edit. Thanks to Dane for taking it.)


Wednesday, September 29, 2010

Study (An Ode to Jack Torrance of the Overlook Hotel)

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. ll work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boyAll work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dullll boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and NO play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, all work and no play make Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, all work and no play makes jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull murder.
All work and no Play makes jack a dull boy, all work and no play makes jack a dull boy.
all work and no play makes Jack a bull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a DULL boy.
All work
and no play
Makes JACK
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,
All work and no play makes Jack a dulll boy,
all work and no play makes jack a dull boy,
All work and no play make Jack a dull boy,
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,
All work and no ply makes Jack a dull boy,
all work and no play makes Jack a dul boy,
All work and no play makes jack a dull boy,
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,
All work and no play makes Jack a dulll boy.
All work and no play makes JAck a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull bou.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a full boy
All work and no play makes jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

Tuesday, September 14, 2010


"I'm not living
I'm just killing time
Your tiny hands
Your crazy kitten smile
And true love waits
In haunted attics
And true love lives
On lollipops and crisps"


The picture above... it reads "Britt". Over and over and over. Who is Britt? I do not know. Who wrote all this? I do not know. All I know is, there's something wrong here. There's something wrong when anyone has this amount of influence over someone. A romantic symbol or an obsessed ramble. I've know both. This could be either. All I know is I hate it. I hate how idealised and easy love is painted as being in films. It's not. It's like some dance that people try to learn while doing... in that sense, having big feet is not helpful. I don't dance. I don't do this right. I remember why I enjoy being alone. I don't disappoint myself. I don't frustrate myself. I also don't make myself happy, but I don't make myself sad either. Lately, I've been rewriting my childhood ideals. I don't want to love a "Britt" or be loved by a "Britt". Love should be easy and free and fortify happiness... instead, it breeds insecurity and stress. Maybe it's just me... I wouldn't be suprised if I just struggle with the mundane and enjoy the thrill of the chase more. I'm only 18. I don't understand love. I'm a child. A baby.
This is not a fairytale, its life. I am not Romeo, I'm Ryan. Love is not love, it's chemical... and I failed chemistry.


Thursday, September 9, 2010

Cut me loose

I need luck. Luck me up. Come on! I sacrifice for some wriggle-room. Let life work and let this end right. I don't ask a lot. I just want a little functionality and peace. I'm sick of worrying about things that I should embrace. Shut up brain. Just let things work. This shouldn't be hard. This shouldn't be hard. Such primative anger... and fear. Just be fluid and nice. Just be happy. Just let me be a human. This is a plea to the Universe. For crying out loud, just work. Be normal. Just like the comic books, this should go smoothly for me... I'm a background character. A pattern on the wall. Adding difficulty to my life achieves nothing for the narrative. I want to be normal. I want my plans to work. Take charge and be a man. Cut me some slack and let me go, give me this, let something work to some extent for once and I'll close my mouth.
That - I promise.


Tuesday, September 7, 2010

Happy Birthday!!

"You say it's your birthday
It's my birthday too, yeah
They say it's your birthday
We're gonna have a good time
I'm glad it's your birthday
Happy birthday to you."

At this moment, my Birthday is nearly over. Such a good day. So disappointed to see it end. I like having people wish me happiness, especially when I've never spoken to them. A few people even suprised me by knowing my name. Many cakes and gifts and treats. The way such a greedy occasion should be. Pictured is Caitlin's Rastafarian Jelly-Jar; et taste lark de Coribee-han. I liked it. Lime, mango, creaming soda... brilliant. Next to that, on the top, is the assorted cakes and pastries that my Aunty had arranged. The three candle are not monument to my actual age. Below that is part of the Question Mark shaped cake baked by Madeline. It was really good. Creamy chocolate and covered in love hearts. Hahahaha. Again, I think the cake only had Nine candle. Gah! Nine! I thank everybody for everything. Especially the poncho from Papa.
Also, on a coincidental note, the very song I mentioned in my last post came up on my iPod the second I left the house, while the iPod was set to suffle. Chance of that; 1:670. Below is photographic evidence (I got really excited). As you can see, it took me only 11 seconds to get my camera out, aim, adjust, focus and shoot (I was REALLY excited). I thought I was phychic. In the image, you can see the little Pod-sock that Mumma knitted for me. Pink and green. Thanks for the colours.

That'll do for now.


