tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76323577864279327832024-03-13T22:16:25.819-07:00WHERE'S MY MIND?... between science and superstition...Rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12932402562676178413noreply@blogger.comBlogger39125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632357786427932783.post-80463618428293792912011-02-18T23:47:00.000-08:002011-02-18T23:51:02.194-08:00Grand father.This is for my Grand Pappy, who likes my blog.<br /><div align="left"><a href="http://rhodg.tumblr.com/">http://rhodg.tumblr.com/</a></div><div align="left">Enjoy the exact same thing in a different place, hahahaha. Love you Pop!</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left">Adios.</div>Rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12932402562676178413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632357786427932783.post-74718520929375008632011-02-15T18:39:00.000-08:002011-02-15T19:05:10.156-08:00All Mediocre Things Must Come To An End<div align="center"><em>"I'm still young, </em></div><div align="center"><em>But I know my days are numbered<br />1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - and so on.<br /><br />But the time will come,<br />When these numbers have all ended,<br />And all I ever seen will be forgotten.</em></div><div align="center"><em>Won't you come to my funeral,<br />When my days are gone?<br />Life's not young,<br />So I hope when,</em></div><div align="center"><em>I'm finally dead and gone,<br />That you gather 'round,<br />As I am in lowered into the ground"</em></div><p><em></em> </p><p align="left">Things are mediocre. I'm feeling increasingly like a tinman. Not the singing type, either.<br />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 <em>"You're a nice man. Any girl you gets you is a nice girl, too."<br /></em>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.<br /><br />Change is good, I suppose. Not for Harold, but I'm not Harold. I'm Nino.<br />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.<br /><br />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.<br />Also, I have to stop condemning myself so much. A self-loathing egotist. Oh God.<br /></p><p align="left">Where's my mind?<br />I still don't know.<br /><br />Adios.</p>Rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12932402562676178413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632357786427932783.post-81494329564337757662011-02-10T21:42:00.000-08:002011-02-10T23:03:35.968-08:00LA Noire<p align="center"><em>"Oh, the shark has,<br />pretty teeth, dear,<br />And it shows them - pearly white.<br />Just a jackknife<br />Has MacHeath, babe,<br />And he keeps it - way out of sight.<br /><br />When that shark bites,<br />With his teeth, dear<br />Scarlet billows - begin to spread<br />Fancy gloves, wears,<br />Old MacHeath, babe<br />So there's never - never a trace of red." </em><br /></p><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZLaidnDALIOfbectm6K58ReORHM-mLsIS1nE4XxpJW3HOZvvKWZfPEdvFm7CAtj5yxkTbWt8I9ZxoyZ3rL9Xs2Ev2Wtgl_sFIijEfIqXig9r9TDgRSMH-bJezdgZftAmCp0sN56P1YFOY/s1600/Came3.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 251px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572305528009990002" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZLaidnDALIOfbectm6K58ReORHM-mLsIS1nE4XxpJW3HOZvvKWZfPEdvFm7CAtj5yxkTbWt8I9ZxoyZ3rL9Xs2Ev2Wtgl_sFIijEfIqXig9r9TDgRSMH-bJezdgZftAmCp0sN56P1YFOY/s320/Came3.jpg" /></a></p><p align="center"><br /></p>I was not alive in 1947. I tried to be, but it didn't work out. I was born on September 7th, 1992.<br /><br />When it comes to film, I love the old ones. The old <strong>American </strong>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)<br />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'.<br />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 <em>"Hey, I'm walkin' 'ere!"</em> while crossing a New York street.<br />Considering what I've said so far ... the next picture might confuse you.<br /><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtZEbto1CXLTnJQRmmpz_1jD8M1aq8e2XBIBft3GzT8rNZ6D6voIz_Y7nBxTP1ehBvbn6zhsDtTUyKBYoIUOiCHXs7B-jtSvz9t1kL3ySrhS955mQO2g3e6DiyfrzznC8C9W9YV4xUyi1E/s1600/came.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 214px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572305239090896594" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtZEbto1CXLTnJQRmmpz_1jD8M1aq8e2XBIBft3GzT8rNZ6D6voIz_Y7nBxTP1ehBvbn6zhsDtTUyKBYoIUOiCHXs7B-jtSvz9t1kL3ySrhS955mQO2g3e6DiyfrzznC8C9W9YV4xUyi1E/s320/came.jpg" /></a></p>The picture above is a camera rig that is built in Bondi. Right here in good old Australia. It's being used in the biggest industry on the planet. Remember what that industry is? Cement? Steel? Music? Film? ... nope. Video Games.<br />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.<br />It's being employed from a game titled LA Noire. Heres a picture of what it can do;<br /><br /><p align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 186px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572305363661795570" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFAvqOBCAtq-JkIhmUEtdrYdJmLZd_knnE3v212U5z1pPWLan3Sh0kiVUQFAmc6o8eOt109u5f_H7bFVkpHjQfagXyMnqIjmg49TtzPnW3fCJKJhScZ5ZGcZwM9x3s-t1_W_7ruS8hYdGZ/s320/came2.jpg" /></p>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.<br />Here's too the American Dream!<br /><br />Adios.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"></div>Rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12932402562676178413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632357786427932783.post-3163027759774894022011-02-08T02:45:00.000-08:002011-02-08T03:20:13.444-08:00Send me the Bill.This week ... month. Uh.<br />Actually, I don't have predetermined time periods.<br />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.<br /><br />Here's the poem, I'll elaborate afterwards;<br /><br /><em>Heated dust - a loving thing,</em><br /><em>The bones of drones asunder sing,</em><br /><em>And in my purse,</em><br /><em>By Mummies curse,</em><br /><em>I find a humble commodity.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Love is not for losing soul,</em><br /><em>Like Elder Scrolls from chapels - stole,</em><br /><em>But if you spy,</em><br /><em>This milky eye,</em><br /><em>Ten points in Scrabble diagonally,</em><br />Urge submerged in back allies.<br /><em></em><br /><em>I want you to come back a</em><em>nd carry me home,<br />Away from these long lonely nights,<br />I'm reaching for you, are you feeling it too,<br />Does the feeling seem oh so right,<br />And what would you say if I called on you now,<br />And said that I can't hold on,<br />There's no easy way, it gets harder each day,<br />Please love me or I'll be gone, I'll be gone.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>And so by some foreign twist,</em><br /><em>Of God's slimey reptile wrist,</em><br /><em>A sea of hair,</em><br /><em>And disrepair,</em><br /><em>He says you are the Prodigy.</em><br /><em></em><br />It took eleven minutes to write and I stole the third bit from <em>'I'm All Out Of Love' </em>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 <em>"I'm DYING to solve this mystery", "what's a corpse like you doing in a public toilet like this" </em>or<em> "Hey, dead guy. You look DEAD tired."</em><br /><br />Long story short. Billy exists.<br />I'm an idiot and have a lame sense of humour.<br /><br />Billy, here's to you and all that Voodoo that you do so well.<br /><br />Adios.<br /><em></em>Rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12932402562676178413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632357786427932783.post-51507620365537999182011-01-18T01:12:00.000-08:002011-01-18T15:55:23.905-08:00An Anniversary, a Birthday & a University update.<div align="center"><em>"You'll be older too,<br />And if you say the word,<br />I could stay with you.<br /></em><em>I could be handy, mending a fuse<br />When your lights have gone. </em><br /><em>You can knit a sweater by the fireside<br />Sunday mornings go for a ride,<br />Doing the garden, digging the weeds,<br />Who could ask for more?