21.1.13
Whatever I'm doing, wherever I am...
I can be typing away on plastic keys, with the snow outside. Or walking, (sliding). Or driving, (skidding). Or watching the snow fall. Tiny fractal shards, spin and settle, curl up like microscopic insects of ice water. Snuggle up for warmth, and await untimely death. Beauty is always fleeting, it seems. Falls apart at the seams. Must be grasped, cherished, held onto. Paws and claws.
Mind rambles, tumbles, a thousand eyes gaze outward, inward, spin and frolic in my skull. Daydreaming, or distracted by ugly noise...
Whatever I'm doing, wherever I am, snow or no, at any point in time, my mind can glitc h, gl_tch tch chchhc_.._ hc h _..._ sigh.
___________snap. Fuzzzsh.
Zip over into the territory of another. Aura overlap. Fun size fantasize of green eyes, iris skies, twin planets, spiralling lullabies. Synthetic skin, pigtail spin. Zap. Electric to the touch. An alien smile, a bright extraterrestrial sky. Designed, meticulously down to the tiniest nano particle, to shatter human hearts.
Then sonic boom.
All mundane missions are doomed, and a door opens, with liquid mercury steps unfolding in space before it, welcoming me. Come inside. Come inside.
Come inside me.
Soon... or forever wish that you had.
What yer gonna do about it space boy?
Strap on that rocket pack!
1.12.11
Snap a dog jaw at your dainty palms.
The feathery tentacled women, gasping and licking and sucking and foaming. They fall to cacophono-knees. Hands, pressed flat onto porcelain. Eye’s begging with a thousand tiny tongues.
Share tiny sparks of magic with me!
And the flip top jabber swing jungle boys, dancing in my head, do a naughty little dance. Again.
Meanwhile, a meteor, with an ego the size of Gibralta and all it’s monkeys, barely misses this little planet.
She turns to me.
BOOM helloo!
With a sharp and stylish tellybox smile. I feel like I’ve eaten too much toothpaste again. Her head pops into sponge gore and spits my face all red. Sprat pack all dribbling on my aging facade.
HEY! Check me out.
I turn the tellybox off. Zip. Goodnight. Next!
I have fallen. Before. Well down. Into dark places. Old places. Places which need to be locked up, encased in cancer and thrown to Cerberus. The dozy dogdogdog.
I don’t need these caves.
Yet. I fear. I haven’t explored nearly enough labyrinthine delights.
Hungry hungry Hypocrites the lot of us. Torn down the middle and spasmodically wriggling back together for eternity.
All of us. Insignificant.
Little pink whistle mice on distant planets are intrigued by our story. But then can’t be fucked to throw a bone.
Fuck them. They say. What do they matter?
On their tiny spinny ball of blue and green ME in an ocean of WHATTHEFUCK!?
All of us. Insignificant.
7 billion dirty specks.
Of which we are two. Of which we are nothing. Lost in the allthatiseverything. Blinkered from the stomach acid gag-chunk salesmen and the stars who made them.
But...
-
Did you ever swing out so far you...
Ever jump so far that....
Ever strap into your rocket pack, slap on a shit eating grin, hit the switch and dive around planets of wonder in search of the fiery inferno of the orchid, just for kicks?
Fuck no. No you haven’t. You were pulled there.
Gravity’s a bitch. And a good one. And tonight, she can have me.
Take me. I am but a tiny moon. Strip me of my power for once. I want to feel naive. Playing with my food and dangling my legs under the highchair.
Wanting. Waiting. Wondering what shapes are snapping in and out of existence behind those eyes of yours. At your mercy. You simply being yourself. Being opaque. Sharing whatever you see fit.
Do as thou wilt.
I want to lose control with frustration. Snap a dog jaw at your dainty palms.
I yearn to yearn to yearn. To question nothing and to tumble down into the depths.
To
fall
and
fall.
Feel the wind sing past my ears. Stealing my breath. Until the…
BOOM.
Hey the animals down here,
in the depths,
they GLOW IN THE FUCKING DARK DUDE!
Share tiny sparks of magic with me!
And the flip top jabber swing jungle boys, dancing in my head, do a naughty little dance. Again.
Meanwhile, a meteor, with an ego the size of Gibralta and all it’s monkeys, barely misses this little planet.
She turns to me.
BOOM helloo!
With a sharp and stylish tellybox smile. I feel like I’ve eaten too much toothpaste again. Her head pops into sponge gore and spits my face all red. Sprat pack all dribbling on my aging facade.
HEY! Check me out.
I turn the tellybox off. Zip. Goodnight. Next!
I have fallen. Before. Well down. Into dark places. Old places. Places which need to be locked up, encased in cancer and thrown to Cerberus. The dozy dogdogdog.
I don’t need these caves.
Yet. I fear. I haven’t explored nearly enough labyrinthine delights.
Hungry hungry Hypocrites the lot of us. Torn down the middle and spasmodically wriggling back together for eternity.
All of us. Insignificant.
Little pink whistle mice on distant planets are intrigued by our story. But then can’t be fucked to throw a bone.
Fuck them. They say. What do they matter?
On their tiny spinny ball of blue and green ME in an ocean of WHATTHEFUCK!?
All of us. Insignificant.
7 billion dirty specks.
Of which we are two. Of which we are nothing. Lost in the allthatiseverything. Blinkered from the stomach acid gag-chunk salesmen and the stars who made them.
But...
-
Did you ever swing out so far you...
Ever jump so far that....
Ever strap into your rocket pack, slap on a shit eating grin, hit the switch and dive around planets of wonder in search of the fiery inferno of the orchid, just for kicks?
Fuck no. No you haven’t. You were pulled there.
Gravity’s a bitch. And a good one. And tonight, she can have me.
Take me. I am but a tiny moon. Strip me of my power for once. I want to feel naive. Playing with my food and dangling my legs under the highchair.
Wanting. Waiting. Wondering what shapes are snapping in and out of existence behind those eyes of yours. At your mercy. You simply being yourself. Being opaque. Sharing whatever you see fit.
Do as thou wilt.
I want to lose control with frustration. Snap a dog jaw at your dainty palms.
I yearn to yearn to yearn. To question nothing and to tumble down into the depths.
To
fall
and
fall.
Feel the wind sing past my ears. Stealing my breath. Until the…
BOOM.
Hey the animals down here,
in the depths,
they GLOW IN THE FUCKING DARK DUDE!
She played the violin like a cello.
I sat alone in the car.
I clicked the phone charger into the cigarette lighter.
I heard the muffled banter of musicians.
Carrying instruments.
Blind to me.
The phone yawned into life.
It had but one message.
“I am here! :-)”
My blood sped up.
Was she HERE here, or at the train station here?
I turned the key.
I put the car into reverse,
rested my arm around the passenger seat head rest
like mates do
and looked over my shoulder.
And there she was.
Smiling, at the horizon.
I had nearly driven along another mistake.
This time, I instead, killed the engine.
I stepped out into an unfamiliar world
and turned to her.
She heard the door
click
and span around
Smiling at me.
She ran to me.
We embraced.
We fit like fingers.
Thumbs twiddling excitedly.
Later we sat watching musicians play.
Blind to me.
They pulled stories out of the air.
In a language I love but
will never understand.
She walks over to the violinist
Her skirt like a curtain over a sunset.
I watch as she whispers into a trained ear
and is handed the violin.
She sits.
Pert.
