Friday, February 18, 2011
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - and so on.
But the time will come,
When these numbers have all ended,
And all I ever seen will be forgotten.
When my days are gone?
Life's not young,
So I hope when,
That you gather 'round,
As I am in lowered into the ground"
Things are mediocre. I'm feeling increasingly like a tinman. Not the singing type, either.
Life's going smoothly, every thing is dandy, I consider myself very lucky ... yet, I'm still rusty. I miss being able to make people laugh by putting on silly voices. I miss offering people balloon animals when they're sad. I miss taking photographs ... it's been so long. I miss cleaning my carpark. I miss Harold, on my walks. I saw him the other day, trying to relive my morning routine (at midday). He had aged 10 years, his eyes weren't focused, his voice was so quiet and he said "You're a nice man. Any girl you gets you is a nice girl, too."
I almost cried. I doubt I'll see him alive again, having moved and seeing him then. He called me a man. A nice man. As though I had lived to a degree that I was a man. My father has always called me Redman. More than he has called me Ryan, infact. I don't hear my name from family. I'm 'Nino', 'Neen', 'Rhyno', 'Red', 'Redman' and, occasionally and to my discomfort 'Ryry' or, the worst, 'Rynie-Dynie Doodoo'. Point being, I'm not a man. I won't deny that I'm nice, because I try an aweful lot to come across as nice - or at the very least likable.
Change is good, I suppose. Not for Harold, but I'm not Harold. I'm Nino.
This is why I'm going to stop blogging here. I'm packing up and moving to Tumblr. A site that I don't know my way around. A change from what I started getting used to. Perhaps I'll stop altogether. Either way, all mediocre things must come to end. This relationship I have with my blog is something I didn't think I could have. I never realised how uninspired and square my thoughts are. Like I claim all the time; I'm not good at anything, I'm just enthusiastic.
If you want the address to my tumblr, which I'll have up in the next couple of days, message me on Facebook. I'm not deleting this blog, still. I'm too egotistical to destroy my own work.
Also, I have to stop condemning myself so much. A self-loathing egotist. Oh God.
Where's my mind?
I still don't know.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
"Oh, the shark has,
pretty teeth, dear,
And it shows them - pearly white.
Just a jackknife
Has MacHeath, babe,
And he keeps it - way out of sight.
When that shark bites,
With his teeth, dear
Scarlet billows - begin to spread
Fancy gloves, wears,
Old MacHeath, babe
So there's never - never a trace of red."
I was not alive in 1947. I tried to be, but it didn't work out. I was born on September 7th, 1992.
When it comes to film, I love the old ones. The old American ones. European film is lovely, but my heart is with the American Dream. Not because I adore their values or think they had better directors and actors. Their ideals were outdated from the start and their directors and actors were pioneers, not masters (although a few were damn close)
What I love is the sound of the accents that are fading from existance. The Guido Tycoon, the 2nd Generation Irish Imigrant, the Traditional Jewish Parent. They're all just becoming 'American'. I also love how they pumped the American Dream into everything ... it almost seemed like they satired themselves. A nation of used car salesmen. Charismatic, proud and morally superior. 'Nuclear Family', 'Girl Next Door', 'Till Death Do We Part', 'Honey! I'm home!' ... 'In God We Trust'.
That's why I want to go to America. American TV raised me and I want to show it how good a student I am. I want to talk like an American in Cafes and see if they pick up. I want a MEDIUM McDonalds meal ... although I doubt I'll finish. I want to 'hail' a 'cab'. I want to fill the car with 'gas'. I want to shout "Hey, I'm walkin' 'ere!" while crossing a New York street.
Considering what I've said so far ... the next picture might confuse you.
Yeah, this is 'one of those' Blogs. Still, it's sprinkled with national pride and personal meaning. Why do I always feel like I need to explain myself to you, Mr. Blog. Do your job and just trust me.
It's being employed from a game titled LA Noire. Heres a picture of what it can do;
Maybe you don't find this kind of facial mapping as amazing as I do ... but until you seen a CG man twitch, and look to the side in a manner that hints that he is lying without the motion being obvious ... well, you can't judge my interests. The subtlety of these actors faces are perfectly implemented and used as a game mechanic. I try to convince people that games are just films but three dimensional and completely explorable, and many people don't listen. Some games use a gameplay element online multiplayer. That never interested me hugely. This game allows you to literally read the faces of actors, playing the roles of characters and step into the shoes of a Detective. Follow leads, explore the city, question witnesses, search for evidence and solve crimes. Trust me, it's better than watching someone else do. We're entering a new chapter of human entertainment ... and I'm excited that Australia, Bondi, is heading the movement.
Here's too the American Dream!
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Actually, I don't have predetermined time periods.
This ... time, I wrote a poem for someone very special to me. They've been there in the thick and the thin. During my Ebola scare, during my tetraplegia, leading up to my disappearance and following my reemergence ... during my drowning and all through my deep depression caused by the knowledge that dexterity does not apply to feet. Rather, feet accuracy is called podexterity, apparently. That turned my lift down on its bloated head.
Here's the poem, I'll elaborate afterwards;
Heated dust - a loving thing,
The bones of drones asunder sing,
And in my purse,
By Mummies curse,
I find a humble commodity.
Love is not for losing soul,
Like Elder Scrolls from chapels - stole,
But if you spy,
This milky eye,
Ten points in Scrabble diagonally,
Urge submerged in back allies.
I want you to come back and carry me home,
Away from these long lonely nights,
I'm reaching for you, are you feeling it too,
Does the feeling seem oh so right,
And what would you say if I called on you now,
And said that I can't hold on,
There's no easy way, it gets harder each day,
Please love me or I'll be gone, I'll be gone.
And so by some foreign twist,
Of God's slimey reptile wrist,
A sea of hair,
He says you are the Prodigy.
It took eleven minutes to write and I stole the third bit from 'I'm All Out Of Love' by Air Supply. The message remains the same, obvious as it may be. It's about a young boy I know name Bilfred Saint Guest. He was absent in most defining parts of my life and is actually more of a supporting role in my life. Like one of the murder victims in CSI: Miami. I get to be the guy with the glasses who always says things like "I'm DYING to solve this mystery", "what's a corpse like you doing in a public toilet like this" or "Hey, dead guy. You look DEAD tired."
Long story short. Billy exists.
I'm an idiot and have a lame sense of humour.
Billy, here's to you and all that Voodoo that you do so well.