it's prosperous lying awake invitation guess what
coast to coast, vivid i'm a visitor here
i'm a visitor here
parking and walking away parking and walking away
ting ting those four feel the pavement is poor
i still believe in getting low i still believe
the history of half past ten
Did you know I'm leaving you in 14 days? Take all the precious things.
Midnight Mania has come a bit early, but I suppose it is all in anticipation of another term. I can't yet recall what I was gonna type before, it was profound, profundissimus as it were even, but nevertheless, lost. Alas, poor brain, I knew him well, that is before he got all knackered with lack of sleep and fingers of scotch that danced in my guiness filled stomach upon my return to home. These are the pitfalls of impending doom.
I feel like painting, something in watercolors maybe or with fingers and hands, something hands on, so I can feel the creation. It's one of those small impulses that creep from the base of your skull in your sleep and then warm your ears with humming of strange little chords. I found Murakami absolutely brilliant, but I'm still short some Kerouac soon to be remedied I hope. It's part of my continuing education of sorts, reaping and raping ideas for all I can, building things on top of things in a sort of plunderous hazard of philosophy and acoutrement.
And then the idea vents into my brain as the text spreads like diseased gangrene on this blank little bit of cyberspace.
It occured to me midflight somewhere over Newfoundland, or one of those silly Canuck islands in the Atlantic, that I didn't really mind not seeing the acquaintances that had hounded me upon my arrival, that I couldn't due to logistical problems and such. In fact, I really hadn't desired their company, for the most part anyway, because they really didn't feel it was worth making an effort to see me. So they could sod off, but for the hassle and the turmoil they created, those things were the bear of the burden, tiring me and making me ail after several days. But, bollocks to them and the whole catastrophe of the event of birth. I enjoy having become to them as to you, what few readers may chance and endure the length of my cold way of creation. I enjoy this fashioning of myself as text in a gui environment. Just a screen and a window and text upon it. Because to those whom are aquaintances, I have had so little contact outside this, and what memories have they ever had. I like the rather quaint idea of them forgetting my face and my shape and merely recalling the color and the font of this my digital self, the completely one-sided fabrication of my personality, bodiless, formless, and only a partial ven diagram of what is encompassed by me. Now it is all boiled down to billions of lines of code and accessible on demand, a whore for the world to suckle off of. In truth, it is perhaps my darkest side, because here no one looks onto me expecting me to be something to them. All you want is controvery, something to feel opposed to, something to hold onto and feel cliche about. This I can give you, I can shove it down your throat and watch you gag and swallow that last sentence, that last word, that last ariel italics letter and beg for more or less or for my death or shame.
Freedom in the greatest stretch. Whose to say I am not god here. An interesting thought.
Cheers, children.
9 January 2005
6 January 2005
The Compuservice Whoredom of Tomorrowhood
If the children don't grow up,
our bodies get bigger but our hearts get torn up.
We're just a million little gods causin rain storms
turnin' every good thing to rust.
Well it too for fuckin ever but I got those sodding photos up once I reached stateside. I shortly realised that being stateside had one advantage, pirating. I shortly thereafter became physically ill in different ways depending on different days until I flew out and arrived back here to a grand Glasgow welcome of gray skies, high wind, and cold rain. You cannot possibly imagine how happy I was to return to my country. That's right, my country, Scotland, you can't have it.
But at anyrate, those photos are up, a few were just taken to relieve boredom on a few days when I decided to walk through the neighboring gardens. I don't think the queen really minded considering she doesn't come here very often at all. Just as well seeing as the place has recently been in a constant state of repair as theyve been updating the older glass greenhouses that were beginning to fall into disrepair. How they're going to replace a few of the windows in that thing is beyond me considering the curvature of the glass has to be nearly perfect.
Now some might expect me to talk or feel badly about the tragedy of the tsunami that occured, but frankly, it really never concerned me. Shit happens, all the time in fact, and as I've recently read, the small things should be attended to with the uttermost detail, the big things should be dealt with lightly. Proving further that I was right from the get go. Yes, a lot of people died, yes the remaining people are screwed, but everything has a pattern and everything works out, so why stress and whimper and whine, why pray, why do anything but that which you do best.
Bah, I'm really just killing time trying to jumpstart my memory of what it was I was gonna type considering I totally lost it in the fog that was yesterday. Being awake for 36 hours straight has a very bad effect on ones brain if I do say so. I was turning into a narcoleptic.
The end is important in all things.
our bodies get bigger but our hearts get torn up.
We're just a million little gods causin rain storms
turnin' every good thing to rust.
Well it too for fuckin ever but I got those sodding photos up once I reached stateside. I shortly realised that being stateside had one advantage, pirating. I shortly thereafter became physically ill in different ways depending on different days until I flew out and arrived back here to a grand Glasgow welcome of gray skies, high wind, and cold rain. You cannot possibly imagine how happy I was to return to my country. That's right, my country, Scotland, you can't have it.
But at anyrate, those photos are up, a few were just taken to relieve boredom on a few days when I decided to walk through the neighboring gardens. I don't think the queen really minded considering she doesn't come here very often at all. Just as well seeing as the place has recently been in a constant state of repair as theyve been updating the older glass greenhouses that were beginning to fall into disrepair. How they're going to replace a few of the windows in that thing is beyond me considering the curvature of the glass has to be nearly perfect.
Now some might expect me to talk or feel badly about the tragedy of the tsunami that occured, but frankly, it really never concerned me. Shit happens, all the time in fact, and as I've recently read, the small things should be attended to with the uttermost detail, the big things should be dealt with lightly. Proving further that I was right from the get go. Yes, a lot of people died, yes the remaining people are screwed, but everything has a pattern and everything works out, so why stress and whimper and whine, why pray, why do anything but that which you do best.
Bah, I'm really just killing time trying to jumpstart my memory of what it was I was gonna type considering I totally lost it in the fog that was yesterday. Being awake for 36 hours straight has a very bad effect on ones brain if I do say so. I was turning into a narcoleptic.
The end is important in all things.
30 December 2004
Scenic Deviatory Mus, Muris
And since there's no one else around,
we let our hair grow long
and forget all we used to know,
then our skin gets thicker
from living out in the snow
The Main Building of Glasgow University from beyond the River Kelvin
The bell tower of the Main Building
The Cloisters leading to the Eastern Quadrangle
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My oak tree
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Evening over Great Western and Byres Road in Kirklee
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3.30PM, Oran Mor
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Raise your autumn arms to the heavens
Bridge over the River Kelvin (Botanic Gardens)
Westward on the River Kelvin (Botanic Gardens, my surrogate backyard)
Sleeping tree
Riverside couple
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Rearview of a stroller passed by
we let our hair grow long
and forget all we used to know,
then our skin gets thicker
from living out in the snow
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18 December 2004
On Airlane Infrarction of the Arctic Emotion
It's an odd moment to realise. The process of constructing enough lies in an attempt to save another is always going to hurt yourself, but somehow I have developed such a personality that I don't mind the damage. A result of years of beatings and thrashings finally to numbness. I think this is how the clarity has come to settle. Having edged away from the last bit of flogging, I've finally cleared through the echoes and dust and managed to carve out a spot for myself. People often say that you cannot recreate yourself or life, and maybe I'm a little farther behind on such things, but still here I am, a different person to 20 different people, new stories and ways of speaking. I'm almost proud of the amount of creativity involved, the deftness at which I can easily just ghost and give up one shell for the next. I've woven a million times these robes and masks, and they are becoming more and more complex. A menagerie nearly enough but without the cages. I have my own space where I alone exist and then the areas where all the costumes take their chance at the stage.
I think that not merging groups of friends was wisest, just streaming between them as I was always forced to do. I'm glad to have had this small touch of experience for the moment, now that I notice exactly what it is I've become, what I am yet to be. Very interesting to know that I was never very far off.
Enough of this, I shan't be sentimental because people expect me to feel guilty for my lack of emotional involvement. This especially holds true when I have merely 30 some odd hours til departure to the states. Well, that and I just saw an amazing concert headlined by Franz Ferdinand. Sure, they're spectacular and even gave away free singles on vinyl, but the highlight for me was the Ramonesish openers Kaiser Chiefs. Pure brilliance in terms of indie rock with an infusion of old school punk. I was blown away, literally, but that could have been the 5 beers and a ew cloves that I relished as my last thrill prior to returning to the hell that is America.
Unfortunately this entails a great deal of stress, not only on the home front, but also on the airline vs. my ego front. I don't much like being thought a terrorist, and I sure as hell would like an id card saying I'm not so that I could avoid getting the security wand up my freshly molested naughty bits. Alas, I also must endure a cumulative 12 hours of flight time in crap-class seating, ie. a small saet not wide enough for my shoulders and without the leg room I so desperately need. That and there's always the first-time flyer that can't shut up for the duration of the shite movie. Go figure.
But as always I shall plod on and wake up early tomorrow in order to do laundry and prepare for my last huzzah at the movies with the few "aquaintances" I have here. Another sodding day in which I am forced to feel completely crap and yet don't. Odd.
Cheers.
12 December 2004
Kamikaze Typhoon Bettys
Mother, sweet mother,
Please don't discipline your hands.
Just kiss me in the morning,
In your dirtiest pants.
