Grand father.

This is for my Grand Pappy, who likes my blog.

http://rhodg.tumblr.com/

Enjoy the exact same thing in a different place, hahahaha. Love you Pop!

Adios.

All Mediocre Things Must Come To An End

"I'm still young,

But I know my days are numbered
1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - and so on.

But the time will come,
When these numbers have all ended,
And all I ever seen will be forgotten.

Won't you come to my funeral,
When my days are gone?
Life's not young,
So I hope when,

I'm finally dead and gone,
That you gather 'round,
As I am in lowered into the ground"

Things are mediocre. I'm feeling increasingly like a tinman. Not the singing type, either.
Life's going smoothly, every thing is dandy, I consider myself very lucky ... yet, I'm still rusty. I miss being able to make people laugh by putting on silly voices. I miss offering people balloon animals when they're sad. I miss taking photographs ... it's been so long. I miss cleaning my carpark. I miss Harold, on my walks. I saw him the other day, trying to relive my morning routine (at midday). He had aged 10 years, his eyes weren't focused, his voice was so quiet and he said "You're a nice man. Any girl you gets you is a nice girl, too."
I almost cried. I doubt I'll see him alive again, having moved and seeing him then. He called me a man. A nice man. As though I had lived to a degree that I was a man. My father has always called me Redman. More than he has called me Ryan, infact. I don't hear my name from family. I'm 'Nino', 'Neen', 'Rhyno', 'Red', 'Redman' and, occasionally and to my discomfort 'Ryry' or, the worst, 'Rynie-Dynie Doodoo'. Point being, I'm not a man. I won't deny that I'm nice, because I try an aweful lot to come across as nice - or at the very least likable.

Change is good, I suppose. Not for Harold, but I'm not Harold. I'm Nino.
This is why I'm going to stop blogging here. I'm packing up and moving to Tumblr. A site that I don't know my way around. A change from what I started getting used to. Perhaps I'll stop altogether. Either way, all mediocre things must come to end. This relationship I have with my blog is something I didn't think I could have. I never realised how uninspired and square my thoughts are. Like I claim all the time; I'm not good at anything, I'm just enthusiastic.

If you want the address to my tumblr, which I'll have up in the next couple of days, message me on Facebook. I'm not deleting this blog, still. I'm too egotistical to destroy my own work.
Also, I have to stop condemning myself so much. A self-loathing egotist. Oh God.

Where's my mind?
I still don't know.

Adios.

LA Noire

"Oh, the shark has,
pretty teeth, dear,
And it shows them - pearly white.
Just a jackknife
Has MacHeath, babe,
And he keeps it - way out of sight.

When that shark bites,
With his teeth, dear
Scarlet billows - begin to spread
Fancy gloves, wears,
Old MacHeath, babe
So there's never - never a trace of red."

I was not alive in 1947. I tried to be, but it didn't work out. I was born on September 7th, 1992.

When it comes to film, I love the old ones. The old American ones. European film is lovely, but my heart is with the American Dream. Not because I adore their values or think they had better directors and actors. Their ideals were outdated from the start and their directors and actors were pioneers, not masters (although a few were damn close)
What I love is the sound of the accents that are fading from existance. The Guido Tycoon, the 2nd Generation Irish Imigrant, the Traditional Jewish Parent. They're all just becoming 'American'. I also love how they pumped the American Dream into everything ... it almost seemed like they satired themselves. A nation of used car salesmen. Charismatic, proud and morally superior. 'Nuclear Family', 'Girl Next Door', 'Till Death Do We Part', 'Honey! I'm home!' ... 'In God We Trust'.
That's why I want to go to America. American TV raised me and I want to show it how good a student I am. I want to talk like an American in Cafes and see if they pick up. I want a MEDIUM McDonalds meal ... although I doubt I'll finish. I want to 'hail' a 'cab'. I want to fill the car with 'gas'. I want to shout "Hey, I'm walkin' 'ere!" while crossing a New York street.
Considering what I've said so far ... the next picture might confuse you.