Bright.
And so damn pretty.
With a confused but proud violin
upright between bare knees
Closes her eyes.
Lifts the horse hair.
Falls behind hers.
And into their song.
Her voice joins theirs
the song frees itself from it's cocoon
and spirals into the night sky
I stare at her
like a street lamp.
And for a moment
I'm in love.
And she?
She smiles at the horizon.
I clicked the phone charger into the cigarette lighter.
I heard the muffled banter of musicians.
Carrying instruments.
Blind to me.
The phone yawned into life.
It had but one message.
“I am here! :-)”
My blood sped up.
Was she HERE here, or at the train station here?
I turned the key.
I put the car into reverse,
rested my arm around the passenger seat head rest
like mates do
and looked over my shoulder.
And there she was.
Smiling, at the horizon.
I had nearly driven along another mistake.
This time, I instead, killed the engine.
I stepped out into an unfamiliar world
and turned to her.
She heard the door
click
and span around
Smiling at me.
She ran to me.
We embraced.
We fit like fingers.
Thumbs twiddling excitedly.
Later we sat watching musicians play.
Blind to me.
They pulled stories out of the air.
In a language I love but
will never understand.
She walks over to the violinist
Her skirt like a curtain over a sunset.
I watch as she whispers into a trained ear
and is handed the violin.
She sits.
Pert.
Bright.
And so damn pretty.
With a confused but proud violin
upright between bare knees
Closes her eyes.
Lifts the horse hair.
Falls behind hers.
And into their song.
Her voice joins theirs
the song frees itself from it's cocoon
and spirals into the night sky
I stare at her
like a street lamp.
And for a moment
I'm in love.
And she?
She smiles at the horizon.
10.5.10
Kaleshnikovitronicon
Kaleshnikovitronicon
Ample piglord cometh
Kaleshnikovitronicon
Like a sugar sweet muscle-Jesus riding boarback
the whores back
again unsleign in the rain again
lifting reigns, spurs a digdig into magic flesh
the beast underneath no will to breathe
in the wind and air and dirt
kicked up by hooves and incessant monkey distractionisms.
Left right left right left right
all tight and white
wet tshirt skills
ample and pert-icularly high on the treasure chest
she
being a flower, alone in a field. Loveless and sad...
Spies our rampaging hero.
Kaleshnikovitronicon
Ample piglord who has an old rusty bicycle, out by the wormfarm in the garden, which he never even used. The lazy moon.
Kaleshnikovitronicon
Squeals with tons of tongues. Wheels under crusty thorax calamity.
Heavier than the spikiest death metal logo boulder.
From a time before time was ever so old
Ample piglord cometh
Kaleshnikovitronicon
Like a sugar sweet muscle-Jesus riding boarback
the whores back
again unsleign in the rain again
lifting reigns, spurs a digdig into magic flesh
the beast underneath no will to breathe
in the wind and air and dirt
kicked up by hooves and incessant monkey distractionisms.
Left right left right left right
all tight and white
wet tshirt skills
ample and pert-icularly high on the treasure chest
she
being a flower, alone in a field. Loveless and sad...
Spies our rampaging hero.
Kaleshnikovitronicon
Ample piglord who has an old rusty bicycle, out by the wormfarm in the garden, which he never even used. The lazy moon.
Kaleshnikovitronicon
Squeals with tons of tongues. Wheels under crusty thorax calamity.
Heavier than the spikiest death metal logo boulder.
From a time before time was ever so old
7.12.09
Lions and Tigers and Holy Shit, what's THAT?!
CD cover design for the Double Handsome Dragons. This image represents the open package, the CD takes up the top right hand quarter of the square seen here.
FRONT COVER, when closed:
FRONT COVER, when closed:
9.7.09
Beta.
It is tangible but harsh and the colours and shapes have a slightly hypereal edge. This world, despite it's all consuming glory, makes a cruel mockery of true nature. The faces are symetrical. The stories spit forth in a seemingly random chaotic foray. I'm in awe of it all. The glow of a lucid dream. Around everything. Its not real. It's not real.
The distant redraw of the horizon only succeeds in tightening the hood of claustrophobia. Beyond it lies the void.
The distant redraw of the horizon only succeeds in tightening the hood of claustrophobia. Beyond it lies the void.
21.6.09
Velvet.
Atoms collided all around, insects zipped in and out of existence while the trees breathed deeply in our presence. Whispering warm lullabys down into the world and nudging it's little sister into waking, the radiant sun slipped away. It's dwindling light, dancing in the glassy eyes of the velvet crowned peaceful ones. The story continued.
The spinning, roaring centre of the Earth pulled tides, clouds and countless souls around in a familiar frenzied ballet. Arms of galaxies reached out, fingers touched and new worlds were born. Every universe rode the spiral as it had for all time and would forever more.
At the centre of everything, teeth gently bit down, trapping tiny desperately fluttering words. A deep breath. A book mark in time. A polar shift. Then silence.
Something changed.
The spinning, roaring centre of the Earth pulled tides, clouds and countless souls around in a familiar frenzied ballet. Arms of galaxies reached out, fingers touched and new worlds were born. Every universe rode the spiral as it had for all time and would forever more.
At the centre of everything, teeth gently bit down, trapping tiny desperately fluttering words. A deep breath. A book mark in time. A polar shift. Then silence.
Something changed.
18.5.09
Sneaky...
peak at a monster I'm currently scribbling into life.
-- Post From My iPhone's shitty camera.
-- Post From My iPhone's shitty camera.
24.4.09
She grows heavy. She who's demands are as unforgiving as her touch. She who holds me tight in a tenacious tendril embrace. She whispers chemical trickery into me again. Free to do her bidding, I taste her eyes. Teeth clench. Blood flows. Fingers slip into a hungry and desperate suction cup delirium. Muscles tighten and swell, easing every cell into a sarcophagus of symbiosis. Her moan slips through me on silent owl wings. Tiny cold ghosts invade me...
23.4.09
10.2.09
3.2.09
+
I've got to get some shut eye.
Where's the sense in straining to interpret incoming fantastrophe fractals anyway?
The universe is infinite yadda yadda, the dark matters, yackety shmackety.
If you're going to not exist, you might as well have fun doing it.
Where's the sense in straining to interpret incoming fantastrophe fractals anyway?
The universe is infinite yadda yadda, the dark matters, yackety shmackety.
If you're going to not exist, you might as well have fun doing it.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
I shine lights into the fog.
Wipe the windscreen.
Find the perfect song.
I'm warm.
I'm dry.
I'm accelerating.
Insects slip unnoticed into the ether.
The road is wide and unguarded.
Nothing creeps but the pretty moon.
Then somethi.
Wipe the windscreen.
Find the perfect song.
I'm warm.
I'm dry.
I'm accelerating.
Insects slip unnoticed into the ether.
The road is wide and unguarded.
Nothing creeps but the pretty moon.
Then somethi.
30.11.08
20.11.08
Never better
There's never been a better time
To not feel any better
There's never been any time.
I try to sing
but at every stab of the wire
every slick little cut
I slip and flail.
I wail at the moon through a hole in the roof of a silent room.
Heavy on the shoulders of the dog king.
To not feel any better
There's never been any time.
I try to sing
but at every stab of the wire
every slick little cut
I slip and flail.
I wail at the moon through a hole in the roof of a silent room.
Heavy on the shoulders of the dog king.