I've beens staring at printed notes of sheep gestation and feed and slaughter weights for more hours then is humanly normal or humane. Death, death to the man that subjugated our ovine brethren. Disgustipated suddenly is playing in my head, go figure. I can hear the screams of the carrots as well, but they're just a bunch of wussy (wimp + pussy) whiners. Go eat some cheese you douches. Speaking of douches, interesting piece of advice. When talking to people not from the U.S. refrain from referring to any person as a douche/douchebag, especially while mercilessly pummeling your liver with toxins (for all you no-brainers, that means drinking). The problem isn't that they don't understand the term douche/douchebag, more the way in which a person is like a douche/douchebag. I think it's just another one of the problems with the english language and slang of any sort. I watched a poor guy and his girlfriend try and explain the usage of douche to a kid from Germany who for the life of himself just couldnt grasp it. He seemed to think that the guy being referred to gave douches to other people, but he couldnt figure out if he sold them or performed them. Oi, the problems. I watched for about 30 minutes and lost interest when Kat came by to bother me at my bartending position. Note to all people throwing parties: never work the bar, or don't have me working the bar, I tend to horde beer for myself and become anal retentive about keeping the beer in a nice pattern and the table clean. I'm such a nerd, luckily certain Greek chicas dig this sort of thing.
I said it once before, and I'll say it again for good measure. I'm completely hot stuff, just not in America or to American women (this is why Guess Who are such badasses). Had I been told about this minor snafu earlier in life, I woulda totally been out of the country sooner. It just makes sense. But in the meantime, my name is Jonas, I'm carrying the wheel. And this has been a look into my ever-altering physical state.
Please don't discipline your hands.
Just kiss me in the morning,
In your dirtiest pants.
I've beens staring at printed notes of sheep gestation and feed and slaughter weights for more hours then is humanly normal or humane. Death, death to the man that subjugated our ovine brethren. Disgustipated suddenly is playing in my head, go figure. I can hear the screams of the carrots as well, but they're just a bunch of wussy (wimp + pussy) whiners. Go eat some cheese you douches. Speaking of douches, interesting piece of advice. When talking to people not from the U.S. refrain from referring to any person as a douche/douchebag, especially while mercilessly pummeling your liver with toxins (for all you no-brainers, that means drinking). The problem isn't that they don't understand the term douche/douchebag, more the way in which a person is like a douche/douchebag. I think it's just another one of the problems with the english language and slang of any sort. I watched a poor guy and his girlfriend try and explain the usage of douche to a kid from Germany who for the life of himself just couldnt grasp it. He seemed to think that the guy being referred to gave douches to other people, but he couldnt figure out if he sold them or performed them. Oi, the problems. I watched for about 30 minutes and lost interest when Kat came by to bother me at my bartending position. Note to all people throwing parties: never work the bar, or don't have me working the bar, I tend to horde beer for myself and become anal retentive about keeping the beer in a nice pattern and the table clean. I'm such a nerd, luckily certain Greek chicas dig this sort of thing.
I said it once before, and I'll say it again for good measure. I'm completely hot stuff, just not in America or to American women (this is why Guess Who are such badasses). Had I been told about this minor snafu earlier in life, I woulda totally been out of the country sooner. It just makes sense. But in the meantime, my name is Jonas, I'm carrying the wheel. And this has been a look into my ever-altering physical state.
8 December 2004
Charactre Agenda From Lanark to Glasgow
And if it was just how you wanted
You'd be glued to his bones and his brainstem
And changing your image and attitudes
I sometimes miss Burgess Meredith up on the screen
leaning as he did with wry-ity
Just like jungle gyms and quarters spinning
he had that simple silver grin
like blank black photos we all thought never developed
People forget
People go on
The Sauchiehall hell we created is no different
much like a cat with no fangs and flat teeth
it makes much more sense through a window and rain
staring at the frames and finding the subtle touches
left of ourselves
It strikes me as odd how often things are completely different between one person and the next, just the way they see a color or feel a touch of wind. Is this, then, what lends itself to the charactre of a person, to their very nature of existence, because it seems more often that they never realise their perspective is so very individualised, complexed and complicated by the infinite myriad of circumstances and positions of everything else. Chaos to order, my dear, as always is the way with thought.
You'd be glued to his bones and his brainstem
And changing your image and attitudes
I sometimes miss Burgess Meredith up on the screen
leaning as he did with wry-ity
Just like jungle gyms and quarters spinning
he had that simple silver grin
like blank black photos we all thought never developed
People forget
People go on
The Sauchiehall hell we created is no different
much like a cat with no fangs and flat teeth
it makes much more sense through a window and rain
staring at the frames and finding the subtle touches
left of ourselves
It strikes me as odd how often things are completely different between one person and the next, just the way they see a color or feel a touch of wind. Is this, then, what lends itself to the charactre of a person, to their very nature of existence, because it seems more often that they never realise their perspective is so very individualised, complexed and complicated by the infinite myriad of circumstances and positions of everything else. Chaos to order, my dear, as always is the way with thought.
Nine Lives and the Power of Kats
Days don't end
Skins crawlin'
Pure mornin'
I feel a bit like a post-rock song these days, tied up in infinite depth, hoary, exasperated, completely third person disconnected looking down and away and yet all too fervently venting, emotional, thrashing at life and all there is. Mmm, post-rock. Silly me. Silly broken nose of mine (which by the way still feels funky 3 days after the fact... no more tickle fights methinks).
I feel I'm missing something that I know I had before. A piece of myself that I never remembered losing or discarding, but then again, nine lives is a long time to live and die within, a grave at the end and homes in between and all that jargon of long ago thought. I suppose I am admitting that despite my overall clarity and tranquility, if you will, I am at a loss for once, unsure, unstable, but undeniably enjoying the adventure. I think after all the adaptation and stretching of ideas over the past years I filled in all the crevices that housed every other emotion besides anger, because, of course, anger has no rational root and is never subdued by rationality. I'm just a bit of a dense cloud of sand and fog at the moment realising that maybe what I'm after is only inhibited by myself and not all the extrinsic forces I blame normally (it makes life a lot easier when you can simply point and say, "nyeh nyeh, its all their fault," much like the little kid you are at heart).
At the same time I feel numbed, I also have a sense of something waking up, maybe the very numbness, like pin needles in a wrist is subsiding, or it could be something far worse. I can't really conjecture or care to when all-in-all I'm not that concerned with the entire situation. Let that be a lesson, one day at a time without thought or worry can often lead to the best run ship, ie life. I'm really just an insensitive bastard and and ass, and most of all, just really feckin lazy.
It's fun, it's good, it puts me to sleep at night. I tend to wonder if what makes life so difficult is this emotional labeling, this identifying and leading ourselves down into a further caustic trembling, all the while I can hear Christmas Steps just trancing off oblivious and yet oddly passioned for something it doesn't seem to be a part of. We should all be post-rock, negligent to ourselves, subserviant to others, but then again, I've been away for a long while, traveled some perilous ways and places, and what is left may not be myself or anything remotely like it. Just a remote part of an idea I had as a child buttressed by the personalities of everyone I encountered along the way. But as long as there's a warm bed to go home to.
Skins crawlin'
Pure mornin'
I feel a bit like a post-rock song these days, tied up in infinite depth, hoary, exasperated, completely third person disconnected looking down and away and yet all too fervently venting, emotional, thrashing at life and all there is. Mmm, post-rock. Silly me. Silly broken nose of mine (which by the way still feels funky 3 days after the fact... no more tickle fights methinks).
I feel I'm missing something that I know I had before. A piece of myself that I never remembered losing or discarding, but then again, nine lives is a long time to live and die within, a grave at the end and homes in between and all that jargon of long ago thought. I suppose I am admitting that despite my overall clarity and tranquility, if you will, I am at a loss for once, unsure, unstable, but undeniably enjoying the adventure. I think after all the adaptation and stretching of ideas over the past years I filled in all the crevices that housed every other emotion besides anger, because, of course, anger has no rational root and is never subdued by rationality. I'm just a bit of a dense cloud of sand and fog at the moment realising that maybe what I'm after is only inhibited by myself and not all the extrinsic forces I blame normally (it makes life a lot easier when you can simply point and say, "nyeh nyeh, its all their fault," much like the little kid you are at heart).
At the same time I feel numbed, I also have a sense of something waking up, maybe the very numbness, like pin needles in a wrist is subsiding, or it could be something far worse. I can't really conjecture or care to when all-in-all I'm not that concerned with the entire situation. Let that be a lesson, one day at a time without thought or worry can often lead to the best run ship, ie life. I'm really just an insensitive bastard and and ass, and most of all, just really feckin lazy.
It's fun, it's good, it puts me to sleep at night. I tend to wonder if what makes life so difficult is this emotional labeling, this identifying and leading ourselves down into a further caustic trembling, all the while I can hear Christmas Steps just trancing off oblivious and yet oddly passioned for something it doesn't seem to be a part of. We should all be post-rock, negligent to ourselves, subserviant to others, but then again, I've been away for a long while, traveled some perilous ways and places, and what is left may not be myself or anything remotely like it. Just a remote part of an idea I had as a child buttressed by the personalities of everyone I encountered along the way. But as long as there's a warm bed to go home to.
2 December 2004
Close Encounter of the Greek Nature
I believe in a thing called love
Just listen to the rhythm of my heart
There's a chance we could make it now
We'll be rocking 'til the sun goes down
I believe in a thing called love
Ooh! Guitar!