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.
Yeah, this is 'one of those' Blogs. Still, it's sprinkled with national pride and personal meaning. Why do I always feel like I need to explain myself to you, Mr. Blog. Do your job and just trust me.
It's being employed from a game titled LA Noire. Heres a picture of what it can do;

Maybe you don't find this kind of facial mapping as amazing as I do ... but until you seen a CG man twitch, and look to the side in a manner that hints that he is lying without the motion being obvious ... well, you can't judge my interests. The subtlety of these actors faces are perfectly implemented and used as a game mechanic. I try to convince people that games are just films but three dimensional and completely explorable, and many people don't listen. Some games use a gameplay element online multiplayer. That never interested me hugely. This game allows you to literally read the faces of actors, playing the roles of characters and step into the shoes of a Detective. Follow leads, explore the city, question witnesses, search for evidence and solve crimes. Trust me, it's better than watching someone else do. We're entering a new chapter of human entertainment ... and I'm excited that Australia, Bondi, is heading the movement.
Here's too the American Dream!

Adios.

Send me the Bill.

This week ... month. Uh.
Actually, I don't have predetermined time periods.
This ... time, I wrote a poem for someone very special to me. They've been there in the thick and the thin. During my Ebola scare, during my tetraplegia, leading up to my disappearance and following my reemergence ... during my drowning and all through my deep depression caused by the knowledge that dexterity does not apply to feet. Rather, feet accuracy is called podexterity, apparently. That turned my lift down on its bloated head.

Here's the poem, I'll elaborate afterwards;

Heated dust - a loving thing,
The bones of drones asunder sing,
And in my purse,
By Mummies curse,
I find a humble commodity.

Love is not for losing soul,
Like Elder Scrolls from chapels - stole,
But if you spy,
This milky eye,
Ten points in Scrabble diagonally,
Urge submerged in back allies.

I want you to come back and carry me home,
Away from these long lonely nights,
I'm reaching for you, are you feeling it too,
Does the feeling seem oh so right,
And what would you say if I called on you now,
And said that I can't hold on,
There's no easy way, it gets harder each day,
Please love me or I'll be gone, I'll be gone.

And so by some foreign twist,
Of God's slimey reptile wrist,
A sea of hair,
And disrepair,
He says you are the Prodigy.

It took eleven minutes to write and I stole the third bit from 'I'm All Out Of Love' by Air Supply. The message remains the same, obvious as it may be. It's about a young boy I know name Bilfred Saint Guest. He was absent in most defining parts of my life and is actually more of a supporting role in my life. Like one of the murder victims in CSI: Miami. I get to be the guy with the glasses who always says things like "I'm DYING to solve this mystery", "what's a corpse like you doing in a public toilet like this" or "Hey, dead guy. You look DEAD tired."

Long story short. Billy exists.
I'm an idiot and have a lame sense of humour.

Billy, here's to you and all that Voodoo that you do so well.

Adios.

An Anniversary, a Birthday & a University update.

"You'll be older too,
And if you say the word,
I could stay with you.
I could be handy, mending a fuse
When your lights have gone.
You can knit a sweater by the fireside
Sunday mornings go for a ride,
Doing the garden, digging the weeds,
Who could ask for more?

Will you still need me, will you still feed me,
When I'm sixty-four?"

Today is a magical day!
The 19th of January.
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.
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;
"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 ... 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."
... 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.
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.
... 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.
Here's to Cait!

She is part of my family now;

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.

Today is also Cate (Voldemort)'s birthday! HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!
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.
Here's to Cate! Hip-Hip ... HOORAY!

Also, on a final note. We get our Uni notices back today. How exciting! :D

Adios, amigos!

I must dash, Mr. Moustache. Farewell.

"Cats in the cradle and the silver spoon
Little boy blue and the man on the moon
When you comin' home 'stache?
I don't know when, but we'll get together then son
You know we'll have a good time then"

Caitlin told me to shave off my moustache, and so I did. Slowly.
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.

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.
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.

I love the reactions, they reflect my feelings exactly. Fear and sadness turned into an obnoxious
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!".
Sad Face.

Adios.

Geek or God?

WARNING!
Nerd Post, Nerd Post!!

"DOVAHKIIN, DOVAHKIIN.

NAAL OK ZIN LOS VAHRIIN WAH DEIN VOKUL MAHFAERAAK AHST VAAL.

AHRK FIN NOROK PAAL GRAAN.

FOD NUST HON ZINDRO ZIN.

DOVAHKIIN FAH HIN KOGAAN MU DRAAL.

AHRK FIN KEL LOST PRODAH DO VED VIING KO FIN KRAH.

TOL FOD ZEYMAH WIN KEIN MEYZ FUNDEIN.

ALDUIN FEYN DO JUN.

KRUZIIK VOKUN STAADNAU.

