The Great Wave off Kanagawa

The still wave ignores me as it hangs on the wall, caught in it’s prime in perfect form. Never will we know of it’s failures. Nor of it’s short and insignificant future. It is simply there and perfect. All befores and afters matter nil. It exists in a single state of being exactly what it wants to be, exactly what it ought to be. And like all things achieving exactly that which they want to, they have no time nor empathy for that and those which are not.

What is the obsession with the moment? To live an existence so transitory, yet fight all the while to categorise and compartmentalise the journey. One hundred photographs of a thousand mile river, surging with billions of litres of water for three thousand years. Pick your favourite one. Now model your own existence from it.

Every day my own story becomes less significant as the world is filled with others like it. How significant that truly is/isn’t. Forever and never, right now and not at all. To enjoy something on the basis of affinity: I shit; I cry; I eat; I’ll die. “same” Then give me more of our imaginary money. So that I may buy a better tomorrow for myself. Buy the next 24 hours of my life from the government outright; so that I won’t spend them being/creating something physical in exchange for something suggested. And in that moment I am happier than you. I am more certain of an immediate future in which there is an absence of suffering. An increased possibility to experience pleasure. The suggestion is ability. The suggestion is freedom. The suggestion is individual. May it be suggested that I am more affluent than you. Because what is abundance without lack? How can I feel pleasure without the measure of pain? Would love feel as good as it does if you never found yourself four blocks from your house, in the dark, throwing fist-sized rocks in a confused-rage wishing she had never been born for you to see crossing the street that night three months earlier? Yes, yes it would you moron. Do I need to know darkness in order to see my hand in front of my face in a well lit room? Does a tree make a sound when it falls in the forest and there is no one there to hear it? Does the possibility of this sound’s absence pay my fucking rent? Which is it: ignorance or an examined and understood/relative pleasure/freedom? Would the former not embody a purity the latter could never? Is better simply not better even if worse is unknown? Happiness can be bought just as much as it exists. Because something/somebody already owns it. And probably did before you were even born. They own the very moment you are in now. And if they don’t, you had to buy it from them. You think that sunset was free? No: you or your parents bought it for you. The air in you lungs? You or you parents bought it for you. You paid for the roof and walls and clothes that stopped that air from killing you. You paid for the food to nourish your body to pump the blood that requires it. But just like the blood and the oxygen requires the lungs: there is a middle man which you must break your back for. You must exert yourself in order to earn the currency you require to pay for the ability to exert yourself. Most don’t even have the energy to complain. Fewer have the energy to act (for an alternative). And all either give up in the face of continued adversity or are killed. A negative evolution: the survival of the weakest. Ruled by the possibility chaos as evil and ‘not enough’.

The Night of the Living Dying

I rarely/never post here anymore. I thought I might just put a few thoughts up. My girlfriend and I just got a digital set top box and it is awesome. We are both psyched to be able to watch WB cartoons, Seinfeld and Frasier etc. Right now I’m watching Night of the Living Dead which is rad!

I haven’t really been posting here for a couple of reasons. First and foremost, I’ve been going through some pretty serious health problems that I couldn’t be fucked living through let alone writing about on top of it. I probably will write about it in detail sometime as people at their lowest is pretty interesting to read about, but I couldn’t be fucked right now. So yeah, I didn’t feel like writing about my health (I’ve been diagnosed with Crohn’s Disease) but at the same time I felt that because I try to be completely honest and open when posting here, any post would be weird if I omitted my heath problems because they have been virtually all-concuming. Excluding band stuff I have pretty much had to strip my life of all but essential activities. I have deferred from my film course, I am unemployed, and for a few months last year I was basically housebound. Things have improved a great deal since commencing medications, but my condition still remains precarious until I can find the correct combination of medications. I’m currently taking Corticosteroids, Mesalazine and Azathioprine.

Over the course of the past few months I’ve had to overcome a lot of obstacles in terms of the way I think about western medicine. I was raised by very ‘New Age’ parents. My mother is a doctor of Chiropractic who has studied numerous holistic therapies and incorporates all of the above into her own techniques of healing. My father is an ex ambulance officer. All through my childhood I was given the impression that western doctors were incompetent fools with little knowledge of the true nature of the human body. My own experiences have by no means refuted this fact, but it has presented me with some internal conflicts when making decisions regarding suggested medications that seem to have a long list of brutal side-affects, or even going through the process of diagnoses. But in truth, my circumstances have given me little choice: my symptoms remained too severe while attempting to treat myself alternatively to the western medical approach, so I therefore decided to take the drugs suggested. It presents me with additional internal conflicts regarding my choice of a vegan lifestyle too, but that’s another story.

I certainly feel as though I’ve gone through a number of psychological evolutions over the course of my diagnoses and treatment. All have ultimately been positive, but most have been born out of extreme physical and emotional anguish. Some of the most important or note worthy have just been things like I mentioned before: coming to terms with the seeming necessity of western medicine in the treatment of my condition in it’s current state, but also learning how to deal with the anger I felt as a result of ‘having to deal with this shit’ and not just being able to go about my life as normal.

