The Rapture

Having not posted in a while, probably due to coming from a long line of procrastinators with tragically sort attention spans (it's amazing I'm here at all), I thought I should make a point of at least making some comment on  current events as they unfold. All I have to say on Osama's assassination is that it made for several instances of one of history's most amusing Freudian slips - headlines reading "Obama killed" and so on. I do hope they make note of these grim portents in the history books.
 
Now as for the big Rapture, I'm only sorry I got wind of it so late in the game; I didn't have time to put together a series of obituaries for all of my christian friends. I suppose if I was bothered, I would now have to change my mass E-ulogy from "It was nice knowing some of you" to "Sorry you didn't make the cut. Perhaps next time".
   Anyway, I thought I'd seek out all the other times the world was foretold to be kicking the bucket, and who did the foretelling. Here's a rundown of the most prominent fictional raptures:

2,800BC -  The earliest known doomsday prediction, on an Assyrian clay tablet. Little did they know they would set the crappiest trend since Australian slang 

1st century AD - Jesus, as quoted in Matthew 16:28 


1st century AD again - Jesus, again, as quoted (on a different occasion) in Revelation: 22:12


2nd century AD - Montanus (christian), a charismatic cult leader whose interests included lying to peasents


Mar 25, 970 AD - The Lotharingians (christian)


1284 - Pope Innocent III. He based his prediction on the date of the inception of the Muslim faith, and then added 666 years to that, winning the Foil Hat award for Most Dubious Methodology in the category of Prophesies.


1504 - Botticelli (christian)


Feb 1, 1524 - A group of London astrologers, who predicted a second Great Flood with its starting point in the Thames. Rule Britannia. 


1648 - Having made close study of the kabbalah, the Turkish rabbi Sabbatai Zevi predicted that the Messiah would make a miraculous return in 1648, and that his name would be Sabbatai Zevi. How anyone failed to see through this one is beyond me.


1666 - Sabbatai Zevi, again, following the failure of his first estimate. Last seen disguised as a goat, making a swift getaway from profoundly annoyed followers.


Dec 25, 1814 - Not strictly the end of the world. A self-styled prophet named Joanna Southcott averred that she was the expectant mother of a new Christ-child to which she would give birth on Christmas Day 1814. That she was a virgin and well over 60 did not appear to weaken her faith that this would come to pass. She was likely most embarrassed when she died on that day instead.  Despite this disappointment, a large cult continued to believe in Southcott and, as late as 1927, a sealed box said to contain an important message left by Joanna was opened in the presence of the Bishop of Grantham. It contained an expired lottery ticket. 


1874 - Memorable for being the first of a long line of dates posited for the End of the World by the Jehovah's Witnesses. Bloody troublemakers.


Dec 17, 1919 - Albert Porta, a meteorologist, prediected that a rare conjunction of planets would create a powerful gravitational or magnetic flux drawing a giant solar flare out toward the Earth, incinerating the atmosphere. Some credulous souls, on hearing this, apparently chose suicide rather than be killed. Porta was last seen in Suriname in 1920, disguised as a toad. 


Apr 29, 1980. Leland Jensen, leader of a splinter group from the minority Bahá'í faith, announced that this day would see a nuclear exchange between the superpowers resulting in the deaths of millions. Finding himself alive on April 30, the so-called prophet fell back on the traditional "This is only the start of the Tribulation" excuse.


Mar 10, 1982 - In a near repeat of the erroneous 1919 prophecy, a popular "science" book, The Jupiter Effect, expostulated that a planetary conjunction would cause earthquakes, or a solar flare, or both. What actually transpired was a slightly higher than average tide in some places, peaking at an additional 0.04mm. Most of the population survived. 


21: Apr 29, 1987: The irrepressible doom-monger Leland Jensen came back with a new single, called "Halley's Comet is going to collide with Earth". He lived out the rest of his days following '87 as a doorstop.


Sep 28, 1992: "Rockin" Rollen Stewart, an eccentric evangelist who started the craze for holding up signs representing bible verses at public events [John 3:16 was the most popular of these] was certain that The Rapture would occur on this day. He went on to instigate a bizarrely hypocritical campaign of stink-bombing churches and other religiously inspired acts of madness, which culminated with his imprisonment for kidnapping. He would go from zero to hero were he to announce that he had been taking the piss the entire time.


May 1997 - A worldwide suggestion was floating around that the Solar System was about to pass through a mysterious and entirely imaginary region of space called the Photon Belt. The Heaven’s Gate cult seized on this as their signal to commit mass suicide in March of that year, and have been posthumously ridiculed to this very day. 


12:01am, Mar 31, 1998. One of the more precise predictions of the Second Coming. Hon-Ming Chen, leader of the Taiwanese cult "The True Way" - claimed that God would announce his imminent return on every television in the USA at this moment, prior to an actual landing in his spacecraft. Chen had the good grace to admit his mistake afterwards and offered to be crucified when the deity failed to appear, but no-one seemed enthusiastic.