VOTH AAN BAHLOK WAH DIIVON FIN LEIN."

Not song lyrics those. Well, not officially.

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.

Not in reality, no. In Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim.
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'.

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.

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.
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.

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.

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.
Begin Apocalypse.
I'm excited.

Sorry if I bored you,
Adios.

My Adam Green Day

"Vain,

Underground,

Fist,

Face down.
Bruise as they heal my pain.
Food on the flight.
Bread,

Fist,

Bite.

Draw from the orange juice crane.
Picture a person you've forgotten.
kissing your brother

Or your friend.
Picture a wounded entertainer.
Cutting his hair again."

Ah, Adam. You so fine, baby.
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 "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."
I consider that a rich fall-back plan.
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 "Me, having an Adam Green Day", 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.



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.
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.

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.
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!
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 "Why is there an army man in your pocket?"
Now I might get people asking "Who hit you?" or "What did you do?"
I'll take an arrogant breathe through my nose, smirk and reply "You should see the other guy."

I guess I should also, officially, say Happy New Year!
Enjoy what you're doing. Even if you hate it.
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 "If he survives in the shelter, how will he get off Madagascar?"
Maybe on one of the UFOs that the secret organisation that killed JFK is hiding in Area 51.
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.

Adios.

Deck the Silent Jingle.

"It's coming on Christmas,

They're cutting down trees,

They're putting up Reindeer,

And singing songs of Joy & Peace,

Oh, I wish I had a river,

I could skate away on.

But it don't snow here,

It stays pretty green,

I'm gunna make a lot of money,

Then I'm gunna quit this crazy scene,

I wish I had a river,

I could skate away on."

Christmas was yesterday. Above, just there, is our Tree. One of two. Mum yelled at me for making it took 'sick'. It's plastic, though. Real, dead, trees mess with my alergies and are "too messy". Mum made me decorate the house on Christmas Eve. I'm not sure why, but I did. While on the ladder, my little brother walks out and said "on TV, they said ladders are more dangerous that Terrorists". I didn't really want to know that, but I suppose ladders are more frequently experienced than Terrorists.

I got a few things, all of which I like. No camera or Turtleneck sweater, but I did get some books and pavalova. Callan came up to see us, but mainly slept. Aden complained about the 'texture of ham'. I yelled at the Television for referring to Warren Zevon as a 'One-hit Wonder'. I strongly disagree. He had two 'best of' albums. Poor, dead, Warren. Skanky, fake-tanned, wannabe music-buffs have stained your illustrious name. You're a Genius.

"I've got a bitter pot of 'je ne sais quoi'

Guess what - I'm stirring it with a Monkey's Paw

...

Mata Hari had a house in France,

Where she worked on all her secret plans,

Men were falling for her sight unseen,

She was a Genius.

There's a face in every window of the Songwriter's Neighbourhood,

Everyone's your best friend when you're doing well - I mean, good,

The poet who lived next door when you were young and poor,

Grew up to be a backstabbing Entrepreneur.

Your protege don't care about art,

I'm the one who always told you you were smart,

You broke my heart into smithereens,

And that took Genius.

You and the Barber make a handsome pair,

Guess what - I never liked the way he cut your hair,

I didn't like the way he turned your head,

But there's nothing I can do or say, I haven't done or said

...

If I could clean my record,

I'd be a Genius."

Adios.

Rise, Lazerus, rise!

"As the cheerless towns pass my window
I can see a washed out moon through the fog

And then a voice inside my head, breaks the analogue

And says... "

"Another Blog?!", no one asks.

"Yes, another", Ryan spoke while staring at my reflection painted in the rear-window of my house "You see, I'm in that mood I call 'the Juggernaut' ... the mood where I inexplicable begin to feel aweful*. OCD sets in and I begin acting irrationally until I'm asleep and forget."

"Oh Ryan! Enough of that! Stop playing with the Christmas Tree and the dishes! Stop pacing. Stop being selfish!" replied no one in the same tone as always.

"Yes. Okay", Ryan muttered "only if you listen to me."

Aweful*

Awesome is good. Aweful is bad.

Why is some awe good while being full of awe is bad? Is it like an overdose?

Reason for this Blog; ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

I was watching television, a show about a murder was one. A woman was killed by a man she had never met. The last thing she saw was his eyes. A colony of wasps were living in her skull. Bugs where the mind used to be. I placed my hands on the sides of my head and closed my eyes and imagined it. That set me off.

