Archive for May, 2006

I am flirting with my old foe. There was a time when I could easily conquer this formidable opponent, however as the crisp air of winter’s breath flows, I am almost defeated by this nemesis of mine. I am unable, anymore, to duel with my old friend, his eyes are drawing near and it will soon be time that my own are drawn into heavy swollen slits. Who this foe is, is perhaps yours as well. It is the one they call the SandMan. He is always lurking within the depths of nights dawn, stalking and hidden amongst the shadows of the undead. He is calling my name now and perhaps I ought to heed his call. I do not want to obey his soft whispers and beckoning. I would like to stay awake for awhile but I know that if I fullfill this desire I will pay for it with His vengeance. He always collects the debts owed him and I have at least a decade of repayments in arrears before the sins of disobedience of years past will be paid.

Thus it is, I must crawl into his haven now. I must befall his spell. It is time for bed.

Goodnight!

It’s not working. Monday has usurped my capacity to think, or was it the weekend of domestic servitude that has drained me from me. Have I found peace? Ha! My head swirls in it’s spin cycle of dialogue, however I am unable to clutch a fragment of it’s speech. I am caught in a vacuum of thoughtless solitude. Such solitude is wasted. I recently downloaded a BBC special on Bill Burroughs and I watched some of it tonight. Perhaps I will go back to it. There was something almost human in the tortured soul of Mr Burroughs, which seemed to be captured in this documentary. A human face to the word virus.

See what awaits in the terrible, tomorrow is Tuesday.

There is a stillness that infects the air once the tick of a weary clock surpasses midnight. I find the stillness comforting, it soothes my restless soul to know that soon I will be in the safety of my bed, secretly filled with hope and relief that the SandMan will soon bless me with his grains of sand and bliss. The television in the background is soliciting me to call ladies of the night to fill my loneliness. I am umoved by the callous consummerism of late night propositions to relieve my loneliness and the promises of fullfillment that a phone call will invite. I often wonder if anyone really calls these numbers, I guess lonely fools do. If no one called then they wouldn’t advertise. What really possesses someone to call these late night numbers that are sold by buxom young girls? Is it loneliness or lust? Perhaps both. Perhaps I ought to make that call one day to find out. Conduct some reverse market research. Right now my eyes are telling me to go to the warmth of my bed.

Good night and good luck if you find yourself calling one of those tacky numbers displayed on the TV screen in the haze of early morning night.

Once upon a time, one’s entitlements would be gratified almost immediately. Long gone are those days. In today’s electronic world, exchanges of monies owed can be delayed. It is the case upon leaving my old employer. I’ve waited almost a week finally some of my entitlemnet was paid. I believe they still owe me a week’s pay but what the hey, at least I received the bulk of it. The temptation is to spend it but I have chosen to remove over half of it into somewhere I cannot touch it, at least not instantly. When instant gratification is a temptation it is better to exercise a little prudence. I payed off some debt and perhaps over the course of the next few weeks I will be able to remove the other credit card debt I have. Why am I even bothering writing about this horse shit…perhaps because I have nothing else to say. I have been studiously labouring at my new job and have neglected this blog and as a consequence my mind has become like Aeroplane jelly, wobbly and mushy.

Thus it is, I have nothing to report.

Goodnight!

The preacher stands above his congregation, his flock attentive to the words that fill the hall with light. Resounding rays of prophecy echo across weathered hardwood floorboards that have aged with countless dragging of red extruded polymer chairs, stacked high, almost ascending to the heaven that the preacher is proselytising. He stands tall in his moment of exposure, exalted with conviction. The congregation remains in awe as he speaks, the silence that endures between pauses of breath is reminiscent of the existent stillness as it wafts through space. He speaks of time, time that has passed and the time that is now. They both merge into what could be and each eye which bears witness to this discourse is reminded of a similar time. A connection is made between speaker and listener, yet the preacher has a vacancy within the black pools flashing across his pupils. A madness has encircled the inner world behind those pools and it is a lonely madness. It is the loneliness of light that usurps his sanity, as God is Alone, so is this man as he preaches above the flock of his kin.

A cold crackly voice whispers it’s secrets into my ears. It has nothing but obscenities and cynicism to reflect upon, yet this voice entices me enough to devote my full attention to it. For some reason I am compelled to listen. I don’t want to hear it’s prophecy but it is inside my head and I can’t seem to detach myself from it. I am alone, without distraction, even though there are people in my presence. The sound of it’s voice keeps me company in my aloneness, it sings a familarity that I find strangely comforting. The voice tells me that these people, which surround me, are out to hurt me in some way and that I ought not trust them. The more I listen to this tired husky voice, crackling as if it has performed this sililoquy for an eternity, the more I feel that what it says is true. Am siding with the devil? Is it She that lures me with dark, ripe fruits of knowledge? After listening to her voice for so long I begin to believe that it has morphed as my own. I am not sure if it is some other being that has taken me hostage anymore. Have I become this voice that harbours this secret, a secret that whispers in the dark. In the still of night I am alone with her, enbraced in her arms. It is cold outside and in her arms I feel safe. I have a sense that this voice is infact the cruel wind that blows in the hollow of night. It has somehow latched itself, spiralling in the fragments of memory that whirl around the grey haze of my soul. I am at her mercy, I have come to trust her and perhaps even love her. I am not sure of anything much anymore, I think I can’t even trust her soothing husky voice anymore. Can it be that my faith has been misplaced in that voice which found a home within the corridors of grey. I wish I knew where that voice came from, I don’t want to abandon her, what if she can’t find her way. Perhaps I must leave her be, whilst I search for a place she can call home. There are now too many voices inside that grey, I have no more room, so it must be, farewell to my companion and friend, the voice that just could not be.

