*A Possible Vertex* --OR-- *Guarding The Great Catalyst*
Saturday, November 13, 2004
1:49AM - goodbye
I have just realised something.
Everything I have believed is a lie.
I was wrong. Wrong about all of it.
My faith and trust have been crushed for the last time.
I am going to leave this journal.
And I must burn everything I have written, online and off.
Because it is nothing more than a worthless dream.
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
12:13AM - wherever there once was ...
I just downloaded the trailer for Episode III and ... mon dieu ...
The wonder of the entire Star Wars universe aside, for a moment or two, there's an aspect I can't help but watch on its own. I have constantly watched it (subconsciously and otherwise) ever since I first saw Star Wars. More so since finishing Knights of the Old Republic, as the character of Revan just amplified this. There's something about it that drew me, something that still does draw me.
What is it? It is the appearance? The black garb, glowing red blade and the ravaged appearance of any powerful Sith, one who has felt the effects of his own strength? This .. THIS ... is beautifully seductive. It is symptomatic of the desire to grow without consideration for anything but oneself, without care for direction of anything but oneself, without care but for power at whatever cost. For that is what it is about, and that is the great lure, and the beauty of the transformation. When Sith, there is a price to being what you are, but what a price it is ...
I can't really express how much this draws me. If you were to take the Darkness within me .. it would manifest itself like this; a beast that was elegant and deadly and brutal, drawing impossible strength from its own anger and hatred. And it would pursue its own gratification in hurt and blood relentlessly and if you got in the way, innocent or not, you would be destroyed. Ultimately, it would die when a point was reached, facing some insurmountable hurdle or chewing on its own entrails in madness and fear, like a man driven insane by the whispers of his own mind. Likely I would die in the making of this. But I think I would have long since finished myself anyhow. The dark side of the Eldar, most literally.
Still .. it beckons.
And it is marvellously beautiful ...
Monday, November 8, 2004
12:47PM - ack! Gophers ...
Against my better judgement I chose to do a SEVENTH paper next year.
Five has always been my lucky number, and I was set on five papers for 2005 - this would have aligned properly as well as feeling *above*ly correct - but for some fucked up reason, I had to choose a sixth. But no, I didn't stop there. I knew that it wasn't enough. *It* knew it. And He bloody well knew it too.
So .. I chose a seventh, because I'm trigger happy when it comes to spending money on my education, or so it would seem.
Seven instead of five.
What, me see signs in the woodwork? Don't be silly.
Coincidence is one thing, but someone shouting in your ear about the weather and <implication> talking about clouds </implication> is nothing short of blackmail.
Grr. I hate you God.
Wednesday, November 3, 2004
Well ... I promised myself two shots for Kerry in the Oval Office, or three for Bush ...;
Hahahahaha ... I've had seven???
If Ohio = Red ... it's all over. And that will happen.
I got drunk for the first time in months ... and it was over POLTIICS? HAHHAHAHA .. wtf, mate?
God ... I'm so sad.
Viva la revolucion!
we'lll win yet ....
Wow ... 12 hours later and I don't have a hangover, and am still unable to walk properly. Additionally, Nesh tells me the glass was a double, so it's more like fourteen shots than seven.
It was good vodka though, but no wonder the bottle is almost empty ...
Monday, November 1, 2004
7:24PM - le sigh
The source of most of my woes seem to be people. In the rare spots when things seem comfortably pleasant, someone whom I have a justifiably strong connection to just has to jump right in and mess things around. Humans screw my radar up using some kind of complicated reflective emotion-bending shielding reverso-thingy technology.
I wish that I had the capacity to abandon care.
But I've been down this avenue of thought too many times before, and I cannot see my way through to the exit.
The stream is very loud this evening. I can barely hear them speaking from The Other Side.
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
5:10AM - words to say
Ashai, we haven't talked to one another directly across the 'net for months, and the first conversation we have is about you wanting to plug your speakers into your head.
Only with you could a conversation like that occur.
So, in remedy for the degenerating tone of my livejournal, I have these things to say:
1. Yes, I will search for answers ASAP and will return to you once I have something to say.
2. It looks better in red, and I would counsel against going up today. Maybe try some time later in the week.
3. I miss my companion; you'd better not have forgotten about him.
4. When in Rome ...
5. Because five is my number, and I wanted a fifth point.
Oh, and I would say more 'weary' than the other, although there are distinct times, when I spike close to the latter, during which I'm afraid I could hurt someone.