15.10.08
17.12.07
Red Skeleton Hordes
Bring it on, red skeleton hordes. With your clattering crimson melodies. I hear you. Amongst the trees, behind me. Rasping wheeze cackles from unholy places. Carrying heavy hammers, facefixers of iron and a cat-o-nine tails. Sending snake spit skyward. I offer bare flesh for your dentigerous maws.
Looking downwards. Toes curled over precipice. The deep ocean below. Shadows hunger. Horizon beckons. Stars a glimmer. Galaxies fuck in the belly of the ever present tempting whore of the unknown. I'm hers.
Looking downwards. Toes curled over precipice. The deep ocean below. Shadows hunger. Horizon beckons. Stars a glimmer. Galaxies fuck in the belly of the ever present tempting whore of the unknown. I'm hers.
26.11.07
Waterfalls.
The blossoming miscreant ascends from the depths of the mire. Child birth and sun death. Two cold stars, bound in beauty, offering endless nebula. She rises. Forcing cuckoo throat painsong from the wettest mouth. Words of wonder, splashing over milk teeth. A little medusa tongue seduction. She breathes. The willing flesh vessel rises. Waterfalls. Time slows. A moments perfection. She closes her eyes.
A ripping foray of ugly entrails scream through the meat and bone. Needle stab trickery. The dull ache of blood loss unfurls. A sad pain spreads forth. The pleads of a pseudo Lycanthrope, splash like vomit. Slapping gore into the Earth. Stains on sheets. Ultimate disappointment. Everything falls. She still breathes.
A ripping foray of ugly entrails scream through the meat and bone. Needle stab trickery. The dull ache of blood loss unfurls. A sad pain spreads forth. The pleads of a pseudo Lycanthrope, splash like vomit. Slapping gore into the Earth. Stains on sheets. Ultimate disappointment. Everything falls. She still breathes.
18.11.07
Pillar.
At first, complete darkness is all that there is. No sound but the wind. A howl with no teeth nor purpose. Hinting that a world does indeed still exist, the song would offer any witness reasurrance. Soon a light appears, giving form to it's surroundings. Painted into place, turbulant heavy clouds twist in the bony grasp of the sky fingers. Tearing slivers through to the moon. Sending blue lasers dancing over the carnage. Curtains part and music plays. A teetering, breathing mass of gore, quivers and squeeks on the stage. Some aspects of the ghastly composition in meat are recognisable as mammalian and hairless. Baby pink skin folds and pustular eye socket glory holes abloom. Animated in a spasmodic ballet, scatter marked with muted mouthes jabbering silent tourettic poetry. Craving the stormy void's return. A confused and desperate air surrounds the tragic creature. Tears mix with shit at it's base while pretty wet lips offer sanctuary to trapdoor spider tongues. Poised in their holes, encircled in yellow vapor. It knows not what it is, or what it should do. It is at once the glorious by-product of all that indulges and the glutinous flesh angel ascended. It exists to enrapture then disappoint. To dangle the whispering lure and seduce the naive, in endless circles through eternity.
10.7.07
When you return.
Outside in the Sunshine.
It's cold, without your touch.
Shivers shatter low in my stomach.
Pining for your eyes, with too many hunger tears aborted.
Over and over.
Yoyo back to me, I'll breathe you in.
Through every pore, into every cell.
Deep within.
Inside the inside of the tiniest idea of me.
I'll hold you.
With a thousand embracing arms.
Protecting you from the dark. Matters.
A tiny turquoise moth adored.
Light in my hands.
Among paper stars.
Forever.
It's cold, without your touch.
Shivers shatter low in my stomach.
Pining for your eyes, with too many hunger tears aborted.
Over and over.
Yoyo back to me, I'll breathe you in.
Through every pore, into every cell.
Deep within.
Inside the inside of the tiniest idea of me.
I'll hold you.
With a thousand embracing arms.
Protecting you from the dark. Matters.
A tiny turquoise moth adored.
Light in my hands.
Among paper stars.
Forever.
24.4.07
Still breathing.
Despite it's blatant burden I've been doing as much as possible in this body:
This year so far, I've been to Paris, I've seen David Lynch's paintings, complete with teeny tiny flies in oily mausoleums, I've been to Amsterdam, I've experienced the concert of a lifetime; Sleepytime Gorilla Museum live in an intimate Jazz venue. I've ascended at 10ft a second in a 77000 cubic foot air balloon. I've had the best birthday ever. With my perfect girl. I'm having a good year, but what was painfully snug, now breaks all the tiniest bones of me. Pressure leads to frustration leads to low ceiling claustrophobia. I'm gonna fucking explode if I don't sort my shit out soon.
This year so far, I've been to Paris, I've seen David Lynch's paintings, complete with teeny tiny flies in oily mausoleums, I've been to Amsterdam, I've experienced the concert of a lifetime; Sleepytime Gorilla Museum live in an intimate Jazz venue. I've ascended at 10ft a second in a 77000 cubic foot air balloon. I've had the best birthday ever. With my perfect girl. I'm having a good year, but what was painfully snug, now breaks all the tiniest bones of me. Pressure leads to frustration leads to low ceiling claustrophobia. I'm gonna fucking explode if I don't sort my shit out soon.
18.1.07
Words.
All the words I know of
are lightyears away from my tongue
to use old words, all used before
would steal from what has begun.
are lightyears away from my tongue
to use old words, all used before
would steal from what has begun.
Excuses excuses...
I've been too damn happy. Cheek aching moon cat smiles abound. Silver teeth and green eyes. Slowly growing more and more familiar with the jealousy of the healthy biped amputee fetishist. Enying the empty and broken. Hopskipjumping through the Summer, I was loved, cherished, complimented and embraced. I still am. I'm the luckiest person in the world. I'm the happiest I've ever been! That's my problem. What with love and countless friends, a great home, good health and a rosier future than ever before, I seem to have cleared up all the mouldy bad karma. Not merely swept under the carpet, but wiped clean off the face of the Earth. How can I complain? I do feel fortunate. However this all left me far too comfortable.
Perpetual comfort isn't normal. We're beasts, just wrapped in paper money, secretly looking for something to cry about. Painting pain and doubt into everything we see. We fool ourselves into thinking that a warm existence is the way it should be. It isn't. We're supposed to be fighting for survival. It's in our blood. Our health is waining as we need it less. Gluttony, the by-product of comfort. Cancer, HIV, liver damage and depression, the results of having too much fun at the expense of our bodies. The pestilent lepers of the free world. Dancing spasmadically until our rotten fingers fly off and slide down the front of our underpriced, undervalued, Ikea wardrobes. Tree corpse in the corner. Those who know they're lacking the lifespark, chase a pathetic endorphine tickle can play sports or even worse, run on a machine in an overpriced gym. But the "entertainment" industry, passive as well as interactive, thrives on our need for gore. The terror tabloids, scream at us every morning! There's that word again. Vicarious. But we're not really in there. Despite eyes lit up like alley lanterns. In the blood dreams we censor, we're elbow deep in the steaming, stinking purple organs of every whimpring victim.
I miss it so... I haven't, nor will ever have enough of that red energy inside for the visceral puzzle work, I crave and once cherished.
I think that's why it happened again. It felt new. She felt like the first. Although, that's 11 now. It's taken 11, for me to start throwing hints out into the etha. IT WAS ME. This is fiction. IT WAS ME!