I'm now in Juggernaut mode and I can't stop feeling like I'm damp. I reread every comment I've recieved on this blog. Most if not all praise me, one said "I expect big things from you in the future" and that made it worse. I don't think I'll actually amount to much. I guess many people feel the same. I don't want a statue. I want a calling.

It reminded me of my parents. Dad was too accepting. I guess he had nothing else to hold. He read to me and taught me. He taught me film and I taught him photography. He taught me Lennon. Only, he never helped me. He was my friend and more than my Dad. He never asked about homework or troubles. He asked how I liked my eggs and if I was thirsty. He rarely yelled and when he did, I cried. He never hurt me and offered strange advice. I often told my friends "my father is insane" and they'd laugh.

Mum left when I was four and I can't remember when she came back. She sent me a coconut once. And stickers. I never used the stickers. I broke the coconut on the steps out the front. She asked if I needed money for school. If Dad was looking after us. She'd organise to meet us at midday and be 2 hours late. I'd stand in the front garden waiting and cry into the lounge when I thought she'd leave again, expecting a second coconut with a note saying "To my Sweet-Pea. In off again. Is your father caring for you? That mans an idiot. xxx"

She'd turn up.

I noticed, even now, I feed off acceptance. I feel bad when adults don't like me. I thrived to befriend most teachers I had. For the most part, it worked. I've always had a lot of friends over all demographics at school. I don't fight. I just worry and build. And write.

I remember when Caitlin called me selfish. I remember being lost for words so I just slumped on my bed and pretended to be interested it the light, cut by the curtain, centimetres from my face on my purple bedroom wall. She called me selfish twice after that, on different occasions, once when I thought I didn't deserve it. I've probably insulted her more than I realise. Its my nature. I don't find truths offensive, usually. Most people are used to it. I hope she is.

I worry no one reads this any more. Comments have lulled to ZERO. Views average on less than 2 per post. I guess I'm vein. Meglomatic? Egotistical? Selfish.

I need positive reinforcement. Gaaaaaaaah! I'm stupid.

Adios.

You know, that means "To God". Have I said that. I mean it as good bye.

Adios.

Festivities. Family. Wizards.

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

fallin' on a termite
He's chokin' on the splinters

Soy un perdedor
I'm a loser baby, so why don't you kill me?
(Get crazy with the cheese whiz)"

Ah, I don't actually know what these lyrics have to do with this post ... but I don't think this song is easy to intergrate. I demand intergration, however. I love this song.

I'm smiling.

The dog on television, Cujo, he isn't smiling. He is bloody and tormenting a woman in her car with her child, Tad. Rabies. Who needs it. Not me, that's for sure.

It is, as I write these words, 6:16 pm. I thought it was 3:00. I've been home alone all day. Cleaning and organising and wishing I was more original. I wish I had more iced tea. I wish I had nimbler fingures.

Christmas time is a nice time. Little Miley (I plan on uploading some photos in the next post) was shouting yesterday "Samdafs Tummin!", which roughly translates to "Cousin, did you know Santa is coming?"

I kept saying "Gandalf's coming?!" and she'd look at me madly and say "Noo! Samdafs!"

I wish Gandalf were coming. He'd offer me some adventure and I'd tag along and meet Orlando Bloom and we'd injure elephant monsters and Fire-eyeballs.

As you can probably tell, it's a slow news day. Caitlin got a pet pig. Thats not my news, thats hers, and she called him Boston. Great name. I would have offered a few others;

And-eegs

Rashworth

Snortimer

Piggy Sue

Bore-is
St. Pignatius
Little Hog-kinson

Eh? Eh? How about them? Hahahaha. I like Boston too.

I was so sad to find how expensive 'Harry Potter TV universal remote wands' are. I thought of flicking wrist and seeing the volume increase ... takes my breathe away. Although, its more work than flicking my thumb. But its cool work. I would sacrifice that small slice of energy for a chance at electronic wizardry designed for 8 year olds.

Oh! Tomorrow I'll upload a picture of my Christmas tree.

What do I buy people for Christmas... hmmm... I hate choosing gifts.

I have attended two 80th birthdays in the past two weeks. Impressive, yes?

Adios.

Full Dark, No Stars

"If you read this, I love you."

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

He had a massive stroke. He died with his tie on.

Do you think that could be our generation's equivalent

of that old saying

about dying with your boots on?"