<br /></em><br /><em>Will you still need me, will you still feed me,<br />When I'm sixty-four?"<br /></em></div><br /><p align="left">Today is a magical day!<br />The 19th of January.<br />It was today, 365 days ago that I told Caitlin Knight that I love her and she giggled and didn't say a word for too long and I was freaking out. Then, not long after, she decided we would be better off as friends, and I agreed ... and by 'agreed', I mean went insane.<br />I did a lot of frowning, walking around ... taking pictures of cereal and puddles. I didn't handle it very well. I complained a lot and didn't change my socks. So, my idea was to write a lot of poetry for her. Letters, too, trying to explain my thoughts, saying things like;<br />"<em>Everytime I look at you, I just feel like none of this has happened. Your eyes never change. Your browline and mouth does change though, and it makes me feel sick to see you this concerned, but I know you desperately want me to move on and stop thinking about you</em> <em>... I'll try to be normal and comfortable for you. If your lucky, this will be the last time I ever feel compelled to tell you how I feel, how much I love you... If your lucky I'll get over you, but I don't think I can."<br /></em>... and sometime after that, she invited me over. It was weird, I had no idea why she did this. I ended up lying next to her as she was falling asleep, on her request. Once she was asleep I slipped back into the other room, into the vacant bed and fell asleep - more confused than ever. The following Monday was our half-yearly Trials and for my English Creative Writing segment, I simply wrote what happened. I got 100%. I showed Caitlin. All was well.<br />Of course, I was difficult too. I always had boundaries. I'm easily socially exhausted. I some how love being alone for large periods of time. No man's an island? Ha! I'm an island. I still feel this way, but it's slightly different. Like, I'm Tom Hanks and Caitlin is my Wilson - stranded together.<br />... at any rate, we're fine now. I miss Caitlin a great deal right now and it's only been 3 days since I last saw her. Before that, we spent everyday together for a 2 weeks. Her pig and I are best of pals. Her horse is jealous of the attention I recieve. Her dog stands between my larges and smiles. Her little sister thinks I'm the coolest person alive. Her mum likes our cooking. Her dad likes my humour. I love her.<br />Here's to Cait!<br /><br />She is part of my family now;</p><p align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 352px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563458982815097538" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3lEjkdPxLDpRfoHgmnbyLv0RmWKuOXaIVpdL2fzjPAhoYXmU9xUyhyphenhyphenHW_YobehXKLkPwpUxAD0w0mXFSUBIiGb-TMGF_sSM6sk47CEfqbIRp2SmqpkbJZcQJ6tm2QbcIXJfRU56OCdE2z/s400/3.jpg" /></p><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYH8UmOfn5Lde_iugPYXKCA0MlCNDsmflzPs3IVVGAZkqDEZ7Bw3hV4lKW_AXq8qW9L_Injrfuwk_pRXUNGnV1qjMFmP6Ly4QjESg4nVgHADuzZJn9VMzOLcrZej0OLWKTpvNRrsH9BxUq/s1600/1.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 347px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563456717330206482" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYH8UmOfn5Lde_iugPYXKCA0MlCNDsmflzPs3IVVGAZkqDEZ7Bw3hV4lKW_AXq8qW9L_Injrfuwk_pRXUNGnV1qjMFmP6Ly4QjESg4nVgHADuzZJn9VMzOLcrZej0OLWKTpvNRrsH9BxUq/s400/1.jpg" /></a></p><br /><p>Picture are; Cousin Miley being pushed by Cait on the swing. Cousin Shannyn with the wonderful blonde afro being pushed by Brother Aden ... with a headband.<br /><br />Today is also Cate (Voldemort)'s birthday! HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!<br />She is Caitlin's magical friend from Outer Space (Germany). At first, she was like a 'Behind The Scenes' option on Caitlin's life. Now, she is a friend. A great friend. When Cate and I join forces, we have the power to make Caitlin cry out of happiness. That is pretty special. It's pretty amazing to coincidentally meet someone on the other side of the world and instantly click into an 8 year friendship via mail. Cate & Cait are both very lucky for knowing each other. In fact, soon I'll have known Cate for a year and we can continue to write tales and advice for the next 80 years.<br />Here's to Cate! Hip-Hip ... HOORAY!<br /><br />Also, on a final note. We get our Uni notices back today. How exciting! :D<br /><br />Adios, amigos!</p>Rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12932402562676178413noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632357786427932783.post-89673533113899826422011-01-15T19:56:00.000-08:002011-01-15T20:36:28.705-08:00I must dash, Mr. Moustache. Farewell.<div align="center"><em>"Cats in the cradle and the silver spoon<br />Little boy blue and the man on the moon<br />When you comin' home 'stache?<br />I don't know when, but we'll get together then son<br />You know we'll have a good time then"<br /></em></div><br /><br />Caitlin told me to shave off my moustache, and so I did. Slowly.<br />I'll admit, it was a terrible growth. I tried to grow it at too young an age, but I was used to the feeling. Moustaches are so amazing. So, please vow a minute of silence for my fallen son.<br /><br /><br /><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoYLiJ1qe514oyOomRjQkcpArfqkOlEHHpCoCtJS-pFNaeT9m-U-xRFfDNhM1Q1D0nwbj6XMyynLQXcqUEe2l3QcuSOgwZNq-FwjjpaETiHpzuC4jkrzY9uVgk1w4-3VqTlbrT9SCIPXbJ/s1600/RIP.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 325px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5562629663308007938" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoYLiJ1qe514oyOomRjQkcpArfqkOlEHHpCoCtJS-pFNaeT9m-U-xRFfDNhM1Q1D0nwbj6XMyynLQXcqUEe2l3QcuSOgwZNq-FwjjpaETiHpzuC4jkrzY9uVgk1w4-3VqTlbrT9SCIPXbJ/s400/RIP.jpg" /></a></p><br />That aside, I'm already used to being naked-faced. Now, I'll grow another ... maybe later. When my face yields a good crop of hair. Straight, crimson shoots. Once I have a moustache I can actually be 100% proud of, and not just an experiment, I'll keep it. Caitlin disliked it, and I didn't treasure it too much, and so it died.<br />I also shaved my chin, which I personally saw as a major improvement. Here are Caitlin's documentations of the events. Be warned, the following content is graphic ... as all pictures are ... it's a stupid warning when you think about it.<br /><p align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 258px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5562634756414796482" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOBTC9-NmjoK0alNOZQNOhGUXYi5SsJpDUbxzzLWnn3fv0pe5_dyDhWh834gLFf9CFY2yWk4yQ7wPdMfO40RmUHC6zt-xgUoNSMD6tRCmIR6uAb6B56lomvmAZB4vUN8MOrU-YEK_6EDxz/s400/EVO.jpg" /></p><br />I love the reactions, they reflect my feelings exactly. Fear and sadness turned into an obnoxious<br />pride which soon transformed into regret and finally, shock. Also, I need another haircut! My God, my hair grows too fast and I only comb it once a month ... and by 'my God', I mean your God. If you don't have a God just insert some other significant item; "my Necklace!", "my Hat!", "my Sockpuppet!", "my Psychopharmicological Encyclopedia!" or "my ... Moustache!".<br />Sad Face.<br /><br />Adios.Rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12932402562676178413noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632357786427932783.post-55610592079173627802011-01-12T21:08:00.000-08:002011-01-13T14:12:01.727-08:00Geek or God?<strong><span style="color:#cc0000;">WARNING!</span></strong><br /><span style="color:#cc0000;"><em><strong>Nerd Post, Nerd Post!!</strong></em></span><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">"DOVAHKIIN, DOVAHKIIN. </span></strong><br /></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">NAAL OK ZIN LOS VAHRIIN WAH DEIN VOKUL MAHFAERAAK AHST VAAL. </span></strong><br /></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">AHRK FIN NOROK PAAL GRAAN. </span></strong><br /></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">FOD NUST HON ZINDRO ZIN. </span></strong><br /></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">DOVAHKIIN FAH HIN KOGAAN MU DRAAL.