Monday, September 6, 2010

Agtien jaar in net 'n regmerkie

"Happy Birthday to me
Happy Birthday to me
Happy Birthday dear myself
Happy Birthday to me"

This is a photo of a Lithgow Spring. Haunted weather. Ghost weather. Ooga Booga Boo... and such. Tomorrow, it is my Birthday. What do I ask of Mother Nature? I think my ideal day would be a little like this;
Similar skies to the ones you see in my picture. Black clouds and a trace of sunlight swirling about in amongst the ebonic sky. Trees become silhouettes - skeletal remains of Nature. With Spring, however, buds and new flowers sway in the warm, humid wind... surely confused by the liar's display of temperate shade and eerie winds. Still, a showcase of absurdity and a step away from the norm. An unusually warm day, betraying its darkness. Unusually relaxing, despite the heavy wind. Most importantly - no rain. I don't want rain... but if there is rain, make it pour. I want to wake to silence and stroll the house before my Dad awakes and after the celebratory shouts and tales I'm sure he'll tell - "You were a baby you know. Yep. Good job not dying! You could fit in one of my hands. I had to hold you tight so the wind wouldn't carry you away. I had you when no one else would. No one." - then I'll walk to school. Listening to this song;

I like that song.
Anyway. I have little else to say. I hope I get myself a grey day. Here's another of my photographs. I <3>


Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Fear has a Glare that Traps you

"When they dance
In a reptile blaze
You wear a mask
An equatorial haze
Into the past
A colonial maze
Where there's no more confetti to throw"

I did my speech today and completely freaked out, as I do. I volenteered, stood and felt fine... first palm card down and my knees starting dancing. If you've seen me during any public speaking 'ordeal', you'll know the second I cross my legs I'm gone. I crossed my legs after, maybe, 30 seconds. From this point millions of little voices in my head beginning mentioning the position of everyone in the classroom and I feel unable to check. Its the strangest thing. I constantly feel like I have accidentally mispronounced a word without noticing or something and my eyes always want to reread what I've just spoken... but I can't let them. I don't have the time. Speaking of which, I didn't hear how long I went for. Anyway, I felt pretty stupid. I don't know why I react the way I do. My mouth became so dry and my eyes begin to water. I imagine I went quite red aswell. I get so anxious.
Counterwise, I felt so terrific afterwards. I actually felt very happy. Very inspired. I took a lot of pictures of flowers, which usually is rarity. I prefer taking beauty from something without such a natural advantage... like a puddle or a dead bird. Here are my 3 favourites;

... flowers calm my nerves. I'm such a nervous wreck.


Dual Duel

"A Town of disrespect
The Trains are wrecked
The night is younger than us
Nowhere is anywhere else
You keep to yourself
And if it's meant
Some accident
Some coincidence
Crumbs fall out of the sky
When you wander by
The dust clouds blow"

Today was one of those days. For me, 'one of those days' is a compliment upon 15 hours I wander the Earth. One of those days where I feel good - head to toe, breakfast till bed. Seemingly little details. Sleeping in actually made me feel refreshed, new music got me to school... I even felt obliged to volenteer for speeches tomorrow, despite being the most anxious public speaker this side of Albuquerque (I chose Albuquerque, not because they are particularly renown for terrible speakers, but more more the reason its fun to say). One of the most influencial parts of the day was the Moon in the Mornin'. I woke up early (despite going back to bed again and leaving 20 minutes late) and the moon was in the sky, the sun peaking and a dash of mist circling Old Lady Lunar. Here's a photograph, I wish I got a better one... so inspiring;

But! To the point! The main feature of today, which may not amuse you as much as it amused me. Today, I was in a duel. A social duel. A duel or duality, of sorts. Theres this man I see walking home most afternoons. He is the only regular that ignores me everytime. He always smokes, has short graying brown greying hair, jeans and a blue work top. He's out of shape and has a caveman-like lower lip protruding. He reminds me of a 'Bill' or a 'Norman'. Today I saw him in a new light. Anyone familiar with DC comics during the 1960's? There's a planet in a few issues called Htrae (Earth Backwards), which is more commonly known as Bizarro World. The planet is cube shaped and contains the complete opposites of our world. This man, at this momentr today, reminded me of Bizarro Ryan. Old, overweight, grumpy, possibly illiterate, rude, smells of gasoline. Nice guy. The reason this rather obscure thought popped into my mind was that it was in one of the alleys between streets. He was at one end, I was at the other. Middle of the road. Arms akimbo. Very Spaghetti Western. In my head, the theme to 'the Good, the Bad and the Ugly' played. Look it up as you read this... I'll wait.