I'm on my 3rd Novella of Summer. Doesn't look like summer. Although, focusing on Horror Novels (as I like to do) it never feels like Summer. 2 & 1/2 Novellas down. So far, so good. One, I loved. The second wasn't so. It was quite average. The 3rd ... interesting. Lemme explain;

1922: This one's a story, told in hind-sight, about a farmer, father & apparently terrible husband. It opens with the line "To whom it may concern, my name is Wilfred Leland James, and this is my confession. In June of 1922 I murdered my wife, Arlette Christina Winters James, and hid her body by tupping it down an old well."

I admire his openess. Only, he's writing from the year 1930, and a great deal has changed. I loved this story a lot more than I thought I would. It's strange to sympathise for a killer, although I've always been interested ...

As a kid, I always was interested in Serial Killers. I blame my Comic Books. I had trouble embracing real life - mainly due to the lack of Heroes. Batman & Superman are just dabs of ink. Super Villains, however. Very real. Strange traits and all. Their showmanship. Their ability to conceal their identities. The ghastly smiles, curled lips hiding perfect white teeth - the same teeth that have invisible stains. The Heroes were just gaunt men with badges, acting on intuition. Elderly women recognising faces from a late night broadcast. Advances in technology.

... anyway, back to the story. It follows the inspiration of murder as it evolves into a plan. Shortly after, it evolves again into an act - an imperfect act. Then a series of lies are born, each stemming new branches of deceit. Each branch, baring some rotting fruit leading to such a tortued experience (ripe with many horrid repercussions) through out the remaineder of 1922. It creates the feeling that this is 'Wilfred Leland James' Great Depression'.

Big Driver: This is the one I wasn't to fond of. It follows a girl, Tessa Jane, whom is a Mystery Novelist and very familiar with thinking up crazy mysteries and marvellous ways of catching bad guys. She's sort of depicted as 'that kind of shallow, empty novelist'. A series of 30+ books all of the same characters and only slightly different events. She lives alone with cat and enjoys driving at night time. She is good friends with her elderly neighbour.

One night, returning home, she gets a flat tire and - after waiting for some time - is discovered, alone, and raped. From this point, she experiences fear and an delusions (including plotting revenge on the rapist, aided by her GPS named Tom). The idea seemed interesting. The first half was extremely realistic, but it lacked 'ompf' at the end. The revenge got interesting, then it struck out and became too fantasy-like. Too 'clean'. Too 'fairy-talesque'.

The current Novella, A Good Marriage, is about a woman discovering her husband of 27 years is a Serial Killer. It has a lot of potential and is, so far, quite good. A bit glossy and simple, but really interesting to read and a creepy concept. Especially when contrasted with Bob Anderson's (Husband/Killer) wonderful attitude to life. He's happy, wise and compassionate ... and yet rapes and kills women during his business trips. It's fun to read, but I can't handle big doses. The ending of this one will make it. Here's hoping for a strong finish!

That's all.

If you haven't ever tried a horror novel, or even a short story, I'd highly recommend a few. Its easy to find them cheesy and weak. With the right author, however ... its unlike anything else.

Adios.

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

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

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

Nooooooooooow, Schoolies is often painted as the drunken tool-fest that it usually is. Luckily, I'm not friends with many tools. There are a few. For schoolies, we're not going to the Gold Coast.

We're going else where. A girl has a holiday house which seems to have become the

equivalent of Las Vegas for us young people. Nine friends and I are renting a party shack for the week, near the girl's house, so that we can party all day and ... party all night. I'm not looking to prove anything to girlies, I'm not looking to "down more booze" than any one else. I'm looking to

enjoy the beach (which has been impossible most of life - due to the distance AND translucent s

kin of mine). So; cooking, barbequeing, drinking, musicing, beaching, Indian Head-dressing (wait for it).

Due to schoolies, I have very little money to spend. I have money on me which I can't spend because I'll need it for schoolies. I've never needed to save in such a way. I often think "Fake moustaches - sold!". Then, as I reach for my wallet I kick myself in the brain with my brain-foot. Money is hell. What is our dollar even backed by? Is it just a symbolic piece of paper of is it actually backed by vaults of gold or possession of water like it was back in the day.

The way old day. Waaaaaaaaaay old. Older.
People should trade in skill and talent;
Dance for food, cook for clothes, knit for massages, massage for a dance, etc.
Thats how it should be.

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

Adios.