1999 - Nostradamus. This really tickles my funny bone when I hear dim bulbs muttering confidentially about how Nostradamus predicted 9/11 correctly and also made 2012 our doom in his questionable poems, when by his judgement we are all supposed to have died already over ten years ago.


2000 - Isaac Newton decided to muddy his reputation by weighing in with a doomsday estimate, but at least he predicted it in a time where the egg on his face would not concern him, being six feet under and several stone lighter.


Friday 13th April 2007 - An un-named punter placed a £10 bet at 10,000/1 with Ladbrokes, the bookmakers, that the world would end on that day. It is unclear how he expected to collect his winnings.


Mar 21, 2008 - A minor christian sect The Lords' Witnesses announced this date for the end of days on their website, which is still online. Apparently any questions visitors may have are to be directed to THIS fellow. I don't know about you, but I would take whatever he says with a pound of salt and a swift departure.  


May 21, 2011 - Harold Camping and his legion of idiots. From a recent article: 


Mr Camping's argument has convinced Adam Larsen, 32, from Kansas. He is among scores of "ambassadors" who have quit their jobs to drive around America in Family Radio vehicles warning of the impending apocalypse. "My favourite pastime is raccoon hunting," Mr Larsen told CNN. "I've had to give that up. But this task is far more important."  



Just when you thought America's reputation couldn't sink any lower into the swamp. He has now re-calculated his Rapture (for the second time) to sometime in October I believe. If it were me, I would have tried to buy myself a tad more time. 


I hope you've enjoyed the list, and remember, I'm not going to save a spot for any of you in the queue for cucumber sandwiches in hell.  

Learn to swim

Joseph Keyes - Journal Entry #029

That must be my ninth life. Three more, and they had a seer with them. No more hiding. I went to the elevator, pressed for the roof, then instead ran for the eastern stairwell and went down a floor. I would cross over and escape the way they entered. I couldn’t count on other exits being left uncovered. I clumsily unzipped my backpack enough to take out one of the batons with one hand and extended it. My other arm swung uselessly by my side. I couldn’t even clench my fingers into half a fist. I padded quickly across the fifth floor to the western stairwell. I could hear footsteps hard above me as I went. A pause as I opened the emergency exit with a push - nothing moves, so I plunge onto the dim landing and start descending the stairs, several at a time, my heart pounding an erratic rhythm into the back of my head. I make the second floor landing and see it, stopping dead. It stands at the bottom of the next flight, the blue corpse-light from its eyeless oversized goggles softly illuminating walls, rails and steps. They are heads shorter than the other spooks. It’s like looking at a child. Maybe that’s what makes them so terrifying. As I stand transfixed, it raises a long-fingered hand all in black and paws ponderously at something in the air which I cannot see. It did something to me in that breath, I’m sure of it. Since then I get piercing migraines which fade in seconds to an overwhelming urge to sleep, and sometimes blindness shrouds my eyes for minutes at a time without apparent cause. Pure force of will tore me away from the sight of the seer. I knew the others were coming to take me. By some divine mercy the second-floor emergency exit stands a little ajar. I tear it open and slam it behind me before hurtling down the hallway. I stop short as two spooks appear around a corner ahead - my baton is no longer in my hand. Into Room 024, lock the door, lock myself into the bathroom, tear the curtains off, sweep the bowl of black stones off the sill with a smash and a hundred snapping clicks as they hit the tiles. Pull the window open - the first door goes with a splintering crunch. Fear gives me wings. I awkwardly swing out of the window on one hand, lower myself as much as- Crack - that’s the bathroom door - I let go. A silent second of anticipation, then I hit the first floor fire escape. I lose myself in the impassive dirty sky a moment. Pain everywhere, but nothing beyond a few weeks rest. I wonder how long my body will last before something gives in. A faceless black deathmask emerges from the window I came out of and freezes a moment, looking down at me sprawled on the metal landing several metres below. I spare the spook a grin, and pull myself unsteadily back to my feet.

Can I Have A Zup With That?

About fast food
Fast food is the refuge of the fat and the ugly. It can reach speeds of up to 70km. Fast food is made mostly as a community service to rehabilitate troubled young individuals.

                                                       

 "She was my favorite idiot I've ever served"

- Mitchell Palmer, KFC employee

How to order fast food

1) Preparation.

There is no reason to decide what you would like to purchase until after you have reached the head of the queue. If you would like more time to ponder your order, any of the following phrases may be used up to six times per sentence, or indeed as a preface to a potential sentence: “Uhm”, “Um”, “Uh”, “Ehm” or “Er”. Demanding to be served prior to having actually made any decisions is recommended practice.

2) Placing your order.

