Crobat.

Considered getting my ears done, again, for the umpteenth time this year. I wouldn't though. I abhor piercings just a little. Something about them is a little too... macabre, too pointless, too ridiculous even. I don't like the idea of permanently puncturing my personal protective layer of skin, I've studied enough biology to be alarmed by that. Not enough to know that I don't have to worry though. It's the first line of defence against... things, discounting heightened skin acidity and the symbiotic organisms that simply love the skin your in, even more than you do. I seem to have trouble with those anyway. Viruses, malignant bacteria, fungi, protozoan parasites, even prions I guess, all target obvious entry points. The very idea of poking a hole in myself for the sheer fun of it is just a little ridiculous. No problem with other peoples' piercings mind, just on me. /shudder. All this talk of individuality and self-expression through modification is complete tripe. Justify your existence through your actions, not how you present yourself. Then again, I am entirely liable to change my mind completely in the next few years.

/endpretentiousscienceyrant

Now, tattoos, where do I even begin with au sujet de tattoos? (THE PRETENTIOUS, IT BURNS!) Oh, well, I... have no objections to tattoos. I like them. They're even a little bit arousing. Perhaps not those interruptive tear drops people seem to love, or rainbow stars so often adorning the young twinks, or (God forbid) a Southern Cross across the neck, but something a touch less vociferous in proclamation and a little more vociferous in meaning. VOCIFEROUS. I would consider getting something Pokemon related. Only because Pokemon has played such a large role in my development, and because I can very easily attach meaning to Pokemon and become attached to them. Like Crobat. Let me regale you with my reasons as to why I would consider tattooing a Crobat on myself. Possibly even somewhere conspicuous like across my chest, thus transforming me into a complete and unabashed Pokenerd. Well, Crobat. Crobat, Crobat, Crobat. Crobat (five consecutive Crobats) just happens to be my favourite Pokemon. I don't know why, please don't ask me to explain exactly why. It's just amazing. It evolves, and as it does so it's legs dramatically reduce in size and usefulness, but lo and behold! Another set of wings sprouts forth! It sacrifices ground mobility for sheer speed. You see, Crobat excels at just one particular thing, at the expense of others. This has come to take on very personal meaning for me, as I sail into the adult world and will certainly in the future have to make a living. I want to be good at what I do, and I realise that I may have to sacrifice other talents to let this one that's going to carry me through life flourish into a full blown money making powerhouse, to put it bluntly. Not to say that I have my entire life and career sorted, I haven't a clue what I might end up doing. But I might have to give up something that I love for the sake of practicality, and that really scares me. Parts of me might shrivel and die for the sake of a continuing life. It might be my music, or my love of prose, or my wonderful volunteer work! What kind of life would that be? An incomplete one, that's for sure.

I have been working for the past two and a half days. I have nothing to do except blog and read now. FUCK. Kill me, give me peace.

Tarmac.

Went to a dark place today. Not literally, of course; I don't just turn off all the lights and shut the blinds for the fun of it. Nah, I got all broody like, like a proper musician and all. No, no deeply unsettling, beautiful prose erupted forth from my ennui-riddled stupor, I just didn't get out of bed until three hours after I had awoken, opting instead to wile the hours away in mindless science-fiction. The sheer number of commas in that sentence is pretty unsettling though. So I wandered through today, in a haze of adolescent, hormone based misery. I didn't even get any work done. That's a big deal, a monumentally big deal. Even when both cats died within a week I managed to get two essays done. And now, for no reason apparent to me, I'm struck with a complete inability to complete given tasks, save make tea and be sarcastic. Then again, I didn't really like the cats all too much.

Right! Focus! Go, introspection, go! This shadowy shadow of sorts has no obvious source or catalyst. Under normal circumstances of course you'd find the source of one's emotional entropy and attack it. With kittens or something, something nice and preferably fluffy. But, alas, alack! We are doomed to wander the great labyrinth of analysis for an answer, an answer that will in all probability never reveal itself. So, essentially, I'm miserable and I don't know why. FUCK.

-

If the lighting hits hard

When the tarmac weeps

If all hope shatters to shards

When the highway sleeps

The rain dogs won't come out

Their scents washed to the wind

Above the clamour you'll shout

Of no intention have we sinned

This blackened river hides

These stains are nobody's fault

No barriers, no sides

A shuddering halt

If the impact hits hard

Give your soul to keep

Drop that vague facade

Watch her crumple in a heap

-

Am I writing about car crashes because I'm woefully despondent? No. I would've anyway.