(Double Feature) Toy Plastic Ring

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

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

Weddings.
I don't like 'em.
Now, now, now, now ... I didn't say I hate love. I didn't say I hate family. I just hate weddings. The wedding that I photographed was great. Happy family, loving couple, cheery children and a few little rituals that I had not seen previously at a wedding. I've never been to a bad Wedding. However, I feel this is like saying "that's a very pretty dress" - pretty as it may be, I don't think I'll wear it myself.
Weddings, to me, seem unnecessary, expensive and exclusionary. I don't like being told that love isn't love unless it's recognised by a stranger. That it's less special unless you show-boat it infront of a crowd. That a flashy little ring symbolises eternal love. My dad lost his down the drain once, fished it out later. Eternal love. My parents are divorced and I don't blame the drain. I blame; Hollywood, money, stress and stupidity.

Biologically, humans fail at monogomy. An old saying says something like; "20% of Primate species are monogomous - one of which are humans. Even then, only 20% of humans are monogomous - most of which are crazy". Sadly, this fact isn't truth. In reality, only 2 species are described as 'True Monogomists'. That is to say; punishing infidelity, eternal care. 100% monogomous ... and no, Man is not one of them. Want to guess? Go on! Try it. They must be smart, right? They must have hands, surely. They must, in some way, remind us of ourselves! I bet it's the Chimps! No. Dolphins? No. Owls? No. Dogs? No.
Answer; Black Vultures & Angelfish.

Vultures are usually seen as evil, cunning beasts but gondarnit! They know more about love than you. Anglefish actually bind their skin together for life, at which point the male becomes nothing more than a sperm-producing organ. Romance!
Now, this doesn't mean I want to sleep around. I've never considered it. Instead, I want to prove my devotion through actions rather than through a stupid ceremony. Marriage was cooked by churches as a way to sell sex, if you ask me.

God doth proclaim; "No sex before marriage, or you shalt burn!"

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

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

"Screams and moans and bats and bones
Teenage monsters in haunted homes
The ghosts on the stair
The vampires bite
Better beware, there's a full moon tonight

Oooooooooo!

Take a fresh rodent, some toadstools and weeds
And an old owl and the young one she breeds
Mix in seven legs of an eight-legged beast
Then you are all set for a cannibal feast"

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

Adios.

(He)man with a plan.

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

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

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

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

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

Adios.

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

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. ll work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boyAll work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,
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All work and NO play makes Jack a dull boy.

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All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, all work and no play makes jack a dull boy.

All work and no play makes Jack a dull murder.

All work and no Play makes jack a dull boy, all work and no play makes jack a dull boy.

all work and no play makes Jack a bull boy.

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

All work and no play makes Jack a DULL boy.

All work

and no play

Makes JACK

A

DULL

BOY

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All work and no play makes Jack a dulll boy,
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All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

All work and no play makes Jack a full boy

All work and no play makes jack a dull boy.

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

Achromatic

"I'm not living
I'm just killing time
Your tiny hands
Your crazy kitten smile

...

And true love waits
In haunted attics
And true love lives
On lollipops and crisps"

Fairytale.

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

Adios.

Cut me loose

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

Adios.

Happy Birthday!!

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

At this moment, my Birthday is nearly over. Such a good day. So disappointed to see it end. I like having people wish me happiness, especially when I've never spoken to them. A few people even suprised me by knowing my name. Many cakes and gifts and treats. The way such a greedy occasion should be. Pictured is Caitlin's Rastafarian Jelly-Jar; et taste lark de Coribee-han. I liked it. Lime, mango, creaming soda... brilliant. Next to that, on the top, is the assorted cakes and pastries that my Aunty had arranged. The three candle are not monument to my actual age. Below that is part of the Question Mark shaped cake baked by Madeline. It was really good. Creamy chocolate and covered in love hearts. Hahahaha. Again, I think the cake only had Nine candle. Gah! Nine! I thank everybody for everything. Especially the poncho from Papa.

Also, on a coincidental note, the very song I mentioned in my last post came up on my iPod the second I left the house, while the iPod was set to suffle. Chance of that; 1:670. Below is photographic evidence (I got really excited). As you can see, it took me only 11 seconds to get my camera out, aim, adjust, focus and shoot (I was REALLY excited). I thought I was phychic. In the image, you can see the little Pod-sock that Mumma knitted for me. Pink and green. Thanks for the colours.

That'll do for now.

Adios.