If there is more than one party in your vehicle at the drive-through, you as the driver should exercise your right to defer the orders of your passengers until after you have made your own, then let them order for themselves. If a light breeze should happen to drown out your passenger’s voices, it is the attendant’s fault for having poor hearing. A complaint to his manager would not go astray. If you have children, let them make their own orders from the back seat of the car. Glare at the attendant while they do so. If you have little English, you may use a passenger as a representative, provided that they do not know English either. If you do know English but do not particularly wish to speak to the attendant, who looks grubby, you may allow your foreign friend/significant other to place the order. If you are pregnant, ask for the freshest and best of the chicken. Arrive at the window smoking a cigarette. Much like a bazaar or other market, haggling is encouraged. If something has run out, reassure the attendant that it’s ok, and request something of greater value for the same price. Humour may help to seal the deal. When asked the beverage of your choice, ask for a “zup” or “hill mist”. If the attendant does not laugh, the joke has probably gone over his head. Explain it to him thoroughly, and place a complaint with the manager for good measure.

3. Feedback. 

If things are not completely satisfactory, the staff will be happy to hear your qualms. After paying, examine your change. If the coins are not sparkling clean, bring them back and request new ones.  Keep the old ones as evidence. If an attendant is not pleasing to the eye, inform them at once, and speak to the manager about it afterwards.
When you have finished your meal, inform the staff that there was a pubic hair in it. If they ask how you knew what sort of hair it was, they are changing the subject which will only incriminate them further.

Please use this tutorial safely. Any comments hereafter have not been solicited in any way.

Joseph Keyes - Journal Entry #003

I found my way back home at about 5:30, just as some soft light was filtering down from atop the Eighth Pillar, one of the monolithic columns raised high from the midst of the sector to be swallowed hundreds of metres up by a thick haze set aglow by the skylight it houses. “Home” is but a placeholder. I would rather not be here. Our building is a brooding grey two-story cinderblock on a narrow street, filthy in more ways than one. A concrete stair splits the inside in two. On approach I see Levi arguing with a huddle of odd figures - ghostly pale hooded men wearing odd half-gasmasks over mouths and noses. One of them holds a small package. They notice me but Levi doesn’t. I slip past with my head down, through the front doorway. The door is permanently open, broken from when spooks or whoever kicked it in. I climb the stairs and spin the grimy combination lock, 36, 10, 59, 97, and the door clicks open, straight into the squalid living room/kitchen combo. Levi’s room is opposite to me, my room and the bathroom to the right. The girl on the floor by the couch doesn’t react when I push the door home. Her throat and face are mottled black on a green hue from smoking too much Death. I step between dented cans and bulging black plastic bags to the fridge - I’m starving. Click.
   “It’s broken.”
   Levi crosses the room, dropping a small package on the counter and pulling a beer from the dead fridge.
   “You’re up early.”
   “They aren’t fond of daytime. Fucked right off when the lights came up, but it got me a better deal on the Dust.” he grinned. “So what’s with the notebook? Haven’t seen you trying to better yourself in a while.”
   I paused in my writing.
   “Homework,” I said with a smile.
   He snatched the journal from my hands and scanned this page between sips of warm beer.
   “Rubbish,” he said. “You haven’t described me at all!”
(For the record, Levi is at least 6ft, has a dyed-red mohawk which practically glows, is covered in more piercings than I care to list, has well-defined cheekbones and tattoos crawling up both arms to emerge on the sides of his neck.)
   He tosses it back at me.
   “Why are you writing this anyway? Sleeping beauty‘s not gonna be too chuffed with how you summed her up either.”

A True Artist..

..Suffers for his or her work. Or is prepared to. Or so I've read somewhere.

Recently I did a couple of sketches of someone I have on facebook. I asked beforehand, but that was really only a passing courtesy, and it wasn't long before I started drawing regardless of not getting a response. Apparently the question touched a nerve with the girl's boyfriend of a year and half, who I have previously been friendly with. I was told he's very "protective" and that "it didn't go down too well". Heaven forbid that she would ever have to exercise her own discretion when interacting with other people. In hindsight I suppose it's flattering to have been considered a threat over something so minor - after all, they've only been an item for eighteen months or so, there's still a chance she could run off with someone she barely knows if not tightly tethered. I imagine the milkman has been subject to vigorous interrogation.

Anyway, I decided to do a little damage control by including him in a second sketch, with subject matter he couldn't possibly take offence to. Enjoy;

And a bonus drawing, still in progress (but struck by the usual inertia that claims pieces that need to be revisited more than a couple of times; remember that perspective drawing I started? No? Good)

Of all the warnings that you gave me

With all components in the fault

A Minefield Pastime

Every so often when I pull up some other blog hosted with the blogspot domain on google to compare it to my own*, I pass five minutes on the dangerous pursuit of blog-hopping - that is, clicking "Next blog" on the Blogger Toolbar that appears at the top of most blogs. Check the example below if you want to try it; I have succeeded in removing it from the source of my blog because A. It clashed with my decor and B. I prefer my readers to be trapped remain here for as long as possible.** Note that the "Next blog" link will load a random blog, not a predetermined one. And so, one day I was jumping from blog to blog, when I stumbled upon THIS monstrosity.