Perpetual comfort isn't normal. We're beasts, just wrapped in paper money, secretly looking for something to cry about. Painting pain and doubt into everything we see. We fool ourselves into thinking that a warm existence is the way it should be. It isn't. We're supposed to be fighting for survival. It's in our blood. Our health is waining as we need it less. Gluttony, the by-product of comfort. Cancer, HIV, liver damage and depression, the results of having too much fun at the expense of our bodies. The pestilent lepers of the free world. Dancing spasmadically until our rotten fingers fly off and slide down the front of our underpriced, undervalued, Ikea wardrobes. Tree corpse in the corner. Those who know they're lacking the lifespark, chase a pathetic endorphine tickle can play sports or even worse, run on a machine in an overpriced gym. But the "entertainment" industry, passive as well as interactive, thrives on our need for gore. The terror tabloids, scream at us every morning! There's that word again. Vicarious. But we're not really in there. Despite eyes lit up like alley lanterns. In the blood dreams we censor, we're elbow deep in the steaming, stinking purple organs of every whimpring victim.
I miss it so... I haven't, nor will ever have enough of that red energy inside for the visceral puzzle work, I crave and once cherished.
I think that's why it happened again. It felt new. She felt like the first. Although, that's 11 now. It's taken 11, for me to start throwing hints out into the etha. IT WAS ME. This is fiction. IT WAS ME!
9.12.06
BOX (working title)
Anatomy of a Hyperealistic VJ movie.
> Arkaos software will allow me to play movie scenes along to music. A live visual performance...with a loose narrative. Basically allowing us to create a live but lengthy music video collage, to be projected onto the back of the Geo-Dome.
>
> BOX
> [working title]
>
> To be played via Arkaos software on a laptop.
>
Basic premise; Digital camcorder clips, made to look like a real Snuff film. Akin to (and inspired by) "Happy Slapping" videos or the controversial videos of Iraqi prisoners being tortured and ridiculed by U.S troops. A tongue in cheek look at the how modern technology allows us to record, share and witness concrete evidence our own disgrace. Our disregard for fellow humans.
> 1. First scene. Introduction. To last about 10mins max. Out in street, from the perspective of an amature cameraman walking down road, lit by street lights. Not too shaky, but blatenty hand held camera. Novice with new camera. Our cameraman is a sick fukk! This will become apparent very quickly. Maybe testing the camera on stuff. Peeping on a girl getting changed through a bedroom window?? Filming street lights. Following random people (use REAL people in recognisable Peterborough street at night) cars, shops, roadkill, underpass, graffiti (spray some of our own stencils for subliminal advertising of other projects!) etc etc.
>
> 2. Starts following innocent bystander. Man walking at night. Just a normal dude. In headphones. Camera man speeds up, lifts hand to reveal a pistol. Cameraman hits dude with the handle of the gun. Knocking him out. Man collapses. Camera turns off. Black screen for a few seconds.
>
> 3. Next scene. We're in a garage of some sort. Old brick walls. Very dirty. Bad lighting. Camera is on and recording as it's being fixed to a tripod. As it clicks into place, it turns to reveal our victim, kneeling on floor, wearing just jeans, hugging knees. Shivering. Wearing a cardboard box on his head, with a smily face sprayed on it in black. Blood trickle, stained on his neck, down to his collarbone. He's injured under the box. Bruised a bit. Soiled jeans. Not happy.
>
> 4. Camera man still has gun or other weapon of some sort. You can see his hand, pointing at the prisoner, on the right of the screen (First person shooter computer game stylee). The weapon is used to communicate to the viewer that the kidnapper is telling the prisoner to do stuff. Ushering and waving it around. Even though the prisoner is blind, inside his box mask, he responds by doing as he is ordered. The movie is silent (obviously), no words are heard. But it's obvious what is being asked of him...and that it's aggressive. He ushers the prisoner up onto his feet.
>
> 5. The largest section of the movie is the prisoner being ridiculed and misused by the kidnapper. This scene will lend itself perfectly to the Arkaos software and a projector. The prisoner will be forced to dance at gun point. We'll see lot's of recognisable dance moves. Break dancing, robot dancing, moon walk, se xy groin thrusts...as well as animal impressions. It'll be tragic and dark, but people will laugh. This is the point of the film, in a sense. If people laugh at this poor guy being misused, (espeicially if it's done well enough to almost convince the viewer of it's authenticity) then, are they as evil as the anonymous kidnapper? Are we all potentially capable of disassociating ourselves from the pain others feel and hurting, merely for amusement. Could we all become terrorists, war criminals or street thugs when influenced by desensitising experiences? WHY are people so interested in death and killing? Why do all our newspapers and TV programs focus on the tragic? Why do we laugh when a child falls on it's face!? :) Many different dances will be recorded, and triggered live onstage by me via a laptop. Not many visual effects (if any) will be used, to keep it looking amateur and real. But Arkaos will allow me to trigger the dancing in time with the music being played. We'll hopefully build a large collection of dance moves and have a whole rack of triggers on the PC to keep it> entertaining for long enough. I'll essentially be the digital puppeteer of an on-screen version of myself.
>
> 6. At one point, the kidnapper will walk over to the reluctant dancer and spin the box round. He'll spray a sad face on it, kick him in the stomach and we'll see the paint drip down from one eye. 8-(
>
> 7. ALTERNATIVE ENDINGS. Both can be recorded and a decision will be made on the night (somehow) as to which end scene will be shown. If I'm correct, the audience will choose the DEATH SCENE, which will confirm just how sick we all inherently are!
Final Scene - 1. The end scene will be the victim walking away, down the same street he was attacked on, still half naked with his hands tied to his back and the box (complete with reverse facing smiling face) still gaffa taped to his neck. He's not really injured. But he's not going to be happy...he walks at an angle The camera man turns and spots a girl, walking down the street, away from him, into a darkened urban area...fade to black. End.
Final Scene - 2. Still in the garage, the kidnapper comes into view, with a blunt weapon, and bludgeons the victim to death, crushing the box, and his head with it. Cut to BLACK. End.
>
> ----
>
> What we need.
>
> CAMERA: Preferably a nice digital camera with a hard drive, or at least the option to upload straight from the camera onto a good PC.
> ACTORS: Victim. Kidnapper. Girl at window. Girl in street. Might play victim myself!?
> EDITTING SOFTWARE: To cut up the footage into lots of bitesize loops for Arkaos.
> GUN: A realistic looking toy handgun.
> STENCILS: For subtle (but relevant, local or topical) graffiti in opening scene on the street.
Fingers crossed.
> Arkaos software will allow me to play movie scenes along to music. A live visual performance...with a loose narrative. Basically allowing us to create a live but lengthy music video collage, to be projected onto the back of the Geo-Dome.
>
> BOX
> [working title]
>
> To be played via Arkaos software on a laptop.
>
Basic premise; Digital camcorder clips, made to look like a real Snuff film. Akin to (and inspired by) "Happy Slapping" videos or the controversial videos of Iraqi prisoners being tortured and ridiculed by U.S troops. A tongue in cheek look at the how modern technology allows us to record, share and witness concrete evidence our own disgrace. Our disregard for fellow humans.
> 1. First scene. Introduction. To last about 10mins max. Out in street, from the perspective of an amature cameraman walking down road, lit by street lights. Not too shaky, but blatenty hand held camera. Novice with new camera. Our cameraman is a sick fukk! This will become apparent very quickly. Maybe testing the camera on stuff. Peeping on a girl getting changed through a bedroom window?? Filming street lights. Following random people (use REAL people in recognisable Peterborough street at night) cars, shops, roadkill, underpass, graffiti (spray some of our own stencils for subliminal advertising of other projects!) etc etc.