But, thankfully, nothing has happened.
Sunday, October 17, 2004
10:30PM - btw ..
Oh, and I should have said before, but Cael is dead.
The IJ version, of course. The 'real' Cael, if there is such a thing, is alive. You'd probably know independent of this livejournal if *he* was deceased.
And so much progress had been made.
It tears at me.
7:35PM - continuance
I've never felt less enthused in my life about anything.
What the fuck?
Who cares? Why does it matter? It's abstract linear constructions to describe other abstract linear constructions that are around for a human system that evolved out of technological advancement. I know it's necessary *systematically* but it's not in terms of complexity and extension. Rules for rules for other rules than describe how to open a door without tripping over your shoes.
What am I doing with my life?
I don't know ...
Saturday, October 16, 2004
.. how similar John Kerry speaks to Agent Smith?
I knew I recognised him from somewhere, but the realisation was an amusing revelation.
America would function better with an Agent as president. Then all that stuff about hunting down terrorists you could actually believe, because you know an Agent would do it. With only his bare hands, an earpiece, a suit, a set of sunglasses and a terminally neutral expression.
Vote for change. Vote for for the mental enslavement of humanity. Vote for the woman in the red dress. Vote for democracy, giant drilling machines, squidies and underground cities. Vote for an old guy with a beard in a white suit. Vote for Tasty Wheat.
Forget Bush and Cheney. Screw Kerry and Edwards. Nader and who? Bunch of commies, the lot of them.
Vote right. Vote the Agent way.
Vote for Smith and Jackson 2004.
"Our election will put America back on track - to machine domination!"
Sunday, October 10, 2004
I shall have to go with CH today to get her a counselling appointment at the medical centre on campus. She doesn't really want to go; such a tomboy in many senses of the word, but I think it's for the better. Undereating, smoking a lot, stressing about .. God knows what. Probably the boyfriend, possibly things to do with home? I'm not sure.
I just hope she can overcome these problems without coming to grief in the process.
I got a somewhat shitty mark on the latest 245 test, but at least I passed, thanks to a hurried 2 hours worth of study on the morning it was due to happen. Most of the lab reports I've been getting full marks for, or only 1/2 mark off, so I can hardly complain that I'm not doing well.
I'm still chronically underachieving though.
There has never been any true drive behind this, only the vague bursts of interest behind certain topics that are sufficiently novel to attract my interest. Then it vanishes and I'm back to square one. Not particularly caring, but caring enough to do the stuff and pass the paper.
Life is comfortably ambivalent.
Which is fucking horrible, to be brutally honest.
Wednesday, October 6, 2004
12:28AM - HAHAHAHA
No words can express. This is ... apt.
- - - - -
Tuesday, October 5, 2004
It never stops amazing me how I can discover myself again every day.
Just before when listening to the Brood War introduction ...
... something I'd never heard before.
It made me want to cry.
Never want to lose the wonder.
Thursday, September 30, 2004
10:49AM - editage
Here we go yet again. Another excerpt, from 22.
Cthel stepped onto the cool air of the late afternoon. He was on Earth, far from Heaven and Hell and faced with confusion, uncertainty and the unforgiving and painful prospect that he had probably made the wrong choice yet again, but this was something he had known since the first terrible choice had been made all those millennia ago. Yet there was nothing to be done about it now. He didn't know where he was, only that it was some industrialised urban piece of blandness that passed for a city in one of the English speaking western nations of the early 21st century. He hadn't bothered to veil his presence on the mortal plane, and had instead opted to walk the human world as one of them. It was a privilege granted to a few of the more powerful or important angels and demons by their respective powers, and exercised but seldom.
He sat down on a park bench and surveyed the unexceptional stretch of green, the small pond, the modest-but-not-too-modest baroque fountains over near the main street, the ducks on the pond, the few oak trees dotting the perimeter and the concrete walking paths along which the city's youth would frequently go flying at high speed on bikes or rollerblades or skateboards, sometimes with dogs leading the way, occasionally holding an ice lolly in one hand, often sweating or laughing like mad.