<br /></span></strong></div><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">AHRK FIN KEL LOST PRODAH DO VED VIING KO FIN KRAH. </span></strong><br /></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">TOL FOD ZEYMAH WIN KEIN MEYZ FUNDEIN. </span></strong><br /></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">ALDUIN FEYN DO JUN. </span></strong><br /></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">KRUZIIK VOKUN STAADNAU. </span></strong><br /></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">VOTH AAN BAHLOK WAH DIIVON FIN LEIN."<br /><br /></span></strong></div><br /><div align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">Not song lyrics those. Well, not officially. </span></span><br /></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">It's a prediction. Written in the 'Tongue of the Dragons', it tells of the Nord God Alduin returning after thousands of years to swallow the planet. </span></span><br /></div><div align="left">Not in reality, no. In Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim.<br />Think of Lord of the Rings, but completely interactive and much deeper. It's a game that represents thousands of years of fictional history. Elves, Man and Beastfolk living in a rich story. Here's a map of the 'game world'.<br /></div><br /><p align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561543216236010002" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-iTk7QzNK28ZhaVCcHcnFE8eTPx7M8SckIJQwW56zPzGLVqBlAcO9R6hY7HLtB7L4heuqPAEpxtCpqy3zd4tjOn70n7DgsgFJWXdBVOSjFem-FpDwlZnrM7fbmv-LqvfMTOgZYJj2b1K0/s400/cartes_tamriel.jpg" /></p><br /><p>There are few things I enjoy more than a deep story and being allowed to personify myself in a fictional character. Its such a God-like feeling. Its like acting, filming, writing, reading and dreaming all at once. The reason I put the warning at the top is that many people are closed-minded when it comes to fantasy, sci-fi and video games. As though geeks and gamers are lazy, unattractive people with no imagination of their own. These people are idiots. Games have nurtured me through-out life, expanded my intrests of art, music and humour. They have given me an escape from reality and also a reason to delve back in. I'm a gamer.<br /></p><p align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 118px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561547180856850450" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjDLPvn6SZ92F8EYYDDGUb0lhJXOqdx2qcojBPZPhs95kAA9R5wLk-mefvvk7Tq37NVNrP5_a6AGiO6y8bRJvdA3hM4cqFup7BKing0IJbkhbRWWOPxkFCSDJVWENq5HWEEdLbq6FyaeD-/s320/Races.jpg" /></p><p><br />These are 4 of the 10 playable races. The Imperials, one of the Human races, along with the Nords and Redguard. The Elves, this one being a Bosmer (Wood Elf), others include High Elves, Dark Elves and Orcs. The 3rd is a Breton, a child of both Human and Elvish blood. Then theres a Khajiit, one of the two featured Beastfolk, the other being the Lizard-like Aragonians.<br />That Asia-sized Continent above is populated with these races along with various 'wildlife' creatures. I personally love it. I can understand if you don't.<br /><br />While I'm on this geeky subject, I thought I should mention that I found some old Warhammer figurines. John, Nick and I used to have lengthy debates about those pieces of plastic. Once again, we learned centuries of History that had no relevance to ... anything. It was all good, expensive fun. Painting is always fun and I loved creating terrain to play on.<br /><br />So, back to Elder Scrolls. The newest title to the series is Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim. Set in the world's Scandinavian equivalent. Each previous game (spanning from 1994) has heralded a step in a prophecy. After all boxes have been ticked, the God-Dragon Alduin will swallow the planet. The last box being a Nordic Civil War, exactly like the one in this game.<br />Begin Apocalypse.<br />I'm excited.<br /><br />Sorry if I bored you,<br />Adios.</p>Rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12932402562676178413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632357786427932783.post-28702480386186256692011-01-06T16:21:00.000-08:002011-01-06T17:19:24.702-08:00My Adam Green Day<div align="center"><em>"Vain, </em><br /></div><div align="center"><em>Underground, </em><br /></div><div align="center"><em>Fist, </em><br /></div><div align="center"><em>Face down.<br />Bruise as they heal my pain.<br />Food on the flight.<br />Bread, </em><br /></div><div align="center"><em>Fist, </em></div><div align="center"><em>Bite.</em></div><div align="center"><em><br />Draw from the orange juice crane.<br />Picture a person you've forgotten.<br />kissing your brother </em></div><div align="center"><em>Or your friend.<br />Picture a wounded entertainer.<br />Cutting his hair again."</em><br /><br /></div><br /><p>Ah, Adam. You so fine, baby.<br />So, this theme was inspired in many coincidental way. I felt like listening to him last night because I've felt very strange lately. He makes strange feel sexy. Like a sexy clown or woman in a fish suit. It is possible, but only in the right light. A green light, apparently. Adam is that is light. So, I listen to him and the thoughts of worthlessness and inability to stand for myself vanish. I feel comfortable when I think <em>"if my life does not go how I wish, I'll live with monks or the Amish ... I'd even settle for busking on the street, reading Fairy Tales to depressed business men."<br /></em>I consider that a rich fall-back plan.<br />The second ingredient to this theme is Cate commenting on my last post. It reminded me of a photo she sent me once of her, with a caption reading <em>"Me, having an Adam Green Day",</em> or something to that effect. I think she was referring to her dishevelled hair. I actually recognised the resemblance, but I think it was her eyes, in the way Mr. Green's always look sadly perfect. The night I recieved that picture, Adam was on RockWiz and wore tight jeans and a plastic jacket that he continually threw off. Here's a little clip of one song I've taken a shining too.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/GnSvrnoKiYA?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/GnSvrnoKiYA?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />I love the Cat, the dancing, the top hat, the use of the name Eleanor, the fish bowl and, as the icing on the cake, his imperfect strike. Nine pins down. I love 9 ... or do I hate it? I lose track of my own emotions.<br />The last slice of inspiration was from Caitlin whom lets me show her any music I please. I don't think I've shown her Adam Green and I'm excited to. I think she'll like him. Sharing is Caring.</p><p align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 228px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559238828349772082" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjClw4Fxv8l3pc_kyXNmZd2Xq_M8TRRCz7Hx9EDeKZ2Ejj3jarcNSujbzDVMY3S3Hft5WODxfeQqu_1xDjXqxigePM7BxCYm9dv7ZgqYYok_JDnl8ont49O7ptjfLR015WEQrAXHdFIvKw_/s320/Foryanmal.jpg" /></p><p><br />This is a picture of me. Dorian Grayesque was my attempt. Modern-er. I like my hair. I actually planned to print off a stack, leave them next to my bed and, on bad mornings, tear one up. Maybe two. Rip apart my sad, old face and suit and put on my Sonic the Hedgehog shirt and joggers and live as a 18 year old, socially awkward boy with a life many would kill for. I'm over the suit phase. I still prefer short hair and moustaches (even if it makes me look more awkward), but suits seem too much. I love wearing them ... but I don't want to be one. I don't want the suit to wear me. I do love my tie collection, however ... and my hats.<br />Speaking of clothing. My darling glasses, the Aviators which I saw every morning with. My saftey blanket, dangling from my neck or draped across my 'romantic' nose. Ha ha!<br />It's not really funny, it's just be a while since I thought that. Anyway, the intense heat lately has damaged them. The glass expanded in their frames and cracked, chipped. I look asthough I've been hit in the face when I wear them. I still kind of liking them. Adds character. Similar to when we did dancing at school and I'd place one of my G.I Joe toys in my front pocket just so the girls would ask <em>"Why is there an army man in your pocket?"