Ouch..

I made it all of 6 days (and a half), and life did not really improve all that much. I missed my blog! And I really missed being able to legitimately visit other people, it felt spectral not to leave little 'hellos' on peoples' blogs.

I'm going to cut my teeth gently though, and not be too ambitious in this installment. I'm just here to pick up my spirits some today. Free the bonds, like. I would have waited longer, but ARRRGH!!!

I used to rise to Isabel's posts, because they seemed so horribly inaccurate a portrayal of what had been. They'd feel so unfair. I'd reason eventually, after reacting angrily, that to protect your pattern of belief and behaviour, you'll turn instead to the heroic task of flipping the world on its head until the sense you need with which to maintain your worldview eventually loses its grip and falls into the seat you'd reserved for it ('hypothesis' lit. "under one's seat"). The end-game of that task reduces yourself to victim though, and if both parties play that game it becomes a game of 'who hurt who more'. I dearly wish Isabel and I had been able to speak to each other during the past 3 months, as before that we had actually been able to glimpse into the reasons as to how we'd fallen apart without the feeling of recrimination. Briefly. We'd seen each other as people, not villainously fragmented anti-personalities. In the end, she cut me out after a fight we'd had over $20. I gave and asked apology. We did not talk further. In the last 1/4 year, I still manage to hurt her, this time through absence. I'd held onto her link because I counted her among the closest of my friends, and I guess I was wincing for reconciliation, or at least some attempt at it. Now that just looks fruitless. I can say 2 things assuredly: It was my fault, but also hers. And, at least we can say we tried. Maybe that's even the problem?

Anyway. She keeps a tidy and thought-provoking blog, and despite occasionally coming across as abrupt, she proves to be the most stalwart and considerate of allies.. but add her to your links accordingly, as by my next post you won't be able to find her here anymore.

Guess which book this is from and get absolutely fuck-all for doing so..

I wanted to give an excerpt from a book today, as one of my favourite things on this planet is people reading to each other. Last night's events have led me to want to go on a blog-vacation. I don't know for how long. It's a shame, as I've really started to depend on this wee fellow, as much as it's fucked up my lovelife (read: I HAVE FUCKED UP MY LIFE THROUGH THIS BLOG) for all things: ruminations, bloodlettings, tirades, emotional quiverings, storylines, wordplay.. I'll miss everyone, as I've almost come to rely on you as friends. I'll be back, but I'm off to crawl into a hole. Overdramatic? Yes. It is. But it is worth it.
Laters.
Tom: skullrhythm@yahoo.co.uk

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"Something in Misky Bay. Apparently a grudge between twin brothers, Boyle and Doyle Cats."

"I know them," said Billy Pretty. "One of them drives a taxi."

"Right. Boyle drives the taxi. There'd been some trouble the night before. Something to do with a drug deal, they think. On Wednesday afternoon Boyle picks up a passenger at the fish plant, makes a U-turn, and is ambushed by a masked man on a late-model blue Yamaha snowmobile with the word PSYCHOPATH painted on the cowling. His brother Doyle is alleged to own such a snowmobile. The snowmobile rider fires a shotgun at the taxi and speeds away, the taxi's windshield is blown out, the vehicle swerves and ends up on the loading ramp of the fish plant. Minor cuts and lacerations. The snowmobile got away."

"Is there snow down there?"

"No."

Maji Mazuri website updated

Click on the link to the right!

and then i almost passed out...

I could not finish donating blood this morning, as I nearly face-planted. I'd guffawed and p'shawed over the idea of doing so, but on the 8th vial, something in my bum twitched and wriggled up my spine in a wave of heart-racing panic. The voices attending me turned into angry wasps in a jar* and I started craving Swiss Chalet ribs. For some reason, I felt like Adam Sandler must've felt the first time his 'DOOBIE-DOOBY-DOOBIE' joke fell flat. Like The World started to fish-lens and retreat with frightening, deflating rapidity. It was awesome, and not in the biblical sense. The only real drawback was the registered concern on the faces of my friend and her lab technician. I didn't have too much time to worry about their worry though, as apparently the last cogent thought I could possibly have while teetering on the precipice of what basically felt like my assured and gloryless demise, was not an impromptu death-poem comparing cherry-flesh to our cerulean hive, but about an interesting blog idea. So watch out my fellow blogheads, it could happen to you... your death rattle might not be the whispered safety deposit box number to your grandchild, but a blogger.com password. I don't really have too much more to say about the experience other than that the next time I give blood, I'm going to tape that bum-twitch down beforehand.

(* - a phrase I liked from a book I'm reading. I won't say which one, as that's the subject of tomorrow's post... I was feeling faint for quite some time.)


Please keep in mind that the following blog idea was induced by shortage of blood to the head. Thank you.

