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Two months gone. Well, a month really. I see one, you see two, isn't perspective a wonderful thing? Twist the perspective, and you can tailor reality, time, to your will to the same extent as any other bias-inducing crowbar - credulous fallibility, insatiable violence, statistics. All perspective needs is eyes in the back of your head. Or someone else's.
The top of a mountain, feel like a germ. Staring into a cup of tea, undisturbed as it dances with spiralling milk, feel like you know nothing. Watch the stars fall from grace and know that each is for you.
Ahh, University, the bastion of intellect, the pinnacle of forethought, the panache of, uh, good... stuff... Or a bunch of students getting pissed-but-not-quite-pissed-enough.
Kicked out on time, with the threats and the attitude and the machoism and... it can only end in rebellion and issues. Five minutes, ten minutes, WHO FUCKING CARES? Drink, up the world's about to end. Get out, or we'll set the dogs on ya.
People really need to get some perspective. Didn't I say that before? But then, just what is original these days?
Must be a Tuesday. I never could get the hang of Tuesdays.
I really hate the way television and music have this diversionary effect upon my (admittedly limited) attention. Writing 100 words when I feel like I'm missing something is almost painful, but I hate myself all the more because I should have control over it. When I'm done, I'll kick myself because it feels like I'm missing something in my writing.
Bit of a mistake, reading Kris' entries. But I'm glad she's in here with me. It's a weird, liberating feeling to think that I can be so open with somebody I've never met.
And I can see her laughing now.
The problem with most people is that they talk when they should be listening, and don't talk when they should be talking. If people listened more, then their talk wouldn't be quite so inane and irritating.
And if they spent more time listening, then they'd also find themselves unable to avoid Gemma Hayes. Three times now, three glimpses into limelight so subtle and so tinted by starlight, into a mind so close, and yet so unknowingly distant. Oh, for real life!
May the wings of angels carry thee far, into the hearts and minds of those that care to hear.
Daedalus and Icarus. Feathers and wax, and wings and things. Fly too low, certain death. Fly too high, still screwed. An exit is an exit, it just depends where it takes you to. Need to get out more.
Faced with the choice between death, death or certain death, Icarus knew what he was doing. Oh, object of apparent ridicule, the foolishness of certain escape, crossed by heavenly stars. Ha! Icarus was true to his calling, the pull too strong, he died staring into the eyes of God.
Better to go out with eyes wide open than die in blissful ignorance.
Floor! I have spent the last two days attempting to tidy my room (being a bloke and all, it was in a somewhat "disturbed" state...), and finally this evening, 9pm, the vacuum cleaner came out for the first time since cleanliness was invented, and I can now say with conviction that my floor is cleaner than it was.
You should see the pile of crap on my futon though. I might just sleep on the floor, as it's probably cleaner.
Relocation is the key. You can't destroy or create anything, just push it about until you get used to it.
4.05pm, and bored. Boredom - like revolution, war, and drugs - is good for a society, y'see. Boredom is an irritation, a complete lack of disturbances and diversions, so that the only thing left to grasp at is irrepressible, unadulterated, 100% pure cut meaningless motivation into the world of the inane.
And, as we all know, inanity lies outside society. Boredom begat inanity begat wisdom. And wisdom begat change.
For many, the cycle finishes there. Change destroys boredom, minds diverted once again into a new way of life, and the world rests again. Until change itself becomes boring, that is...
Late, too late. Can't sleep, head buzzing.
Ideas, twisting, spawning, collaborating and whispering in the darkness where nobody else can listen in on my thoughts. Memes, theories, machinations gone wild like an offset firework, catching light and glinting dark.
Fragments of memories hybrid whimsicals, bridging neurons and histories, fantasies and reality. Somewhere in there, the future drops, forming from crystalline clay and shattered pasts. Something treads my grave for a moment, before I realise it's anxiety, breathlessness, hope, rolled into one giant possibility.
Settling back underneath the duvet, I force my eyes shut and flush everything out of my head.
The road was the same, grey, empty, bland stretch of filth-covered tarmac, as it had been ten years ago to the day. Same run-down bulidings, same half-arsed rain. He stood in the street in the rain, caught in the light of a streetlamp like a rabbit.
Memories dwindled back... the rats, the untamed fires, the muggings, the ice cream van, the struggling beaten up families. What he had gone through to get out oof it, to get where he was today. To escape.
Ten years. How many died here at his hands? How many lives paved his path to freedom?
I've been reading yet further on the intricacies and politics of energy, and where it comes from, and with each and every article I read, I become more astonished as to how much wool is pulled over the eyes of the general populace. By how much information is available out there, and yet by how much of it is blatantly ignored in favour of hypocritical toe-kissing, baby-licking politics in the name of humanity, and all that is Good For Us. It's a puzzle how all this could be reversed, engineered anew like road after storm.