Fear not, I made a full psychological recovery after downing a glass of 90% pulp orange juice. I challenge you to find a more horrendous blog than I did - a reward to whoever manages it, and a used tissue to whichever hilarious rascal posts the URL to this blog in answer.



* I usually only do this to demonstrate to friends how much I have cut and sutured mine in Html for their benefit. Here is an example of a blog that is not mine, if you're curious.

** I'm currently working on having my blog open in a new window which can only be closed by voice activation. Readers will be required to recite long tongue-twisters of my own invention. Incorrect syllables will result in mild electric shocks delivered through the Ctrl, Alt and Delete keys.



When I hear the engine pass
I'm kissing you wide 

Joseph Keyes - Journal Entry #028

No time to reflect on how lucky I was to kill two of them from a tight spot. I’m crippled now. I estimate three or four days before I can use my arm properly again. I’ve figured out how to retract the batons, so I’m taking both. A backpack with food for a few days, my knife, and this journal. Time to move. I pause to run with fingers over the sleek glass neck of a cognac bottle Xx XxxXx [Illegible]

XXxXxxxxXxX ey’re cominX x x west-xXn stairwell Xx t- x x -xxXx x x XxxX x
XXx us- Xx x  ptimistic th-Xx ime x  X xx xx          x                    
          X      -uckfuckfuckfuX                                                                 x

Joseph Keyes - Journal Entry #002

We stare at each other for the longest instant. Not if a void yawned open in the sky to swallow eternity could I have broken the contact locked between our pupils in that grey deluge. She told me later she’d never seen anything like the hollow in my eyes. Her name’s Jamie. She’s a psychologist, self-proclaimed to be very good at what she does. She said she’d treat me for a little while. I wished her luck. She smiled coyly, inclined her head and pulled open the back door of her car, a sheaf of blackish chestnut sliding past her left ear to hang closer to her dark eyes. She had me in a stranglehold, every hair on end, every nerve ending turned into a static receptor. I could have rubbed sparks off my skin. I got in. When she said we were going back to her place, I wasn’t sure what to expect, or even what I wanted, but all we did was sit in her living room and talk. I’m not supposed to write in detail about our “sessions”. She wore glasses with square frames. She is ever so gorgeous, and seemingly unaware of it. She seems a little insecure about her looks. This strikes me as odd, considering what she does. I wanted to ask her about that, but I was too nervous. After a while she stopped asking questions and scribbled intently in her notebook for at least ten minutes, then stood abruptly and said she’d take me back. She lives in a much better sector than me. She drove me through Wall 5 and then I asked her to stop, said I felt like walking a bit. We pulled quietly up and I got out without saying a word, pausing before I closed the car door to fall into her eyes for another pregnant moment, and she was gone.

It was very late by then, cold neons burning bars of light into my retinas from the sides of most buildings, though down at street level all was steeped in gloom. Sector 8 is dangerous at night. You don’t know who will come out once the skylights go down. I hardly cared, only wandered. I didn’t make for my apartment, it’s a long way from Wall 5. It didn’t matter that I had nowhere to sleep, I couldn’t have slept then. I felt utterly lucid, pacing through the decaying labyrinth in perfect insomnia. Let time sync me to its deathly pull tomorrow. This night is mine.

Joseph Keyes - Journal Entry #027

I plough the coffee pot into the deathly visor and it shatters, soaking #1 with its torturous payload. I dive straight past him with the knife but #2 is ready for me, he’s backing off but I can’t afford to hesitate, not that I could anyway, I’m lost in a vein of adrenaline - he lands a hit, a good, solid hit with one of those three-foot sticks they carry - a giant, electric scorpion might have jabbed me with its stinger, left arm, just above the elbow - I scream, but I don’t stop. I lunge through the ruined door frame at him and plant my knee into his solar plexus, sending him heavily against the opposite wall. Slipping a switchblade from the sleeve of my good arm and opening it with a flick, I go for the kill. He dodges, but not well enough - the blade neatly severs his right breathing tube on the upswing. Checkmate. He drops to one knee immediately, trying to close his breathing valve while taking a feeble swipe at me with his deadly wand. I kick his elbow and he drops it. Biting my knife and snatching it up, I deliver a revenge blow to his midriff. He curls and shudders into the foetal position. It looks like he’s crying out, but I hear nothing but soft friction against the hallway carpet. They never make a sound. I stoop quickly and puncture his second breathing tube with my blade. Out pours his soul, as I like to imagine the white vapour that oozes through their respiratory support systems. Why are the tubes so vulnerable? I think they need to filter oxygen in with whatever else they breathe. Just a guess. The breathing tubes are peppered with weird little holes.

Dominoes

Last night I was in the garden helping to diagnose the current problem with our atrocious plumbing system, which is very old and accordingly has a stroke every few months. While I was there, a gang of mosquitoes pounced me and bit me six or seven times, including a horrible one on the back of my drawing hand. If you can't see it in that picture straightaway, it's because you're not thinking big enough. Notice how two of my knuckles are missing under the edge of the behemoth. As you can see, I have fairly strong allergic reactions to mosquito bites, hence I haven't gone to college today. I could barely use my spoon earlier, let alone a pencil. I tried bleeding it out like I did with some other ones, but for some reason my hand remains swollen and now painful.