<br /></em>Now I might get people asking <em>"Who hit you?" </em>or<em> "What did you do?"<br /></em>I'll take an arrogant breathe through my nose, smirk and reply <em>"You should see the other guy."<br /><br /></em>I guess I should also, officially, say Happy New Year!<br />Enjoy what you're doing. Even if you hate it.<br />2011. Two years until December of 2012 when all of the lunatics will scream followed by bone-shattering shame. This one Danish man I saw on a Doco has spent his life savings and worked himself into a few million dollars of debt by loaning huge amounts and building a shelter in Madagascar for the 2012 Dooms Day. Caitlin asked <em>"If he survives in the shelter, how will he get off Madagascar?" </em><br />Maybe on one of the UFOs that the secret organisation that killed JFK is hiding in Area 51.<br />I want to see his face as the sun comes up and the birds are chattering away ... the sun glowing naturally. I hate the idea of 2012. I KNOW there will be many suicides out of fear. People have already planned it and yet live happily now waiting for the date. They'll never know they were wrong. They're being punished for believing a story written by nuts. Y2k all over again but on a much more massive scale. People fear nature more than science. The sun is more aggressive than computers.</p><p>Adios.</p>Rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12932402562676178413noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632357786427932783.post-23912896661584012902010-12-25T22:40:00.000-08:002010-12-25T23:37:24.103-08:00Deck the Silent Jingle.<div align="center"><em>"It's coming on Christmas,</em><br /></div><div align="center"><em>They're cutting down trees, </em><br /></div><div align="center"><em>They're putting up Reindeer,</em><br /></div><div align="center"><em>And singing songs of Joy & Peace,</em><br /></div><div align="center"><em>Oh, I wish I had a river,</em><br /></div><div align="center"><em>I could skate away on.</em><br /></div><div align="center"><em><br />But it don't snow here,</em> </div><div align="center"><em>It stays pretty green,</em><br /></div><div align="center"><em>I'm gunna make a lot of money,</em><br /></div><div align="center"><em>Then I'm gunna quit this crazy scene,</em><br /></div><div align="center"><em>I wish I had a river,</em><br /></div><div align="center"><em>I could skate away on."<br /></div><p align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 164px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5554880162148600738" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvAWPz9W52BncaCrL_chT236FfoV-G_CCGDyEdmcwGwdj5gaFwj5RzdK2olSaWKEvcRZpmtM8d-YiA8cEqBQM6kxs5e-FOvfGYuMTWelJdFc4ytfY5HZexrM-wMxbL5KfjTdNh04mh3Zw6/s320/haunted+tree+2.jpg" /></p><div align="left"><br /></em>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 <em>"on TV, they said ladders are more dangerous that Terrorists". </em>I didn't really want to know that, but I suppose ladders are more frequently experienced than Terrorists. </div><div align="left">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 <strong>Genius.</strong></div><div align="left"></div><div align="center"><em><br /><br />"I've got a bitter pot of 'je ne sais quoi'</em></div><div align="center"><em>Guess what - I'm stirring it with a Monkey's Paw</em></div><div align="center"><em>...</em></div><div align="center"><em>Mata Hari had a house in France,</em></div><div align="center"><em>Where she worked on all her secret plans,</em></div><div align="center"><em>Men were falling for her sight unseen,</em></div><div align="center"><em>She was a</em> <strong><em>Genius</em></strong>.<br /></div><div align="center"><em>There's a face in every window of the Songwriter's Neighbourhood,</em></div><div align="center"><em>Everyone's your best friend when you're doing well - I mean, good,</em></div><div align="center"><em>The poet who lived next door when you were young and poor,</em></div><div align="center"><em>Grew up to be a backstabbing Entrepreneur.</em><em><br /><br />Your protege don't care about art,</em></div><div align="center"><em>I'm the one who always told you you were smart,</em></div><div align="center"><em>You broke my heart into smithereens,</em></div><div align="center"><em>And that took <strong>Genius</strong>.</em><em><br /><br />You and the Barber make a handsome pair,</em></div><div align="center"><em>Guess what - I never liked the way he cut your hair,</em></div><div align="center"><em>I didn't like the way he turned your head,</em></div><div align="center"><em>But there's nothing I can do or say, I haven't done or said</em></div><div align="center"><em>...</em></div><div align="center"><em>If I could clean my record,</em></div><div align="center"><em>I'd be a <strong>Genius</strong>."</em></div><div align="center"><em></em></div><div align="left"><br /><br />Adios.</div>Rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12932402562676178413noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632357786427932783.post-73278412068317540932010-12-12T04:11:00.000-08:002010-12-12T04:55:31.865-08:00Rise, Lazerus, rise!<div align="center"><em>"As the cheerless towns pass my window<br />I can see a washed out moon through the fog</em></div><div align="center">And then a voice inside my head, breaks the analogue</div><div align="center">And says... <em>"</em></div><div align="center"><em></em> </div><div align="left"><em>"Another Blog?!",</em> no one asks.</div><div align="left"><em>"Yes, another",</em> Ryan spoke while staring at my reflection painted in the rear-window of my house <em>"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."</em></div><div align="left"><em>"Oh Ryan! Enough of that! Stop playing with the Christmas Tree and the dishes! Stop pacing. Stop being selfish!"</em> replied no one in the same tone as always.</div><div align="left"><em>"Yes. Okay",</em> Ryan muttered <em>"only if you listen to me."</em></div><div align="left"><em></em> </div><div align="left"><em>Aweful*</em></div><div align="left">Awesome is good. Aweful is bad.</div><div align="left">Why is some awe good while being full of awe is bad? Is it like an overdose?</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left">Reason for this Blog; ? ? ? ? ? ? ?</div><div align="left">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.</div><div align="left">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 <em>"I expect big things from you in the future" </em>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.</div><div align="left">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 <em>"my father is insane" and they'd laugh.</em></div><div align="left">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"</div><div align="left">She'd turn up.</div><div align="left">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.</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left">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. </div><div align="left"><em></em> </div><div align="left">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.</div><div align="left">I need positive reinforcement. Gaaaaaaaah! I'm stupid.</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left">Adios.</div><div align="left">You know, that means "To God". Have I said that. I mean it as good bye.</div><div align="left">Adios.</div>Rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12932402562676178413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632357786427932783.post-79670024914128854642010-12-11T23:06:00.000-08:002010-12-11T23:44:12.563-08:00Festivities. Family. Wizards.<div align="center"><em>"He hung himself with a guitar string<br />A slab of turkey neck and it's hangin' from a pigeon wing<br />You can't write if you can't relate<br />Trade the cash for the beef, for the body, for the hate<br />And my time is a piece of wax </em></div><div align="center"><em>fallin' on a termite<br />He's chokin' on the splinters<br /><br />Soy un perdedor<br />I'm a loser baby, so why don't you kill me?