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.

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.