Anyway, this seems a good time to tell a story of subterfuge and vengeance in my house, the principal point of which is my mother robbing me. A new low. It all began one morning when she had run out of tea - I assume she requires several gallons a day to substitute for blood or something, judging by the number of cups of tea she drinks. So, she asked me if I would pop over to the local foodstore and get her some teabags. I said alright, and asked what sort/colour of tea she wanted. She said it didn't matter, and to just get the cheapest, since small shops are murderously expensive. I went down to the shop in boxers and a T, grabbed a box of teabags, and came back to the house. "Green tea?!" was the welcome I got.
   "Nobody drinks green tea!"
   What could I do but laugh. She then told me to go straight back and exchange it. I said no, told her that it was her own fault, and to do it herself. Then I retired to my room and thought no more about it. Some time later, she appeared with the box of tea, put it down and demanded the money for it, adding that it was "mine".
   "Bollocks," I said, and snatched my wallet out of harm's way. She then grabbed the flask full of throwaway silver coins from my desk, emptied it all over my bed, and proceeded to scrabble through it like an elderly chicken to make up the price of the tea (and more on top of it, I shouldn't wonder.)
   In response to this criminal activity, I began to drink all of the delicious Lemon & Lime bitters that she buys whenever she wasn't around, or was otherwise occupied. A week or so later, her suspicions were running high. She craftily marked the bottle with a pen, and so discovered that it was steadily disappearing. One evening while she was out, I made to steal some more, but when I opened the bottle there was no fizz left at all. I troubled myself to examine the contents and thought better of drinking any of it, instead placing it carefully back where I had found it. A few days later, my brother-in-law barged into the fridge and took a few hearty gulps of the stuff without a care. Hilarity ensued. My sister reliably informs me that my mother poured about half a pound of iodised salt into her own drink; ruthless!

It's always gratifying to see El Bean at the bottom of the pecking order, where he belongs. Apparently he sulked for the rest of the day.

And a jolly good time was had by all!


The reversal of the tide

Autour de Deux

Tuesday AGAIN, how inconvenient it is having one every week. Did a couple of penny dreadfuls then headed home at lunchtime. Now I plan to watch Banlieue 13 Ultimatum, the sequel to the 2004 martial arts* film. Both have feeble plots trademark to the genre, and excellent choreography by traceurs David Belle and Cyril Raffaelli. There are distinct differences between what is predominantly focused on in various films based on fighting. In mainstream action films, you'll usually get about five flashy cuts for every punch the actor throws, and never see any full-body shots or fluid maneuvers being actually performed. In Ong Bak, you get hundreds of lingering shots of Tony Jaa performing elaborate and unique fighting moves - it's really artful. However, this is a cult film, not a blockbuster; because the story and acting are very poor, or so you would think. The real difference is the money spent on marketing - after all, when was the last time you saw a James Bond film or anything with Jason Statham in it that was remotely believable or moving?
   B13U's focus hits the sweet spot. Seeing the hundredth dispatchable peon propelled into a somersault by a powerful kick, only to collide with something else and tumble in the opposite direction before hitting the ground - it's just tremendous fun to watch, which is the crux of these movies. There's also some slick parkour-filled chase scenes. You know that cliché where the chased man executes some difficult jump or what have you, and the gang of baddies doing the chasing follow as best they can, but one unfortunate fellow doesn't manage and comes to an unpleasant end, never to be seen in the film again? I cannot get enough of that happening. It indulges my childish side, and the more contrived it looks, the bigger the grin that I break into. It was [Thug #3]'s destiny to slip and fall into that dumpster!

*Loosely.

I would find    another way

Joseph Keyes - Journal Entry #001

Joseph Keyes. A leper among the headstones. Hey, well, isn’t this therapeutic. I haven’t written a word in months upon months, and now I remember why. I always thought I could pull worlds out of my head and scrawl them onto paper when the time came. What really happens is last night’s blood on the pavement, ugly directionless blotches on my paper sooner forgotten. Aspiring, synonymous with inadequate. But now let me backtrack a bit. Sorry, but she tells me I shouldn’t think about what I’m writing. But who am I apologising to? Tomorrow’s spectre, the one who’ll never read these words? Late evening, pissing rain. I’m jogging down this street to nowhere in particular, just trying to find shelter of some kind, when I glimpse some young guy in a hood coming the opposite way. It’s practically matte grey out there, it’s that heavy. He’s not watching where he’s going, he bumps into me. He’s one slick fucker, I don’t even suspect anything until he’s halfway down the other side of the street. Sure enough, my wallet is absent from my coat pocket - I haven’t met many who’ll work the streets in weather like that, but I still drop into a blind rage with myself for my naivety. I slip between a couple of parked cars on my way after him, and screech-thud, I’m sprawled in one of those low points, life’s jarring left hooks, in front of a big Merc saloon. One second, two seconds, nothing broken, nothing ruptured, I drag myself unsteadily back to my feet by that fucking pretentious metal star on the bonnet head. I rip it off and fling it across the road, skipping and bouncing into a gutter. Then I start after my thief again, no hope of catching him now but heaven help him if I do-
   “Are you alright?” a woman’s voice. I keep going.
   “Wait,” she says, without raising her voice. The imploring quality of the word stops me. I turn, and whatever was to come next dies on her lips.