>
> 2. Starts following innocent bystander. Man walking at night. Just a normal dude. In headphones. Camera man speeds up, lifts hand to reveal a pistol. Cameraman hits dude with the handle of the gun. Knocking him out. Man collapses. Camera turns off. Black screen for a few seconds.
>
> 3. Next scene. We're in a garage of some sort. Old brick walls. Very dirty. Bad lighting. Camera is on and recording as it's being fixed to a tripod. As it clicks into place, it turns to reveal our victim, kneeling on floor, wearing just jeans, hugging knees. Shivering. Wearing a cardboard box on his head, with a smily face sprayed on it in black. Blood trickle, stained on his neck, down to his collarbone. He's injured under the box. Bruised a bit. Soiled jeans. Not happy.
>
> 4. Camera man still has gun or other weapon of some sort. You can see his hand, pointing at the prisoner, on the right of the screen (First person shooter computer game stylee). The weapon is used to communicate to the viewer that the kidnapper is telling the prisoner to do stuff. Ushering and waving it around. Even though the prisoner is blind, inside his box mask, he responds by doing as he is ordered. The movie is silent (obviously), no words are heard. But it's obvious what is being asked of him...and that it's aggressive. He ushers the prisoner up onto his feet.
>
> 5. The largest section of the movie is the prisoner being ridiculed and misused by the kidnapper. This scene will lend itself perfectly to the Arkaos software and a projector. The prisoner will be forced to dance at gun point. We'll see lot's of recognisable dance moves. Break dancing, robot dancing, moon walk, se xy groin thrusts...as well as animal impressions. It'll be tragic and dark, but people will laugh. This is the point of the film, in a sense. If people laugh at this poor guy being misused, (espeicially if it's done well enough to almost convince the viewer of it's authenticity) then, are they as evil as the anonymous kidnapper? Are we all potentially capable of disassociating ourselves from the pain others feel and hurting, merely for amusement. Could we all become terrorists, war criminals or street thugs when influenced by desensitising experiences? WHY are people so interested in death and killing? Why do all our newspapers and TV programs focus on the tragic? Why do we laugh when a child falls on it's face!? :) Many different dances will be recorded, and triggered live onstage by me via a laptop. Not many visual effects (if any) will be used, to keep it looking amateur and real. But Arkaos will allow me to trigger the dancing in time with the music being played. We'll hopefully build a large collection of dance moves and have a whole rack of triggers on the PC to keep it> entertaining for long enough. I'll essentially be the digital puppeteer of an on-screen version of myself.
>
> 6. At one point, the kidnapper will walk over to the reluctant dancer and spin the box round. He'll spray a sad face on it, kick him in the stomach and we'll see the paint drip down from one eye. 8-(
>
> 7. ALTERNATIVE ENDINGS. Both can be recorded and a decision will be made on the night (somehow) as to which end scene will be shown. If I'm correct, the audience will choose the DEATH SCENE, which will confirm just how sick we all inherently are!
Final Scene - 1. The end scene will be the victim walking away, down the same street he was attacked on, still half naked with his hands tied to his back and the box (complete with reverse facing smiling face) still gaffa taped to his neck. He's not really injured. But he's not going to be happy...he walks at an angle The camera man turns and spots a girl, walking down the street, away from him, into a darkened urban area...fade to black. End.
Final Scene - 2. Still in the garage, the kidnapper comes into view, with a blunt weapon, and bludgeons the victim to death, crushing the box, and his head with it. Cut to BLACK. End.
>
> ----
>
> What we need.
>
> CAMERA: Preferably a nice digital camera with a hard drive, or at least the option to upload straight from the camera onto a good PC.
> ACTORS: Victim. Kidnapper. Girl at window. Girl in street. Might play victim myself!?
> EDITTING SOFTWARE: To cut up the footage into lots of bitesize loops for Arkaos.
> GUN: A realistic looking toy handgun.
> STENCILS: For subtle (but relevant, local or topical) graffiti in opening scene on the street.
Fingers crossed.
12.11.06
1.11.06
31.10.06
Samhain
Some of Sophie's photos of our Halloween Party. Which was legendary! :)
Marcus and the Mason (Garudas)
My Pumpkin
130 More photos can be seen on www.lomohomes.com/phia237
Marcus and the Mason (Garudas)
My Pumpkin
130 More photos can be seen on www.lomohomes.com/phia237
29.10.06
Hangtime
It's cliff top, wind tunnel, precipice, hangtime, as always. I'm footclad in heavy timeboots, which won't cease this indecent swelling. Hard barnacles on the belly of the Kraken. I'm swaying above the gaping maw of forever. Below in the oily darkness, the terror toothed tapeworm of time, can scream and wheeze it's sordid song as loud and long and bloody as it pleases. For, hanging on for dear life next to me, my girl is smiling through into me and splashes my skull, with her good tears.
26.10.06
Spew.
Sometimes I just have to break up the day with a short stream of consiousness mess. A galavanting colossas of jabbawocky funboy (glazed and varnished deep into it's stinking heart), wordness and rhyme time. Don't search for meaning. Only the Behemoth knows. And only it's very own chunky knees are allowed to shiver quiver in anticipation of the falling skies and eyeball lullaby's. Over in the East, where the Taliban play hopscotch under pink canvas bungalow rooftops, the music sounds like nothing else. Ever. And every silken oilbird feather, spins on it's swivel-joint axis, allowing helicopteraptor shenanigans...which block out this Turquoise sungod bigface! I'm desperately spewing Vom-art out into the etha, a poorman's talentless gargle acid splash, right up the dirty walls of my boring shrinking prison cell universe. My feet swell, unused and bruised and used. My brain, is a pancake crapattack. I sleep now...
23.10.06
The Jewel
Way way off, so far away that they seem to shatter through the oxygen blue reality, razor cut silver flecks of distant travellers, zip past in the stratosphere. It is close to silent in my shiny new glass sarcophagus. Smells like a new car. Whatever that means!? Just the soft looping music of the Skysuit sleepmode tickles my ear drums. Held in place, between the teeth of titanium vice mouthes. I'm fastened into the latest, greatest Skysuit model, the Jewel. It's both a retrobeast, modelled on a classic car from 1999 or some shit, and a one man flying machine for both sides of the Ozone layer. Complete with no less than three lazerail clasps, a genuine Compact Disc player and an old school oak interior. A Duel Mode, a relatively new concept in personal transport as it embraces the potential of all the disused roads, down on Terra Firma. Making for a cheaper ride. However, it proper chafes! I didn't upgrade to the flexy skin upholstery. I'll have bed sores before touchdown.
Sending the right thought patterns into the machine's matrix, triggers the Humdrive into action. Within seconds the Satnav knows which bay, street, province, city, country, planet I'm on. I guess that means the M.A.N know's where I am aswell. Can he see my skinny middle finger? Probably. Fukk him. I set the 90's rave compilation to Velocity Sensitive, allowing the tempo of the music to adjust based on the speed of my ship and I ascend and join the rat race above the clouds. Again.