<br />(Get crazy with the cheese whiz)"<br /></em></div><div align="center"><em> </div></em><div align="left">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. </div><div align="left">I'm smiling.</div><div align="left">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.</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left">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. </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left">Christmas time is a nice time. Little Miley (I plan on uploading some photos in the next post) was shouting yesterday <em>"Samdafs Tummin!",</em> which roughly translates to <em>"Cousin, did you know Santa is coming?" </em></div><div align="left">I kept saying <em>"Gandalf's coming?!" </em>and she'd look at me madly and say <em>"Noo! Samdafs!"</em></div><div align="left">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. </div><div align="left">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;</div><div align="left">And-eegs</div><div align="left">Rashworth</div><div align="left">Snortimer</div><div align="left">Piggy Sue</div><div align="left">Bore-is<br />St. Pignatius<br />Little Hog-kinson</div><div align="left">Eh? Eh? How about them? Hahahaha. I like Boston too.</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left">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. </div><div align="left">Oh! Tomorrow I'll upload a picture of my Christmas tree.</div><div align="left">What do I buy people for Christmas... hmmm... I hate choosing gifts. </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left">I have attended two 80th birthdays in the past two weeks. Impressive, yes?</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left">Adios.</div>Rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12932402562676178413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632357786427932783.post-35417058729806628982010-12-03T00:01:00.000-08:002010-12-03T00:59:48.213-08:00Full Dark, No Stars<div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="body"><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong><em>"</em>If you read this, I love you."</strong></span></span><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span class="body"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;"><em></em></span></span></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><em><span class="body"><span style="font-size:85%;">"Each life makes its own immitation of immortality.</span></span><br /><span class="body"><span style="font-size:85%;">Fiction is the truth inside the lie.</span></span><br /><span class="body"><span style="font-size:85%;">French is the language that turns dirt into romance.</span></span><br /><span class="body"><span style="font-size:85%;">Get busy living, or get busy dying.</span></span> </em><br /><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="body"><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>He had a massive stroke. He died with his tie on. </em></span></span><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="body"><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>Do you think that could be our generation's equivalent </em></span></span><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="body"><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>of that old saying </em></span></span><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span class="body"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;"><em>about dying with your boots on?"</em></span></span></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><span class="body"><em><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;"></span></em></span></div><p align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 226px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546367284142059010" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgrlY8zJ3tHlOhtrKxAevSUrpPDFFR0FMiMbPQRuu9nC3d7zAhSm98RbDfKDbaoFG0b3yU3sdIvRCkIkQUhgg_FaVjlKDi7ijRha9nEgfquWitzk-ZDwTomrqY92SxPeiEGwsVlyKth-XH/s320/1922.jpg" /></p><br /><br /><div align="left"><span class="body" style="font-family:georgia;">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;</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><strong>1922: </strong>This one's a story, told in hind-sight, about a farmer, father & apparently terrible husband. It opens with the line <em>"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."</em></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;">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 ...</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;">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 <em>Villains</em>, 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.</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;">... 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 <strong>'Wilfred Leland James' Great Depression'</strong>. </span></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><strong></strong></div><div align="left"><strong></strong> </div><div align="left"><strong></strong> </div><div align="left"><strong>Big Driver: </strong>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.</div><div align="left">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'. </div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left">The current Novella, <strong>A Good Marriage</strong>, 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! </div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">That's all.</div><div align="left">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. </div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">Adios.</div>Rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12932402562676178413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632357786427932783.post-82213214726635687182010-11-13T22:30:00.000-08:002010-11-14T01:52:44.787-08:00Diane. It's 5:35, 14th of November, 2010 ... and lemme tell you ...<div align="left"><br /></div><div align="center"><em>"</em>Now, I'd like two eggs.<br />Over hard.<br />I know, don't tell me; 'it's hard on the arteries', but old habits die hard.<br />Just about as hard as I want those eggs.<br />Bacon;<br />Super-crispy.<br />Almost burned.<br />Cremated.<br />That's great.<br />And, I'll have the grapefruit juice, just as long as those grapefruits.<br />Are freshly squeezed."</div><p align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 142px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 207px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539292245356579618" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqzBlYdXxeL6PPOPdzjc21OAkc1qjaRdRK7_kplT6c8uXtPL4cbYINceYzYt7jpBXErl_vgcxU-AhvWwXisc3eJEwl_4pKbn58leCSj37EUy0lEkwUEaU7az2ZTWaUkokbNB-W-dJEaMSd/s320/001.jpg" /></p><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="left">Not lyrics, no. Better. History. Good history.<br />This Blog is about ... lets say;<br /><strong>Schoolies.<br /></strong><strong>Money.<br /></strong><strong>Hair.</strong></div><div align="left"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbroAr_D2RVuKERvEPSN7-T6ZBzS_tXJquTNjT4XndtN8OzryLl1k4pk3GPlUgBzArpPnJZXGOLr0bTblsDp_rZAIVa-2Hypc01v-rfPNqNW-1184tmzQJrGpmSgAaJXgCivueDVQRChcO/s1600/Zoo.jpg"></a></div><div align="left"><br />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.</div><div align="left">We're going else where. A girl has a holiday house which seems to have become the <p align="right"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbroAr_D2RVuKERvEPSN7-T6ZBzS_tXJquTNjT4XndtN8OzryLl1k4pk3GPlUgBzArpPnJZXGOLr0bTblsDp_rZAIVa-2Hypc01v-rfPNqNW-1184tmzQJrGpmSgAaJXgCivueDVQRChcO/s1600/Zoo.