Joseph Keyes - Journal Entry #026

A heavy thud, raising my heart’s BMP count another ten. A double cylinder deadbolt, two slide bolt locks and a pin tumbler in the door handle. Wouldn’t last long. I was afraid the hinges might give way first. A 1800ml Pyrex borosilicate-glass coffee pot filled most of the way with two parts various drain cleaners, one part Chlorox bleach, brought to boiling point over a small portable stove on the floor of the bathroom. In my other hand, a long kitchen knife. Not entirely practical. Deluxe bedroom down the short hallway behind me, two king-size low profile beds with white linen on a royal blue carpet, hickory veneered furniture. Big bay windows, six stories up. La Vista Dorada - four stars, valet parking. Crack - the deadbolt fractures and gives in. The lock in the handle too, by the looks of it. One more impact and it’s over. Break the redline, turn off the gravity, come full circle. I draw back the coffee pot, shift my weight to my back foot. My head buzzes, anxious bouts of nervous, snippets of songs come and go, women smiling, the broken fridge in my apartment, god it must be horrible in there now, flickers of-
   Smash. The slide bolts don’t break, their housing rips clean out of the adjacent wall. Here’s the first spook, caught off balance, carrying too much momentum because the door offered less resistance than he expected, lucky I used cheap screws with shallow threads and are you surprised to see me, fucker?

Witchcraft

Short one today. Everyone studying in the Fine Arts dept. was recently given a blank CD with which to make a contemporary piece that will be publicly displayed on the 8th, I think. Unclear? We're to make an artwork out of the CD itself -  we can draw on it, smash it and rebuild it into something else, warp it with heat, whatever. Since display space is limited to more or less a broom cupboard, you can opt to submit a photo of your piece.

Here's mine:

And a bit more of that drawing:

Take it on the Otherside

Dubious Literature/Papercraft Legion cntd.

I felt like absolute wank today because Chelsea gave me a horrible STD on Monday, so I decided to head home extra-early. Before I left I deployed one of my cranes.

Couple of other things on the agenda today; firstly, another step in my ongoing search for some good fantasy writing comes with the arrival of A Game of Thrones by George Martin. I'm pretty apprehensive about this, my last two bold steps in this adventure have landed me in nasty puddles. BattleAxe by Sara Douglas was just beyond awful, and The Black Company saga by Glen Cook wasn't a premium investment either. The latter did improve as it went along, but it never managed to climb above 5/10, and its initial poorness was almost enough to make me give up before Chapter Two. The characters only have nicknames, and the towns and cities are all nouns. Stereotypical american military-style slang filters heavily into Cook's dialogue, which is atrocious in an old-world fantasy setting. There was also a point where I put it down hopelessly after the following bit:

"What's the matter?" I asked.
   "That means the thing was the nastiest, cunningest, cruelest, and craziest of the lot."
   "Vampires," I muttered. "In this day."
Tom-Tom said, "Not strictly a vampire. This is the wereleopard, the man-leopard who walks on two legs by day and four by night."


I won't comment any further, I'm sure you can imagine my reaction upon reading this. Let's not dwell on these dark times; on to A Game of Thrones. Now I've heard good things about this book and series (A Song of Ice and Fire, I think it's called) but this time I have an extra ace in the hole - my esteemed colleague Grim happened to have the book in his house, so I set him the task of reading it and thus shielding me from making another regrettable purchase. His feedback was positive, so I went and ordered it[1]. I'm still somewhat cynical as the covers, names and story overview of the whole series are very thematically generic at first glance. Fingers crossed for excellent writing - I'll need something pacey and sharp to warm down from House of Leaves when I finish it.

Finally, here is a little perspective drawing that I've started on.

 Doesn't look like much now, but I'm hoping to motivate myself to stick at it by posting it here.

Assuming that works, you'll see updates in later posts. Wish me luck.

[1]
    Let it be noted that if he's pulling the wool over my eyes and it turns out to be actually terrible, the consequences will be dire. 






You should have seen
The curse that flew right by you 

Loded

Every so often the rebellious baked bean that works the controls in my brother-in-law's brain will decide that the day has not been exciting enough, and he will make a beeline for the nearest gimmick, bad idea or purchasable object in the vicinity. One of the recent consequences of these sporadic impulses is that we have a lobster in the workroom.