Sending the right thought patterns into the machine's matrix, triggers the Humdrive into action. Within seconds the Satnav knows which bay, street, province, city, country, planet I'm on. I guess that means the M.A.N know's where I am aswell. Can he see my skinny middle finger? Probably. Fukk him. I set the 90's rave compilation to Velocity Sensitive, allowing the tempo of the music to adjust based on the speed of my ship and I ascend and join the rat race above the clouds. Again.
18.10.06
This, bird in a cage, frustration...
While the slowly sinking orange lantern sun
the heavy roaring furnace eye
screams beams of burning energy
into everything
painting aurulent light onto
a kaleidoscope of barking fingers
dripping amber sap lenses
and these all consuming angry bars of steel
This, bird in a cage, frustration
swaying under jitter spinning autumn leaf cacophony
slams and smashes me
angrily in the spinning October winds of change.
Swift and silent air gliding abandonment
and the liberating freedom of our cloud shapes
beckon with curling smokey hands
dirty palms hidden in the skin of a glossy white
clown glove facade
however, for now, it seems
barely permeating these translucent barriers between us
must suffice
so with tragic clatter-tongue love songs
crackling waves of radiation
fragile intangible dreamtime worlds
and binary kisses
I find you
the heavy roaring furnace eye
screams beams of burning energy
into everything
painting aurulent light onto
a kaleidoscope of barking fingers
dripping amber sap lenses
and these all consuming angry bars of steel
This, bird in a cage, frustration
swaying under jitter spinning autumn leaf cacophony
slams and smashes me
angrily in the spinning October winds of change.
Swift and silent air gliding abandonment
and the liberating freedom of our cloud shapes
beckon with curling smokey hands
dirty palms hidden in the skin of a glossy white
clown glove facade
however, for now, it seems
barely permeating these translucent barriers between us
must suffice
so with tragic clatter-tongue love songs
crackling waves of radiation
fragile intangible dreamtime worlds
and binary kisses
I find you
16.10.06
14.10.06
12.10.06
Bookworm
Deep down dark, in the dusty heart of a towering library, with looming walls of ancient leather bound mouthes, a girl with sparkle starburst eyes and an unquenchable thirst for knowledge, stands high above the ground, with books all around, on a creaking oak ladder. With a swift kick, a well practiced flick of the ankle, she sends herself skimming, with a grinding slide, on a sideways clatter ride. On oil and steel, her tool for the detailed scanning of the ballet of the world in paper, never fails her. The all surrounding amalgamation of almanacs and anthologies in slivers of pulp, represent but the tiniest facet of the infinite human imagination. It is true, our frail attempts at documenting the universe will always be restricted by the tragically blinkered eyes of language. However, she finds it all so overwhelmingly beautiful...and if the walls do indeed harbour invisible ears, they'd surely hear her sing their praises into the rafters.
5.10.06
4.10.06
You lot.
If you come here. Let me know. Nobody leaves comments or anything in the shoutbox. I'll write on here a lot more if I think it's going to be read. :)
2.10.06
Formatting AnnA ((text for forthcoming poster project))
Before the Real Doll [AnnA Edition] can use a newly purchased Lifecard or a card which was used by another automoton, the card
must be formatted (initialized) by the Real Doll.
See Fig.r06-04.
1.
While holding down [CANCEL] under the skin at the base of the spine, press [STIMULATE] in the clitoral interface. A slight stroke is all that is needed for this process to work. Make sure no Fear Mods have been loaded, to avoid any unwanted defense reactions from AnnA. The eyes close, and her heaters should engage in seconds.
2.
Press Navel [DEL] button.
The mouth opens and exhales, and formatting is executed. The dots in the microdisplay in the roof of the mouth blink while formatting is in progress. When the dots stop blinking and remain off, formatting is completed. AnnA's eyes will find and track you. Look into her eyes, to save your image into her Master Recognition directory. Once the short process of face/pheromone recognition is complete, AnnA will show a [level 2] smile.
Never turn off the Real Doll or remove the Lifecard while the dots are blinking. This can result in damage to the card, and may cause unwanted convulsions and even render the Real Doll unusable.
* When you format a card, all previously saved Lifedata that was in the card will be erased.
* In some cases, a Lifecard which was formatted by the Real Doll may no longer be usable by other Lifecard devices, notably the Amputee models of the Real Beast range.
must be formatted (initialized) by the Real Doll.
See Fig.r06-04.
1.
While holding down [CANCEL] under the skin at the base of the spine, press [STIMULATE] in the clitoral interface. A slight stroke is all that is needed for this process to work. Make sure no Fear Mods have been loaded, to avoid any unwanted defense reactions from AnnA. The eyes close, and her heaters should engage in seconds.
2.
Press Navel [DEL] button.
The mouth opens and exhales, and formatting is executed. The dots in the microdisplay in the roof of the mouth blink while formatting is in progress. When the dots stop blinking and remain off, formatting is completed. AnnA's eyes will find and track you. Look into her eyes, to save your image into her Master Recognition directory. Once the short process of face/pheromone recognition is complete, AnnA will show a [level 2] smile.
Never turn off the Real Doll or remove the Lifecard while the dots are blinking. This can result in damage to the card, and may cause unwanted convulsions and even render the Real Doll unusable.
* When you format a card, all previously saved Lifedata that was in the card will be erased.
* In some cases, a Lifecard which was formatted by the Real Doll may no longer be usable by other Lifecard devices, notably the Amputee models of the Real Beast range.
22.9.06
Voodoo
Through the curling fingers of the trees
Through the gaps in the canopy, I see
Eyes in the darkness following me
Behind the whispering wind words
and the chatter of the love birds
Cries in the darkness, feral and free
And although I know I'm here alone
my blood and bones my own
There's a pillar of smoke, the colour of blood
An all surrounding, all consuming, forever looming
Unstoppable force.
An ugly burning ballet, twisting above.
Through the gaps in the canopy, I see
Eyes in the darkness following me
Behind the whispering wind words
and the chatter of the love birds
Cries in the darkness, feral and free
And although I know I'm here alone
my blood and bones my own
There's a pillar of smoke, the colour of blood
An all surrounding, all consuming, forever looming
Unstoppable force.
An ugly burning ballet, twisting above.
Summit
Open wound. Alone and reddened under burning rays of distant gas giant glee. This spinning orb. A marble of mud, infatuated with it's own ignorant cycles, spins, an anti-clockwise ballet. And at it's summit, under Polar bear survalence, the Eskimo girl, carves faces in the ice.
Microchip, on our shoulder.
The marching, monolithic automatons of our digital era, with their swaying scythe arms, leave no deeper scars in modern audio art than the ones defacing the sounds of progressive electronica right now, underground. These songs puke forth from the mouthes of tiny cellars, bedrooms and the young and bloody bellies of the dirty electronica queens. The angry energy of a generation of near-cyborgs, in gleaming streams of chatter and bass. The deafening agro spasms of an animal out of control. This almost involuntary cacophony, is the by-product of the forward thinking creative mind, of a frustrated species. Akin to the organ grinder's monkey. Left screaming in a concrete box. Cheated by it's arrogant master into thinking, strength is security and security is freedom. We suffer, in toxic plastic luxury. Secretly craving the soft thud of a cowskin drum in the jungle. But taking our silicon and doing what we can with it, none-the-less. Microchip, on our shoulder.