This tea is giving me some kind of dry-mouth. lolwut?

Right, so, um... right. If stress reaches past a certain threshold then my heart starts to act up, gets these pangs of excruciating pain. I thought maybe a heart murmur was to blame, and a mild hypochondria drove me to the doctor, who then directed me to an ultrasound of my various aortas and ventricles. And yet here we are, with inconclusive results and a deep pang of aortic pain. Funnily enough, this is certainly not conducive to me completing any of the suddenly appearing caches of homework that have been kept for me until far too late a date, which would appear to be the catalyst to this situation.

Ow.

I can only hope that this entire pot of jasmine tea and an unhealthy amount of mindless(mindful?) video games will alleviate this. Fuck. Fuckknuckle. Fuckknuckling-thundercunt.

-

My wild love went wandering

She wandered through the misers

They asked here to give back herself

She came back all the wiser

My wild love went travelling

Far over the fetid fields

Stopped an evening on an isle

Found there all the broken seals

My wild love went sailing

Through the fog and through the ice

She asked me to join the trip

But if not the Devil would suffice

My wild love saw the Devil

He spoke to her in her wild dreams

She no longer speaks to me

I'm torn apart right at the seams

My wild love went riding

To a hearkened distant shore

She turned into an eagle's wing

And then flew off forevermore.

Hello, Blogspot. I missed you. It's been, what? Five days? I've been terribly busy, and I'm terribly sorry. Have some words.

-

Synthetic?

Pathetic

Craft a fabrication

Fabricate your lasting
Impression
Confession?
Time for masks
No! Time for lies

And fast

-

Here it comes again

Plumes of dust and earth
Seeping in

Just black holes

Where the sky should have been

Just the dark

Where the night should have been watching

There it goes again

Sirens scream

The Earth rumbles again

Only fire

Where our hearts once were

Just the dark

Where the gods should've been watching

A sense of place.

There's a ventriloquist dummy rotting in a trash can, the glass eyes have been worn away but they still have feeling, a soul echoing out their steely grey into the neon industrial valley. A harsh pink shines on a door but accidentally lights up the whole damn place. A raven, a rook, a blackbird, a crow, whatever, is trapped, reveling in the cold luminance. It caws, one, twice, and again, grating against the walls. Walls, smeared with ink of a thousand colours all faded to a darkened grey, refuse the bird further audience, no echo. Echoes of the ones who slept there, carried by the inertia of their only known lives, and the loved one not quite there at all, still willing to give no audience to the neon pink. Just a hitchhiker on the wheels of time, spinning to life, spinning to death, grinding against the steely grey eyes of the ventriloquist doll.

-

We did that 'creating place' exercise two years ago, except I kind of didn't, arrogant shit that I was. Revisiting, I rather enjoyed that.

Quick log entry? Quick log entry.

A quarter of the holidays over, about that, probably, what have I done? What haven't I done?! Infinite things compared to what I have done, frankly. City on Saturday to see Jason, which was eventful, but simultaneously nerve-gratingly banal. That tends to be a rather distinct pattern.

Sunday and Monday, did fuck all socially speaking. Got all my French work done, played a shit-tonne of Pokemon. A veritable shit-tonne.

Tuesday. Out by 7:45 to beat the delays created by the floods. That awkward moment when Melbourne weather patterns develop acute schizophrenia, yeah, that happened Monday night. Anyway, meeting at MSHC (Melbourne Sexual Health Centre) to discuss the Hyper Study. Went well. Went really well in fact. Onward to Minus at 12 for pre-event crew stuff which went rather swimmingly. Headed off to Parkville at 2:45 for my lecture. Lecture was nice, lots of noise making as expected from a phonology lecture. Right, back to Minus, which had already started, did my rounds, heckled James, more rounds, danced like a total whore (to Rebecca Black I might add), more rounds, drop-off. Got home, promptly collapsed.

Wednesday. MOAR POKEMON. Pokemon will be the sole blame if I fail year 12. Got my eyes tested; my left eye is slowly deteriorating, apparently it's not perfectly round. Well, shit. Got some new frames picked out, new specs should be ready for pick up in about 4 days. Off to my tute at Parkville, easy as bru. Got home, WC3, and here I am mindlessly recounting the events of the past few days.