Now, upon the novelty of these things fading, Mr. Baked Bean will suddenly be struck by an ingenious thought. What if [_____][1] were to assume responsibility for the care for this item? Then the mighty Bean would be free to resume imperative activities such as devouring the bread and juice that [_____][2] bought today, for what use would he have for them?

[1]

    Insert my name here.

[2]

    And again.

Through this process, I have a plethora of hand-me-downs lurking in corners, under books, behind heaps of naturally-occurring room-debris and so forth, now including a dog and a lobster. The former is not altogether keen on the latter, though Wink (As I have dubbed my clawed acquaintance) is unphased by the dog's growling in the sanctity of his tank.

                                                      Le dog.

Unfortunately the lobster has declined an interview, instead squeezing himself into his driftwood pile where he cannot be photographed. This is the best shot I could get of him, mostly one claw with an eye and a couple of antennae.

Not even the presence of the dog could coax him out. In any case, they make an adorable pair.

Til next time. 

Rest your trigger on my finger

Bang my head upon the faultline 

Cesàro Summability

This is a pretty spontaneous post, I don't usually do this first thing in the morning, but you could say I got the material for it before I woke up. Over the last few days I've had two pretty vivid and in-depth dreams about a girl called Sarah Love[1], who was in my class at the beginning of this college year but dropped out some time ago. In the first one, as far as I can recall, I asked her out at college and after agreeing to have coffee (what on earth is this, I would never ask that, I hate tea and coffee) she disappeared. There's a large blank in my memory here. Things culminated in me breaking into her place of work in the dead of night to steal a roster of all things, to find out what days she worked. Maybe more ridiculous things happened afterwards, I don't remember. In the second one, we're all sitting in painting class, when all of a sudden Sarah takes off her shirt[2]. No one seems to react to this in any way, so I curiously observe. She rummages in a bag and takes out an old red flannel shirt to wear - it's covered in paint. She starts walking around the room checking on people's paintings, and that's when I realise she is now our painting teacher. The dream ends here (having delivered its kick and fading) and I wake up.

What's odd about all this is that I haven't seen this girl for probably over a month now. When she was around, she was very introverted. She rarely talked to anyone during class time and as far as I know she never spent a single break with anyone; she'd retreat behind sunglasses and march out in the direction of the mall while most of us would still be washing our hands and so on.
   The conclusion I've come to is that it's because I don't know her that these fantasies have taken root. Somewhere drifting on the undercurrents of some slower, more deliberate wavelength in my mind, desire has been pieced together from the visual impression of Sarah[§] coupled with the idea of a girl I could fall for, in the absence of her actual personality (of which I know next to nothing.)
   It's been a year, a year and a half, I don't know, since I fell for Cathy[†], and probably another year before I met her since I stopped wanting to have a girlfriend for the sake of having one. I don't believe in soulmates and I'm not looking for the "perfect" girl, but it's still extremely rare to find someone I really want to be with. I don't know if this counts as having exact "standards", but if a girl's a drinker then that's pretty much it in most cases, my interest and respect for her even as friends will be as dust in the wind. These days, that one mantra limits me as much as if I was gay. Unfortunately waiting patiently to meet someone is not comfortable - I'm only human, and it's been what feels like a long time. I crave touch and affection. Mutuality. I want to go swimming in someone else's head and tap into their driving forces. The bloom of endorphins that sing the body electric at the meeting of lips, the burning sense memory left by your partner's trailing hands. There's a warm little nerve centre in me that has spent too much time unfed[¶]. 

[1]
    Nope, she's not a porn star.*




*Sorry, couldn't resist. 




[2]
    This rings of immature bullshit, I know. I would rather have omitted it, but that would have made the dream's theme a lot less pointed, as it was unnecessary and so reveals the motive of my subconscious.


[§]She's average height, with a slender figure still managing to betray some killer subtle curves. Petite breasts, flat stomach, pretty collarbone, pretty ankles. Big eyes, limpid, full of arctic ice and diamond dust. She does that smoky mascara thing. Slightly pouting lips. A long tumble of charcoal hair, not straight, more like tendrils, wisps of soot against pale skin. Tattoos - an unusual number of them for her age (between nineteen and twenty-one as far as I can tell (her age, not her tattoos.)) The centrepiece dips across her upper chest; I was never able to make out what it said. Ears pierced more than once.** 


**Is she really all of these things? Fuck knows. She was in my dreams. 


[†]Ghosts belong in another post, another time. 


[¶]This is not a confession of a crush on Sarah, if you're wondering. This is more so subconscious triggers leading to a lament to the archetypal frustration felt by those with a void to fill where a person should be. Read nothing into this that isn't in black & white.


All of my life I've tried to be like the man in the pictures with outstretched hands

Papercraft Legion

I have successfully memorised the method to make Orizuru cranes now. Tremble in the face of my little mascots:

Now that they're mobilised, I just have to get them out there. I'll do my best to plant them in clever places, and also to take quick snaps of them as I make my getaway.