More than a blind-date: it's full-on senseless

I am so very happy being with the person I know. I'd wade further into that thought, but I'm a little reluctant to share any of my privileges here. All I will do is repeat myself: she is my apples and sunshine, her smile her greatest wound. Now, while I see its virtues, I do not want to date anyone else.. but I am curious about the process. I read dating stories avidly ('date' is such a dry fig-ure of speech. Sorry, I'll prune my puns down and only use the plum ones), believe dating is crucial and laugh in the face of monogamy. Well, morelike behind its back. Actually, no, I have much respect for it and she won't let me say otherwise. Er, where was I... compound misery... monogamy... dried fruit... oh yes, the idea! I'm going to have a blind-date right here, right now.

In Italics!!

GO!

S'Mat: Hello. Are you Deborah?

Deborah: Yes. And you must be S'Mat!

S'Mat: Affirmative.

Deborah: And who might that be?

S'Mat: My attorney. Please be advised this operation in socio-amourous intercourse is being recorded.

Deborah: Are you sure? Because it looks like a dog.

S'Mat: Mr. Spazazoid says I do not have to answer that question.

Deborah: Ha! Is there a camera hidden somewhere around here?

S'Mat: HA HA. No, of course not. Why? Can you see it from there? Now, would you like to join me in my enjoyment of a scotch. You have some catching up to do. Please select a cheap one. Blended malt only.

Deborah: No thank you, I'm driving.

S'Mat: Me too. Check out my wheels across the street there.

Deborah: The Buick?

S'Mat: Shit, this really is blind-date. NO! Not the Buick, next to it.. the Segway..

Deborah: Ahem. Oh yes, very nice.

S'Mat: If you and I make it, a guy I know in Wisconsin could make us a sidecar..

Deborah: Ahhh. I see.. well, Segways make me nauseous.

S'Mat: We'll paint it puce. Now I hope you don't mind, but I prepared some questions.

Deborah: Oh good, me too. They're pretty silly, you know, to lighten the mood. These things can be so awkward.. My friend once set me up with this backwoods firefighter. We met at 'Friscos, the karaoke bar down on...

S'Mat: Cottage cheese or chocolate?

Deborah: Er, what?

S'Mat: Hmm. 'Er, what' sounds like someone answering 'chocolate' with a mouthful of cottage cheese. Could you possibly refine your answer?

Deborah: Do you know where the exi.., I mean, washroom is?

S'Mat: Is that your ques.. oh wait.. I see.. er, I'm sorry, I must be being rude.. I should've told you, I have Aspergers..

Deborah: Oh? Oh.. I'm sorry to hear this. Um, ok, well.. er, chocolate. My turn! What superpower would you have, if you could, and why?

S'Mat: Good question! Either a limitless collagen-injection system built into my index finger so I can help the hungry be fat OR the ability for others to see what I say with subtitles, you know, in case I'm snorkeling.

Deborah: Out of all the potential superpowers?

S'Mat: Oh. Wow. Ok, I thought they necessarily had to be powers that weren't already taken, for litigation purposes. Because Mr. Spazazoid says Spiderman's got a real bitch of a legal firm behind him.

Deborah: No. This is imaginary though, so..

S'Mat: Ah.. Well, in that case, I'd choose to either be able to talk to animals OR be Superman, because what's better than Super?

Deborah: But you can already talk to animals, do you mean understand them when they talk back? Also, Ultra's better.. and there's also Supremo, or Turbo or even Superlative?

S'Mat: Super IS Superlative, just with a silent -lative. You do however have a point about being able to understand the animals as well, that'd have its uses.

Deborah: Er. You're only allowed one answer.

S'Mat: Ok, then Ghostrider, as he's licensed. How about you?

Deborah: I'd like to move objects with my mind.

S'Mat: Good for you. Ok. MY TURN! If a pair of pants were to become alive and self-aware and stuff, do you think that he, or she, would wear pants?

Deborah: Yes.

S'Mat: Correct.

Deborah: Do your dreams, you know, as in your real-life aspirations, correspond with your dreams when asleep?

S'Mat: Yes. Except in real-life her publicist always tells me that she says 'No'. 'Barbara's simply too busy,' she claims.

Deborah: Hmm. Barbara, as in, Streisand?

S'Mat: As in Bush. I personally think it's a load of bologny, but no, apparently the Betty Ford clinic won't..

Deborah: Yes, yes.. Ok then. My dreams are simple.. a world governing body dedicated explicitly towards bio-medical ethical regulation.

S'Mat: Yes. I'm cool with bionic people. They've had a pretty rough time, you know, maligned by people who just don't *get* them. I get them because I listen to Euro-trance.

Deborah: Well, the idea behind this would is a little different.. it'd be LIKE the UN but..

S'Mat: That's been done already. MY TURN! Cowboy or a pirate?

Deborah: A genteel pirate?

S'Mat: Or Jewish, whatever..

Deborah: Er, I meant as in civil, courteous, well-mannered, gracious, gallant.. you know.. friendly!