He stood, slack-jawed drawing his hand to his filthy lip, picking the cigarette from his mouth. He held it, arm enlongated against his thigh, smoke illusively drifting his hip and obscuring his pistol (there was not a pistol). I mirrored his action, instead removing the Apple Flavored Lollypop from my mouth, flashing my eyebrow in a Gentleman's Wager. "Listen up, you hear; I challange you to a duel... you up to it ol' timer?" (I didn't speak) He laughed a cowards laugh, dust (no dust) kicking up around his towering figure. "I killed kids for less than that" he muttered, spitting his chewing tobacco aside (why would he smoke and chew tobacco at the same time?), "I don't mind addin' you to the list, you piss-weak pile of steaming, horse shit!" I stared into his dark eyes, questioning his past. He could pass as a ranch-hand. I licked my lollypop and set back into the traditional akimbo stance... and so began the Duel. My fingers twitched by my holster (iPod), and I knew I had two choices. Draw first, shoot first and fast but sacrifice accuracy OR wait for him to draw out of worry and impatience then draw myself, mopping him up like a shaken mess. He seemed concentrated, so I drew first, assuming he was mid-thought about his choices. I fired once - twice and from the explosion of smoke and noise came my determined eyes, peering through the cloud of death. Bob... or was it Norman... anyway, the dude grabbed his chest with his left arm, his right arm sliding down his thigh as his torso crumpled under his weight. His silver firearm falling from his shivering finger tips, before it was even fully from his holster. With that, he shook violently on the ground, moaning and spitting blood and tobacco. I approached the body, kicked the oaf in the shoulder and saw the life fade from his eyes... actually, I just kind of looked at him and he grunted and puffed smoke. No battle. Sorry. Still... I love that song. Ah... how I dream of a Bizarro Duel.


Monday, August 30, 2010

Bad Blood

Where I usually post lyrics, today I post the full damn song only because I like it so much. I always feel like a hack, honestly, leaving the lyrics up here all lonely. I doesn't do much of the music justice. Lyrics are great but they need a flow. This song, which I only heard for the first time today at 4:46, by one of my favourite artists, made me think "Gee whiz! This makes me feel nice."
... and so, to any and all who care, this song stands for something I can't say... and there are many things I can't say but this is one. Have a listen, if you care to trust me on its quality, and I'll be down below waiting for you to read my brain-scrawls.

The title is a quote from my 82 year old comrade. I may have mentioned this in the past, but here's a worthy reiteration;
During my daily walks, near my old Primary School, I see an old man. His name is Harold. Occasionally, he'll be sitting with his wife. I've never caught her name. Being at such an age, he has introduced himself to me many times. Nearly every day, after I ask him how he is he replies, idenitically, "Oh, I'm as good as a man can be going on 82". Lately, he has started saying 83 instead. I suppose he had a birthday. Last week, however, upon being asked how he was he replied "Buddy, I have some bad blood! That's what the doctor said. When I stand up, the blood goes to my head and I fall down." The bloodcaked scar on his forehead and his bloodshot eye, iris looking like a cracked egg, backed him up. I apologised, nervously, as though it were my fault... he walked along side me, on the other side of his fence, until he reached his wife doing the washing. As you can hopefully remember from the last post, my ankle was sore so I had to straighten up and try to look young and virile because I felt a stagger would be insulting considering the age difference. I had a strange, pimp-like stagger to cover it up... I must say, it was fun. After exchanging pleasantries I was on my way to do nothing in particular. School, I guess.


Saturday, August 28, 2010

The Tale of the Minotaur

Today, my Blog takes a spooky turn down a road of horrors - for today, I recount 'the Tale of the Minotaur'! Be warned; from this point on, I'll be writing extremely dramatically. Let us begin... and remember, this is a true story.

It was a Wednesday and I was going on an adventure with Caitlin before heading back to her house to finish our History Assignment. Caitlin told me about the destination, saying "It's the old Quarry... I think there are goats in there" but I knew she knew more than she was saying. Arriving at the old (probably haunted) Quarry, the car was pulled over slowly aside the swaying, rusted chain-link fence that kept out intruders. We proceeded to intrude by climbing through a small hole. I clipped my jacket on a stray strand of barbed-wire, so turned to unhook myself looking back at the parked Hilux for what was almost the last time... EVER! My ankle had been sore for the entire day, so I limped to catch up to Caitlin, who was running down the mud covered trail. Despite the sounds of a heavy wind, the trees stood silent, motionless - souless. Off to my left, as I stopped with my ankle aching in my shoe, I looked curiously into the woods - just as a character in a horror movie would, just before the shot would change to one behind a tree in the distance staring at the character with muffled breathing accompanying some suspenseful music. Of course, this was no movie. This was reality. The spot I stopped at, only about 100 metres from the whole in the fence, had a view into a corridor, a stagnant water of a deep, cancerous shade of a black/yellow.

