About Me

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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.

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.