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 79px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539339737610082562" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbroAr_D2RVuKERvEPSN7-T6ZBzS_tXJquTNjT4XndtN8OzryLl1k4pk3GPlUgBzArpPnJZXGOLr0bTblsDp_rZAIVa-2Hypc01v-rfPNqNW-1184tmzQJrGpmSgAaJXgCivueDVQRChcO/s320/Zoo.jpg" /></a></p>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 <div align="left"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbroAr_D2RVuKERvEPSN7-T6ZBzS_tXJquTNjT4XndtN8OzryLl1k4pk3GPlUgBzArpPnJZXGOLr0bTblsDp_rZAIVa-2Hypc01v-rfPNqNW-1184tmzQJrGpmSgAaJXgCivueDVQRChcO/s1600/Zoo.jpg"></a></div>enjoy the beach (which has been impossible most of life - due to the distance AND translucent s <div align="left"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbroAr_D2RVuKERvEPSN7-T6ZBzS_tXJquTNjT4XndtN8OzryLl1k4pk3GPlUgBzArpPnJZXGOLr0bTblsDp_rZAIVa-2Hypc01v-rfPNqNW-1184tmzQJrGpmSgAaJXgCivueDVQRChcO/s1600/Zoo.jpg"></a></div>kin of mine). So; cooking, barbequeing, drinking, musicing, beaching, Indian Head-dressing (wait for it).<br /></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><br />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. <div align="left"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbroAr_D2RVuKERvEPSN7-T6ZBzS_tXJquTNjT4XndtN8OzryLl1k4pk3GPlUgBzArpPnJZXGOLr0bTblsDp_rZAIVa-2Hypc01v-rfPNqNW-1184tmzQJrGpmSgAaJXgCivueDVQRChcO/s1600/Zoo.jpg"></a></div></div><div align="left">The way old day. Waaaaaaaaaay old. Older.<br />People should trade in skill and talent;<br />Dance for food, cook for clothes, knit for massages, massage for a dance, etc.<br />Thats how it should be.<br /></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><br />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.<br />That's all.</div><br /><p align="left">Adios.</p>Rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12932402562676178413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632357786427932783.post-29163736607049298592010-11-04T21:15:00.000-07:002010-11-04T22:57:47.020-07:00(Double Feature) Toy Plastic Ring<div align="left">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).<br />Two points of intrest, the components to this literary duplex;<br /><strong>Eins</strong>; I did wedding photography and earned $100 for eating, drinking and sliding around on the floor with a camera glued to my face.<br /><strong>Zwei</strong>; 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 'Hallo<em>weeners</em>'. 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.<br />_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _</div><br /><div align="center"><em>"Today this is my world<br />You'll be my girl<br />I'm awake<br />It's my world<br />Today this is my world<br />You'll be my girl<br />I'm awake<br />It's my world<br />Today this ain't my world<br />You're not my girl<br />I'm asleep<br />Goodnight world"</em></div><p align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 168px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535934626216859442" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbGNymt3ZDaAXnjS2hIb3LwAn268aj0Le1at9fTpVwrZrQkp9cOgx2q-Pl4Ak0dU2GnnjwCyFg26D1I1AGqJ2lf3UxrFbX7tNeGO9AuFof0n38L0RDr6RGFEIN9Miw56L8DerOVtwcqzjn/s320/1.jpg" /></p><br /><div align="left">Weddings.<br />I don't like 'em.<br />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 <em>"that's a very pretty dress"</em> - pretty as it may be, I don't think I'll wear it myself.<br />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.<br /></div><div align="left">Biologically, humans fail at monogomy. An old saying says something like; "<em>20% of Primate species are monogomous - one of which are humans. Even then, only 20% of humans are monogomous - most of which are crazy</em>". 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.<br />Answer; Black Vultures & Angelfish.</div><div align="left">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!<br />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.<br /></div><div align="left">God doth proclaim; <strong>"No sex before marriage, or you shalt burn!"</strong></div><br /><div align="left">Average Joseph doth reply; <strong>"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!!"</strong></div><br /><div align="center">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!<br />That's all I have to say about that.<br />_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _</div><br /><div align="center"><em>"Screams and moans and bats and bones<br />Teenage monsters in haunted homes<br />The ghosts on the stair<br />The vampires bite<br />Better beware, there's a full moon tonight<br /></em></div><div align="center"><em>Oooooooooo!<br /></em></div><div align="center"><em>Take a fresh rodent, some toadstools and weeds<br />And an old owl and the young one she breeds<br />Mix in seven legs of an eight-legged beast<br />Then you are all set for a cannibal feast"</em></div><div align="center"><em></em><br /></div><div align="left">Halloween.<br />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.<br />Knightrider is now on television.<br />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.<br />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.<br />... and remember, I ain't a fink - dig? Dandy baby, now it's scadoodlesville.<br /><br />Adios. </div>Rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12932402562676178413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632357786427932783.post-46029023542059503722010-10-20T02:45:00.000-07:002010-10-20T03:12:01.407-07:00(He)man with a plan.<object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/NTAjLwWNITg?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/NTAjLwWNITg?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />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!"Rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12932402562676178413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632357786427932783.post-72635199458760389272010-10-15T01:11:00.000-07:002010-10-15T01:49:06.243-07:00He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghostsYes, he still insists he sees the ghosts...<br /><br /><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDZtiQyOtf-GGQ2H-BpYKKcnjibX6VeH08GTnv7BgXPmz80Jqit-KLmNjgh3AKwXYqR9Oze0DmF5QZ2D1jEI8wjPEurtqYYfdZ9mAfYQrrNynOtMdo_bSZdCf1rR91_wk49J-Lq5sa09Hc/s1600/2.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 357px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 248px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5528184610949750258" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDZtiQyOtf-GGQ2H-BpYKKcnjibX6VeH08GTnv7BgXPmz80Jqit-KLmNjgh3AKwXYqR9Oze0DmF5QZ2D1jEI8wjPEurtqYYfdZ9mAfYQrrNynOtMdo_bSZdCf1rR91_wk49J-Lq5sa09Hc/s320/2.jpg" /></a></p><span class="UIStory_Message">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<span class="text_exposed_show"> 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.</span></span><br /><span class="UIStory_Message"><span class="text_exposed_show"></span></span><br /><span class="UIStory_Message"><span class="text_exposed_show">Where's My Mind?</span></span><br /><span class="UIStory_Message"><span class="text_exposed_show">Somewhere nearby, not elsewhere.</span></span><br /><em>(The image took ages to edit. Thanks to Dane for taking it.)</em><br /><br /><span class="UIStory_Message"><span class="text_exposed_show">Adios.</span></span>Rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12932402562676178413noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632357786427932783.post-85925479032815671022010-09-29T06:28:00.000-07:002010-09-29T06:47:20.963-07:00Study (An Ode to Jack Torrance of the Overlook Hotel)<div align="left">All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. <em>All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. </em><em>All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.