S'Mat: Ah yes. Because friendly people ransack ships laden with treasure all the time.. You can't possibly be a NICE pirate, that's just stupid. HAHA 'Would you mind awfully if I set fire to you now?' HAHAHA

Deborah: You are an asshole.

S'Mat: So you're saying that if you were a cowboy, you'd like me?

Deborah: I think we should end this so-called date right here, right now.

S'Mat: Me too. We do share a few things in common, such as the compulsive need to use the interjection 'you know' and we both like wearing shoes. I'll tally up the scores, though it's strikingly apparent that I won, and then get back to you shall I?

Deborah: Don't. I'm going home to blog now. In it I will be reappraising my friendship with Rachel for setting this whole thing up, that snake.

S'Mat: Oh yes, I remember Rachel. Did she ever find the right glue solvent?

Deborah: Get a life, lose bag. And get your attorney flea-dipped. [Storms out]

S'Mat: AND I DON'T REALLY HAVE ASPERGERS! Hmm. That's right Mr. Spazazoid, I smell libel case too!

Ok. I am no longer curious about the dating life. However, come to think of it, if the A&S ever reads this, I might have a new, slightly more-true installment for you...

newts

i have a few vices. some of which i learnt young. take smoking, for example...

i learnt how to roll from my uncle glynn. he'd bring me tubes of smarties, chase me around the sofas until i learned a new headwound (i say 'chase' figuratively, as he was a restful man and would catch me either by tripping my feet or by luring me over with tabacco esoterica) or give me lessons. one of which was to roll a mean smoke. the rizla'd come out, the golden virginia pouch with its earthy smell, and then the slight hand gestures and adjustments. he'd pinch out the tickles sticking out of an end, tossing the flecks back into the pouch, and then light the fag. it smelled good. i always saved all my orange smarties till the end (i had convinced myself that they tasted like terry's orange choclate, a rare treat) and proffered them as trade for his valuable skills. he let me roll a few smokes, which looked like the nesting sites of 2-dimensional birds, and then even light them to pass to him. i was perhaps 8. i'd been caught drinking a few times by then; once turned in by a friend at the smurf's ice-capades for enticing him with a hippie of scotch; another time drinking my mum's dad's pear wine; and the other times... wait, i've yet to be called out on them...

where was i going with this? oh yes... why do we feel compelled to buy stuff when it's just lying around? i pass about a pound of tobacco on the streets everyday... this gives me an idea: tobacco cake! and a whole line of baked goods, including tobacco biscottis (what the hell are they? bookmarks? anti-witch talismans? mobile bulletin boards? even jackie chan would not know how to use them...)

i truly wish i'd known uncle glynn as an adult.

crystalized breath forms stars

this thursday the 23rd, at sala rosa, DJ Amita and Lynne T (of Lesbians on Ecstasy - try the 1st and 3rd track. they say: sit on my bass) throw down I-don't-know-what, but I'm intrigued. and i'm there.

thinking about change in montreal -without holding it quiet in your pocket as you walk past a panhandler (how i wish i could truly provide it)- is usually an exercise in futility. thanks for the midwifery on the post below, tighties and all. i belaboured the question not to be contentious, but to better understand it. ok, so there was a bit of affected contention there, but that was part of the question... talking about change as change?

i had the day of the renegade shoelace today. my right scarpa boot. after a few fingernumbing attentions, i let it trail. like a potato shot root or rain-worried worm, it writhed behind me. and reminded me of the one time i've writhed behind my shoelace in the wilds of the UK countryside...

my friend Mark and i were malt-mangled, and i believe somewhere in the netherregions of shropshire. his parents had been kindly chaperoning me for the odd weekend, and this had been one of those... so, pretty much legless, we hailed a cab. the traditional pulled up, and the door, unlatched from the inside, swung open for us. following the example of our alcohol and embassy laced breath, we tumbled over each other into one of quentin tarantino's math class doodles. the taxi driver was wearing a black leather cat-suit, her auburn hair held back sheerly by the hot air rising from her countenance. she faced us once, and Mark and i were struck dumb. astonishment couldn't even turn our heads to register the other's reaction. our cabbie was of mythologically gorgeous and self-possessed graces. the corner of her mouth swallow-winged up to see our previous loutish confidences sodden in front of her: we were taxidermed. Mark eventually mumbled his address, and we were swifting propelled homeward. it was a few moments before we regained our drunken humour. and even then, it was under spell and respect. we spoke with her, and, i believe, engaged her elegant amusement (though doubtlessly for very different reasons than we presented). and the cab ride seemingly ended much quicker than the average. we paid. bowed out (one steps down from a uk cab). and closed the door teenage hearts engladdened that we'd not made too much of a fool of ourselves. it was only when she was driving away that i noticed i'd just locked my meter-long bootstring in the door. having still enough slack in the string to hobble along, i knocked on the side of the cab while hollering with the desperate anticipation that only a countless hours of surgically administered gravel-extraction from my favourite turnip could exhort. because she was all-wise, she stopped for me immediately, smiling with more than a little bit of mischief as she unlatched the door. Mark was howling. i was sober. and facing the ground, disjointedly expressed my immediate desire to go inside the house.

my message here? i am so glad i have yet to get dragged behind a car like a dozen cans announcing 'just marred'.