Bang! One of the first ever African-American leading men just coped it right between the eyes! On a lighter note: Night of the Living Dead is really an awesome movie. I’m so glad I got the opportunity to see it at the cinema not last year but the year before. Gorge A. Romero was attending the Melbourne International Film Festival for I think it must have been The Diary of the Dead, and he came out and did a Q and A after it screened (Night of the Living Dead) at ACMI. It was great to see him still so excited to talk about a film he made so long ago and the session was really informative.

Anyway I’m pretty tired so I think I’ll hit the ol’ dusty.

“You can do no wrong in my eyes”

Could it be any more ironic that the main lyrical hook in Thom York’s contribution to the New Moon soundtrack is “You can do no wrong in my eyes”?

Fucking hell Thom, why would you be such a bummer? Ben Gibbard is clearly a moron who’s been whining about the same shit his entire life and doesn’t know any better. (Although the fact that he leads us all to believe he is such a student of good literature would of perhaps prompted an assumption that he may have some semblance of sense when it comes to affiliating himself with a piece of it.) But from you Thom: I would expect better judgement.

The image below was taken from the Radiohead website (circa OK Computer). Tragic-irony should – if anything – be no more than a garnish on someone’s life or career, not be worn like a piss-soaked bed sheet.

The thing is, Thom York and the rest of Radiohead have worked so long and hard at maintaining their personal and musical integrity, that a foolish error like this is certainly not severe enough to cause him or them to lose it. However, although Thom’s integrity remains intact, it is now smattered with the cunny-juice of around one billion irrational (and unfortunately many – seemingly – rational) females. And even once the initial HazMat is removed, a stain will remain, and it is this brownish discolouration that will be the reason there will forever be a side of the Radiohead pillow on which we will all choose not to sleep. For ever summer from here on out, there will be none of the old “Oh man it’s so hot: maybe I’ll just turn my pillow over to the cold side.” Maybe nothing Radiohead fans!

Foot note: I’m not sure why I just made so many references to the soiling of bedclothes.

Another foot note: Who really even gives a fuck about anything to do what I just wrote? I’m not even really sure I do…

Missing

To type and let it all out. Why not type and let it all out and play it backwards. And then play it forwards over it playing backwards. All sounds being presented backwards, yet running structurally forwards. Fall and hear the sounds suck to a jutted beat.   “Two cripples dancing, to the bitter end we live.”

I just had every missing person in, I guess, the United States of America add me on myspace. No, a selected database of the planets missing persons – those we notices had gone. For those whom a lack is felt. Please help find the missing.

Sickeningly sad is the way something as strange as that experience will make you feel. Unable to properly organise a combination of emotions to deal with something so unusual and foreign in ones life hitherto is what you will be.

Without even consciously contemplating their fate – no matter how hypothetical – an uneasiness based in instincts cultivated over the years you have so far lived will turn your stomach in the safety of your body as it sits in the safety of your home.

Ridged clicks and smooth, sad, sickness will tick and ebb through your body.

And then you won’t feel it. Problems too big and (too) not your own. You will feel it’s absence. Then you will not.

Visual Vignette

This collection of photographs has been compiled in an attempt to create a kind of visual vignette of delicious foodz.

They were taken over the last two or so months by myself and Miss Lulu Wagstaffe.

“There’s a brand new dance, but I don’t know it’s name”

Today at 1:25pm I sat quietly in a white wooden chair holding the most recent issue of Harper’s Bazaar, a small box containing a chocolate that looked too ornamental to ingest (even if it were sans milk), and a black card which listed the designers who’s latest collections I would soon bare witness too in gold print. The collections were to be donned by beautiful young girls and two okay-looking guys.

The minutes rolled on and soon I was listening to our MC/musical accompaniment – a man named “Paris” who looked and moved like a mobile phone salesman – as he mumbled his way through a medley of eight or so random songs; replacing lyrics such as “come-on-ba-by-light-my-fi-re” with impromptu witticisms like “comeonBen-Sher-man-light-my-fi-re” – a real asshole.

The asshole sang on, and I watched pretty girls in interesting clothing walk by one after the other. Some awkwardly. Some entrancingly. I remained composed and reasonably inconspicuous as my girlfriend strode by elegantly. I did not, as I had threatened to the night before, pat the woman in her early sixties who sat next to me on the thigh, and remark “*sniff* …I’m hittin’ that.” and follow this with a straight-faced, eyes-locked penetration of the hole created by my thumb and forefinger. That joke, although I believe a good one, had run it’s course a smooth twelve hours earlier.

Girls came this way and girls came that way. I sat one story up in Melbourne’s GPO building where a “catwalk” had been, eh, fashioned around the southern chamber’s interior balcony. Bags and shoes and frocks and dresses. Slacks and coats and shirts. I watched them all as they made their way past me. Every detail: I tried to acknowledge and commit to memory.

The obviously pretty girls continued to dawdle towards and away from me. And given the (lack of) distance between myself and the models, I soon developed a technique by which I could view each outfit (and each model) in it’s entirety without feeling as though my show of interest could be misconstrued as being anything more than that – interest. As they approached: I would view the garments from neckline to waist. As they drew level: I would take notice of the footwear. And as they departed to shuffle hurriedly into another outfit: I would admire all I had omitted up to this point in no more than two thirds of a second.