As I continued to try to catch up to Caitlin, I worked my ankle into a fit but I was eager to take some photographs so I raised the pace, entering a strange jog-skip kind of run. The terrain was bad enough without my awkward stagger. I saw Caitlin down by the water and turned the other way to face the fateful hill that contained horrors, inconceivable. The torturous vision that would scar that mountain in only a few moments was not yet in mind, instead the hill was bare. The sky a crystal-gray, the grass a deathy brown and the sounds of a strong wind... distance some how. As though the fence was a portal to a realm of it's own, the clouds appeared to circle my very position as filthy water trickled into my sock through a hole in the sole of my shoe. I placed my left hand into my jacket pocket, expecting to find something out of place... driven by a motivation I can only describe as dream-like. I found nothing. Lint gripped my fingernails as I tilted my head back in confusion, I soon realised I had no reason to expect anything to be found. The pointless thought, random search, passed - the hill stood hyperbolically dormant, begging to be filled with the unseen beast which I am sure must have been watching me at that very moment in time. I'm sure I looked statuesque, as I didn't move for what seemed like a good few minutes. I limped down towards the cold shore, stopping on a log and watching Caitlin swimming about in the long grass telling me tales and anecdotes and laughing. I took this photo;

I took many others which I won't bore you with. Ribbons, trees... anyway. We headed back towards the track and I must have either looked very pained or complained a little too loud because Caitlin showed a lot of sympathy and offered me a piggy-back. I declined. He soon reached the track, which was only discernible from the rest of the rugged patches of soil and jagged rocks by its lack of grass... like a dead river in a dead field of a dead country surrounded by a dry sea and flocks of crazed gulls pick the land clean until furtility is a stained old dream shared amoung ghosts and old freighter-men, long out of work. The track was inspiring, to say the least. We stood together for a moment, looking at each other and the air was cold and my feet were wet and my ankle ached still, although I'm sure you remember. It was then that it appeared, when I stared hell in its glassy eye. A shamble came staggering down the hill, mocking me perhaps, making noises of a goat but with the demeanour of a starving hound. Never in full sight, what I thought was a jet-black was later described by Caitlin as a "Brown/gray" colour. Now, sounding like a goat in an area allegedly containing goats in a world were goats are common would seem like evidence enough that this beat was, infact, a goat... BUT, no. Maybe it was a dog but that doesn't explain... well, just bare with me. I haven't come all this way to say "it was probably a dog". For I, Ryan J. Hodgkinson, am bigger than that. Bigger than common place. I dwell in obsurdity and obscurity. This thing was probably - a Minotaur. Heres a sketch of the beast from my memory;

At this stage, you surely don't belive me. What I saw didn't have a hammer or a WWE World Heavy-Weight Championship Belt, I just added them to empahsise how masculine it was. It sounded just like a goat and was only visable for, at best, 3 seconds and it may or may not have stood on hind legs and there is a possibility it lacked hands, human facial features and... well, yeah. You make up your mind. It was either a dog, goat or a Minotaur. If anyone is willing, I plan to go back and battle the beast some time soon. I need friends and soldiers and some sandwichs would be appreciated, Mum.

That... was the Tale of the Minotaur.


Sunday, August 22, 2010

"I'm calling now... oh, the suspense."

"Call when you want
But there's no one home
And you're not gunna reach my telephone
'Cause I'm out in the club
And I'm sippin' that bubb
And you're not gunna reach my telephone"

... but after half an hour she did reach my telephone. She being Cate. Of course, I didn't hear a lot from her other than "hello?", before I said hello and offered the phone to Caitlin. The importance here being the two of them have been friends for over 8 years and had never heard each other's voices. Until Friday night. Cate and I planned it out, under the guise "operation 0062". Here is a photo of Caitlin as she realised who she was talking to;

She was a little teary (extremely) and her face was a little flushed (extremely) and she was very, very happy. I loved how she said on the phone, before registering it was Cate, "Whose this? - Cate? Cate who? - Cate from where? - Wait... OH MY GOD!!" before running into my room. Yeah, you can see my pajama pants and messy bed. Here's another snap;

Here, she's a bit more calm and from this point, she spoke with Caitlin for more than an hour on so many seemingly random subjects from weddings to lemon spread on toast. I sat next to Caitlin for the majority of the time she was on the phone, listening to her conversation with the inaudiable friend on the other side - I was drinking juice and taking millions of photographs and laughing at her reaction, especially the way she stopped and said "I can't believe I'm talking to you!" almost every 5 minutes. Occasionally, I'd hear Cate laugh or speak louder than normal and her voice crackled out just loud enough for me to hear and Caitlin would just sit their smiling, staring at the roof. It was pretty amazing, I'm pretty happy I saw it AND that I was in on it. The planning, the half an hour of hunting for International call codes for a "Germany to Australia" call. By the way Cate, your English was so much better than you made it out to be, I was honestly expecting to hear "Hallo? Ich liebe vatermelon"... I don't know what watermelon is in German... I also don't know why you'd say that, but... uh... you speak better english than most people I know. Your voice also reminded me of someone I know, but I can't think of who... anyway. It was awesome. Next time we'll organise for you to mail yourself to my house and then you can jump out at Caitlin and scream "Phones are so impersonal!" I bet I've forgotten to mention something (and this is starting to sound like an e-mail) but this'll do.