Changes, they are a timing...

Can anyone ever truly change? This may or may not be a question of free will...
And if so, who has the right to change them? I mean essentially change...


This place is to lay fallow for as long as necessary.

Searching for 'our alien origins'

In July 2001, a mysterious red rain started falling over a large area of southern India.

Locals believed that it foretold the end of the world, though the official explanation was that it was desert dust that had blown over from Arabia. But one scientist in the area, Dr Godfrey Louis, was convinced there was something much more unusual going on.

Not only did Dr Louis discover that there were tiny biological cells present, but because they did not appear to contain DNA, the essential component of all life on Earth, he reasoned they must be alien lifeforms.
"This staggering claim is that this is possibly extraterrestrial. That is a big claim I know, but all the experiments are supporting this claim," said Dr Louis.
His remarkable work has set in motion a chain of events with scientists around the world debating the origin of these mysterious cells.
The main reason why Dr Louis's ideas have not been immediately laughed out of court is because they tie in with a theory promoted by two UK scientists ever since the 1960s.

The late Sir Fred Hoyle and Professor Chandra Wickramasinghe have been the champions of "Panspermia", the idea that life on Earth originated on another planet.
They speculate that life was first brought here on the back of a comet. Over the last decade, Panspermia is being taken ever more seriously.
The US space agency (Nasa) is now increasingly interested in searching for extra-terrestrial life.
Prof Chandra WickramasingheA new robotic submarine is being developed to explore the oceans of one of Jupiter's moons. This submarine is on test at the moment in a lake in Texas.
Finding life elsewhere in the Solar System would be a vital bolster to the Panspermia theory.
Another section of Nasa is devoted to the study of bacteria found on Earth that can survive extreme conditions.
Finding these types of bacteria makes it more likely that micro-organism could survive the hardships of travelling through space on the back of a meteoroid.
Professor Wickramasinghe explained: "Bacteria have got to endure the extreme cold of space, the vacuum of space, ultraviolet radiation, cosmic rays, X-rays.
"That sounds like a tall order but bacteria do that. From what we know survival out in space is more or less ensured. Bacteria seem to me to be born space travellers."

Last summer, Horizon had exclusive access to a trip taken by Professor Wickramasinghe to India to investigate at first hand the red rain phenomenon.
He met Dr Louis and together they visited the people who had witnessed the red rain.
He was able to see the recent work of Dr Louis which shows that the red rain can replicate at 300C, an essential attribute of a space micro-organism that might have to endure extreme temperatures.

spaceAll this has convinced Professor Wickramasinghe that the red rain is a form of alien life.
"Before I came I had grave doubts as to whether the red rain was really an indication of life coming from space; new life coming from space," he said.
"But on reflection and after talking to Godfrey, I think I would now fairly firmly believe that it did represent an invasion of microbes from space."
Many scientists remain highly sceptical, however, but if Wickramasinghe and Louis are correct it will be the strongest evidence so far that the theory of Panspermia might be true.
It also raises the intriguing possibility that if life first originated on another planet then it must mean all Earth organisms, including humans, evolved from alien life.

By Andrew Thompson

The Relic of Conceit

On one of her more recent blog postings, Mood Indigo opens herself up for a rib-sounding and truth-telling session... and in order to goad herself into assembling a blog entry 'honestly', she drags from the murky depths a lobster cage to sift through the crusty fears that scuttle out. Now, I have absolutely no way of determining how truthful the post turned out to be (who becomes the who when the who is made manifest?), but the exercise seemed so refreshing and noble that I decided to try and at least proximate honesty in this post. For a consummate escape artist such as myself, this is going to be rough (I can already feel myself testing the bonds, regurgitating the key i'd swallowed earlier so's i can squirm free) but well worthy.. here goes.

I'm familiar with two very powerful mental states: paranoia and jealousy. They are in league.

Paranoia's a sure-rooted word for a fleet-footed concept: 'para' = beside or beyond; 'noos' = mind; eidos = 'form or shape' --- ultimately, etymonline.com describes it as a "mental disorder characterized by systematized delusions"... but I'm not here to speak of paranoia: all mental disorders seem to be assessed by matter of degree (IOW: the abstraction that is secularly "human" is made out to be sort of formal balance of virtue and vice, and so everyone characterizes some expression of form. Disorder is when one particular form dominates).

I'm here to speak of jealousy. What the fuck is it and why do I experience it so much?

When I say jealousy, I do not actually mean the emotional expression of it (which may have immediate streaks of paranoia, despondency, negative self-appraisal, anger, disappointment etc. attached) but the idea of jealousy as a motivating force... avoiding jealousy, or affecting my life to maintain the absence of jealousy I'd consider to be experiencing jealousy, obviously without the burning sensations.