The demon then sat back, relaxing, and did what any good demon would do. He pulled out a cigarette, the last of his current packet, that he'd bought at a superette just across the street from the park; then tossing the empty packet onto the ground in the opposite direction of a park trash bin scarcely a meter away, which had a stern "No Littering" sign tacked above it. Conservation was up there on the 'I Don't Give A Damn' end of Cthel's scale of important things, right next to 'Reducing Aerial Pollution'. Glancing around to make sure no one was watching too closely, he stared intensely at the tip of the cigarette and a second later it gave a brief flare and came alight. Matches and lighters were redundant. Satisfied, he bought it to his lips and took a puff.
He watched the humans as they walked past. Demon senses worked overtime here, picking up all the signals, supernatural and otherwise, relaying them to many sectors of his intelligence. Those that passed by were analysed and all character maps became visible, mostly in terms of their flaws, as that was what Hell dealt in. Follies, foibles, flaws and failings; vice and the slow but steady spread of sin. Most of the passers-by were quite dull, their shortcomings minor and much to Cthel's disappointment, nothing happened to them as he watched. Many of them were on a gradual countdown to their own personal detonation of self in some fashion, which most were destined to pull themselves out of and survive, of course - Hell didn't win as often as some people thought - but none reached their designated destruction point in the park stretch in front of the demon's gaze. No sudden emotional collapses, no critical mass of suffering. Maybe they were too inhibited or too self-conscious to lose it for his enjoyment. Bastards. The demon wanted something to shift his mind away from the current troubles. Humans were just being damned inconvenient right when he wanted a diversion. It seemed it was going to be an uneventful sojourn after all. That was, until he saw the kids.
There were four of them and they'd meandered into one of the quieter areas of the park. From first glance and to the casual observer, it just looked like they were fooling around as teenagers were wont to do, but the three larger boys were not allowing the smaller fourth boy much pleasure, and their fooling around was more on the painful abusive side of fun, than the genial roughhousing that it was masquerading as. Cthel watched it with amusement. The younger one fell and was then tripped again by the tall, buzz cut boy in the ripped jeans. The chubby one next to him in army fatigues and a hoody was hooting with laughter, while the third, an aquiline-nosed punk with a gothic iron cross tattooed on the bare muscle of his shoulder (he too was wearing jeans and a wifebeater) picked the younger one up and dusted him off, so the barely disguised sadism could continue.
The inhumanity of the human ethos was always a marvel to behold in action. These creatures were born into a world with the ability not only to choose, but with the implicit declaration of choice hanging over them like an unspoken prayer. There were plenty of more eligible foils, but even with the possibility of empathy and the countless targets in the world that were different from them, they chose each other as objects of derision and hate! As Cthel watched, satisfaction spreading through him as he observed the smaller boy get put in a headlock. No one else in the park was noticing; they were isolated enough that it was out of the perception of most people, and those few that did notice didn't care. They were too worried about their own personal safety to care about a bunch of adolescents bruising some poor little bastard who probably deserved all that was coming to him. What more proof did Lucifer need? The rebellion had justified itself every day through the action of these people. Humans couldn't even look after themselves, much less aspire to the ultimate extension over existence. It was his kind, the folk of angelic and demonic stock, that were the worthy inheritors of the earth. Serve God and serve these pathetic wretches? They could be ruling this place like kings, not mending it and carrying it and cleaning up like an Olympian servant humiliated for the purpose of his witless master's enjoyment.
God was wrong. The day would come when Hell would prevail and the humans would lose it all, forever. All because this race was too weak and undeserving.
The demon considered them as they continued shoving the boy around and kicking him. It was so crafty and skilful, the way their actions bordered between playfulness and brutality. He wondered whether there was some sort of human magic weaving going on, but there was nothing tangible, nothing he could 'smell' in the ether. No, these were just punks. Clever, nasty, twisted little bastards. The buzz cut one gave a hefty kick, and the kid doubled up in visible pain. He stumbled forward on the grass, and Cthel knew he was hurt internally, though to what extent, he could not currently tell; only that he was probably spitting up blood. Why were they doing this? Their actions spoke clearly. Fear of things different. He was small, delicate, with a bit of a mouth on him. His parents were poor, and his clothes were shabby. They thought he was a sissy or a fag, even though neither of those things were true; he was as brave and enamoured with females as most boys his age. He was just a target and they wanted some fun. It then dawned on Cthel that their 'fun' could possibly kill the boy, if not permanently damage him.