Mmm, The Darkness. Soo, tasty. So yeah, I've typed about Greek food in Scotland, but I think I left out the hottie Greek women, or woman. But I'm just gonna keep leavin her out cos she's too damn cute for this hole of a webpage. At anyrate, I've been picking up itsy bits of the language whilst being laughed at by Akaterina. You'll have that. I'm an American, I suck as a person, but I'm weird. This makes me sexy, despite all my ill looking physical disparities. So SUCK IT AMERICA!!!!
Well there's my normal rant of superiority. If you haven't been keeping up on Foamy or Strongbad, I suggest you jump on the ball and get with the program before all the coolness is sucked out into the cosmos from within your tiny pecker or midden twat. And by this point you're once more saying that this rant is in no way, shape, or form anywhere near entertaining. Well, nay, I say to you, NAY and then a hearty mooo. I realise that the past, say 20 million, entries have been far below my standard of nonsense and hooplah, and not to mention the distinct lack of ricketa racketa. But, I'm sick, only for the past few days I'll grant you, but nonetheless, I've been sick in the head most if not all of my life. So, I am justified in my suckiness of craptacularity. Seeing as I no longer have a loyal reader fanbase-- ie. you all come once and never again, just like all the one night stands with your mom --you're totally missing the point. The point of this was just to express my opinion from moment to moment and without giving two shits, let alone one, about whichever way you lean on these issues of pointless, tactless, idiocy.
So I'm gonna go dunk my head in bleach and hopefully kill the majority of bacteria and virus capsids swimming around in my brain without damaging too much of my cerebral cortex. With any luck I'll be back up to rockin' out status, maybe even with my cock out, just in time for the A Silver Mount Zion concert at Oran Mor (my new fav all-time greatest venue). Sons and Daughters rocked it up and out there jsut about a week ago, and lemme tell you, the raw vocals totally owned the studio versions, not to say its all shite, far from it. But you have to respect the completely pure nature of live and shite soundboard vocals and instrument. I think it didna hurt that I was right at the stage feeling the guitarists boots slamming out the beat as he fixed everyone with a frigid fecking glare. Metal thrashing with booming bass and slamming drums. So it wis but a good show. One of many from which I'll take a way a button and maybe even a quality tshirt.
\m/ (><) \m/ Rock, Rock Hard, Rock for Life...
Just listen to the rhythm of my heart
There's a chance we could make it now
We'll be rocking 'til the sun goes down
I believe in a thing called love
Ooh! Guitar!
Mmm, The Darkness. Soo, tasty. So yeah, I've typed about Greek food in Scotland, but I think I left out the hottie Greek women, or woman. But I'm just gonna keep leavin her out cos she's too damn cute for this hole of a webpage. At anyrate, I've been picking up itsy bits of the language whilst being laughed at by Akaterina. You'll have that. I'm an American, I suck as a person, but I'm weird. This makes me sexy, despite all my ill looking physical disparities. So SUCK IT AMERICA!!!!
Well there's my normal rant of superiority. If you haven't been keeping up on Foamy or Strongbad, I suggest you jump on the ball and get with the program before all the coolness is sucked out into the cosmos from within your tiny pecker or midden twat. And by this point you're once more saying that this rant is in no way, shape, or form anywhere near entertaining. Well, nay, I say to you, NAY and then a hearty mooo. I realise that the past, say 20 million, entries have been far below my standard of nonsense and hooplah, and not to mention the distinct lack of ricketa racketa. But, I'm sick, only for the past few days I'll grant you, but nonetheless, I've been sick in the head most if not all of my life. So, I am justified in my suckiness of craptacularity. Seeing as I no longer have a loyal reader fanbase-- ie. you all come once and never again, just like all the one night stands with your mom --you're totally missing the point. The point of this was just to express my opinion from moment to moment and without giving two shits, let alone one, about whichever way you lean on these issues of pointless, tactless, idiocy.
So I'm gonna go dunk my head in bleach and hopefully kill the majority of bacteria and virus capsids swimming around in my brain without damaging too much of my cerebral cortex. With any luck I'll be back up to rockin' out status, maybe even with my cock out, just in time for the A Silver Mount Zion concert at Oran Mor (my new fav all-time greatest venue). Sons and Daughters rocked it up and out there jsut about a week ago, and lemme tell you, the raw vocals totally owned the studio versions, not to say its all shite, far from it. But you have to respect the completely pure nature of live and shite soundboard vocals and instrument. I think it didna hurt that I was right at the stage feeling the guitarists boots slamming out the beat as he fixed everyone with a frigid fecking glare. Metal thrashing with booming bass and slamming drums. So it wis but a good show. One of many from which I'll take a way a button and maybe even a quality tshirt.
\m/ (><) \m/ Rock, Rock Hard, Rock for Life...
26 November 2004
Samo Hung a Head on the Alley
Rebels are we, though heavy our hearts shall always be
Ah, no ball or chain no prison shall keep
We`re the rebels of the sacred heart
I said no ball or chain no prison shall keep
We`re the rebels of the sacred heart
So I wish that my shower faucet would end its tireless demonic posession and let me enjoy a nice hot shower instead of alternating between freezing fucking cold and completely skin peeling, bacteria obliterating hot. I take it by it's current, sudden spew of water from the shut-off nozzle that it knows I'm thinking ill thoughts. Rot in hell you craptacular piece of plumbing. I'll plumb you. Plumb you reeaaal good-like.
Simplicty is the order of things, not like the order of things really changes. Surely it seems to, with people coming and going and objects traversing the sky and stars, policies made and broken, friends forgotten, etc, etc, etc. I must remark how little it changes. It seems complicated, the whole lot of it, yes, but it isn't. We just can't resist the layering of the actions, one atop the other, that make it so, we expect to see such fantastic complexity that we will never fail to see it. There are desires, but they are merely desires, there are dreams, but they are but dreams. Life is life, it is unexplicable and delightful, and sodding hard without any doubt, but it is life. I've congradulated myself in this realisation, because it has been a long way to have come this far, a great exploration in idea and belief and abolishment of all restrictions. Brilliant really, because all along there is just life. Quiet and innervating, shy and firm. I am diluted, perhaps, well, more likely than not, simply am, without the perhaps, sans the corollaries. But at this point I fail to see where I should begin to be concerned.
I am restless in a new fashion. When I am truely tired I sleep and I sleep well, dreaming in black and white, vivid yellows even at times, all traversing and settlig. When I am restless I am unwearied and startlingly clear of purpose at any moment. Very unlike the insomnia, I almost welcome it, this trace of energy transducing to thought that recently just flows without hitch, weightless and streamed.
A pint of Hoegaarden and a window over the city of Glasgow was all I needed and had the other night. I was burning to do nothing but sit and listen. No clutter of thought, no digestion of motive or action. I looked out over the quiet campus in the wee hours of the morning through the lit glass of sleeping buildings and found it absolutely the most beautiful thing. So much like a toddler gently and slowly curling into slumber. So tumultuous, violently erupting into fits of tremors and howls, just then so absolutely silent and fading from the world, ignorant of every pain and parting that had and would occur. I could never do justice in human language all the things I see, or at least the way in which I have witnessed them. But I will sleep all the easier for their occurence, for their existence in these late evenings. Mush it all seems in retrospect but I have such clarity these past few days that I feel your foul opinions of my banter are just quite irrelevant.
Ah, no ball or chain no prison shall keep
We`re the rebels of the sacred heart
I said no ball or chain no prison shall keep
We`re the rebels of the sacred heart
So I wish that my shower faucet would end its tireless demonic posession and let me enjoy a nice hot shower instead of alternating between freezing fucking cold and completely skin peeling, bacteria obliterating hot. I take it by it's current, sudden spew of water from the shut-off nozzle that it knows I'm thinking ill thoughts. Rot in hell you craptacular piece of plumbing. I'll plumb you. Plumb you reeaaal good-like.
Simplicty is the order of things, not like the order of things really changes. Surely it seems to, with people coming and going and objects traversing the sky and stars, policies made and broken, friends forgotten, etc, etc, etc. I must remark how little it changes. It seems complicated, the whole lot of it, yes, but it isn't. We just can't resist the layering of the actions, one atop the other, that make it so, we expect to see such fantastic complexity that we will never fail to see it. There are desires, but they are merely desires, there are dreams, but they are but dreams. Life is life, it is unexplicable and delightful, and sodding hard without any doubt, but it is life. I've congradulated myself in this realisation, because it has been a long way to have come this far, a great exploration in idea and belief and abolishment of all restrictions. Brilliant really, because all along there is just life. Quiet and innervating, shy and firm. I am diluted, perhaps, well, more likely than not, simply am, without the perhaps, sans the corollaries. But at this point I fail to see where I should begin to be concerned.
I am restless in a new fashion. When I am truely tired I sleep and I sleep well, dreaming in black and white, vivid yellows even at times, all traversing and settlig. When I am restless I am unwearied and startlingly clear of purpose at any moment. Very unlike the insomnia, I almost welcome it, this trace of energy transducing to thought that recently just flows without hitch, weightless and streamed.