Flat-out, jealousy is not necessarily a bad thing, that is as long as it is not paralytic... it can be quite complimentary, is a phenomenon that every ilk, breed and creed feel throughout the human globe, is a legitimate motivating force and biologically functional by nature. But as soon as it gets linked to delusional belief structures (from as powerful and immediate an emergence as paranoia to just calculated aversion of it - which is the type I experience) it takes a negative spin.

Jealousy, as I experience it, is different from envy: jealousy targets a threat to status as from another, whereas envy exposes a desired attribute, privilege or possession as belonging to another. They can of course be readily confused and mutually involved.

Yakkity-smakkity... what is it that I'm jealous of? Here I again resort to pointform:
1) In terms of writing, I find myself inherently jealous. Guarding my ideas behind an iron trap. If I raise a point on this blog, you can be assured it is not 'crucial' to me as a prospective story idea. In fact, I am reluctant to even speak about ideas. Paranoia, perhaps, but I don't like 'releasing' concepts that might get swiped from the ether and installed into the zeitgeist (a great word that, but one I'm beginning to despise). Not that I think that these ideas're grandiose, I just think that they're mine.
2) I am jealous of the relationships I am not immediately able to protect. This could be triggered by envy too. For example, I am jealous of my step-brother's relationship to my father. I am jealous when I feel there is flirtation happening between my lover and another. This could be due to some element of perceived lack of control.
3) I am jealous of laughter. Envious of another's acumen in inducing it.
4) I am jealous of others' ability to not abide by an ethical code.
5) I am jealous of you for reading this, because this is something you could use against me. Therefore, I'm done.

Now I am going to rub myself down with exfoliating substances (which is most substances if done vigorously enough: pistachio shells, frozen cheese curds, toothpaste, rye bread, Archie comics...) to slough this skin-clinging grime.

I have a few dynamiting strategies in mind. I'll save them for another post.

jealous
c.1225, from O.Fr. gelos (12c., Fr. jaloux), from L.L. zelosus, from zelus "zeal," from Gk. zelos, sometimes "jealousy," but more often in a good sense ("emulation, rivalry, zeal"). See zeal.
envy
c.1280, from O.Fr. envie, from L. invidia "envy, jealousy," from invidus "envious," from invidere "envy," earlier "look at (with malice), cast an evil eye upon," from in- "upon" + videre "to see"

- - - - -
- i don't like microwaves. i cannot bear to be near them when they're on. they make me feel funny and i hear things.
- i don't like sleeping with the door closed.
- i don't like wearing the same socks 2 days in a row.
- i don't like being called 'buddy'.
- i don't like membership games as a basis for friendship.
- i don't like that i can't remember a lick of lyrics.
- i don't like that lies are rendered transparent to me, and yet i say nothing.
- i don't like that i let jealousy determine so much of my inaction.
- i don't like this list.
- - - - -
also, if you've never heard of it, here is the ultimate website for drug and substance information. the 'art vault' is particularly interesting --> http://www.erowid.org/culture/art/

Bloglodyte

Buttons and baubles from the knick-knack drawer... a messy skull =

- Tending to say in real-life, on the advent of something noteworthy happening: "Just when you thought you had run out of things to blog about..." I now say it so frequently, it's become "Just when you thought you had run out of things to say just when you thought you had run out of things to blog about..."

- One of today's things... while at the cafe and as furnishing my coffee (it's really an obfuscated sugar delivery device for me) the breast-feeding woman I'd avoided looking at got up to get some water. The baby was still suckling, perhaps even swinging freely from the nub, while she poured. This is cool and all, but on the pitter-patter of justifications, it felt a bit like a flaunt too. I'm all for public feedings, and not for the reasons you'd imagine either, but I do feel it should be tempered. I'm glad the hippie lady feels comfortable about it and even incorporates it into her list of multitaskable errands, and though I don't feel directly uncomfortable about it, it does make me uncomfortable that she would not anticipate other's comfort levels... shit, i was squirting cream into my mug as she leaned over to get the water jug!! it was like she was daring a rebuke for what she was doing, which I feel is as prejudicial as the actual rebuke itself. I'd say that breastfeeding is a bodily function, and like nose-blowing or ear-digging or coughing or underwear-adjusting or coke-snorting or toast-eating or hair-combing or PDA, I just don't want it done over my coffee.

- I generally believe in giving other smokers a smoke when I can afford to. This is self-interested, as it does grant me the right to ask it of the commons when I'm devoid. What I can't stand though, is when it is expected. The dismissive 'No' or acquiescent 'Yes' is given on the approach vector; on the sheer and very real etiquette that determines the of meeting another. You're asking for currency, mate! Societies have placed different values on tabacco, and much like there are those that would find it disrespectful to refuse a proffered cigarette, the one I'm in has conferred a very real monetary value onto it. I'm not saying there is not a wealth of social tokenism placed on the smoke in this one: We could've become friends or at least formed a temporary alliance (conversational prop). But no, you were rude, now deal with it.