The thought of that should have been a perverse comfort to the demon, but oddly it wasn't. It wasn't in the slightest.
Cthel stopped, shocked with himself. What was this? No. No. It wasn't.
He looked at the boy again, but there was no pleasure. No glee or gratification at the wanton violence and cruelty. Nor even apathy, which would have been more preferable to what he was feeling now. Which was simply disillusionment. Not anger or mercy or pity, but disillusionment tinged with regret. What a ridiculous stupid Heavens-be-damned waste. It wasn't necessary. Waste of this sort was foolish.
He stood up and stalked across the grass towards them. The fat one saw him coming and nudged his friend, the one with the tattoo, who straightened up from his torture, and turned to face him.
"Yeah," he said in a slow drawl. "What you want?"
"Leave the kid alone," said Cthel, his voice a low and even pitch.
The one that the demon had mentally dubbed Tattoo gave a glance towards Buzz Cut and both started laughing together. Tubby joined in a second later. The wife-beater clad skinhead looked at him.
"Just who da fuck are you?"
Cthel took a drag on the cigarette and eyed him calmly. He was feeling irritable and tired of human fallibility. He wanted to go home, and these little shits were complicating things.
"I'm the one that'll make your life a complete Hell if you don't get lost right now. Understand?"
Buzz Cut piped up. "What? You think you some kind of big man or something?" He stepped closer to the demon, his height making him all the more threatening, although Cthel didn't really much care how big the human was. He was slightly shorter than them, dressed in black leather that wasn't ostentatious, merely stylishly serviceable. His face was angular and pale and slightly serpentine, and his eyes were so dark as to be nearly black. He took another drag on the shortening cigarette, and puffed the smoke into Buzz Cut's face. The punk coughed.
"Son of a bitch! I'm gonna fuckin' kill you-"
But he was interrupted by Tattoo who grabbed him by the arm, clearly the leader of this little bunch.
"Clear your shit up, man. This ain't time for another fucking whiny tantrum." Then to the demon. "What's your goddamned problem?"
"Looks like you're deaf as well as stupid. I told you to leave the kid alone and take a walk."
Tattoo didn't look all that happy. "What do you want with him? Are you one of those sick paedophile fucks that screws with little kids 'cause they can't get any pussy?"
Tubby starting laughing at the attempt at humour. Cthel glanced at him. The fat kid had 'loser' written all over him, from ankles to ears. This was going to be so simple that he could do it in his sleep. "What's so funny? I'll bet it isn't that hilarious being twenty-three years old and a virgin, is it? Being rejected by every girl you ask because not only are you not that intelligent, but you usually smell like stale smoke and body odour, and let's face it, you're an unattractive bitch." The demon paused a second, contemplatively, thinking that perhaps he should ease off, but then deciding that he didn't really care. "It must really suck to be you. You probably couldn't get a prostitute willing enough without mortgaging your parents house, and even then it'd be a gamble."
The fat kid was staring at him, slack-mouthed, his face gone white. Buzz Cut frowned at snapped at him: "What the fuck?"
Before the demon could say anything, Tattoo cut back. "Whatever the fuck he may be, at least he isn't a fucking paedophile FAGGOT."
Cthel shook his head. "I couldn't give a shit about having sex with this kid. Seeing him bleed all over the ground is just as attractive, if not more than seeing him naked. It's all the same to me. But you," spoke the demon, his mouth twisting into an iniquitous grin around the cigarette as he smoked and talked simultaneously, "you're quite different. But it's not just anyone, is it? Must be fucking strange for you to have to baby-sit for your aunty now. Every time you park yourself on the couch and watch little .. what's his name? The eleven year old one? Ryan .. that's it. Every time you watch little Ryan down on the floor, fixing up the television for his games, his cute tight little ass waving in the air, all you can do is stare and get so hard that you can't stand it."
Tattoo was glaring at him, his eyes wide, jaw hard. Buzz Cut's mouth had dropped open and was staring at his buddy. He knew Ryan and his younger sister, Jane. He'd kept them occupied plenty of times while Tattoo was out on the back porch smoking a joint. This was screwy. Really fucking screwy.