Brilliant.

Jeremiah left on the seventh day,

Between the doors and walls that wept,

And though his father slept of late,

He all too carefully crept outside,

Nothing to hide, nothing to hide,

Nothing to see over on this side,

Over hedges, ditches, fields he had ran,

Ignoring the words his father had said,

"There'll be a place for you, as a place for all."

Over hedges, ditches, fields he then fled,

Jeremiah returned on the next seventh day,

His father wept,

He returned an angel with all the sun's rays,

If only he'd kept inside,

Nothing to hide, nothing to hide,

Nothing to see, nothing inside.

A splash of Valium.

4 o'clock in the morning

And 52 minutes

I should really stand up

But my heart's just not in it

I really should stop smoking

And drinking this late

Shut the lamp off

It's no good just to wait

Soon the sun'll be up

And I'm still alone more or less

Half a bottle of cheap scotch

Labelled 'Colorado's best'

An ashtray that's full

And a cleaned out head

No more time for feelin' things

No time for what's been said

Another shot, another thought

Blasted clean out

Can't afford to remember this

Hurts too much to recount

Sinking deeper and deeper now

Into an old armchair

Finding time to feel the little things

But no time to examine there

That space for the memories

For the long dead hurts

Sinking deeper and deeper now

Right into the dirt.

-

If you can just imagine a grizzled Southern country singer singing this then that's be great.

Better yet, imagine this man singing it.

This pot holds a lot more tea than my stomach can.

There are these really nice chords I have, I haven't begun to resent them yet and they may just turn into an actual completed piece. Let's hope so. I have no words yet, but they'll be nice. I hope. They better be.

How are you, Ollie? Oh, good, can't find my flappy hat though, shaved, got some research done, haven't eaten much today, but that's okay since I'm about to ingest an entire pot of jasmine tea. My goal for the evening is to evolve my Larvesta into one bitchin' bug/fire moth, Volcarona. There, a quick record of the day. And since this is the first time I've actually made an effort to go through the whole shaving malarkey I'm thinking about first times. No! Not that one, you filthy person! Just first events. Here we go.

First shave:

Just then, wasn't so bad. Yeah, I've never had to shave before, like the hairless Chinaman that I am.

First time I ran for my life:

Last year in the valley from some thugs. Twice. Two different groups of people attacked me unprovoked that night with malicious intent. I believe Laura Bennett's sister came to my aid on the first, on the second I just ran like hell with Sav. Frightening stuff. First person knocked my glasses clean off my face, had to go looking in the morning.

First time I left the country:

Heading to France for exchange at the end of 2009. I spent the trip with some lovely(ish) Korowa girls, seeing as I was officially going with their exchange program. When we arrived at Charles de Gaulle they headed off to a transfer for Lyon and I went and met my host family in the terminal. All flustered, I managed to say to one of the people working in the airport "Sorry, I'm completely lost" in my then awful French accent. They were lovely people though, if not a little boring.

First time I nearly failed a subject:

Neither history nor geography are strengths of mine, this we have determined.

First time I attended a Minus18 event:

At the time it wasn't really but Minus18 is now a really big part of my life, so a little critical reflection would be healthy. I didn't enjoy the event itself that much frankly, the atmosphere was amazing though, the sheer volume of people was heartening. Plus I met Bec. That was lovely.

/endobligatoryreflectiveblogpost

Stab! Let it bleed,

Grab! The flesh and feed,

Crack and egg, let it freeze,

Fumble in the dark for keys,

Let it shine for one to see,

And take something back as a toll, as a fee.

--

Jason is drunk and texting me, he was being really rather interrogative before. Aggressively so. Like he wanted me dead as soon as he got answers, let's not rule that out.

I found it refreshing. He was direct (even if he was drunk), there were no bones about it: he wanted to know stuff he didn't know and he was willing to send long texts to elicit an adequate response. In my time, I've found that people don't like to say things directly. Everyone likes to beat around the bush, to [euphemism] it up as opposed to being blunt. Maybe it was just that sharp contrast to mind-numbing banality that threw his bullet point queries into focus. Probably. It's a pretty violent transition from ghetto names discussion to Prime Minister's questions... at Guantanemo Bay. Man, I just love blunt people. No sarcasm, not at all, seriously, not even.

But seriously.