Thursday, August 19, 2010

I've spray painted my Crystal Ball jet-black

"Carbon monoxide
Soon I'll go to sleep
If I don't got my socks on right
They slide right off off my feet

Carbon monoxide
As I take you home
The first time I get my socks on right
But I don't have a gas mask on
As I walk-a, walk-a, walk-a, walk-a, walk-a, walk-a,
walk-a, walk-a, walk-a, walk-a, walk-a
Walk you home

I'm so cool

Today I cleaned. I left the study room looking quite spiffy, or atleast less blandly uniformed while retaining some structural beauty. On the note, I do need to note thanks to Dane and David for helping me. The worst part, my camera had NO battery and I have no new pictures for this post... so, I'll put my picture of I took of a rose up... or maybe some magnets. I personally find magnets very beautiful. As I kid I could never find out why the loved each other so much, why opposites attract and how they seem so perfect together, side by side. Invisible forces! I used to consider gravity as a thing that leaves things looking damp. Everything drapes down under it's 'weight' and... why am I talking about gravity? Magnets. Magnets are beautiful and represent a connection people are not capable of by attempt to replicate through out life. People are little organic magnets, very weak ones at that. I personally think I model my life after a puddle. Singular, rather bland by myself but reflective in a subtle, murky way. I want to carry the neon and streetlights and hopefully have someone pay attention rather than expect to have a natural attration. An invisible force. I'm not just an entity, I'm an anomoly.
I guess with all this babble, I better use the magnet picture...

Yes, that is some N to N. That is not natural, this was a forced arrangement. Regardless, poetic.


Tuesday, August 17, 2010

The Man of a Thousand Faces

"His words are quiet like stains are
on a tablecloth washed in the river
Stains that are trying to cover
for each other
or at least blend in with the pattern
Good is better than perfect
Scrub till your ļ¬ngers are bleeding
and I’m crying for things that
I tell others to do without crying

He used to go to his favorite bookstores
and rip out his favorite pages
and stuff ‘em into his breast pockets
and the moon, to him, was a stranger"

On Tuesday, I took it upon myself to see how poeple saw me. I asked if they'd draw pictures of me and for the most part they were negative (although I blame artist flair over hatred). Here are the pictures I recieved;

1) This one is Kurt's. I know, it's a little bit... terrible. On the plus side; he spelt my last name right. On the bad side; he apparently sees me as some kind of serial killer with thin hair, sausage lips, oddly shaped nose, strange ears and a perverted stare. Thanks Kurt.

2) Ah, Caitlin. Someone who can, at the very least, draw. I don't look at myself very often and I see the side of my head even less, but that looks pretty 'spot-on'. I like it anyway.

3) This one is a painting by my Grandfather, John Hodgkinson. He did this for me without me asking a while ago. Personally, it scares me. I like it and I admire his ability, but it strikes a chord with my fear of the lifeless. Like a Porcelain doll; made to look so real and warm but it reality it's basically a synthetic corpse. Cold and capable of little more than representing a memory or idea. Some dolls are such a melancholy creation, with those little rosie cheeks and glassy eyes. Gah! I hate them. This painting, the eyes and mouth in particular, make me feel like the painting knows something that I don't. Lifeless stare, egoistic smirk and such a limp stance. Maybe it is me perfectly.

4) Juzen. Juzen, Juzen, Juzen. Apparently I'm a hillbilly... or maybe a mechanic that says very inappropriate things in a thick, Cajun accent while staring you down like he's suspicious of your body. You would need to think twice before agreeing to following him to the back room to "fill outchoor papa'work", especially with the way he holds that wrench... the way he holds the door open for you, hand resting against the lock and you can't see a desk inside the dark room, only a leather hammock, steel boxes and a stained sheet covered in what you hope are oil stains. Ah, little side tracked... anyway, thanks Juzen.

If you want to draw me a picture (of anything), I'd happily accept it.


Thursday, August 12, 2010

The way I play

"It's become a habit
A way
To start the day

I go through all this
Before you wake up
So I can feel happier
To be safe up here with you

Imagine what my body would sound like
Slamming against those rocks"