"Must also be fucking strange for you that when you can't get it up for your girlfriend, then all you gotta do is think of that kid living two doors down with his grandpa. What, he must be only thirteen, right? You know exactly who I'm talking about. The short blonde one. And then bang, you're as stiff as a board, and suddenly it's a lot easier. Only now you aren't fucking Tiffany, but you're sliding in and out of that kid, and he's your little whore and damn, does it make you feel like a man, 'cause that's just the way you like it. Young. Firm. And male, of course."
The punk lifted a now quivering finger and pointed it at him, jabbing emphatically with his finger as he spoke. "You shut up. Just shut the fuck up. I'll screw you up for good if you don't quit saying this shit."
Cthel raised an eyebrow. Neither of the other two seemed inclined to disbelieve him. He'd gone into too much detail too accurately for them to have room for doubt. "You can try if you wanna, but do I really look like someone you want to fuck with? It'd be quicker if you just grabbed lard-ass here and left. Unless you really want to me to show you the meaning of paedophilia and rape in some place private, and I can fucking promise you it won't be an experience you will EVER forget."
Of course, the demon had no desire or intention to enact those sorts of things on the human; he simply couldn't be bothered. They were a waste of time and effort, and he would have hated them with a passion, but he'd long since decided that hate should be reserved for a foe that was actually worth hating, like his angelic progenitors, for a start. But it was enough to scare the daylights out of the punk. The demon glanced across at Buzz Cut who was looking like he was about to try something to avenge his friend. "And you. Don't get me started on you and your mother and your step-father. What a fucking mess. Go on. Get lost. I don't want you here. Fuck off."
It was Tattoo who replied, speaking to the other two. "This shit's whack. Let's fuckin' bail. I'm going to Leon's."
The other two nodded in agreement. Thoroughly frightened and confused, the trio began backing away and then broke into a brisk walk, first Tubby, then the other two following suit close behind. Cthel ignored them, not even watching them leave. Chucking away the butt of his extinguished cigarette, he crouched down beside the kid, who was lying on his side in the grass, his eyes squeezed shut in pain. The demon pulled out the new packet, spend a few seconds impatiently tapping the ends, and then ripped the covering off and withdrew one. They were a rare and expensive brand, found in very few shops in the country, but treasured by those who smoked them. The paper was a shade of blue and the filter had an odd perfumed taste to it, something exotic, sweet and unknown. Tzchensky Spurs, they were. In no hurry, Cthel carefully lit the smoke and inhaled. Whatever anyone else might think, these were well constructed. The perfection of such an old vice was a thing to behold, he thought, as he turned the burning cigarette over and over in his fingers. Then turning his attention back to the child, he lifted the kid's shirt and looked at his stomach. It was a mass of softened purple tissue, the bruising overlaid.
It didn't look good.
The boy moaned and opened his eyes. "I feel sick," he mumbled. "They were kicking me in the stomach."
"I saw it," said the demon. "Must have hurt."
"Yeah," murmured the kid. He tried to sit up properly, but winced and doubled over again. "What the fuck is wrong? They've beat me before, but it's never hurt like this."
Cthel shrugged. "You took a pounding, kid. Bound to feel like you've run too far, too fast, for much too long."
He curled his knees to his chest, gritting his teeth in pain. The boy's face was pretty pale and his large dark eyes were fixed on Cthel's face. "I feel really really sick," he repeated. And then he coughed. It was blood, and it spattered on Cthel's shirt. The demon didn't bat an eyelid, and brushed it off matter-of-factly. "What did they do to me? Mister, can you help me please? I think I'm hurt pretty bad."
"You are hurt pretty bad."
The dark eyes blinked and the boy swallowed and grimaced. "Are you a doctor? How bad is it?"
"You're bleeding internally, all over the place. You'll be dead well before tomorrow. Before the sun sets, actually."
He coughed and hacked in shock and fear, and began to whimper.
"Can't a .. hospital do anything?"
The demon shook his head. "Wouldn't work," he said slowly, taking another drag on the cigarette. "You're too damaged. Not worth the effort just to die being doped up on whatever they'd feed you."