This technique I thought proved invaluable, as girls whom I have met and know the names of, began parading by in see-through lingerie – thigh-high stockings. Alas, in spite of all my honing, I apparently was still to have been reported as having a “shocked look” on my face.

As “Paris” the asshole ambled apathetically into Billy Idol’s White Wedding, the final collection was exhibited. During which I watched my gorgeous girlfriend pace by in a flowing white wedding gown. This was an unexpected vision considering the mere months we have been dating; and certainly worth the queer smirk exchanged between us.

I put a dollar in the machine downstairs and realised I’ve lost seventeen kilos.

“It would be nice if you were nicer to me.”

I like to torment the things which I love.

I think I have always been this way. It’s not so much that I like to do it (although I do) but I just do it. When I see cute things I want to be cruel to them. There are a number of elements and motivations that make up this behaviour of mine. Here are just a few examples of it’s manifestation.

first of all, if it is a pretty girl, I find it amusing to call them horrible things, ugly things, to me this is ironic and funny; I will say to my beautiful girlfriend with a loving smile in my voice “Hello you weird little donkey… Hello you ugly, weird, little donkey…” (This is not something I’ve actually said, or rather remember saying, but an example of a random animal or thing I might conjure at a moment such as this) She may know that I am just joking, and indeed why I am joking, and indeed know that the fact is that she is so undeniably cute, I feel comfortable joking in this way (you wouldn’t play this kind of game with an okay-looking girl) but if you simply hear the words “weird little donkey” over and over again it starts to effect you.

Secondly, I had a dog called bobby when I was young, and one day I chased him around the four lengths of veranda that went around my house wearing a Scream mask (like the one from the film Scream – only that film hadn’t come out yet). I chased him around making monster noises until he collapsed in front of the locked doggy-door and started pissing all over himself. I knew that what I was doing was wrong when I was doing it. I knew how scared he was. He didn’t need to piss himself for me to realise that, but I kept doing it anyway. I was just a kid testing boundaries and I instantly regretted my actions. I burst out crying and got down and stated hugging and patting him while he was still peeing – all over us.

Now that last example isn’t really fair to bring up as it is an isolated circumstance that I learnt a lesson from, but it does nevertheless hint towards this hurt-something-cute-so-you-can-cheers-it-up kind of behaviour.

Last night myself and my current girlfriend or victim, were horsin’ around, poking at ribs and just generally messing with each other. She has an irrational fear of people tickling her feet (no matter how irrational, this is quite common) anyway, I think I’ve only actually tickled her feet once or twice maybe, but her fear is so all-consuming that all I need to do is act like I’m going to or threaten to tickle her feet. In fact, all I need to do is make a particular angry face in their direction in order to send her into hysterics! Now this is not something I’ve played at to often, but something that is giddily enjoyable because everything about it is weird and ridiculous. So after a low rib poke that made me flinch so hard my laptop hit the wall, I decided to step it up to foot threats! “No! You’re fucked! I’m gonna mess those little things up!” I said as I stormed out of the room to place my computer a safe distance from the melee that would ensue. But all of a sudden her objections broke off into intense whines of agony! I quickly returned to the room to find her on the side of the bed with both her moccasins almost completely laced up, something that she did in the one and a half seconds I was gone! She had done this so frantically that she had caused her calf to cramp!

The horsing around was over and her cramp quickly subsided, but I couldn’t stop laughing about the speed at which all this had transpired – she must have been a blur! “What the fuck is going on?!” I asked. “I super freaked out and tried to put my shoes on…” she said. I laughed until all holes in my face were leaking or threatening to – so did she. Tormented and cheered up: see what I’m talking about?!

I’m sorry but it is too hard to not be this way.

:o~-8

So I have not posted in a long, long time.

I have gone to post a few times but either felt what I was writing was something too personal (maybe more suited for a diary entry or something like that) or something I didn’t want a large number of people to potentially find out about.

The intention of this blog from it’s inception was to have a completely honest outlet for myself, but as I’ve started to censor it before I even write on it, I’ve felt like deleting it a few times. But really, who gives a fuck? It’s just a blog and I might as well grab a tissue for my failed idealism, and just right some random things and leave out what ever the fuck I feel like leaving out – even if that which I omit is the most interesting or worth reading about.

For example: Last night I went and had some dinner with the GF, it was awesome. VS. I cried this morning because I felt so sick and even began punching myself in the stomach in a spasm of frustration brought on by the six years of gut pain and shitting myself I’ve endured.

The latter is probably more interesting than hearing about how much fun I had at Vegie Hut – any cunt can have fun at Vegie Hut – but I don’t really want talk a great deal about it.

*This section of the entry has been removed at the request of the domain holder*

I really need money.

I don’t care if nothing else goes my way all day.

This one is juuuuuust for me. Speak soon.

Some sandwich I will never eat.

I will forever rather be who I am, than a joke that people are simply careful not to laugh at.

You know who the fuck you are (for good).