This blog is, unfortunately, dedicated to my Obsessive Compulsive behavior - which is oddly active these last few days. I'm not sure why, it usually kicks in really bad when I'm upset but I feel alright. So, I need to find the culprit...
When I was littler, I used to hate playing Tic-Tac-Toe when I felt compulsive because I felt like dying if anyone (including myself) won diagonally. I also hated winning unless it was symmetrical... which sounds really stupid, I know. It's also very difficult so I'd prefer trying to set up a clean win for the other person, mirroring their moves and hoping they'd start with the centre square. Thank God I rarely felt compulsive as a kid (despite a bout, while living with my Grandfather, where I flicked light switches 3 times). That was because of my parents divorce though, and I was too little to realise that light flicking was unusual. I just thought it made the room feel more like it loved me, like the light was brighter and I wouldn't need to cry. All I can say is that I'm glad I did it an odd amount of times, rather than even, allowing me to end where I wanted it to end (On - off - on, off - on - off). Highschool has lovingly brought out the most compulsive of my behaviors. On Friday, Hannah Gausden jumped infront of me in role call and asked "watcha' doing?" I looked at her a little disappointedly and replied "Counting the tables." She asked me why and I answered, as though it were obvious, "I need to know how many there are". I was, subconsubconsciously rearranging the room, again. I liked it when I had blue desks with red chairs and yellow desks with green chairs more than the current set-up.

Ofcourse, it never lasts after I arrange it. I also don't like hearing people say "What kind of a fuck-wit would do this? What a waste of time!" I waste my time all the time. While writing this, I also just realised I've stopped clicking my fingers! I used to do that every time I was nervous around a girl and it seems to have disappeared. That's good, I guess. I still get terribly anxious while speaking in front of an audience, I used to be so comfortable. I did debating for so long and then... well, maybe I'm just maturing into a Mountain Man, who fears humanity and lives with amongst thick trees and shaking knees. I really have no idea. The letter of the day is 'I', and not because I'm selfish.

Anyway, writing this has calmed my nerves. Come the HSC, I think I'll die. It was good to hear "Ryan, I don't want you to fade away" on Friday, as compared to "I want you to die" on the Thursday. What will I do? That's all people ask me now, I don't want to finish school and have to spill out into the place I'll live and die in. I don't want finality. I don't want progression. I would give anything for a speel of my life and then be let to move on quietly if I chose not to live it personally. Then again, I think I'm insane so I wouldn't trust myself with such a decision. Zoe, thank you for the invite to your party but also for having the name Zoe. It's not Zooey, but it's close and I respect you for having a neat name. S'all so dandy. I have more to say, but I feel I'm getting carried away. I wish I had a river.

Adios, friends.

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

[Title missing]

"Something always
Takes the place of
Missing pieces you can take
And put together
Even though you know there's something missing
Something always missing
Always someone missing something"

Rain, rain - I love rain. I love that I turn up 40 minutes late to History and Mr. Gasparre accepts my excuse "I was lost and have wet socks". I love walking through these streets, kicking puddles up onto my jeans and seeing other people scramble with their umbrellas. Most of all, I love it how in the rain, it looks like everyone is crying and so very tired. My shoes both have holes in them now (which is what happens when you walk so damn much) and the water fills them so I get this wonderful squelching noise on certain surfaces. I love seeing Dad looking at me as to say "Why must you be so difficult" when I walk in the door and sing "Me feets are wet!!"
Infact, in the rain, there is very little that I don't love. I love you.

I found a script I was writting earlier this year, back when I aimed to direct the 'Worst Film Ever'. It sounds pretty bad, here's the opening;
- - - - -

[Wide shot of green field. Sun high in the autumn sky. Slow motion shot as the aged leaves fall to the ground. No sound but that of a child’s laughter. Transitional fade to a shot of young Chippy, the protagonist of the film played by Nicholas Cage, as he plays in the long grass. The scene is narrated by an adult Chippy and his therapist ‘Doc’, played by Christopher lloyd overlaying the images of the young Chippy playing.]

Chippy (Narrating) :

It all started when I was a boy, Doc.

‘Doc’ (Narrating) :

Go on.

Chippy :

I was eleven, playing on my family home’s property. My pet horse was missing. So were my one thousand pet spiders. The old abandoned mine was glowing. It was a simple childhood day… and that’s where my troubles really began…

[Shot of farmhouse and Chippy’s terrified mother screaming as she runs onto the porch.]

Mother :

Chippy! Horse have attacked all of the worlds capital cities aided by spiders! Take your cyanide pill! Now!!

[A large horse like shadow falls over Chippy as he pulls a small emergency suicide pill from his little orange overalls. Chippy slowly turns, shaking, and drops the pill back into his little pocket as he is faced by a horse of decent size. The horse is covered in spiders and screams as it scuttles closer like a crab. Chippy fumbles for his pill but is too slow and is harassed by the horse. It pushes him down and picks him up by the scruff of his neck and runs towards the glowing mine]

Mother :

No! Chippy! Your psychic drawings where right all this time! How could I have been so foolish.

- - - - -

My life long dream has been to own a cinema or atleast work in one at some stage in life. It's the only career that seems... good. I'd mop the floor if it meant I could hear the films throught the door occasionally. I love cinema and I love film. One day I will achieve this - not the mopping - I want to own a cinema more than almost anything. Until then, I'll write silly little scripts and watch my favourite movies over and over again. Here's to the future.