- The studio is going to be operational upon return from Xmas. We're going to be warming the apartment with overheated amps! BTW, does anyone know the best music posting program for blogs?

2am, Sunday 12th November: S'Mat is born

sleep reprivation'll leave you in some funny places. falling asleep to Lawrence Durrell falling asleep in Justine's arms at 8, i wake up in my face-puddled pillow at 12.30, on the ever-hyped saturday night. loneliness had crept in and was perched at the foot of the bed frowning bemusedly down at me, so i sent my head inwards to pick up my spirits. follows is my odd bedfellow. the numerals, pointless attention to thought threads.
1. 'pointless' is a funny word, especially when it's spelled 'poontless'
1. i never used to like Thomas as a name, it befits an adult, but not a boy (and Tom, I find, pisses me off now some as an adult, so i've tried to revert to Thomas, but there's some missing dude-factor in it that i'm strangely needing to perpetually reinforce). after some contemplation with the A&S, i'm assuming S'Mat (inspired somewhat by Jo and Chris's cat matdamon and my groaner of a middle name, Matthew) as the name of my blogging persona.
2. i quite like it: S'Mat! it's almost dirty, almost onoS'Matopoeic and utterly stupid. it conjures up a mild reference to those fantasy-novel protagonists that contrived second-rate authors suffer the reader with: S'Mat confronted the brooding menses-wyvern hidden deep in the cleft. All that was visible was it's meanness. He scratched at his very manly jaw and weighed his crystal vorpal sword while thinking to himself: 'How would be the best way to slay this icky bugger without my heroic balls getting in the way?' Naturally, he was hearkening back to his slight misapplication of force at the now ill-famed Troll Book-Club and Spoken Word Gathering Massacre of 1133. He winced. It was a very manly wince.
3. you can tell that this author is second-rate because in reality no self-respecting barbarian warrior would bring a crystal sword to a decent wyvern routing. also, it appears that it has not occured to the author that this is nowt more than a none-too-veiled sexual allegory.
1. i've been thinking of getting some fish for a while because they're way better 'please-don't-dies' than stick-insects. their names will be Romiette and Juleo and they'll be feathered blackmoors, which are like the visible minority of fish. please refer to the below post to see how I apparently feel about visible minorities.
2. because fish cost money, I've been thinking of creating a virtual fishtank to help forego the financial and emotional but mostly financial pain of having them die. They'll also be easier to neglect this way, because that's apparantly the trend with fish.
3. i hope that pet-store hires me. despite what it may seem like here, I'm good with animals and I'll be able to inform them closely about the pets they are purchasing.
4. my experience with animals: 3 dogs (+ another 3 on loan), 2 cats (+2 on loan), 4 ferrets, 1 tortoise, maybe a dozen fish, a bushel of stick-insects, 1 iguana, 200g of blue-cheese, 2 turtles (on loan), one wormery, 2 budgies (on loan), 2 gerbils, 3 bare-assed mice (don't ask), 1 hamster (on loan), 2 injured pigeons and 1 sparrow and 1 red cardinal fledgling (sleep-overs), a handful of Australian friends and once I stroked a chinchilla.
1. Jesus, I desperately need a job.

I, Shithead

So far, I've narrowly avoided umbrella eye-gouges 3 times today, albeit 2 of those times were from my own umbrella, but I'm definitely counting those. My last post about rain-walking was mostly hot-air (to help dry my dignity) and today I'll eat the left-overs: do use an umbrella! My favourites I've seen are the clear plastic brollies with the high parabolic profile (you can stick your entire upper-body in there and still manage to navigate with more than your sense of smell). They're meant to appeal to women, but hell, so do I.

The lady whose company I borrow ('keep' too fickle a word) is staggeringly engaging, and she'll regale me with crafted anecdotes - from the sidesplitting to the horrific - until we reach that region of the night that only psychopaths, eBayheads and upwardly-mobile librarians ever frequent: that timebelt of the insanely late. So we carved up an accord: today we get up AND STAY UP... We got up 7 hours earlier than yesterday and I think I might be hallucynating with tiredness, or from it.

Generally I find I can temper tiredness with food, and conversely sooth the hunger-wolf with sleep. So I vowed to keep myself topped up with food so's to stay innoculated from fatigue-induced shitheaditis and thought this to be the perfect occasion to try the $7.99 (+Tx) Indian buffet I see while toing and froing the Plateau. It sucked. It sucked to the degree that it corrupted the 'all-you-can-eat' slogan from that of enticement to that of taunting provocation. While I did get to ingest the DOA sheep that my subconscious had been laboriously hurling over the fence, there were what could've only been bone flecks in the vege dish and the rice was like machine-blended airplane insulation foam.