The kid starting crying. He was fourteen years old and he'd just been told he was dying. "I ... I ... I don't want to die," he gasped, the tears trickling down his face as he sobbed gently into the grass, the demon watching on impassively. "I don't wanna leave my mom and dad and ... " he trailed off, his voice fading into his misery, his fear at the now looming mortality.
"Nothing can save you now," said the demon, savouring the cigarette. He licked his lips and felt the wind. Cool, but pleasantly airy. It would be a nice evening. You could have far worse weather to meet your end in. His voice was the calm, simple and completely apathetic voice of doom for the child, and he knew it. But it didn't matter. "Don't bother praying either. God doesn't exist. You've got only yourself for as long as you have left and after that it's nothing. Game over."
He whimpered again, eyes going wider in terror and incomprehension. The tears flowed faster now. Cthel stared down at the fatal scene before him with a mixture of distaste and appreciation of the intricate workmanship that went into the process of termination. Even the most base ways of life's closing made themselves so artistic in the little details. He had to admit that one thing humans did do well was die. But mostly for the wrong reasons.
"Look kid, I'm gonna leave you now, so you can have your privacy for when your heart stops beating. That's really generous of me, because most guys like me would probably take a lot more pleasure out of seeing a youngster like you all laid out. In not more than about thirty or forty minutes at the most, someone will get curious and come over to rescue you, but it won't matter who finds you after I step away, 'cause they won't be able to do anything for you anyhow. Take it from me, it could've been much worse for you than it has been. You should be grateful. Not that I'd expect gratitude, but there you go."
The kid didn't say anything. He just stared at Cthel.
"That's it. It'll be a painful ride till you sleep, but life, my unfortunate little friend, is like that."
With that, the demon stood up, walked away and disappeared from the world of men, leaving nothing but a faint trail of smoke and the smell of sulfur and incense.
Exactly thirty-six minutes and thirty-two seconds later, a curious street sweeper who was sweeping the paths through the park came across to the immobile form of the boy in the grass. At first he thought the kid was just asleep, but then he realised, with growing alarm, that sleep wasn't the case. The street sweeper held the kid for the last twenty seconds of his life, as his lungs began to fill with fluid and his heart slowed to a stand still. The large dark eyes gently closed and the quiet coughing and pain ceased. It was over.
Later, after due procedure had been carried out at the local police station and the mortician had the appropriate permission, an autopsy was conducted. Cause of death was listed as the result of internal bleeding in the abdominal area, two broken ribs and a ruptured kidney, which was caused by external trauma, the direct cause of which was probably physical assault or assault with a blunt weapon. The mortician concluded that if the child had been given medical attention prior to twenty minutes before he died, there was a strong possibility he might have pulled through, but further post-mortem examination also revealed something rather startling. Not only was there a tumour growing in the child's liver, but there was one also apparent in the central portion of the mid-brain, near the hypothalamus. Both were malignant, but the latter was inoperable, the size and position of it making removal risky under the most optimal conditions. The mortician guessed it would have been fatal in a couple of years; his colleague, a neuro-specialist gave a brief examination to corroborate this. It would have taken, the doctor estimated, a lot less than years for death to arrives. Somewhere between seven to ten months for the boy to die from the afflictions. Much of that time would be spent incapacitated and in great pain. But this was just an educated guess, at best. Sometimes these things could be beaten with the right treatment, although often this was not how it worked. Who knew what might have taken place had the boy lived.
Maybe it was better things had happened the way they did.
Tuesday, September 28, 2004
7:52PM - miaow
You are very cunning, and I would have to say that you're actually taller than you think you are. Two inches, at least.
And I refuse to play your games, at least right now, but later? Maybe I'm not refusing now, but pre-emptively agreeing not to, in preparation to renege.
Or maybe I'm just calling you a spade because you're a diamond disguised as a heart.
Plot formula: linear, threesome (of course, how else would they do it? Age old) and transitory.
Lots of broken glass, and some guy buying weed.
How I'd love to have a Tzchensky Spur.
"The discerning vice for the discerning person! Take nothing but the best."
Monday, September 20, 2004
One must not try to embrace nor repulse the question. One must simply say to oneself "Mu!"; that is "Not". If you are aware in the moment, then there are no questions. There is you and what you are doing and what is with you; but if more than that extends, then you are in maze searching for the silent temple. However, the surroundings are the same - it is merely your self that is contrary. A koan states: "Do not search for truth, simply stop having opinions."