Monday, August 9, 2010

The World is brighter upside down

"Ghosts of the past
become barbarians of the future
And I still pity you
Because what you said was true

Goodbye, sober day
Hello, milky way"

Camping was great, as usual. Two nights and three days of drink, music, sun, food and friends, all revolving around a little campfire. The drive down was so smooth and spirits were high... suprisingly the weather was brilliant (emphasised by the heavy rain that hit the day after we had left). The view of Wolgan Valley always gets me; so deep, so wide and so infinite in charm. The camp ground we set up was long and boardered the river, under the shade of surrounding trees that were housed by a curious possum who was well fed, thanks to us. A few tried to kill him, but he was so small and docile. I'm glad Nick didn't manage to hurt him, but I can't imagine Nick being able to do... anything. I ate a strange amount, considering my normal diet. There was a lot of frisbee, soccer and football going on most of the time and the group was organised to the point that I felt at home (if not slightly polar to the seemingly random events of nature). Pictures were a plenty, thankfully, and I cannot honestly think of a complaint... oh, actually; Stinging Nettles... my complanit is Stinging Nettles.
Being the celebratory occasion that it was, I did drink. That's right Mum, I got wasted. I'll let that sink in... hahaha, okay. I didn't. I did drink though, but I didn't come out of it badly. This birthed the quote/title of this blog "the World is brighter upside down"- William. To an extent, it is true. Night 1, I drank a little amount (I stopped counting after the vodka) and took to singing with the Twins. The Twins, for you uninformed few, are Admirals in Awesome. Here's some pictures of them;

We sang a long list of songs from a long list of artists, lyrics optional, ranging from NIRVANA to the Beatles. Fuelled by alcohol and Oreos, we sang well into the night, before being abused and going to bed. That night, I learned "Being drunk is strangely freeing, but also causes you to act moronically". It wasn't a huge suprise. Sadly, after the Twins had left I found my true feet as a Drunk Scholar and Philosopher. The second night I drank more, and although I was mentally fine, my body was a slight bit awkward. I roamed into the darkness countless times, once hearing Dykes in the distance screaming "Ryan's missing! He's my bestfriend, we need to save him"... incase you can't guess, Dykes is a weak drunk and technically speaking "could not handle his shit". I felt annoyed by how stupid a few other drunks were, I said at one stage "don't you hate the fact that this night seems so epic and special, so new... to me anyway, and yet every minute mechanic and impressive tweak in this universe simply continues on regardless?"
Will replied "No, I - it doesn't it's like... because this IS...", he mumbled for a while and I replied "Forget opinion, it's fact". I was convinced I was the only sober one lying in the field at that moment who was sober (besides Caitlin, lying quietly on my right). That was until I stood up and found I wasn't all so sober. Still, this drug seemed so powerful in unleashing bliss and confidence, coupled with deep thought and the strange puppet-like movements which sparked a wonderful sense of creativity in me while leaving one or two others confused messes. I can't imagine wanting to do this each weekend, or even bimonthly... it needs a reason. Not only because of the price, but because I enjoy the surreal feeling of walking like a spaceman, having my voice heard and having my thoughts so uni-tracked and free... not because I want to look like a man by stomaching more than anyone else. I enjoyed the party, the alcohol was a medium rather than a purpose and I don't for one bit regret lying in the wet grass, holding hands with Aron talking about shooting stars, aliens and light.
By the time this light has reached your eyes, a World has lived and died...
... but we're here.

Thursday, August 5, 2010

Dr. Manhattan

"Looking out the door I see the rain fall upon the funeral mourners
Parading in a wake of sad relations as their shoes fill up with water
Maybe I'm too young
To keep good love from going wrong
But tonight, you're on my mind so
You never know
Too young to hold on
And too old to just break free and run
He has no-one."

Don't you hate drawing parallels between yourself and something so depressing as this. I love 'Watchmen' to the point of rereading so many times... I often get compulsions to find a single image I remember from my first read through. I model so much of my photography after it's art; reflections, silhouettes, contrast, extreme colours... or occasionally extreme dulls. I love it so much and I hate the fact many people will never give it a run due to the fact it's a graphic novel, "What the fucks a graphic novel!? It's a comic book you faggot!"
I hate the fact that I feel socially absent even in the most social of occasions. I hate that I can laugh and feel like a jerk on the inside. I hate that I can make people laugh and feel like Pagliacci the Clown. Why do I feel so distant so often? Why do I crave solitude over romance? Why do I feel such a parallel between myself and such an esoteric, unhuman fictional character found in Comic Book? Sadly, I lack the superhuman powers, intelligence... but I have the love of self-isolation, routine and over-analysis.

"The light is taking me to pieces."