This here, among famine, gorilla wars and the tantrums of an angry planet, bled dry and stressed, starts the latest Paradigm shift. Here now today. We're teetering on the edge of the apocalypse, grinning into the flames. Roaring into the streets with the nastiest noises imaginable, horrific yet beautifully complex. The voice of our machine, if it had a throat and tongue. As natural as any stringed instrument. As chaotic as the mathamatical chirps of the tiniest birds. Calling, "Where the fukk are we now!?" into the vacuum, and waiting for the silence.
This here, among famine, gorilla wars and the tantrums of an angry planet, bled dry and stressed, starts the latest Paradigm shift. Here now today. We're teetering on the edge of the apocalypse, grinning into the flames. Roaring into the streets with the nastiest noises imaginable, horrific yet beautifully complex. The voice of our machine, if it had a throat and tongue. As natural as any stringed instrument. As chaotic as the mathamatical chirps of the tiniest birds. Calling, "Where the fukk are we now!?" into the vacuum, and waiting for the silence.
Powerful / Miniscule
With two bloody hands, in two bloody wombs. (one giveth, the other taketh away) I tread carelessly through the mud, under starless ghost cloud skies. Trees on either side, twist slowly. Creaking, content and swelling sweet and green. Arching inwards to protect and subtly remind me of their infinate beauty and overwhelming power. I don't need reminding. I feel miniscule as it is. Despite the bitten and bruised bodies I drag behind me. Despite my conquests of flesh and bone, medusa screams from the Moon above. Forever. The winds whip the world away as always, while the crust slips around on a bed of molten Earthblood. And we all crash into the rocks in her torrents.
25.7.06
Monday Mourn.
It varies, from day to day, how much I despise the human race. Sometimes I feel like I have a relationship with the race itself. Sometimes I'm blown away by it's beauty, while on less inspirational days I'd quite gladly slam my fist down on the big red button, given half a chance. On a hot bus journey through the smoky city on a Monday morning, half asleep and having missed breakfast...I hate it all.
The glutinous monkeys on the streets and curled in their death machines on the roads, seem to morph into true representations of what they are to me. Through dirty bus window glass, then my own shit tinted glasses, slamming into my tired and resentful retinas, they twist into grotesque beasts. Scabbed cancers wandering, oblivious in their drunken stupor. Quivering, drooling evolutionary deadends, carrying the burdens of their toils. Draped in fragile facades. The clothes tear and disperse. The flesh rolls out, slapping onto the tarmac, splashing translucent gore up the walls. A mess of dripping orifices puncture the surface of the head. Too many insults to the species' potential. The tongues loll and the bloodshot pig eyes stare blankly. Their bones, brittle and yellow, creak and crack as they drag their pendulous labia through the dust. A labyrinth of slug juice trails, criss crossing across the school yards and car parks. The shimmering evidence of all the shit they leave behind. With the same inflated egos and swollen sense of self. Consuming. Devouring. Ugly and wrong.
And reflected back at ... me. A familiar creature. I'm the worst kind. I'm the one who attempts to distance himself from the throng with the misdirected anger of a disapointed child. I'm merely smart enough to know I'm an idiot. It's the ignorance that disgusts me. But I'm as hypocritical as any human. Hungry with an abundance of food at arms length. Healthy, young, relatively free with nothing but old age to worry about. With MP3s dancing in my skull, I'm off to work all day for a huge corporation. Selling my self like a hooker to a company which has had a huge and unrelenting negative influence on most of the planet's hidden and beautiful places. I'm the lowest of the low. The spoilt illitist misanthrope in paradise. I'm scum. This I need to remind myself of, daily.
The glutinous monkeys on the streets and curled in their death machines on the roads, seem to morph into true representations of what they are to me. Through dirty bus window glass, then my own shit tinted glasses, slamming into my tired and resentful retinas, they twist into grotesque beasts. Scabbed cancers wandering, oblivious in their drunken stupor. Quivering, drooling evolutionary deadends, carrying the burdens of their toils. Draped in fragile facades. The clothes tear and disperse. The flesh rolls out, slapping onto the tarmac, splashing translucent gore up the walls. A mess of dripping orifices puncture the surface of the head. Too many insults to the species' potential. The tongues loll and the bloodshot pig eyes stare blankly. Their bones, brittle and yellow, creak and crack as they drag their pendulous labia through the dust. A labyrinth of slug juice trails, criss crossing across the school yards and car parks. The shimmering evidence of all the shit they leave behind. With the same inflated egos and swollen sense of self. Consuming. Devouring. Ugly and wrong.
And reflected back at ... me. A familiar creature. I'm the worst kind. I'm the one who attempts to distance himself from the throng with the misdirected anger of a disapointed child. I'm merely smart enough to know I'm an idiot. It's the ignorance that disgusts me. But I'm as hypocritical as any human. Hungry with an abundance of food at arms length. Healthy, young, relatively free with nothing but old age to worry about. With MP3s dancing in my skull, I'm off to work all day for a huge corporation. Selling my self like a hooker to a company which has had a huge and unrelenting negative influence on most of the planet's hidden and beautiful places. I'm the lowest of the low. The spoilt illitist misanthrope in paradise. I'm scum. This I need to remind myself of, daily.
19.7.06
Food Chain
I saw a big black cat, early this morning. Right under my bedroom window. A guilty thing, with a baby rabbit in it's jaws. It could barely carry it. The rabbit's eyes shivering. No other movement. Rigid with fear. In hell. A wake up call for the sleepy me. A harsh slap in the face. Reality.
Maybe the cat would have left it's victim behind, had I scared it into the bush. Should I have attempted to save the baby? Was it already gone? Could it see me? The looming voyeur. It's a difficult one. Maybe if I'd have hissed at the cat and checked up on the discarded bunny, I'd have discovered it was just shitting itself, but not in too bad a shape. But then what? Try and catch it? Take it back to the field which it MIGHT have come from? Leave it there? Wave goodbye? Hope it's Mum finds it? Pat myself on the back? Or what if it had been injured? I wouldn't have been able to fix it. I was already running late for work, I'm not a vet, and even if I was, it's a baby wild animal. A rubix puzzle of tiny bones. It would mean keeping it, or at least finding a shelter. Also, what if it was horrifically injured? For all I know the rest of it's face was missing! I've had to kill animals in the past, to put them out of their misery. It's not the easiest thing to do. And this wasn't just any animal. Pigeons, for instance, are quite easy to snuff out. But it was a little bunny rabbit! The cuter the animal, the harder it is to execute. One of the harsher truths. After about a minute of following the cat through the undergrowth my common sense dictated "Leave nature to take it's course.", much to the disapointment of my consience. And I was left wondering whether it was now being tortured to death. And I was left wondering whether it even mattered.
Maybe the cat would have left it's victim behind, had I scared it into the bush. Should I have attempted to save the baby? Was it already gone? Could it see me? The looming voyeur. It's a difficult one. Maybe if I'd have hissed at the cat and checked up on the discarded bunny, I'd have discovered it was just shitting itself, but not in too bad a shape. But then what? Try and catch it? Take it back to the field which it MIGHT have come from? Leave it there? Wave goodbye? Hope it's Mum finds it? Pat myself on the back? Or what if it had been injured? I wouldn't have been able to fix it. I was already running late for work, I'm not a vet, and even if I was, it's a baby wild animal. A rubix puzzle of tiny bones. It would mean keeping it, or at least finding a shelter. Also, what if it was horrifically injured? For all I know the rest of it's face was missing! I've had to kill animals in the past, to put them out of their misery. It's not the easiest thing to do. And this wasn't just any animal. Pigeons, for instance, are quite easy to snuff out. But it was a little bunny rabbit! The cuter the animal, the harder it is to execute. One of the harsher truths. After about a minute of following the cat through the undergrowth my common sense dictated "Leave nature to take it's course.", much to the disapointment of my consience. And I was left wondering whether it was now being tortured to death. And I was left wondering whether it even mattered.