A pint of Hoegaarden and a window over the city of Glasgow was all I needed and had the other night. I was burning to do nothing but sit and listen. No clutter of thought, no digestion of motive or action. I looked out over the quiet campus in the wee hours of the morning through the lit glass of sleeping buildings and found it absolutely the most beautiful thing. So much like a toddler gently and slowly curling into slumber. So tumultuous, violently erupting into fits of tremors and howls, just then so absolutely silent and fading from the world, ignorant of every pain and parting that had and would occur. I could never do justice in human language all the things I see, or at least the way in which I have witnessed them. But I will sleep all the easier for their occurence, for their existence in these late evenings. Mush it all seems in retrospect but I have such clarity these past few days that I feel your foul opinions of my banter are just quite irrelevant.
21 November 2004
Life Carries on in the People I Meet
The universe is shaped exactly like the earth
If you go straight long enough youll end up where you were
Moments of clarity, utter uncongestion of thoughts and mere emptying of all emotional channels. This weeks theme it seems, so clear and definite, a final sort of cathartic release that I still don't quite understand. Point A suddenly traveled directly to Go and missed all the rest of the universe. I could recall for the first time in some years all the facts about anything just effortlessly, so nietzchean, so pure. I almost fell over at the opportunities it presented, but I was completely too enthralled in it to realise all the potential of the moment. Only days before I had a shorter moment of such that I suddenly in class just stood up and decided defiantly that I would got to Tibet and Nepal. No real reason other than that which propels me seemed to call it so strongly and I for once was clear of consciousness enough to hear it. That is what I think I am to seek, the final absence, a sort of cleansing, a swift breeze to shuffle the litter out and allow me to hear it all for once, see exactly what lies before me.
Not to competely detract from the humour that once was in these spots, but I am coming into my time of year, it is winter after all. And recently I have reminisced less and less, deleting all the memories that seemed foreign and extraneous this time around. The useless is useless, no? or if nothing else merely needless for the moment while I have the distance to examine it. One more week til I'm at home again, back with my feline cousins and playing as I used to. So simplistic those two are, so oblivious to all the hardships and happy as well. But then again, I am too, or at least closer to it. Very satisying in that post-coital way. Like a clove and Stella in my hand with a bit of sweat on brow, I am a man hard-worked and underappreciated, but it matters little with a true sense of home at heart.
I'm still a step ahead of you, like an evening shadow as you walk east. I'll be out of your way soon enough, just as sure as the sun will set on me, it will set on you as well. But then again, I was always partial to the twilight and afterglow.
If you go straight long enough youll end up where you were
Moments of clarity, utter uncongestion of thoughts and mere emptying of all emotional channels. This weeks theme it seems, so clear and definite, a final sort of cathartic release that I still don't quite understand. Point A suddenly traveled directly to Go and missed all the rest of the universe. I could recall for the first time in some years all the facts about anything just effortlessly, so nietzchean, so pure. I almost fell over at the opportunities it presented, but I was completely too enthralled in it to realise all the potential of the moment. Only days before I had a shorter moment of such that I suddenly in class just stood up and decided defiantly that I would got to Tibet and Nepal. No real reason other than that which propels me seemed to call it so strongly and I for once was clear of consciousness enough to hear it. That is what I think I am to seek, the final absence, a sort of cleansing, a swift breeze to shuffle the litter out and allow me to hear it all for once, see exactly what lies before me.
Not to competely detract from the humour that once was in these spots, but I am coming into my time of year, it is winter after all. And recently I have reminisced less and less, deleting all the memories that seemed foreign and extraneous this time around. The useless is useless, no? or if nothing else merely needless for the moment while I have the distance to examine it. One more week til I'm at home again, back with my feline cousins and playing as I used to. So simplistic those two are, so oblivious to all the hardships and happy as well. But then again, I am too, or at least closer to it. Very satisying in that post-coital way. Like a clove and Stella in my hand with a bit of sweat on brow, I am a man hard-worked and underappreciated, but it matters little with a true sense of home at heart.
I'm still a step ahead of you, like an evening shadow as you walk east. I'll be out of your way soon enough, just as sure as the sun will set on me, it will set on you as well. But then again, I was always partial to the twilight and afterglow.
17 November 2004
With Walnuts? With Walnuts?!!
Look at slow motion asleep at the door
Next to destruction, reach for the source
Get up, get up, get over, take me to your blackened sky
There's not enough fairy dust in the world for you to fly now. You're too much Dustin Hoffman and not enough Andrews as a boy. Yeah you may jump on beds but I doubt you could ever knit a dinner from thin air, now could you, tiny one. But maybe yet you can sew a shadow onto your face at night and make it all so very not Rufio. No more swords or words of hurrah, it seems, all ordinary and paisley-tied in tongue and cheek. Cat may be at play or a frog about to jump, but what can you do about it all as you fall faster asleep. It's all a lovely tra-la-la without the Pan, just a whistle in the distant hung aviary blue traveling along a thin wired wheel to a never seen land of ne'er do wells and thieves of soul.
So you simply see there's no way for you to quite get the jist. Straight lines are too few and far between in mind for you to tread lightly and blindly, blonde. Pick up the penguins and the moose, a few elk, and a whole score of ambiguity in boxes of overweight truth. You can't capture Marx or Monty but you can surely gleen that life is more than the obvious and extraordinary when there is absurdity in the pilot seat and hysterical glibness along for the ride.
Next to destruction, reach for the source
Get up, get up, get over, take me to your blackened sky
There's not enough fairy dust in the world for you to fly now. You're too much Dustin Hoffman and not enough Andrews as a boy. Yeah you may jump on beds but I doubt you could ever knit a dinner from thin air, now could you, tiny one. But maybe yet you can sew a shadow onto your face at night and make it all so very not Rufio. No more swords or words of hurrah, it seems, all ordinary and paisley-tied in tongue and cheek. Cat may be at play or a frog about to jump, but what can you do about it all as you fall faster asleep. It's all a lovely tra-la-la without the Pan, just a whistle in the distant hung aviary blue traveling along a thin wired wheel to a never seen land of ne'er do wells and thieves of soul.
So you simply see there's no way for you to quite get the jist. Straight lines are too few and far between in mind for you to tread lightly and blindly, blonde. Pick up the penguins and the moose, a few elk, and a whole score of ambiguity in boxes of overweight truth. You can't capture Marx or Monty but you can surely gleen that life is more than the obvious and extraordinary when there is absurdity in the pilot seat and hysterical glibness along for the ride.
11 November 2004
Indiscreet Ingrids
We peered through the windows
New bottoms on barstools
But the people remain the same with prices inflating, inflating
As if saved from the gallows
There's a bellow of buzzers
And the people stop working and they're all so excited, excited.
I came across the realisation in cinematic mirror shards that as long as Bergman is beautiful and London is the scene for intrigue, I will always want to be Cary Grant.
So, I edited the post, sue me, I do it all the time you just never notice.
I realised that with all the things I've seen and done, with all that my still unaged eyes see, I seem to take the awe-striking moments for granted, and only later do I appreciate them in my memory, replaying every second. So here's what you are going to do. Come to Scotland. Fuck the cold weather, fuck the rain, fuck the sodding food and everything else. Come. Go to the highlands, or even the midlands, just to see the sun rise and set. It cannot be paralleled. Come, visit, stop being arses, and I'll stop editing posts when I get bored.
New bottoms on barstools
But the people remain the same with prices inflating, inflating
As if saved from the gallows
There's a bellow of buzzers
And the people stop working and they're all so excited, excited.
I came across the realisation in cinematic mirror shards that as long as Bergman is beautiful and London is the scene for intrigue, I will always want to be Cary Grant.
So, I edited the post, sue me, I do it all the time you just never notice.
I realised that with all the things I've seen and done, with all that my still unaged eyes see, I seem to take the awe-striking moments for granted, and only later do I appreciate them in my memory, replaying every second. So here's what you are going to do. Come to Scotland. Fuck the cold weather, fuck the rain, fuck the sodding food and everything else. Come. Go to the highlands, or even the midlands, just to see the sun rise and set. It cannot be paralleled. Come, visit, stop being arses, and I'll stop editing posts when I get bored.
10 November 2004
If One Were to Coagulate the Viscera
Anyone perfect must be lying,
Anything easy has its cost.
Anyone plain can be lovely,
Anyone loved can be lost
I'm all vaclempt, yet strangely not Yiddish, hmm, how odd. And another thing, my fingers are cold, so I may have some typing issues, don't laugh you jackhole in cunt, I kick you for it.
Just ritz bits and corduroy snaps
like goldfish and whale bone sails
nonsense
complete and utter nonsense, no?
eight year olds and portrait memories, nevermind the sturdy wooden legs.
At any rate, I wis quite excited about the whole thing of my final box arriving, but it was doomish, oh so doomed in doomishness. It came, opened and resealed, and most importantly missing some things that I's like back. So I appeal to you almighty internet, return to me my pen needles and tattoo art, most assuredly long lost already. Blah, Glasgow still shimmers, though, brightly these days as the sun sets now at 4 and rises around 8. It's really brilliant in fact, seeing as I am as always a bit of a shadow myself, what with the creepy looks and whatnot that I'm purported to have about me when I where a baseball cap. Nonetheless, maybe I'll seem more preppy once I own a GUVMA rugby jersey and get all muscle-y and calloused after hits and tackles and scrapes and cleatings.