All this aside, I was floating in semi-conscious revery when I paid the bill. I followed the Indian gentleman to the register. We have a fairly good rapport - this used to have my favourite menu [a la carte]- and so sallied some, with his final joke being 'do not be fearful, but the bill comes to $9.11' and so I answered, too quickly and way too wrongly: 'don't worry, i'm not a suspicious person'. I paid, tipped, put on my coat and only when I was half-out the door did my shithead-comment alarm go off. Of course I meant 'superstitious', not 'suspicious', but if I were to return and correct myself then I'd have to possibly explain why saying 'suspicious' was such a shithead misadjectivism, only coming into existence because I was tired and not because he was brown etc. This further blustering would be an exercise in shitheadity of Costanza proportions. So naturally I meekly tiptoed out and now attempt to assuage my guilt in that neo-Catholic cyber-confessional commonly given the appellation of 'my blog'.

ps. Interestingly, this gaffing occurs reasonably frequently when I'm dog-tired. My last mega-clanger was several years ago, when after cabbing home from the airport, and genially nattering in drowsy English and my brutal pidgin French to the Haitian driver, we arrived at my apartment, I paid and leant through the open passenger window to give him his tip and say thankyou, good night. 'Merci. Bon noir' I cheerily nodded through the warmth from within, his smile froze as much as mine peeled slowly back by the rictus of horrific revelation: yes, instead of saying 'good night', I'd of course said 'good black'. I wheeled stiffly around and scolding myself something fearsome, gingerly retrieved my bags from the boot of the taxi. I did not look back. Until today, I'd honestly thought it was an isolated mistake, but apparently I'm actually a fucking bigot when I'm tired. Perhaps I should look for work within the government.

How to Walk your City in the Rain

This post, from the very onset, is asundry with prejudication. I will list them briefly...
1. You can read (a skill assumed by photonic activation by the inherent promiscuity of rods and cones and occipital nerves etc. as needed to reassemble semantic signifers encoded within a predeterminate writ)
2. You can read English
3. You have legs where they should be
4. You go into and through areas where rain is known to occur (if the word 'outside' seems foreign to you, not only is your last name not likely Proust or Frank, but you should really be busying yourself in preparation for the inevitable YouTube.com meltdown)

I have an aversion to umbrellas. This may be some vestigal Londoner rebellian emerging, but I suspect it is more. I strongly believe there is a way to commute in moderate rain without a) rain gear and b) getting wet. All you need is a hoody and the warming layers beneath. Here I must revert to pointform.

* walking is a mode of fluidly navigating surfaces. the walker is approached by manifold surfaces as she travels: brick, glass, paint, sheet metal, baby, cotton, poo, wheeled things, cord, plastic - - - everything. the walker need constantly be aware of jeopardy. simply, walking is perilous.
* because the walker is already necessarily aware of her surroundings, it is a minute conditional adjustment to prepare for adverse environmental hazards. in this case: rain.
* rain, though indiscrimminately invasive as a barrage of micro-surfaces, is still subject to the same fluidity of surface as the walker. so viewed, there can be anticipatory preparation and momentary improvisation.
* say 'no' to umbrellas. this is not to say that they are not wonderful and fun to carry (especially when closed), imparting a sense of dignity and presence to the bearer, insulating him from external influence. however, they are dangerous: as eye-rakers, surely, but also achieving a false sense of imperviousness that might unbalance the bearer's sense of worldly proportion. in short, umbrellas keep clothes dry but dampen awareness by virtue of illusory separation.
* use a hoody. not only will this protect you from peripheral umbrella eye-jabs, but the feel of the environment on the fabric will serve to extend your senses. like a spider in the center of her web, information will in.
* rain is manipulated by surface. the wind forms a virtual surface, and pushes rain at its whim. so, while walking, be sure to notice the direction of the wind. on a particular side of a street, you will find a rain shadow (wind blowing west, walk on east side of street: no droplets.) if awnings are available (commercial areas) you can either walk beneath them, or avoid them altogether. they protect the static from rain, but not so well the mobile. other umbrellas will spit and dribble on you (however, walking a few steps behind a quick umbrella wielder will clear a path for you so's to assist the avoidance other umbrellas.)
* the speed and manner of how the walker walks will heavily affect how much rain she receives. a geezer once told me the theory that you will get wetter while running that while walking, the belief of which i've not yet commited (many variables: rapidity, size of runner/walker, wind direction etc.) the walker need not walk sideways, but they can reduce the ability of the rain to hit them: by movement of the shoulders and stride length, by the gait. through practice, the walker will be able to avoid most of what would otherwise hit them. this is not dodging, but another form of surface navigation.