</em><em> All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. </em><em>All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. </em><em>All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. </em><em>All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. </em><em>All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. </em><em>ll work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. </em><em>All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy</em><em>All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. </em><em>All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. </em><em>All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. </em><em>All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. </em><em>All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. </em><em>All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. </em><em>All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. </em><em>All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. </em><em>All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,</em><br /><em>All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,</em><br /><em>All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,</em><br /><em>All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,</em><br /><em>All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,</em><br /><em>All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,</em><br /><em>All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,</em><br /><em>All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,</em><br /><em>All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. </em><em>All work and no play makes Jack a dullll boy. </em><em>All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. </em><em>All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. </em><em>All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. </em><em>All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. </em><em>All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.</em><em>All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.</em></div><div align="left"><em></em> </div><div align="center"><em>All work and NO play makes Jack a dull boy.</em></div><div align="center">All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, all work and no play make Jack a dull boy.</div><div align="center">All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.</div><div align="center">All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, all work and no play makes jack a dull boy.</div><div align="center">All work and no play makes Jack a dull murder.</div><div align="center">All work and no Play makes jack a dull boy, all work and no play makes jack a dull boy.</div><div align="center">all work and no play makes Jack a bull boy.</div><div align="center">All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.</div><div align="center">All work and no play makes Jack a DULL boy.</div><div align="center"> </div><div align="left">All work</div><div align="center">and no play</div><div align="right">Makes JACK</div><div align="left">A</div><div align="center">DULL</div><div align="right">BOY</div><div align="right"> </div><div align="right"><em>All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,</em><br /><em>All work and no play makes Jack a dulll boy,</em><br /><em>all work and no play makes jack a dull boy,</em><br /><em>All work and no play make Jack a dull boy,</em><br /><em>All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,</em><br /><em>All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,</em><br /><em>All work and no ply makes Jack a dull boy,</em><br /><em>all work and no play makes Jack a dul boy,</em><br /><em>All work and no play makes jack a dull boy,</em><br /><em>All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,</em><br /><em>All work and no play makes Jack a dulll boy.</em></div><div align="right"><em></em> </div><div align="center"><strong><em>All work and no play makes JAck a dull boy.</em></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><em>All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.</em></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><em>All work and no play makes Jack a dull bou.</em></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><em>All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.</em></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><em>All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. </em></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><em>All work and no play makes Jack a full boy</em></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><em>All work and no play makes jack a dull boy.</em></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><em>All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.</em></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><em>All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.</em></strong></div>Rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12932402562676178413noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632357786427932783.post-25308521294284225402010-09-14T00:24:00.000-07:002010-09-14T01:07:21.160-07:00Achromatic<div align="center"><em>"I'm not living<br />I'm just killing time<br />Your tiny hands<br />Your crazy kitten smile</em></div><div align="center"><em>...</em></div><div align="center"><em>And true love waits<br />In haunted attics<br />And true love lives<br />On lollipops and crisps"</em><br /></div><p align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 310px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516669261413113090" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZbO0j3CvRD1ogqb0CNFL4rWiJ9QLfwPDq-l-FoIz5qQcphX4Y1SF3fB1W8qE4imIIFtU1f1A099tbIYFBU9rstcWGFnhCM3XEoYQI5Tz-vuWX7UNxx7lGj9zi3MdMtsXRFzOnJL3Yr4NH/s320/1.jpg" /></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik_YTj0o5Z9Ry6te4mbh6KwW9RkcgMRuCRmdtpO7Tyx8PoJWYVWREtx2frEK685FV31J-r8al4fqUTGbwgd28xZlgAWxPObAxpvhMUsZipYFZPgqr0j35N-na0Q6XXDqiz01uDiA3gmkeU/s1600/4.jpg"></a>Fairytale.<br /><br />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.<br />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.<br /><p align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 167px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516668618853496738" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik_YTj0o5Z9Ry6te4mbh6KwW9RkcgMRuCRmdtpO7Tyx8PoJWYVWREtx2frEK685FV31J-r8al4fqUTGbwgd28xZlgAWxPObAxpvhMUsZipYFZPgqr0j35N-na0Q6XXDqiz01uDiA3gmkeU/s320/4.jpg" /></p><br /><br />Adios.Rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12932402562676178413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632357786427932783.post-56811181593620780732010-09-09T03:40:00.001-07:002010-09-09T04:05:32.130-07:00Cut me looseI 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.<br />That - I promise.<br /><br />Adios.Rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12932402562676178413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632357786427932783.post-53778172256512200472010-09-07T03:43:00.000-07:002010-09-07T04:44:23.534-07:00Happy Birthday!!<div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><em>"You say it's your birthday<br />It's my birthday too, yeah<br />They say it's your birthday<br />We're gonna have a good time<br />I'm glad it's your birthday<br />Happy birthday to you."<br /><br /></em></div></span><br /><p align="center"><em><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 292px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514124278660833826" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyoSP-WhxjM-ci85nSN7jXiInuq4FQ3RKfs_KzIOjUibBH_QYN29b8Bk7yhcC1pYP2MRTUdpzSyf09mJypInMkH4v5PW5mxxWVQpIZK4s7INeE_qC7rsvCMIUdpleC5hXboc4uS4Ewz0AW/s320/8.jpg" /></em></p><div align="left"><br /><span >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.</span><br /></div><div align="left">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. </div><p align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 210px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 155px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514128651292633778" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrE3ioLV1gGRmVx-lCAYwD1n7KlIQ8k4ilqzZPte1ykPbDnNbvxru0jCz5hZSTH80f2rx-xBbCHWn9LoN-9LjEiOzfdmr0OmafEpzVogIqnNFED_r56oxIi_xCnZWQiON-2Ky8NHqPNkrn/s320/2.jpg" /></p><br /><p>That'll do for now.</p><p>Adios.