I have to endeavor to pull my act together and resist the temptation to go and sit for hours on end after class tomorrow afternoon. I am a man on a mission, a mission to City Centre to retrieve several tickets for Flogging Molly in Edinburgh. It will most assuredly rock my nuts off hardcore. I wouldn't be surprised if I came back with a urinary problem. But then again, it may just end up being the clap or something. Traveling does so have this effect on me, the few instances of excitement and anticipation. Again to push on east over the hills to the coast once more and find ocean and sky tangled up and rolling again like some lovers quarrel gone awry. Hmm, poetry in motion perhaps much like Kerouac or Murakami. At any rate, I have an anatomy exam with my name on it which means I apparently need to accept responsibility. Fuck that, I'm gonna go do something non-productive. It wis the sole option in the whole bloody affair, hyah. Cheers at any rate, and watch out for your wee cotton socks, lass.
Anything easy has its cost.
Anyone plain can be lovely,
Anyone loved can be lost
I'm all vaclempt, yet strangely not Yiddish, hmm, how odd. And another thing, my fingers are cold, so I may have some typing issues, don't laugh you jackhole in cunt, I kick you for it.
Just ritz bits and corduroy snaps
like goldfish and whale bone sails
nonsense
complete and utter nonsense, no?
eight year olds and portrait memories, nevermind the sturdy wooden legs.
At any rate, I wis quite excited about the whole thing of my final box arriving, but it was doomish, oh so doomed in doomishness. It came, opened and resealed, and most importantly missing some things that I's like back. So I appeal to you almighty internet, return to me my pen needles and tattoo art, most assuredly long lost already. Blah, Glasgow still shimmers, though, brightly these days as the sun sets now at 4 and rises around 8. It's really brilliant in fact, seeing as I am as always a bit of a shadow myself, what with the creepy looks and whatnot that I'm purported to have about me when I where a baseball cap. Nonetheless, maybe I'll seem more preppy once I own a GUVMA rugby jersey and get all muscle-y and calloused after hits and tackles and scrapes and cleatings.
I have to endeavor to pull my act together and resist the temptation to go and sit for hours on end after class tomorrow afternoon. I am a man on a mission, a mission to City Centre to retrieve several tickets for Flogging Molly in Edinburgh. It will most assuredly rock my nuts off hardcore. I wouldn't be surprised if I came back with a urinary problem. But then again, it may just end up being the clap or something. Traveling does so have this effect on me, the few instances of excitement and anticipation. Again to push on east over the hills to the coast once more and find ocean and sky tangled up and rolling again like some lovers quarrel gone awry. Hmm, poetry in motion perhaps much like Kerouac or Murakami. At any rate, I have an anatomy exam with my name on it which means I apparently need to accept responsibility. Fuck that, I'm gonna go do something non-productive. It wis the sole option in the whole bloody affair, hyah. Cheers at any rate, and watch out for your wee cotton socks, lass.
6 November 2004
Saganaki Dreams
Here we are
Foreign to their world
Straight and composed
Your sermons I can do without
And I finally found that everybody loves to love you
When you're far away
So what, you may ask, is an average Friday night like in my city of warm weather eternal? Well, for one, it's toasty in so many ways, for another, well... I couldn't tell you seeing as I spend the majority off my tits in drunken debauchery with the multiple hotties that follow my every move. I have a sweet ass, I can't help it!
Apparently today, Saturday, was some holiday called Guy Fox day. It's like the fourth of July in the states, except their reason for setting off fireworks while freezing their tits off isn't as well grounded per se. Apparently, way back in the day, some random guy, let's just call him Guy, decided to try and burn the Brit's parliament to the ground. Possibly it was a good idea, maybe it was just plain assinine, I can't say cos honestly I couldn't really bring myself to entertain any sort of interest in the subject. At any rate, he, like all Scots, failed miserably much to the joy of the Brit wankers. So every November apparently, the Scots celebrate this grand failure of an event by setting off fireworks and drinking until they vomit profusely. Now maybe this strikes you as it does me, completely normal. But it is the only occasion that I know of that the Irish don't take part in but the Brits celebrate, only because they're so happy to have their fugly yellow building intact, go figure.
I personlly celebrated by going out to eat at a decent greek restaurant, still somewhat tainted by the British idea that everything different can be homogenized, such that the mousaka had a light tomato sauce over it... yeah, cos its oooooooh so normal. Nonetheless it was cheap and filling when coupled with a nice Pinot Grigio and a glass of port with chocolate gelato. I'm a lush I realize, but it's all in an attempt to prevent my expounding upon my new found hatred of all the "friends" (aka "aquaintances") I left in the states save one.
For now I shall wish you a wonderful Guy Fox day, go burn down some government buildings, blame it on me, I'm good at pissing those G-men off anyhow.
Cheers.
Foreign to their world
Straight and composed
Your sermons I can do without
And I finally found that everybody loves to love you
When you're far away
So what, you may ask, is an average Friday night like in my city of warm weather eternal? Well, for one, it's toasty in so many ways, for another, well... I couldn't tell you seeing as I spend the majority off my tits in drunken debauchery with the multiple hotties that follow my every move. I have a sweet ass, I can't help it!
Apparently today, Saturday, was some holiday called Guy Fox day. It's like the fourth of July in the states, except their reason for setting off fireworks while freezing their tits off isn't as well grounded per se. Apparently, way back in the day, some random guy, let's just call him Guy, decided to try and burn the Brit's parliament to the ground. Possibly it was a good idea, maybe it was just plain assinine, I can't say cos honestly I couldn't really bring myself to entertain any sort of interest in the subject. At any rate, he, like all Scots, failed miserably much to the joy of the Brit wankers. So every November apparently, the Scots celebrate this grand failure of an event by setting off fireworks and drinking until they vomit profusely. Now maybe this strikes you as it does me, completely normal. But it is the only occasion that I know of that the Irish don't take part in but the Brits celebrate, only because they're so happy to have their fugly yellow building intact, go figure.
I personlly celebrated by going out to eat at a decent greek restaurant, still somewhat tainted by the British idea that everything different can be homogenized, such that the mousaka had a light tomato sauce over it... yeah, cos its oooooooh so normal. Nonetheless it was cheap and filling when coupled with a nice Pinot Grigio and a glass of port with chocolate gelato. I'm a lush I realize, but it's all in an attempt to prevent my expounding upon my new found hatred of all the "friends" (aka "aquaintances") I left in the states save one.
For now I shall wish you a wonderful Guy Fox day, go burn down some government buildings, blame it on me, I'm good at pissing those G-men off anyhow.
Cheers.
29 October 2004
Squiggly Squiggly Trochlear Foramen
We can share the popcorn
And go to the pub at night
We can get right tanked up
And go home and have a fight
The mind is a funny place, not funny ha-ha, or even funy ha-HA, more funny you need to shut your face you daft little bastard you. Ok, maybe not even that. It's just funny, peculiar even, maybe even funny-peculiar, like your mom (speaking of which I've brought and introduced that phrase here in Glasgow, so far that land seems infertile much like your little sister). I think partly I'm intrigud because I have overall a great deal of control that is exercised over my thinking process, conscious imagination. There was 20 minutes of clear unconscious silence, no thought, just a sort of ruminant drifting nonsense. Patrick. Or was it Partick. Movies infusing with brain and cephalic vein with the lymh shuttling in. This is stream in winter, solid but mobile and completely fertile to the ideas of wine-o's and rum. Fucking incense and cigarette veins like coffee ice cream it's not the same as clove smell smooth and a bathroom mirror underlying the infraspinatus muscle. Fucking. I can remember a twelve second interval of coracoid process definition where the beginning was fuzzy but all resolved. Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind, each prayer offered off cue and against a god's will just for the sake of Alexander Pope. Stealing panties would have been a riot during the whole chinese experience no? No. Just couch diving and a Christmas card that seemed all too better than the last thing I could remember with tears attached. Panties itself is just a funny word, a bit inbetween forgetful misuse, a word for men but never a woman I've known, but have I known anyone or myself. All signs say yes in other people, acquaintance passive acceptance with scribbly scribbly scribbly squiggly words.
Yes it's true that the dining dead themselves see the plageristic misnomers in the cigarette burns and the obvious lack of humour in this entry. The last I admit was an inspired email, and it was a quick fix between my toes for heroin addicts and a snuff or two just for good measure. Am I ugly ot tangerine, or just an off chartreuse? Damn cinematic gaps filling with wedges. Aaaaaanyeay. Perhaps the best way for all of you to handle the situation is to just ignore me. Or have some fun and dream like I do.
It's pitch black at 6 o'clock now. Seduction is a bitch when it pulls on the left string, just a bit of a peal and a tintinabulatory Poe poem.
And go to the pub at night
We can get right tanked up
And go home and have a fight
The mind is a funny place, not funny ha-ha, or even funy ha-HA, more funny you need to shut your face you daft little bastard you. Ok, maybe not even that. It's just funny, peculiar even, maybe even funny-peculiar, like your mom (speaking of which I've brought and introduced that phrase here in Glasgow, so far that land seems infertile much like your little sister). I think partly I'm intrigud because I have overall a great deal of control that is exercised over my thinking process, conscious imagination. There was 20 minutes of clear unconscious silence, no thought, just a sort of ruminant drifting nonsense. Patrick. Or was it Partick. Movies infusing with brain and cephalic vein with the lymh shuttling in. This is stream in winter, solid but mobile and completely fertile to the ideas of wine-o's and rum. Fucking incense and cigarette veins like coffee ice cream it's not the same as clove smell smooth and a bathroom mirror underlying the infraspinatus muscle. Fucking. I can remember a twelve second interval of coracoid process definition where the beginning was fuzzy but all resolved. Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind, each prayer offered off cue and against a god's will just for the sake of Alexander Pope. Stealing panties would have been a riot during the whole chinese experience no? No. Just couch diving and a Christmas card that seemed all too better than the last thing I could remember with tears attached. Panties itself is just a funny word, a bit inbetween forgetful misuse, a word for men but never a woman I've known, but have I known anyone or myself. All signs say yes in other people, acquaintance passive acceptance with scribbly scribbly scribbly squiggly words.