All this to say, you WILL get wet, but only slightly and definitely not the type that engenders discomfort, and the gain: you will be able to enjoy the cadence and magically quickened world as revealed under the rain. yes, this is a martial art. please use it to impress your soft, cab-hailing friends.

space cadet

there's so much unfrequented space to place our thoughts. from the undersides of chairs to the creches between the bristles of a tooth brush, there is much not explored or visited in our heads.

most of these sorties of imagery ain't worth the virtuality we'd designate, being mundane or too ordinary in and of themselves, but if we anthropomorphize far enough, they could be considered simultaneously alien and soothing... to live in a matchbox, or a hole in some cheese. to invite your first and giddy first-date to join you on the back of a jetty-stalking seagull. and if all goes afoul, there's always the chance he gets eaten (or you, if you can't get the taste of the off-colour jibe about his mother's dental hygiene practices out of your own mouth...)

and what happens in real-time, when distance cracks your from a loved one's presence? it could be either unnerving or reifying, or turgid with reflective marveling. what happens to you, when you are there and they are elsewhere? where do you send yourself? into the throes of neurosis or overanalysis? take your worldview to the fridge to conquer some dairy products? do you bring your fist down upon what earlier you cherished?

i wonder because i wander. and i've vowed to practice my wonder awander...
(ps. for statistical purposes only: per volume, this was the least time-consuming post EVER written by me. i typically deliberate over comments on others' blogs longer than it took me for this. therefore i conclude that it must suck)

Lucy - James - Tom

Hello!

A friend of mine and a mistress of keys, admidst her rarefied posts, said this:
and at the same time, i want to always remember. i want to cradle the moment like a jpeg in a storyboard is frozen and forever captured. i feel such remorse that i can never do this.
It's a sweeper, that, a mind-sender; a comment on photos and the places onto which they act as portal: sand-scoured citadels of doors in doors, amaze with terraces interlinked; ear-pressed chests of sanctuary thrummed with the lyricism of softened stories; dripped fruit lazy and uneaten in frames of far-off days; meadowed trees; the 3pm dune grass pushed by the salted shadows of noon-quickened clouds. As long as I've known her, she's refused to forget... She recounts episodes so accurately that she's even remembered for me where I was on a particular day, who I was with, even what we had talked about while spilling what we had eaten over what we had worn... And now, if I read her right, she wants to plunge into Lethe... or at least steep a curative tea in its waters. I wish her much luck.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Lots of people said 'hello' and gave me quizzical looks as they walked past where I stood outside the funeral parlor tonight. I am tempted to say that perhaps I should take that as a cue to double the amount of tinfoil I wrap around my head (right now, I'm only at 4.5 oz. a day), but that would only serve to make my creton and jam sandwiches harder to retrieve. Instead I will institute a 'hello' community amongst the general populace, maybe handing out complimentary sachets of Sweet and Sour sauce at the most inappropriate times ('Do you have a light?'... 'Hello. Sure. Here. Good for springroll!' - - - 'There's been an accident, can I borrow your phone?'... 'Hello. Indeed. Voila.') That and hide Jehovah's Witness pamplets atop the blades of resting ceiling fans. That and that and start making googley faces at babies' owners as well. If they respond with affront, I will point at the infant and ask them how much they'd like for their haggis. 'Hello' I'll say under their rain of scorn. 'HelloHelloHello....'

the template of cons

standing there, a 'K', a lyre
she eyes the sandstone arch
a wedge and lonely end to edge
the sky's bright-lined loss and ire

standing there, a crease, a maker
she eases airs of simmered figs
dreams awake the wetted low-lands
that steals asleep her lighted taper

lying there, a mood, a flower
she bears and bores and's borne awind
a curse and leaden urn to course
life, which weighted, defies her power

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

For reasons unapparent, my phone service's been severed. Dreams're reel-pulled over my center like carbon paper, and screech a dirge for the verdant word. Humour as pale as Her steel tiara'd orb. It's all ok.

There's a roster of germinated projects under my fingernails. None paying. All ghosting on and behind a souring tidal mist. Finally it's that I have fingernails over my dirt, but the clutching motions do nothing to succour it.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

An 11-year old I knew once had such problems of self-determination, he'd flip a 50p coin whenever he met divergency. He could not make a decision. His little head could feel nothing inside to push against when making them. Decisions, however, were made all around him. Over the beige carpets, through the wall-thrust copper-fed currents, under the conifers. Supper was an exercise in cause-effect and beneath the table he'd rub the coin to feel which face was up. Eating those morsels of which it told him. He deferred nearly all choice onto this worthing chunk of metal. It was not that he didn't make them at all, as sometimes he flipped the token until it turned his hidden decision into what he wanted. But he couldn't feel the imperative. The meaning was shy. Even when he threw it away, it'd only be a moment before he'd search for his Delphi in the long grass, takingkeen note of how it landed upon its rediscovery. Ha, how sad, he thought one day, as his 50 plop-onked to the bottom of the bath, my currency is not only my choice, or the knowing that I make decision, but the mass of it.. the fact that I am visiting here only by my actions passed. To be whole, one must feel the heaviness of consequence, and there's no escaping that. Then he felt beneath the bubbles and chased the half-pound back to his hand. And after blowing the suds from his fingers, placed the coin in his mouth and swallowed. I don't know if he ever got out of the bath.