Immersed in water,
you stretch out
your hands for a drink.
The "Way" is not difficult
And thirdly, for threes work best:
comes with great love.
Wisdom is recognising the connections of life; love is liberation once it is realised, and the unifying force.
If this would be the next echelon or the next iteration of my veritas; or the soliloquoy of my part of the absolute veritas (if there is a difference, which I do not know), then it is a dove.
-- EDIT: Postscriptum .. 45 minutes later --
And now I am utterly different once again and flooded with emotion adn I feel angry and helpless and suicidal and I want to kill or be killed and I can't sleep and it's past 3am, with no-one to trust or rely on but myself and always to be trusted and relied upon by others - never receive the favour always give it, because I'm a fucking martyr and people are never enough and I love them even in their stupid narrow little worlds full of stupid narrow little human thigns that dont matter but at the same time are so fcking important that it splits the sky apart; the utter trivia and nonsense of our little fucking petty concerns .. all institutions and rules and bureacracies and lines and laws and fines and guns pointed at our own heads and I DESPISE that we are destroying the trees as we search for the forest and I anger .. I ANGER at the memories that now seem to fade away into a wintery desert viewed by only the desolation of a polar star gone red with the tides, a deep sullen red that is a familiar colour and scent, saying "but you are too late now, you should have realised what was occurring when you were there" and I know that it is right and WRONG at the same time, but I will not and cannot rescind because in my heart .. the same wound is left there, and it will not close nor scar, but sits afresh fucking constantly, and if I was to be punished then this is the ultimate and best way for it to be done, a raw constancy that never dies since first light; a beast of weightless burden the size of entire continents, that cannot be shifted and does not do anything but sit upon me and whisper in my ear about how I should have known, that every day is now a struggle between being at peace with existence and FLEEING into this sanctum of such divinely insane fear and consummately ecstatic Darkness of Self, of sitting in thine own booth and saying through the slots "take me now muse, shred me with your claws and release me back into the wild that you have created, as a yrch composed only of your disgusting notions, but ignorant and dwelling in a smaller and more latent world of bloodied despair." But I know in my heart and it angers and frustrates me beyond belief that Im incapable of doing this, I'm chained to this fucking Light-way, but I'm not a saint or a Great One or a tian'dor nor a luminary of the times .. I'm just a person that will be forgotten and lost, and won't make any sense, who can give whatever the fuck anyone reasonably asks but can't ask the same in return because I just .... don't care now. I want to die. I want to quit, to give up. Not to be some kidn of invisible hero, not to be punsihed for loving and being in love, nor blamed for the excesses of others, nor taken places I wanted to be. Maybe to just fade into the dark and have even my ghost of memory, my ange de temps tap me into nothing, and I shall sit, weeping and unknown in the Void Which Binds, and no longer will I hurt and my companions will be kin. Lions and Tigers and Bears. Rage, rage no more against the tides, but settle thy gentle feet into the sand and kiss goodbye tender whims; and now thy tread is ne'er footfall in a silent country 'tween hills of grey; flower pick'd there is fading down to slums of earthen time on final mark; and yea, we shed tears that we knew no others in this muffl'd place and tyme ...
and I still can't fucking sleep and I hate today. Hate. And still I will have to go out and be human and nice for them, and to smile .. but it will only make me more a slave and more "good" even though I may want to evoke nihilism, I cannot. Still bound.
Friday, September 10, 2004
Which Family Guy Character are you? Take the Quiz!
Tuesday, September 7, 2004
LET THIS NOT OVERSHADOW MY PREVIOUS JOURNAL ENTRY.
I hate it when I do multiple ones and people only read the first. But anyhow ...
- - - - -
Spell your first name backwards]
[The story behind your email add]
It's my initials plus a randomly generated number, which happend to be 107. I don't know why. Not an exciting story, but a story nonetheless.
[Where do you live]
A blue and grey Quiksilver contraption, containing only my flat EFTPOS card, an elliptical Trade Center bronze coin, fashioned from a US penny, and Peter's VCU ID card from god knows when. Don't know why I still have that, but I do.
Long, darkish blonde/brown.
