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!"