But then, I like puzzles.
Ever since I went on holiday last month I've got lazy, when it comes down to shaving. Beards aren't just the domain of the distinguished, the professorial, or the streetwalkers. No, they're for the lazy, the apathetic, and the downright daydreamers. Everything else is just an excuse.
At the same time, one of the most amusingly-satisfying feelings comes after you've shaved it all off, after a couple of weeks of letting it evolve. The return to humanity and sanity. The feeling of being years younger. The leftover hair pished around the sink. All part of the never-ending ritual. Life.
He sneezed, she turned, she looked at him. The rest of the church was empty apart from the haunting spectres of a dozen enquiring saint figureheads. The knifeblade of moonlight cut through the incense air and alighted the frozen candles.
A thousand years of prayer hung in the night of the rafters as he looked back, and smoke played in the air with dust, and they found that inseparable stirring of memories and desires and hopes within the two of them, standing there.
She stepped towards him, they looked into each other for a lifetime's heartbeat, and they embraced silently.
People used to add other people to their list of people that pissed them off. All has changed now.
Every day, I am forced to add yet another person/company/organisation to the list of entities that piss me off. Today's candidate for the tome is none other than Sky, the capitalist, censor-happy, good-for-nothings I always thought them to be, but never proved. Until today, when it turns out they cut about half the scenes out of Family Guy.
Quite why they do this, I'm not sure - censorship, or so they can squeeze more adverts in the money-soaked gaps, or both.
Lately, I often find myself wondering not where we come from, nor what the point of life is, but (and there is a discernible difference) how one should spend one's life. Once you have true freedom, true purity, then how best to use it?
Is it better to take comfort in the knowledge of bliss, become aware of unthreatened perfection?
Or is it better to strive for the unknown, seek out the dark corners so that one may further not just one's own soul, but the souls of all?
That is, after all, the thing that makes us so human.
It couldn't last.
The waves of passionate heat, the exotic emissions, dashed against the shore of the British climate. Let the rains commence! 40 days, 40 nights, 40 years.
The clouds speak, the air drowns. Some places, they have hailstones that can kill a man. Here, we just surrender our enthusiasm to be throttled slowly, seizing the opportunity to grumble outside, but laugh inside, at the precipitous harbinger.
Not to worry, the crossword summons me back with its entrancing grid of binary, the void and the void, what will never be filled, and what I can only dream of filling.
Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance?
Strong, secure, she knows who she is, what she does, what she likes. Where's that line? Inebriated affection. Niggling acquaintance, plausible improbabilities and meaningless/full glances, which bits add up and which bits are pure fantasy? Weigh the odds, are the ends worth the means? What are the means? What are the ends?
Kill for it, die for it, plead for it. Hope, prayer, flowers, alcohol. Where's your head at? What's the frequency, Kenneth? Everyone's been there, don't think it's anything special.
The only speciality left is shock.
This Life wouldn't exist here, now, without the Sun. It's not magic, it's nature. It's our ancestry. From the Sun comes the energy, from the energy comes life, from life comes thought. And out of all this blossoms imagination, creativity, boundless heights and unimaginable depths. All this comes from a bit of light, and a bit of heat. So that we can see, and taste it.
If you look into the Sun, then you really are looking into the eyes of God, and it will blind you.
One day, we will be able to make stars. We will become Gods.
The lights go dark and she walks onto the stage. Eyes like a starlit dusk, hair of shimmering aurora, and a voice that transcends them all, transcends all of us. All of me.
The music, the venue, the crowd, the company, the air all around. Nobody could ask for anything more. Well, ok, just the one thing. There it all is, all in one compact place ready to be picked up by the right person.
Appreciation's all too rare these days. Every now and then, we all need to be reminded of what we usually only dream about, and forget.
I have been getting lazy. Too lazy. Or maybe I always was lazy. Whichever, it was most fine to see those whom have not been seen for a while again. Arduous journeys to places I know not are most certainly not my forte, but the trip was definitely one to be repeated.
They are the people that keep me sane, the people that balance everything and everyone else, and that both share and influence many of my prejudices and shortcomings and alter-egos. They are good people.
Such a shame they live a couple of miles away now. No more lazy.
Three of us, one darkened room. The film comes on. Requiem for a Dream. The film goes on, the room and the tone and the three get darker, and three of us become one and one and one.
Some films are good, some are great, some are "acclaimed" this and "heralded" that. And then there are the films that separate themselves from the rest by blending so neatly, in fantastic spooled syncromesh, with the cultural differences that gave birth to them.
Films that make you think.
I think that's why most of the truly great films are never really popular.
Shit, I dreamed about her again last night.
An orbiting satellite filling its trajectory with ideas of plunging head first into the fiery inferno below that gives it being.
