these walls are paper thin
"A tie is not a fashion accessory.." I once read, "...it is a chain". Those same words haunted me this morning as I wearily buttoned up my shirt in preparation for the long day and its many deadlines ahead. I hoped that I was being pessimistic and that the day would actually be much better than what I was expecting. I was wrong. I skipped the tie today.
Either way, I can't complain. My eagerness to throw myself at work and to learn new things have proven to be my own undoing, with too many projects and not enough time to deliver by the deadline. Of course, being a government enterprise people tend to be more forgiving (though do not interpret that as it being a slack workplace), but Jason delivers, and damned if I'm going to break my run now. At any rate I can kiss my plans of an October holiday goodbye, and with November and December being what they are I don't imagine I'll be going anywhere until early next year. Sigh.
The tie is a chain, work the iron jail from which there is no escape. Well, without being poor and asking people for spare change. The problem is, I reflected, you can't just go and do something and see some place whenever you feel like it. I met an old friend on the bus yesterday and he was telling me about his planned trip to China with some friends. I was envious. The concept of leave was new to me until recently, its impact only felt when I tried to organise a group outing somewhere overseas. I remember the old days, when we skipped class, drove out to wherever and just had an absolute blast, without a care for time or responsibilities. Then we got jobs, and careers. Suddenly things like work responsibilities and spare leave and other such spanners are thrown into the mix and you find yourself wondering how the hell you're going to coordinate it all. And you can't, unless everyone is really disciplined, saves their leave and plans months and months in advance, the probability of which (among the guys) is normally associated with events like winning the lottery or sleeping with Jessica Alba.
I contemplated this as I lay on my bed, stereo blaring. My door opens. "What the fuck are you listening to?" my brother asks. My father peers in seconds later and echoes the same question. I scrunched my eyes, a little incredulous.
"It's... it's Habanera"
these walls are paper thin
and everyone hears every little sound
happy blogday!
This time 3 years ago, something special happened, something wonderful. Two girls were drunk and kissing, their eyes closed, their hands exploratory, blissfully uncaring of the attention they were getting from everyone else in the room. Awesome.
Somewhere else in the world, an event of much less awesomeness occured. I speak, of course, about the launch of this hallowed blog. A year after the end of my last blog MakeCakeNotWar (which can still be found by intrepid google'ers and ne'er-do-wells) I decided to create a new blog. Take the time to walk down memory lane and read some of my earlier posts. The writing amateurish and the content immature, not much has really changed since then. As for the slow decline of the number of pictures of hot women, no excuse, for which I apologise most sincerely.
Still, despite the slow decline of quality content on these not-so-esteemed pages, some things have stayed the same - my scorn of conservatives, fundamentalists, feminists, chauvinists, socialists, certain sections of the media and stupid people in general remain unabated. It's funny, in many ways this blog is more and less representative of me then you'd think. In effect it accentuates and highlights the highs and lows of my character...like a Hollywood biography. But not as interesting.
The one rule always when reading this blog (or any blog for that matter) is to be aware that a certain amount of content control is inbuilt, its viewpoints egocentric, and its language possibly manipulative, despite my best efforts to minimise it. Information is filtered through this hazy lens of value judgement where an inherent bias exists in the way things are presented (though this holds true for most articles of opinion). Is my life sometimes as awkward and uncomfortable as I make it out to be? Not really - Most of the time it is simply more entertaining to recount tales of misfortune rather than fortune (read: my interactions with women).
Still, this blog is essentially who I am. Iconoclastic, right of Centre, at times antagonistic, most times tongue in cheek, I sincerely hope one day this blog publishes something worth your attention.
Oh, by the way:
heart cooks brain
He rubs an old scar on his palm as he thoinks, his mind assembling and disaasembling words furiously. Every once in awhile he writes something down in the notebook in front of him, but always quickly erasing and starting over. There is a forlorn, faraway look in his eyes.
The door opens.
"Hey man, whatcha doin?". The intruder slouches in and looks around.
No response.
The intruder slouches across and studies the page with small interest. He snorts. "Still working on that story?"
There is a short silence before his friend turns to look back at him, his eyes cold and unrelenting.