16.7.06
14.7.06
________frustrated_
Today I went back to work after three days of freedom. An office job. Static. Cold. A joyless trudge through the brightest hours of the day. It brought me right back down into the dirt. Where I know what's real. Where I realise how much time I'm wasting with my belly in the trash. While the universe spits and spins outside. Where I can't reach it. I know I shouldn't paint such an ugly picture of my PRISON OF DOOM, as I spend 40 odd hours there a week...and there are far worse existences to be had...but I can't help it. I feel tied and gagged in that place. My feet tapping distractedly while I bite my nails and scratch my head. Day dreaming about all the possibilities for me out there.
I'm thinking about spiders glitching in and out of existence to the sounds of live electronica. I'm thinking about hypereal horror movies, personal music players with tempo control, clothing linked to your bio-electrical fields to change colour depending on mood, girls with removable porcelain limbs, Boxheads forced to dance at gunpoint, visceral badger fights, the hypocracy of everything, gorillas beatboxing under a full moon, the beauty in the chaos, everything I'll never know, feathered Velocoraptors, Um Bungo, Frank Sidebottom and the Gingerbread Scam. I'm thinking about this Blog thing. I'm wondering why I'm doing this? Why DO people feel the need to share ther irrelivent opinoins and bad speling?
Why do I feel the need to have this Blog? I guess all creativity stems from the same urge. To GET IT THE FUCK OUT OF OUR HEADS (whatever IT is, it's all the same)! It's why the reluctant friend has to sit through the barrage of moaning when we've had someone do the dirty on us. When we're articulating the intangible emotions caused by two animals attempting a symbiotic relationship in a world with too many distractions. It's why Jackson Pollock threw paint at a wall. It's why Maynard James Keenan has to sing. It's why we went to the Moon. It's why we pray. Confess. Scream. Write. Draw. Dance. Kill. Creativity is a by-product of the overactive imagination which also leads to invention and taking our destiny into our own hands. It's this imagination, that which supposedly sets us apart from the other creepy crawlies, which will drive us into the core of Earth and kill all that we ever were. Because we can't just sit the fuck down and CHILL. Fuck it. That doesn't even make sense. There's that hypocracy again.
I'm going to bed.
Got work tomorrow.
I'm thinking about spiders glitching in and out of existence to the sounds of live electronica. I'm thinking about hypereal horror movies, personal music players with tempo control, clothing linked to your bio-electrical fields to change colour depending on mood, girls with removable porcelain limbs, Boxheads forced to dance at gunpoint, visceral badger fights, the hypocracy of everything, gorillas beatboxing under a full moon, the beauty in the chaos, everything I'll never know, feathered Velocoraptors, Um Bungo, Frank Sidebottom and the Gingerbread Scam. I'm thinking about this Blog thing. I'm wondering why I'm doing this? Why DO people feel the need to share ther irrelivent opinoins and bad speling?
Why do I feel the need to have this Blog? I guess all creativity stems from the same urge. To GET IT THE FUCK OUT OF OUR HEADS (whatever IT is, it's all the same)! It's why the reluctant friend has to sit through the barrage of moaning when we've had someone do the dirty on us. When we're articulating the intangible emotions caused by two animals attempting a symbiotic relationship in a world with too many distractions. It's why Jackson Pollock threw paint at a wall. It's why Maynard James Keenan has to sing. It's why we went to the Moon. It's why we pray. Confess. Scream. Write. Draw. Dance. Kill. Creativity is a by-product of the overactive imagination which also leads to invention and taking our destiny into our own hands. It's this imagination, that which supposedly sets us apart from the other creepy crawlies, which will drive us into the core of Earth and kill all that we ever were. Because we can't just sit the fuck down and CHILL. Fuck it. That doesn't even make sense. There's that hypocracy again.
I'm going to bed.
Got work tomorrow.
13.7.06
And so it begins...
Despite hating the damn word...I've decided to get myself one of these "Blog" things. It's mainly because it allows me to spout my inane and irrelivent opinions and experiences from anywhere, rather than having to wait until I am home and using Dreamweaver to upload my changes. I can now, theoretically, add to my "journal" from a laptop, my PSP or even at work. ;)
My Blog exists mainly to allow me to practice my writing and hone my story telling skills. I spend so much of my time, day dreaming and clogging my skull up with descriptions, lyrics, stories and ideas, that I figured I could do with having somewhere like this to dump it all into. It's made public, so I can get feedback from my friends and family. It's also a potential forum for articulating my thoughts on current affairs in my life, so I guess there'll be some "diary" posts on here too.
I'll also be posting up my photos and image manipulation, as and when it's complete. So this Blog will also act as an informal portfolio of graphic design and artwork. For more of my artwork, see: www.eldiem.co.uk .
At the moment, I really like the idea of writing in this every day. The chances of that happening, while working full time and juggling freelance illustration/design work with my girlfriend (Nadine) and my social life are quite slim...but we'll just have to see how it goes. Thanks for stopping by. And thanks for trudging through this horrifically boring first "Blog Post".
Now that's over. On with Diastemata.
(Diastmata is the scientific name given to the gap between two adjacent teeth. It's kind of relevant because I've got gappy teeth. :) And my words, when I speak, slip through this gap, and by drawing attention to my "imperfections" it's also representative of honest and blunt self analysis, which is also what this site is about. I claim to be nothing more than a guy trying to get better at writing. And this is the easiest way to get "published". This isn't about shouting from a soapbox. I hate the thought of being seen as arrogant. Which is why I changed the name of this Blog from "Diary of a Freckly Sex God" to something less glorious. )
My Blog exists mainly to allow me to practice my writing and hone my story telling skills. I spend so much of my time, day dreaming and clogging my skull up with descriptions, lyrics, stories and ideas, that I figured I could do with having somewhere like this to dump it all into. It's made public, so I can get feedback from my friends and family. It's also a potential forum for articulating my thoughts on current affairs in my life, so I guess there'll be some "diary" posts on here too.
I'll also be posting up my photos and image manipulation, as and when it's complete. So this Blog will also act as an informal portfolio of graphic design and artwork. For more of my artwork, see: www.eldiem.co.uk .
At the moment, I really like the idea of writing in this every day. The chances of that happening, while working full time and juggling freelance illustration/design work with my girlfriend (Nadine) and my social life are quite slim...but we'll just have to see how it goes. Thanks for stopping by. And thanks for trudging through this horrifically boring first "Blog Post".
Now that's over. On with Diastemata.
(Diastmata is the scientific name given to the gap between two adjacent teeth. It's kind of relevant because I've got gappy teeth. :) And my words, when I speak, slip through this gap, and by drawing attention to my "imperfections" it's also representative of honest and blunt self analysis, which is also what this site is about. I claim to be nothing more than a guy trying to get better at writing. And this is the easiest way to get "published". This isn't about shouting from a soapbox. I hate the thought of being seen as arrogant. Which is why I changed the name of this Blog from "Diary of a Freckly Sex God" to something less glorious. )
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