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.
25.7.06
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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