"It's the only story worth telling".
poetry in commotion is proud to present...
"Heart Cooks Brain"
Heart Cooks Brain is a creative experiment, consisting of a series of micro-stories, mostly no more than one or two paragraphs (though with exceptions). The stories throw the reader into the middle, often seeming like excerpts from a book, where the characters, settings and previous plot is assumed knowledge. The stories themselves may not be chronologically progressive, jumping forwards and backwards at the writer's whim., but are linked by a common thread and theme.
The stories may be based on fact or fiction, literal or figurative, a microcosm of the blogosphere, written and released intermittently depending on time, mood and inclination.
heart cooks brain
My face flushed from hurt and embarassment, I quickly turned away, hoping she hadn't seen what my face couldn't hide. Hesitantly, I began walking , each leaden step away from her longer than the last, my heart growing heavier with each stride as the likelihood she would say something grew slimmer and slimmer, disappearing as quickly as the red glow on my cheeks. My hopes fading to nothing, I half turned, not trusting myself to look at her, instead whispering the words I couldn't bear to say to her face.
"Goodbye".
girl inform me
So, feeling a little stressed, sick, and worn out, I decided to blow off major steam at the Shins concert on friday, leading to excessive drinking, singing Phill Collins really offkey and coming off as a complete tool sleaze both to Julia, a lesson once again that I really shouldn't mix alcohol and her company anymore. Par for the course. I tried to remember if she had a look of disgust as she stepped out of the car, but alas, like much of the night in question, my recollection is non-existent. Course of action? Play it cool and pretend nothing happened - the usual.
Shameful behaviour aside, The Shins played a great set at Metro City, playing all the crowd favourites and more when they returned for an encore. NZ band The Sun(?) was slow to warm up but when at full flight warmed up the crowd nicely.
Saturday night we hit the Moon and Sixpence and the Brass Monkey for drinks to celebrate my man Dom's birthday. 24 years young and with a new house and a new job (working with me!). Big changes, like when Stacey Hillman developed huge breasts in year 8 and was the focus of every guy for the next three years. As awesome? no, but most aren't, compared to Stacey's breasts. Thanks for the mammaries Stacey.
Oh - try not to cut yourself on my wit.
out!
sick
My first day back at work this week and I was sick. SICK. ME! I was well and truly under the weather.
"Oh you poor thing" Simone cooed sympathetically, flittering around me, her eyes wide open as if amazed I had not dropped dead on the floor already. She made me green tea and periodically checked to see if I was feeling better. I could always count on Simone to play mother and make a fuss of me. It's one of the things I find most attractive about her, besides being pretty, blonde and single. Freud is turning in his grave with ecstasy.
Fucked up Oedipal psychoanalysis aside, it did make me feel much better having Simone lavish attention on me. I guess I never grew out of being made a fuss of, but then again when you have both parents who were each only one of 9 or 10 siblings, a certain emotional distance can be expected in their parenting, as it is almost certain that they too did not receive the same attention for which I so desperately crave. I say with all seriousness that I would enjoy every scrap of attention I get, no matter how small the injury (up to and including papercuts).
Ladies and Gentlemen, I am all for being made a fuss of!
Anyway! Went to the Architecture in Helsinki concert last night, held at the Bakery on James St. The opening act was a one man musical act named Yacht(?), whose repetitive beats and Napoleon Dynamite-esque convulsive fits ('dancing') served to underscore what was a relatively weird concert. While most bands play a set mainly consisting of their previous album+ hits, with a few new songs as a teaser, AiH chose to do the opposite, selecting an eclectic mix of songs and covers that varied wildly, creating a rather discordant feel to the concert which robbed it of musical flow. Still, the guys with me (Dom/Dan/Brendan) all liked it, which was a relief as I didn't want to drag them to a concert to find out they hate the music (ala The Cops...). I enjoyed myself and have been breaking up my normal routine, so all up a success. Another penny in the jar..
Anyway, I know I've been sounding a little Negative Nancy recently, but I would like to stress that I am very cute and cuddly in real life. Here's a photo from my birthday dinner to illustrate (more when I have the bandwidth)
P.S - which one of you fuckers took a photo of your scotum on my camera. I know it's a white guy