Now, to flesh this post out, I'll relay something that came to my attention today. Often over the past while Jack has used a particular display picture of some person making a remarkably stupid face. I assumed its murky origins lay with 4chan or similar, but today he informed me that it's actually present-day Pat, a former classmate and friend of ours. Since I last saw him, he has apparently been in some bizarre accident in which he lost his chin. I sympathise.

Mock the litany in its face

Tactile Compassion

I came across a novel charity idea a little while ago, where you donate an amount starting from £2 (about AU$3.25,) then pick a square design submitted by one of the artists involved and get it as a HD PDF. You then print this, and follow the really terrible instructions[1] to fold it into an origami crane. Having done this, you're encouraged to write the URL of the charity on/with your crane and leave it sitting in a public place to be found by someone else.
   This is very clever - you feel as though you get something back for your generosity, they receive money and put a free, artistic and enticing piece of advertising into the world somewhere. I've wanted to learn some Origami for ages, so this was the perfect excuse to spend a bit of time doing it. I have yet to fold the design I bought - I'll post photos when it's done. I may even make a few smaller ones and put the URL for this page on them, and perhaps redirect a few people to 1,000 Cranes from here. In advance, let me welcome anyone who visits after finding one.

[1]
   Originally posted here.


What better place than here     What better time than now

Acrylischism

Tuesday is our painting day at college. While I verily respect painting as the visceral aesthetic it can be (Or blend of precision with the coloured medium to create the mind-blowing works that you often see in Sci-Fi illustration), Tuesday is vying with theory day as my least favorite of the week. The problem, of course, is that I'm dreadful at painting. Firstly, I have zero experience. As far as my ability goes, painting is just daubing and smearing colour onto a rough line drawing (it's early days, we're still outlining what we paint before we start.) This is similar in practice to taking a picture-book and trying to colour inside the lines - something I have yet to master.
   Jack hit the nail on the head with his comment that it's like being a small child among adults. Those of us in the class with innate painting talent will thrive. Those of us who are not so fortunate have more or less paid for a few hours of easel rental per week. Our teacher, Sarah (pictured above; see: "dreadful") is an awesome person/artist, but passing on her trade is not her forte. She's going through the motions, versing us in theory and terminology, but give me a brush and my technique could only be described as wiping. Her advice concerning this is generally to use more paint or add more of X (colour.) So, for lack of instruction or demonstration, I reach the end of each Tuesday with another piece of ugly home-made noise testament to my poorness.

Tiresome.


What makes it worse than your average waste of time is the expense and preparation involved, not to mention Ken's daily antics[1]. Most of the long list of prerequisite supplies we got is painting-related. The woman at the art shop was a tad overzealous in tossing this and that into my bag once she heard what course I was doing (she knew Sarah by name as well) leading me to believe they may be in cahoots. That is all.

[1]
   I will revisit this topic in a later post.

A capillary hint of red

House of Leaves

This Christmas I bought a certain book for my sister so that I could read it, making it a double-edged present. Let there be no moral outcry, this is a perfectly acceptable thing to do if the present is a book. I suggest you make a list of books you want and add a column of birthdays or other occasions of the people living in your house, then start drawing lines between the two lists, because this is a flawlessly devious tactic and everybody wins if the books you buy are good.


House of leaves is an experimental(sic) novel, the debut of Mark Z. Danielewski. I'm told it took him somewhere in the region of ten years to complete. In layman's terms, it is an edited, pieced-together fictional and seemingly definitive analysis of a fictional documentary concerning a couple with two children who move into a house and discover a series of incrementally impossible spacial anomalies. The book is labeled many things, first and foremost a horror story. Personally I can't pin it down to any conventional genre; if I had to call it something, I would say it's a Progressive novel. My sister certainly considers it to be Horror - she will not sleep in the same room as it, and her mantra of eating muesli in yoghurt whenever she reads horror books has not suppressed House of Leaves. Currently she has stopped reading it until an undetermined later date, and I have started.

From the beginning, I was gripped by it in a very different way than any other book I've read. The best way I can describe it is that it has a very submersive mechanic. Hours will slip by while this book holds you. To give you a brief idea, here are some shots. The first page:

As things progress, the prose becomes more and more bizarre. Coupled with the multiple nature of the narrative, the experience fast becomes similar to watching several different films on several television sets. Merely reading the book feels like treading a labyrinth.

This is a little way into it. The footnotes send you to read different sections of the pages constantly, and there are often footnotes within footnotes. Finally, here's an idea of the territory I'm currently in:

              I needed a mirror to read about half of the text on the above page.

                                    (I'm less than a third of the way in.)

So, if you need an excuse to get out of the house, head down to your local bookstore and demand an explanation for why they don't have this book.

Down in the undertow

Test #1

Overwhelmed as one would be, placed in my position
Such a heavy burden now to be the one
Born to bear and read to all, the details of our ending
To write it down for all the world to see
But I forgot my pen

Don't know   Won't know