How often are we trapped by this thing we call mind. Does this thing even exist? Could it be that the mind is just a manifestation of an electro-chemical interaction…an interlacing of cells, atomic and sub-atomic particles, coalescing with “events” that are present in our immediate surrounds? Yet the way this thing communicates with our bodies, is with a sensastion of thought, which uses a word virus to illustrate what reality is. This reality, however, is not based on what is, it is a reflection of what has been and what might or could be. To live totally in the present moment is perhaps an ideal to strive for. I am contemplating and perhaps yearning to engage in such a process, to enable some level of living through a state of being that is concerned predominately with the immediate, rather than a fantasy of what was or could be. It is hard thing to practice, with a head like mine you are apt to communicate alot of self deprecatory dialogue about what I ought to do, or what I should do or how things should be, etc. etc. etc. In essence it is a narcissistic depreciation of self. My ego is constantly drawing upon this image that the mind has created, as a form of identification with the greater world about me. More often than not, a negative sphere of reality is the by product of consultation with such an image. In reality, I am living an illusion and it could be argued that all is an illusion because of this endless dialogue.

The illusion of self. Pehaps anything attributable to self is a mere reflection of a virus that has implanted itself in our heads. A virus that wants to dominate existence, in nature there is no other predator which equals this vile creature. The mind harbours this virus and I idolise it, much to the detriment of my nature. Nature is silent, it is a vast choir of stillness. “Be still and know that I am God” is what echoes in the silence. To become familar with the presence of nature I must imitate it, so that a resonance of what is real can reveal itself, rather than the obsessive virus emulating a vision of what that reality is.

Blood runs cold in the empty hollowness of a reptile ache. The slithering creature performs a seductive dance in the pit of my heart, drawing lucid memories of a past, which is long gone, yet remains obstinately alive. Smouldering beneath a blanket, the flame of long lost passion refuses to be subdued, it is the reptile that aches. Like a flaccid member throbbing and yearning to be kissed by soft, moist lips…Blood red swollen with anticipation…weeping…awaiting the touch of cold scaly skin, crawling across neurons heightened with excitement. Grief and loss wear the face of truth as the reptile hisses it’s fork, inviting….tempting. My heart grows weary as I think of a time when the reptile swayed to and fro, unhindered and free. A time when moments were carefree and the future was uncertain and unseen. Alas the moment passes and the reptile fades back into the caverns of thought, which circle and swirl through darkness. The reptile cannot live again, it is gone, it’s time is over, only in memory it remains.

An architect wanted a gusset plate connection on a truss to be “brutal”. He wanted a brutal connection. Both the engineer and I were dumbfounded by such a remark. It caused much laughter, the jokes kept rolling in. I am recalling this moment because I just watched Wolf Creek and consider this movie to be brutal. So kiddies today’s word is “brutal”. It’s funny how such differences in meaning can be associated with words. I’m not sure why I am even bothering with this blog tonight/morning. I am sleep deprived because of the wretched woman who lives next door and by all acounts I should be in bed now. I wanted to be brutal to her at 2:00am yesterday, the madwoman was jabbering away to herself and I just couldn’t sleep with her ranting to the demons in her head. It is strangely quiet next door, I would’ve thought she’d be slamming the fucken doors again. Perhaps she was a good girl today and took her psyche drugs, some extra largactil in her medicine cabinet wouldn’t go astray.
Some largactil for myself wouldn’t be such a bad idea either. It may kerb the resentment I have for the madwoman, the wicked witch of the inner west.

I was back at the dentist again this morning or yesterday morning now. It’s 12:52am Sunday morn, so technically speaking I can say yesterday. I am really only blabbering away now, perhaps I ought to leave this rant for a time when I really have something of interest to communicate.

Sweet Dreams all!

It would seem the faster one goes the faster one needs to go. Speed is addictive!

As the Roads and Traffic Authority so eloquently asks; “How Fast Are You Going?”

I am not necessarily speaking of the kind of speed that one jacks up, that is all together another story and perhaps an even semi-interesting one, in some vaguely, twisted sort of way.

I am referring to the pandemic of torrents, that viral infection born from common thieves, pillaging the fruits of corporate artists. One needs speed to transcend the bits and gigabytes into meaningful existence, however, it appears that speed also manifests a tolerance, in almost juxtaposition to it’s street rival. The more speed one uses the more is needed to achieve the desired effect. More’s Law – The more one has the more one wants. Argghh! The humanity; or rather, the lack thereof.

Whatever way you look at it, I don’t believe there will ever be enough to satisfy my need.