</p>Rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12932402562676178413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632357786427932783.post-2870165177507603522010-09-06T02:02:00.000-07:002010-09-06T02:55:08.414-07:00Agtien jaar in net 'n regmerkie<div align="center">"Happy Birthday to me</div><div align="center">Happy Birthday to me</div><div align="center">Happy Birthday dear myself</div><div align="center">Happy Birthday to me"</div><br /><p align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 122px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513725523761695122" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEqtnvCW87tkI1gbPvNAgCOKejz7ShjimSb-zqqhw5_1i6x8prR-FqPNX-PbCNA9NEQk-um8UVSeVtvu-1-KB7uunJ-_o9HnSKS9DsRxgU9043I-IyTT14rHwZ-PoIURSwDV7RI7m4DAi0/s320/1.jpg" /></p><br /><br /><p>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;<br />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;<br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/v/xYvePxbq-Js?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/v/xYvePxbq-Js?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br />I like that song.<br />Anyway. I have little else to say. I hope I get myself a grey day. Here's another of my photographs. I <3><p align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 117px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513735282449715314" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho1QcgTtRhabGEvVZIwLnaeMhbhSwWuJPCLenzHydwdQXhyCaLcUHe-oC2QzXOeDXr1tY5kQrdjqUknP2AkDzZEy8473j5EVU3g32WpT6eiTO6xp4z11iIXqwyzkR-NFzqyecZ431PrRX_/s320/2.jpg" /></p><br /><br />Adios.Rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12932402562676178413noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632357786427932783.post-39064823701898362272010-08-31T20:46:00.000-07:002010-08-31T23:13:27.400-07:00Fear has a Glare that Traps you<div><br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><em>"When they dance </em></span><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><em>In a reptile blaze<br />You wear a mask<br />An equatorial haze<br />Into the past<br />A colonial maze<br />Where there's no more confetti to throw"</em></span><br /></div><p align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 146px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511793825977775426" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSF2qADxnJpQMRqzwtCWUxmUhPnRIq6tDVjX4mNAF6Prf39rJN3ZANlVR62DZ1fq3Z4xPgOFTIMNHTBsH1ZeFQL7sPPop6brReuCaMYvJBlnqaSiWVQPYn-M1aokuFK6L3ULGm8bvyUzsJ/s320/1.jpg" /></p></div><br /><p>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.<br />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;<br /></p><p align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 93px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511823860848095266" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7vkDFLC43Q9SjbIBgyxV896ws7BQpX6kn0TExmgNSv317FKw8UDGVycScmg_Ar2_RiXQ0TZzOOOVWwoDBwj7ZhU2y4tBGN2cYc7cKDtyy2Nf28lczMXbsHMOvzRNxVfm7pWRpK2DXMssT/s320/3.jpg" /></p><br /><p>... flowers calm my nerves. I'm such a nervous wreck.</p><p>Adios.</p>Rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12932402562676178413noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632357786427932783.post-57405632009210428892010-08-31T01:02:00.000-07:002010-08-31T02:46:19.180-07:00Dual Duel<div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><em>"A Town of disrespect</em></span><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><em>The Trains are wrecked</em></span> </div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><em>The night is younger than us</em></span> </div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><em>Nowhere is anywhere else</em></span> </div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><em>You keep to yourself</em></span> </div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><em>...</em></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><em>And if it's meant</em></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><em>Some accident</em></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><em>Some coincidence</em></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><em>Crumbs fall out of the sky</em></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><em>When you wander by</em></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><em>The dust clouds blow"</em></span></div><br /><div><br /> </div><div align="left">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;</div><br /><p align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 264px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511489575807343330" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfKo28N472BvM1WCA1OcT8e1cNAxfzy6UusWn5XLfGXkBcTKH27r4RNlQgo6XvL297xG7NoiFGwHDpJn9w8r-qmsFCUp6FFUZ5rsoYThEKE3X3WYWMaD4HgzaeLOZ2p9sRa5Rdqte1FrL6/s320/1.jpg" /></p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 250px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 252px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511507471170028434" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn89SrArlzkAT33Xcf0QimaQiteI2lI9mR71nd8tzzzlWmPwxAwZYHWhizkXoIssY0_vnv8ZwzwbtnwsDnXY9up3QT2tiz6LuGNrPnVoGwCfN1iSPfzbw9zwc-o3aCVIQ1lUTuuxmRv31g/s320/bizarroworld.jpg" /></p><br />Adios.Rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12932402562676178413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632357786427932783.post-88893049883797919702010-08-30T02:22:00.000-07:002010-08-30T03:00:22.953-07:00Bad BloodWhere 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."<br />... 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.<br /><br /><object width="445" height="364"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/NDvblyctblU?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0&color1=0x3a3a3a&color2=0x999999&border=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/NDvblyctblU?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0&color1=0x3a3a3a&color2=0x999999&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="445" height="364"></embed></object><br /><br />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; <br />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.<br /><br />Adios.Rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12932402562676178413noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632357786427932783.post-20581805917647053892010-08-28T01:12:00.000-07:002010-08-28T04:22:00.400-07:00The Tale of the Minotaur<div><span style="font-family:georgia;"><strong>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.</strong></span></div><div><br /><div align="left"><span >25/8/2010 </span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span >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 "<em>It's the old Quarry...</em> <em>I think there are goats in there</em>" but I knew she knew more than she was saying.<em> </em>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.</span></div><p align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 266px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510385501364679890" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2rVvETDrPm07NRqnHmatfMzTem48FwrafJ32YtYrVPvZbqU4vA7bSvM2VES8S2GZV4ulodGcrEDZn7B8Fewb2b0Vf671_Qn9xroctoGlaC0rv1_0onj_tyq2kbwrk1aBA4KSEdjf41tjy/s320/1.jpg" /></span></p><div align="left"><br />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;</div></div><br /><p align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 256px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510410534242820322" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg9eLRnw2F5oVNARmt6bX_-Pbhne0d8x6CBMqhYXZ7-1oToCDSEiL9XXyrUwv9SnC8_0JnlneiKG0yqmWpNdBVkdbxVMRYDkQjo07Eiiq0QoHguyWGbpLkuy2SluPkNsj4FTBJ23wiKB-a/s320/2.jpg" /></p><p align="left"><br />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; </p><p align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 293px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 288px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510417316385608370" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLK4xhysoYsx4pFcZ1fA6r_YbluhZ6uFSHvQoQFFHz9R9RSmggiAFjueYFIux0HznyS5kflbzQYdZlqxF_OM4ulIV2qSMpz8h7REBglqd54aKXeaOF6iFjRz_EtmnzbP3mNoOLUTTC0Mfo/s320/10.jpg" /></p><br /><p>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. </p><p>That... was the Tale of the Minotaur.</p><p>Adios.</p>Rhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12932402562676178413noreply@blogger.com2