A story that, no matter how far and how hard it threads twists, turns, meanderings and astrays, forever feels drawn towards its dark, inevitable conclusion.
A fire without fuel, pitted into the fate of obsoletion. A tree urged onwards towards the Sun never to reach it, yet born through its warmth.
I awake, cold fear rushes in, pouting at the tender glow and laughing cruelly.
Only a dream. Only a dream...
Ugh, it's late, I'm tired, my eyes hurt, but at least there's classical music on the radio on the TV, and at least I got a free Financial Times and a free wireless card today, and at least I got the indicators on my bike back in place again, and at least it wasn't pissing it down on my way either to or from work, and at least I remembered to take that DVD back to the shop, and at least I kind of half figured out what my work is about, and at least it's only Tuesday.
Often I think of you and wonder where you are, what you're doing, where it went wrong. I remember the good times, the bad times, and all the times in between. Then, I hold back the tears, keep myself from fooling myself that we could ever make it work again.
Other times I think how lucky I've been to have known you. Then, I remember what I learned from you, and the things that you showed me were possible. Then I find myself full of hope and dreams and life.
I wish you were here, so I could tell you.
Do you believe in Love at First Sight?
Do you believe that a person can know instantly that they could most happily spend the remainder of their fated life in unfathomable awe, and the company of somebody that they had not lain eyes upon thirty seconds ago, let alone even uttered a single words to them?
How much brazen-encounter amore is, in unadulterated, nightmarishly-real fact, simply lust and wanton greed, dressed up in a sheep's tweeds?
Rationale and fair-mindedness keep me from believing, yes. But, for all their scientific allure and logic, they do not prevent me from searching nonetheless.
You can see it in their eyes, and sense it in their words, and know it in the air that they keep.
The majority of people, bound by the shackles of society and the withering of, what we have made to be, human conditioning, leak desperation. Leak it from their glands, ooze it from their inflections, and cower behind it in their deeds.
When, however, one who thinks clearly, one who has found her place in herself (or, more likely, the other way around), then their happiness and comfort is clear for all. Exhuberant. Exhalting. Like a suit of armour.
I would like a Cathedral. I am not religiously-biased, but I have fallen in love with the intricacies and architectural magnimities which such drive and belief can throw open.
My Cathedral would be collosal in magnitude, labyrinthine in design, and unsurpassed in smoky mystique. Each room, a different philosophy. Each altar, a different part of a single spiritual fundamental, a single yet indetachable cell of an unimaginable entity.
Over it all would watch one solitary monk, cowled in silence, entombed in eternity. Nobody would know its name, or even if it were the same person from one day to another.
Pitter-pat, pitter-pat, pitter-pat.
He tip-toed from slab to slab, pirouetting and delighting in the snowfall ballet as he tripped his feet between the cracks in the pavement, intense upon where they landed and where they didn't, caught up in the minute swirl of unmistakeness.
Outside his head, the sky glowed green, the Sandman played, the quartet danced a jig, and the world was as high as a kite. Everything.
And yet he dared not glance up, lest his attention caught him unawares, dragging him to oblivion.
Avoid the bears, by all means. But sometimes the bears just hide the butterflies.
Took a moment to think about it and to realise I'd done it, but yet once again I illustrated the argument FOR free music downloads, without even realising it. Four CDs in the last three days, three artists of which I had previously only as computer music files. And yet, time after time after time after time, the music industries fail to grasp the reach of their own product, the potential and the influence. Instead they bicker over fear and FUD.
The future had better hurry up. The present is pissing me off more and more with every passing day.
: The study of memes and their social and cultural effects. ["Memetics is a popular topic for speculation among hackers, who like to see themselves as the architects of the new information ecologies in which memes live and replicate."]
It's amazing how a single thought, an idea, or (in my case) a dream can wriggle its way out of one's subconsciousness, and straight into the core of thoughts. Make itself the prominence, after so much dormance.
How stupid. How human.
The world is ruled by romantic scientists claiming to have found the secret to Hollywood. Who do you believe?
About to go out, hit the pub, meet the club, meet someone else I haven't seen for years, this is habit-forming, and I like it.
Not sure how to go in, though. Am I looking for someone right now? You bet. Am I up to making moves on the first gathering in so long? Pshaw. Drink enough beer, forget about it, see what happens.
It's amazing how much more you can do in life, in a day, in tentionally, if you don't think about it, don't plan it, don't take it to heart and spit it out into people's faces.
Ah yes, how strange the fates and destinies of men that lay in hands unseen! The yesterday gathering fell through, yesterday ebbed into today, the present, and with it came the same plan. Local pub, pumpkin night, early meeting, first after two (or was it three?) years.
The problem with me is that I'm too picky, and that I'll always find faults in someone as an excuse to not do anything about it. The problem with women is that there's always something wrong with them, which puts me off doing anything about it.
One of these has got to change.
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