Yes it's true that the dining dead themselves see the plageristic misnomers in the cigarette burns and the obvious lack of humour in this entry. The last I admit was an inspired email, and it was a quick fix between my toes for heroin addicts and a snuff or two just for good measure. Am I ugly ot tangerine, or just an off chartreuse? Damn cinematic gaps filling with wedges. Aaaaaanyeay. Perhaps the best way for all of you to handle the situation is to just ignore me. Or have some fun and dream like I do.
It's pitch black at 6 o'clock now. Seduction is a bitch when it pulls on the left string, just a bit of a peal and a tintinabulatory Poe poem.
27 October 2004
Hamate Processed Pagodas
You're awake and trying not to be
Wrapped around your pillow like a prawn
And the nighttime's wrapped around you
Will be until it drops you on the dawn
From the C train to the shiny tower
Kicked around til happy hour found you
Where you can drink that smirk right off your face
Finally my CDs arrived. Actually they came Monday, exactly 6 weeks after I took them to the Post Office. Thus I spent the last two days literally hunched over them listening feverishly. Of course the first disc out of the case was Astral Weeks because it doesn't get better than that, lemme tell ya. It was orgasmic, in fact, if I had a girlfriend right now, I would totally kick her to the curb. That's right, this shite is the dog's bollocks. I was off my tits for 48 hours because of this bloody pile of plastic, but then I had to attend class and visit my cow and fuzzy sheeo friends at the farm.
Alas, I feel I am justified in short-changing you in terms of my prosaic prescence because who really has taken the time to be present, seriously now. So I am off to buy liquor and sweets for the bday bash on Saturday. Rum soaked jelly babies are the sweet du jour, should be fuckin great lest that damn JAPpy midden got involved in the planning. Bollocks to her. Stuart Murdoch frequents my Safeway, too, thats swank if you didn't know.
OH.. don't go just yet.
CONGRATULATIONS IP 199.18.113.94, you and you alone have made it to like the bazillionth hit on my little thingy-ma-doo-thingy here. So go get yourself some cheesy popcorn.
Wrapped around your pillow like a prawn
And the nighttime's wrapped around you
Will be until it drops you on the dawn
From the C train to the shiny tower
Kicked around til happy hour found you
Where you can drink that smirk right off your face
Finally my CDs arrived. Actually they came Monday, exactly 6 weeks after I took them to the Post Office. Thus I spent the last two days literally hunched over them listening feverishly. Of course the first disc out of the case was Astral Weeks because it doesn't get better than that, lemme tell ya. It was orgasmic, in fact, if I had a girlfriend right now, I would totally kick her to the curb. That's right, this shite is the dog's bollocks. I was off my tits for 48 hours because of this bloody pile of plastic, but then I had to attend class and visit my cow and fuzzy sheeo friends at the farm.
Alas, I feel I am justified in short-changing you in terms of my prosaic prescence because who really has taken the time to be present, seriously now. So I am off to buy liquor and sweets for the bday bash on Saturday. Rum soaked jelly babies are the sweet du jour, should be fuckin great lest that damn JAPpy midden got involved in the planning. Bollocks to her. Stuart Murdoch frequents my Safeway, too, thats swank if you didn't know.
OH.. don't go just yet.
CONGRATULATIONS IP 199.18.113.94, you and you alone have made it to like the bazillionth hit on my little thingy-ma-doo-thingy here. So go get yourself some cheesy popcorn.
21 October 2004
Gothic Carolina Drawl
I have dreamed of a black car that shimmers and drives
Down the length of the evening to the carnival side
In a house where regret is a carousel ride
We are spinning and spinning and spinning and now
It's been brilliant weather here of late, cool and rainy mist in the morning drenching from the heavens opening up into a slate gray-blue ceiling lined with purple saffron and intense orange, almost magma-like as the sun crests spilling outward onto the hills at Loch Lohmond to the west. It happens like this every morning just in time for me to approach the corner of Byres Road past the Botanic Garden, the scent of spring evolving into autumn wandering into the intersection and mixing with the gasoline and oil and pavement of passing cars as they splatter rain water up and onto the cement sidewalks and ornate rod iron fencing guarding the garden entrance. Each and every day I stand there and see the sun slant through the steeple windows of an old gothic church now renovated and filled with a few pubs and dinner theatres, igniting a hallowed part of the world boiling over with magic unlike any other. It's absolutely peaceful amidst the heavy morning traffic with cold air whipping up the back of my coat shivering my spine and hairs along my neck as I hear the music of the city tapping against my feet, a gentle thud of tribal throngs. The land itself exudes something long sapped out from the ground stateside. It's no wonder people seem to seem so unarrogant yet proud when pride itself is in the soil, it gave birth to everything here in a quiet majesty, an indistinct regality that was never reserved for the blue blood alone. A nation of warriors indeed, silently carrying themselves as kings without thrones, a nation of equality amongst the inebriated, dark princes and even darker dames. It's the charm of a sweet drawn out drawl from the foothills of the Smokies, southern drawl slow and sultry, but underneath the hallow feeling of a sacred pulse throbbing in lofty sandstone heights, light ad air yet deep and trembling. Mother's hum as it were. Somewhere a the sheek cat is purring to the slow scratching of the silk soft fur of cheeks and chin. Mother's hum as it were.
The evening too shows golden on the loch stretching its thin legs over the colouring orchard aside my window clad in red and umber orange-brown yellow pluming up from the green undulations extending from the red brick face of old stone side buildings. Waning into the moonlight the night sweeps silver and illuminating pavement in molten sodium light feeding the nightlife of the unlevel youth craving infusions of abandonment. It's a crushing weight of a fifteen tog duvet with white shades of breathy exasperation rolling outward in the same singular silence, an acceptance of all the circumstances of difficulty in return for a separate peace.
Down the length of the evening to the carnival side
In a house where regret is a carousel ride
We are spinning and spinning and spinning and now
It's been brilliant weather here of late, cool and rainy mist in the morning drenching from the heavens opening up into a slate gray-blue ceiling lined with purple saffron and intense orange, almost magma-like as the sun crests spilling outward onto the hills at Loch Lohmond to the west. It happens like this every morning just in time for me to approach the corner of Byres Road past the Botanic Garden, the scent of spring evolving into autumn wandering into the intersection and mixing with the gasoline and oil and pavement of passing cars as they splatter rain water up and onto the cement sidewalks and ornate rod iron fencing guarding the garden entrance. Each and every day I stand there and see the sun slant through the steeple windows of an old gothic church now renovated and filled with a few pubs and dinner theatres, igniting a hallowed part of the world boiling over with magic unlike any other. It's absolutely peaceful amidst the heavy morning traffic with cold air whipping up the back of my coat shivering my spine and hairs along my neck as I hear the music of the city tapping against my feet, a gentle thud of tribal throngs. The land itself exudes something long sapped out from the ground stateside. It's no wonder people seem to seem so unarrogant yet proud when pride itself is in the soil, it gave birth to everything here in a quiet majesty, an indistinct regality that was never reserved for the blue blood alone. A nation of warriors indeed, silently carrying themselves as kings without thrones, a nation of equality amongst the inebriated, dark princes and even darker dames. It's the charm of a sweet drawn out drawl from the foothills of the Smokies, southern drawl slow and sultry, but underneath the hallow feeling of a sacred pulse throbbing in lofty sandstone heights, light ad air yet deep and trembling. Mother's hum as it were. Somewhere a the sheek cat is purring to the slow scratching of the silk soft fur of cheeks and chin. Mother's hum as it were.
The evening too shows golden on the loch stretching its thin legs over the colouring orchard aside my window clad in red and umber orange-brown yellow pluming up from the green undulations extending from the red brick face of old stone side buildings. Waning into the moonlight the night sweeps silver and illuminating pavement in molten sodium light feeding the nightlife of the unlevel youth craving infusions of abandonment. It's a crushing weight of a fifteen tog duvet with white shades of breathy exasperation rolling outward in the same singular silence, an acceptance of all the circumstances of difficulty in return for a separate peace.