Atleast I'm still human... and I do have fun. I still have that. Camping will be a good release. I hope everyone turns up and I can just relax for 3 days and the 2 nights...


Wednesday, August 4, 2010

Pre-war, pre-camp.

"Perfect photographs
Of Everest days
And postcard nights
Tearing through the paper walls of time

With sunset eyes
Telethons, Grand Canyon hearts
You numb your mind
With gloves of white and turpentine
Even the bombs and scarecrows will sing!"

I've thought in great detail about Nuclear War lately.

I agree. That sounds unhealthy, but it's human. I don't fear it or expect it... rather I just think. Unleashing the power of an Atom seems so unnatural, and yet it's really just showing the potential that already exists. I blame all the Sci-Fi I watch, play & read. It's so good though! I trust the Russian's... Korea is the one most people think will trigger the hail of bombs, intercontinental exchange followed by the long silence. I actually think Earth may appreciate man destroying himself.
Sarah Teasdale wrote a piece of poetry on the subject back in the 1920's called 'There Will Come Soft Rains';

"There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
And frogs in the pool singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white;
Robins will wear their feathery fire,
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,
If mankind perished utterly;
And Spring herself when she woke at dawn
Would scarcely know that we were gone. "

I like the idea of the birds not holding any grudges.

I did my resource shopping today for Caitlin & Rob's party today. I'm very much looking forward to it, I love camping. I think I might grab a notepad and jot down my thoughts there and churn that into a blog. I'm still throwing up whether I want to drink or not... sobriety is great if theres someone to be sober with, but I expect Caitlin will want to drink as it is her 18th and it'd be lousy without the traditional drinks associated. I guess I'll drink... maybe I'll be the medic again - get a full shoe of vomit again. I hope Nick controls himself this time and I hope Will manages to not die... it'd be terrible if he got as sick as he did last time in the vast depth of the bush. I also hope lots of people come. I feel like socialising and I always make a better impression outside of school. At school I just walk fast, touching window sills, clicking my fingers and other things similarly. I feel less constricted outside.

Before I go, I now have 7 followers. I think that can be considered a 'small gathering'. Zoe, Emily, David, Caitlin... Voldemort... Copernicus... my Mum. Right... hey Moom. Thank y'all for following me into the mystical realm of Blog... and Caterina; official apology for being such a grump. I can't help but think negatively. Thank you for the song and enjoy your e-mail.
Also; eh hem... Caitlin, you are currently being mentioned. Good effort, champ.


... I mean, Adios.

Sunday, August 1, 2010

A boy stuck in the 70's.

"You float like a feather,
In a beautiful world,
I wish I was special,
You're so fuckin' special.
I want to have control,
I want a perfect body,
I want a perfect soul."

These are Green, plastic Army Men that I was playing with recently. There should be no other variety. These little men came from little moulds, forged in the image of men destined to die. I played with Army Men a lot as a kid... although many got melted with magnifying glasses. Occasionally, I'd piece them apart, carefully, and then melt them back together in new poses... segmenting their limbs and making them look more 'battle ready'. I mean, look at Mr. Balacklava on the left. One hand akimbo, the other thrusted into the air... although the shadow hides it, he is holding a small pistol. Deadly. On the right, the soldier has his left hand floating below the gun, making no contact. I could make him look better. The point of me writing this is History. I like learning history, seeing how then became now... but I hate regurgitating it. I don't like being told "No! You need to emphasise the death, desolation... how cruel man can be. How selfish, pompous, loathing - how cancererous man is upon himself. Understand? Your pen should run red with the blood of the fallen soldiers, trivialised in your simple hand writing... you need to detail mass murder to inhance your marks. Ryan! You miss the point. You write the eulogies, I give the marks."

This is why History leaves me feeling depressed...

In response to the title, I actually don't mean the 1970's. I mean 70%. On my trials, every exam ended in the proximity of 70%. I don't mind 70%, but I feel so far off where I want to be. I still don't know what profession I'll follow... or if I'll simply spend all my savings on many fine suits and live in the hills. A Debonaire Mountain Man. Sitting in a cave, legs crossed sipping Eucalyptus Tea... tie straight as an arrow, face gaunt with sophisticated delight and hair twisled fashionably. I guess I'd die rather quickly. Still... 70.

The snow today was so magnificent. I truly wished it settled so I could march home through. I love the crunch - how it seems to hold you up for a single moment and then give in... and the cold. I love the cold. I love being cold and knowing how relaxing it is to get warm again. I love music written for the cold. I love cold colours... even more than I like eccentric colours. I saw this blind man once, he had dark skin and the palest shade of blue you could ever imagine. I wished I had eyes so noticable. Ironically, he'd never see them... they were probably that blue because they had never been stimulated. The pigment fading after being hidden by black glasses all of his life. I was lucky enough to see them and I still remember them. I love cold colours.