17 October 2004
Portrait of the Quim Raw and Abusive
I'm black and blue from the wind and the rain
Said I'm sorry for the lies and the pain
I never ever meant to make you cry
If I could take it back you know I would
I wanna burn up and die
Yeah, this is most likely going to manifest itself in a good il' fashioned vagina bashing, and no not the ones Pat Sajak surely enjoys behind the cameras. I just finished watching The Shape of Things and let me say that it only made me realize on this lovely hallmark holiday that you women suck sooo much. I could site numerous examples, including the trips to the hospital I've made to retrieve dunks from the ER when their so-called "friends" don't show up, but insead I'll just stick with the facts that are easily found. A.) All of you under the age of 30 tend to think that Mr. Perfect is in every way perfect disregarding the whole skew on the idea of perfection. Let's tackle this one from biblical standards. God (if you can call him that, because he's not, I am, but not him, different story/neurosis, don't like it, well just go on and die cos it's all just a fucked up nightmare anyway) created every wretched little sod in his image, no? Soooo, everyone just assumes that means that they're somehow less than him in some aspect because we all know your heads would fucking explode into piles of dog poo if you even began to accept the idea that good and evil and all the other qualitations you place on shite are just one big grat blob. They don't exist. Perfection included. Perhaps, and maybe you'll heads wil explode on this one, perhaps, you'tr made in a so-called god's image in that you are less than perfect and thus in your terms more perfect, ie. this god is completely imperfect by your standards and thus he is perfect in such a way. Sooooo, a Mr. Perfect will have problems and lots of them, but lets not forget, he'll obviously fancy you til youre old, gray, and sagging no regrets. B.) Under the age of 30 you're the least loyal creatures alive. Men who may call you dogs are obviously commenting you at this point because nowhere in your blood is an ounce of loyalty. I'm not in any way suggesting that men at certain ages are any better but I know many more of them that are tried and true to their friends and who more easily love and devote without question or waiver than you poor cunts. And 3.) you're by far the worst jufge of character yet the best manipulators. What's worse is you realize this and do not in any way shy from exercising these inborn abilities to better yourselves financially and such. Sure go ahead, take advantage of the generous nature of some men, but never show them an ounce of kindness. Sure you may not have asked for such things, but that's the point, they're providing your bit of midden arse with something you may need because it's nice and kind and decent. Normal people would repay them in kindness and loyalty and, ahem, friendship. Somewhere along the line I think you all missed that memo and seem to think that such kindness deserves only to be repaed with wrath and ill temperament.
So let this be one of my possible PSA's, men may be easily amused by women and their bodies, but it's in our sexual nature. Don't think that we are merely stupid because we have to follow to an extent this dictated behavior. Nor should you all assume that we are approaching you for a fondle or a fiddle at every moment. The great majority of good men are indeed the quieter ones, much more happily amused by your simple company and conversation than by the jiggle of your bosom. Men of lower form are the type to always approach with cunning and smart lines, and they give us all a reputation to tear down.
In short, watch the movie if you can find it in the states, and then just bash yourself over the head because you probably deserve it. I know at least one of you personally who does but is quite out of reach at the moment.
Said I'm sorry for the lies and the pain
I never ever meant to make you cry
If I could take it back you know I would
I wanna burn up and die
Yeah, this is most likely going to manifest itself in a good il' fashioned vagina bashing, and no not the ones Pat Sajak surely enjoys behind the cameras. I just finished watching The Shape of Things and let me say that it only made me realize on this lovely hallmark holiday that you women suck sooo much. I could site numerous examples, including the trips to the hospital I've made to retrieve dunks from the ER when their so-called "friends" don't show up, but insead I'll just stick with the facts that are easily found. A.) All of you under the age of 30 tend to think that Mr. Perfect is in every way perfect disregarding the whole skew on the idea of perfection. Let's tackle this one from biblical standards. God (if you can call him that, because he's not, I am, but not him, different story/neurosis, don't like it, well just go on and die cos it's all just a fucked up nightmare anyway) created every wretched little sod in his image, no? Soooo, everyone just assumes that means that they're somehow less than him in some aspect because we all know your heads would fucking explode into piles of dog poo if you even began to accept the idea that good and evil and all the other qualitations you place on shite are just one big grat blob. They don't exist. Perfection included. Perhaps, and maybe you'll heads wil explode on this one, perhaps, you'tr made in a so-called god's image in that you are less than perfect and thus in your terms more perfect, ie. this god is completely imperfect by your standards and thus he is perfect in such a way. Sooooo, a Mr. Perfect will have problems and lots of them, but lets not forget, he'll obviously fancy you til youre old, gray, and sagging no regrets. B.) Under the age of 30 you're the least loyal creatures alive. Men who may call you dogs are obviously commenting you at this point because nowhere in your blood is an ounce of loyalty. I'm not in any way suggesting that men at certain ages are any better but I know many more of them that are tried and true to their friends and who more easily love and devote without question or waiver than you poor cunts. And 3.) you're by far the worst jufge of character yet the best manipulators. What's worse is you realize this and do not in any way shy from exercising these inborn abilities to better yourselves financially and such. Sure go ahead, take advantage of the generous nature of some men, but never show them an ounce of kindness. Sure you may not have asked for such things, but that's the point, they're providing your bit of midden arse with something you may need because it's nice and kind and decent. Normal people would repay them in kindness and loyalty and, ahem, friendship. Somewhere along the line I think you all missed that memo and seem to think that such kindness deserves only to be repaed with wrath and ill temperament.
So let this be one of my possible PSA's, men may be easily amused by women and their bodies, but it's in our sexual nature. Don't think that we are merely stupid because we have to follow to an extent this dictated behavior. Nor should you all assume that we are approaching you for a fondle or a fiddle at every moment. The great majority of good men are indeed the quieter ones, much more happily amused by your simple company and conversation than by the jiggle of your bosom. Men of lower form are the type to always approach with cunning and smart lines, and they give us all a reputation to tear down.
In short, watch the movie if you can find it in the states, and then just bash yourself over the head because you probably deserve it. I know at least one of you personally who does but is quite out of reach at the moment.
12 October 2004
Polyoestrus Colloquialisms
Tuesday it's raining and I'm pulling on my shoes
I guess I quit believing in the early morning news
A boy orders coffee and he settles down to think
How the women that you love sometimes
Are the water that you drink
If you have ever wondered about Glasgow at night, its simply velvet wandering amdist dulcet tones, even in Goven, the rougher area along Clyde. The Blue Nile is extrmemly accurate in its sonic portrayal of such, just the quiet footsteps of amn against pavement and the sleek words of man against himself. It's a place of music unbeknownst to everyone, except for me of course because I am, simply stated, the awesomest. I've lost my Canuck accent apparently, and its slowly becoming a bit more rambunctious and fiesty. However, I seem to lose it everytime I speak with the Americans, which is quite unfortunately really.
It was quite brilliant the other night when I stumbled along Ashton Lane and found Brel. Now we all know what this place is, so why should I bother explaining it to you sods again. Because it's fun, dur! The pub is a Belgian bar. Namely they serve only Belgian beers and wines, ie Hooegarden, several different varieties at that. Oh its tasty, but I still enjoy the more quiet attitude that surounds Bonham's or the Lock during the weekdays when I can get a pint of Bellhaven for two quid. Oh the things I have time for, you wouldn't believe. Which brings me to my next topic, sheep make the best lovers... just kidding, only the females do. But no, I have a further point. Wait, shite, do I? Yes I DO!
I've entered my second full week of classes. Yeah, that's right, while you poor sods are gettin a click from mid terms I'm busy sitting on my ass not doing a damn thing for my grad classes. Shall we discuss why? Well, I'll give you a hint, everyone except for 20 or so people are under 18. In short, I'm the youngest of the oldest in all my classes, and there are only 4 other 22 year olds, about 16 or so people 24 and older (33 being the oldest and bitchiest) and then 80 some odd little teeny toiny boppers with beaver pelts and floofy skirts for normal garb. Ai, it's rough having to go to classes where I listen to professors go on about material I had in high school and 100 or 200 level courses. But tis what tis, and all that rot. I get along fairly well with my new fangled A4 paper and binder. They only have two-hole punches, and it's eating away at me that there is one less hole for me to insert things into. Sickos. I know what you wis thinking, i ought to give you a slap, but I'm lazy.
I realize that this wis not exactly the humour you were lookin for, but I haven't really come across the best of stories as of yet. Though there is the whole doppelganger phenomenon, meaning I am slowly replacing you all with people here, because suprisingly my mind can only create a limited number of facial configurations (I estimated it to be into the thousands, but permutated it could add up to something like at least 2 million, ballpark). I should just say bollocks to the lot of it and find better rubbish for villainy since it is a desire I will eventually need to explore a little further than I already have. That reminds me... I had a very disturbing dream. Not the type that you would sit and say, "that is complete and utter shite, radge wee midden fucking haunting my dreams, you got bollocks" sort of shite. Well, it is, but not really to the point I would refer to anyone in a dream as psycho. Makes a man wonder what exactly he came upon in his sleep, whether it was a manifestation of subconscious or an exploration of another's psyche, unintentional perhaps, but thorough. I awoke wondering if my conscience finally had a bit of the pagan kicked out of it, I felt moral for a moment, proper fucked in the same instant. I shook it off and moved on with the day, but it still is a bit of rubbish. Being demon spawn just isn't as easy as it looks in the movies, lemme tell ya. So for now all ya radge wee middens and proper cunt gents, cheers.
I guess I quit believing in the early morning news
A boy orders coffee and he settles down to think
How the women that you love sometimes
Are the water that you drink
If you have ever wondered about Glasgow at night, its simply velvet wandering amdist dulcet tones, even in Goven, the rougher area along Clyde. The Blue Nile is extrmemly accurate in its sonic portrayal of such, just the quiet footsteps of amn against pavement and the sleek words of man against himself. It's a place of music unbeknownst to everyone, except for me of course because I am, simply stated, the awesomest. I've lost my Canuck accent apparently, and its slowly becoming a bit more rambunctious and fiesty. However, I seem to lose it everytime I speak with the Americans, which is quite unfortunately really.
It was quite brilliant the other night when I stumbled along Ashton Lane and found Brel. Now we all know what this place is, so why should I bother explaining it to you sods again. Because it's fun, dur! The pub is a Belgian bar. Namely they serve only Belgian beers and wines, ie Hooegarden, several different varieties at that. Oh its tasty, but I still enjoy the more quiet attitude that surounds Bonham's or the Lock during the weekdays when I can get a pint of Bellhaven for two quid. Oh the things I have time for, you wouldn't believe. Which brings me to my next topic, sheep make the best lovers... just kidding, only the females do. But no, I have a further point. Wait, shite, do I? Yes I DO!
I've entered my second full week of classes. Yeah, that's right, while you poor sods are gettin a click from mid terms I'm busy sitting on my ass not doing a damn thing for my grad classes. Shall we discuss why? Well, I'll give you a hint, everyone except for 20 or so people are under 18. In short, I'm the youngest of the oldest in all my classes, and there are only 4 other 22 year olds, about 16 or so people 24 and older (33 being the oldest and bitchiest) and then 80 some odd little teeny toiny boppers with beaver pelts and floofy skirts for normal garb. Ai, it's rough having to go to classes where I listen to professors go on about material I had in high school and 100 or 200 level courses. But tis what tis, and all that rot. I get along fairly well with my new fangled A4 paper and binder. They only have two-hole punches, and it's eating away at me that there is one less hole for me to insert things into. Sickos. I know what you wis thinking, i ought to give you a slap, but I'm lazy.
I realize that this wis not exactly the humour you were lookin for, but I haven't really come across the best of stories as of yet. Though there is the whole doppelganger phenomenon, meaning I am slowly replacing you all with people here, because suprisingly my mind can only create a limited number of facial configurations (I estimated it to be into the thousands, but permutated it could add up to something like at least 2 million, ballpark). I should just say bollocks to the lot of it and find better rubbish for villainy since it is a desire I will eventually need to explore a little further than I already have. That reminds me... I had a very disturbing dream. Not the type that you would sit and say, "that is complete and utter shite, radge wee midden fucking haunting my dreams, you got bollocks" sort of shite. Well, it is, but not really to the point I would refer to anyone in a dream as psycho. Makes a man wonder what exactly he came upon in his sleep, whether it was a manifestation of subconscious or an exploration of another's psyche, unintentional perhaps, but thorough. I awoke wondering if my conscience finally had a bit of the pagan kicked out of it, I felt moral for a moment, proper fucked in the same instant. I shook it off and moved on with the day, but it still is a bit of rubbish. Being demon spawn just isn't as easy as it looks in the movies, lemme tell ya. So for now all ya radge wee middens and proper cunt gents, cheers.
3 October 2004
The Man of La-Munchy
Get me high, you blow my mind
You make my mundane life all worth while
You give me reason, give me rhyme
Do anything for you just, give me a sign
Movie star, dunno where you are
Sod it. Yes it sounds mean, but it's my new favorite thing to say when I'm piss drunk in a pub. It's kind of funny that no matter where I go I manage to find people that greatly resemble people I left behind. I've met a rather large man, though only as young as me and with much more hair and a less crafted taste in alcohol and film, but still, the love of cloves can only point to that other person. And then there's the short blonde, true to her hair color when tipsy, she's got the same build, well nearly so, and the same sort of humor as another person. WEIRD. Just friggin disturbing. More so is the fact that the interplay is almost exactly as that I left behind. The same sort of verbal exchanges and random interjections, not to mention the more than explicit sexual inuendo. It's brilliant. I bought maybe 6 drinks on the night but somehow drank more than 10 myself... I dunno how it happened, I blame it on me buying rounds early on in the evening at around 5 when people first began arriving, and then everyone else buying later on in the evening, around 7, when I was hitting my stride of being completely knobbed. It's a great feeling to pass out at 10 and wake up at noon, and of course no one here thats local thinks a thing of you being totally inebriated because for the most part they are, too. The cabbies still make the quiet conversation, but this time you're more than able to understand on the first go and you make him feel at home because the accent comes out so fluidly much like the drool once youre curled up in bed toasty in the 40 degree room. Too bad that I will probably not enjoy such forays that much this coming term. Much to do most days of the week with classes beginning at 9 most days. And then xmas, well while being my favorite holy day, only because the gifts and snow (yes I'm shallow, get over yourself or just shut your sodding mouth), will be spent with family and then back here trying to lay the ground work for my lambing hours to be done come my spring break. That's right, I don't get to enjoy my month of freedom come march until next year, unless I get otherwise slagged as far as plans go. And finally there's the summer, much like the spring this summer is going to be mostly a thing of enjoyment on a farm. I hopefully will find a brilliant apartment and just stow the lot of shite there while I spend 10 more weeks aside from the 2 I spend lambing in the spring doing things to do with the smart pigs, and the dairy cattle, and something of some sort else. Hopefully this will let me enjoy my next 3 years after in hobnobbing and snogging with the local goddesses as opposed to chopping up the little bleaters and such rot. For those who are coming next year, perhaps a better plan is for one of my holidays when I can be more of a guide in the better ways to spend ones time.
As for my current form of entertainment seeing as I tend to get isolated by the whole "I don't know you so I'm not going to bothering contacting you" thing (though the few that I live with that do this are in no way people I'd enjoy a regular visit from per se, they, too, are similar to people I've known and long since lost contact with due to their egos becoming very similar to the metlife blimp), it tends to come from my preordained media center called my laptop and mostly takes the form of episodes of Invader Zim (great cartoon, brilliantly thought out) and a wonderful show called Coupling (better than Friends because the comedy is far superior). Trust me, watch Coupling at least once, preferably the later episodes like season 2 or 3, you'll get hooked and understand. They sell the DVD's for christsake, just go buy them ya prats. And although back in the states you bollock-driven cods are eating dinner, I here must abed, with of course my girlie girl, who's far better looking than all of you. Don't doubt it. You can never know the beauty my imagination can create. But oh, you will, when I rule the world! (Pinky & the Brain theme plays in the background)!!!!!!! <-- extra thingies for emphasis of super cool more betterness
You make my mundane life all worth while
You give me reason, give me rhyme
Do anything for you just, give me a sign
Movie star, dunno where you are
Sod it. Yes it sounds mean, but it's my new favorite thing to say when I'm piss drunk in a pub. It's kind of funny that no matter where I go I manage to find people that greatly resemble people I left behind. I've met a rather large man, though only as young as me and with much more hair and a less crafted taste in alcohol and film, but still, the love of cloves can only point to that other person. And then there's the short blonde, true to her hair color when tipsy, she's got the same build, well nearly so, and the same sort of humor as another person. WEIRD. Just friggin disturbing. More so is the fact that the interplay is almost exactly as that I left behind. The same sort of verbal exchanges and random interjections, not to mention the more than explicit sexual inuendo. It's brilliant. I bought maybe 6 drinks on the night but somehow drank more than 10 myself... I dunno how it happened, I blame it on me buying rounds early on in the evening at around 5 when people first began arriving, and then everyone else buying later on in the evening, around 7, when I was hitting my stride of being completely knobbed. It's a great feeling to pass out at 10 and wake up at noon, and of course no one here thats local thinks a thing of you being totally inebriated because for the most part they are, too. The cabbies still make the quiet conversation, but this time you're more than able to understand on the first go and you make him feel at home because the accent comes out so fluidly much like the drool once youre curled up in bed toasty in the 40 degree room. Too bad that I will probably not enjoy such forays that much this coming term. Much to do most days of the week with classes beginning at 9 most days. And then xmas, well while being my favorite holy day, only because the gifts and snow (yes I'm shallow, get over yourself or just shut your sodding mouth), will be spent with family and then back here trying to lay the ground work for my lambing hours to be done come my spring break. That's right, I don't get to enjoy my month of freedom come march until next year, unless I get otherwise slagged as far as plans go. And finally there's the summer, much like the spring this summer is going to be mostly a thing of enjoyment on a farm. I hopefully will find a brilliant apartment and just stow the lot of shite there while I spend 10 more weeks aside from the 2 I spend lambing in the spring doing things to do with the smart pigs, and the dairy cattle, and something of some sort else. Hopefully this will let me enjoy my next 3 years after in hobnobbing and snogging with the local goddesses as opposed to chopping up the little bleaters and such rot. For those who are coming next year, perhaps a better plan is for one of my holidays when I can be more of a guide in the better ways to spend ones time.
As for my current form of entertainment seeing as I tend to get isolated by the whole "I don't know you so I'm not going to bothering contacting you" thing (though the few that I live with that do this are in no way people I'd enjoy a regular visit from per se, they, too, are similar to people I've known and long since lost contact with due to their egos becoming very similar to the metlife blimp), it tends to come from my preordained media center called my laptop and mostly takes the form of episodes of Invader Zim (great cartoon, brilliantly thought out) and a wonderful show called Coupling (better than Friends because the comedy is far superior). Trust me, watch Coupling at least once, preferably the later episodes like season 2 or 3, you'll get hooked and understand. They sell the DVD's for christsake, just go buy them ya prats. And although back in the states you bollock-driven cods are eating dinner, I here must abed, with of course my girlie girl, who's far better looking than all of you. Don't doubt it. You can never know the beauty my imagination can create. But oh, you will, when I rule the world! (Pinky & the Brain theme plays in the background)!!!!!!! <-- extra thingies for emphasis of super cool more betterness
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