[Jewelry you wear daily]
Silver ring with rotate-able inner band on ring finger of left hand (I got it in New York); the Silver Phoenix ring (that was rebirthed after Peter's mood ring died) on the ring finger of my right hand; pewter pentacle with Norse runes on the edge as a pendant; wooden cross with gold inlaid along the centre of the two bars, also as a pendant.
A funny stripy pattern of black, cyan, cream and white.
Cheap grey and black skater shoes, flat soled.
[What you are wearing now]
Skater jeans, plum-coloured skivvy underneath black and grey Billabong surfshirt
[In my head]
10,000 miles to go before I sleep, and each of them paved with dreams that I do not know
[Some of your favorite movies]
The Lord of the Rings trilogy, the Matrix (yes, ALL of it. I love even the third movie ... ), Star Wars (because it's Star Wars, for no other reason), Kill Bill Vols 1 and 2.
[Something you're looking forward]
December. I haven't been to Australia in more than three years.
[The last thing you ate?]
Maggi 2 minute noodles. I'm a student, sue me.
[Something that you are deathly afraid of?]
Discovering that our loneliness has no ultimate purpose; that is has less meaning than the least.
[Do you like candles]
They are malleable symbols, and symbols can be dangerous. But yes, I like them.
[Do you believe in a thing called love]
[Do you believe in soul mates]
Yes and no.
[Do you believe in love at first sight]
[If you could have any animal for a pet]
[What are some of your favorite foods?]
Italian. A good roast done kiwi style doesn't go amiss either. Ain't nothing like home.
[Anyone you miss that you haven't seen in a long time?]
Don't ask me this question.
I don't usually get sick unless it's bad .. I have a powerful immune system. Last time was in June of 2003. I picked up a strong virus that laid me low for several weeks.
When I made a large fuckup whilst talking to someone I know on the internet.
I think I hugged Soleil when I saw her last? Sometime within the last week anyhow.
[Talked to someone you have a crush on]
Haven't got a crush on anyone I know. I'm somewhat selective.
[Fought with your parents]
I haven't seen them in upwards of eight months. I had a large disagreement with them about going to America last year, but that was all.
[Dreamed about someone you can't be with]
I'm not going to answer this because I can't think of anything to say that will translate into words.
[Do you like being around people]
[Who have you known the longest?]
Is this a trick question? My parents. They were the ones that brought me into the world.
[who do you argue the most with]
I don't argue with people much at all, as a rule.
[Who do you always get along with]
Almost everyone. I have no enemies I know of. Maybe they're lurking in the dark with daggers with my name written on them in blood. Maybe not. That would be crazy talk, by a crazy person.
Stolen from zackrivers who stole it from HCJordan who stole it from ekirh (who begat such-and-such ... meh ..)
8:52PM - originality
I don't know what it is, but whenever I look at websites that are engineered towards dating for gays, or anything like that ... the boys/men all look the same; or at least the guys within ten years of my age do. Perhaps it's a little harsh to dismiss it all as a stylistic clone factory, but that's all short cropped hair, in a similar if not identical vein; clothes that are mostly new iterations but on the same theme, and attitudes that are usually professedly fine but seem to yield strangely under a little scrutiny and can prove to be nothing short of ingratiatingly irritating on the off-moments.
I haven't seen a single person that looks anything close to me, yet. I could challenge Legolas when it comes to hair length, though I'd probably lose out on overall charm and all round super-elf ass kicking skills. Yet, LotR comparisons aside, the point is that this place is so stylised and lacking in .. freshness. It's like .. conform to the Look (TM) if you wish to attract anyone at all or risk being a wallflower forever.
Yes, I'm generalising. Probably dangerous, always erroneous not to account for possibility. But I stick to my course because it seems to fit well with what I've observed.
Perhaps I'll just stay a wallflower and maybe a bachelor, until I die a mortal death.
Or maybe I should just complain about it in this journal. That's all I seem to do, right? Expression of opinion until face is blue or some other shade of that end of the spectrum, such as cobalt, violet or indigo. Does it achieve anything?
Monday, September 6, 2004
6:31PM - absence ...
I miss you. Each and every one of you. Where have you all gone?
Friday, September 3, 2004
9/2/2004 8:58:14 PM - Cael wrote to Isirion:
I hate writing networking reports. Specially when I don't know wtf the tutor wants.
9/2/2004 9:01:18 PM - Isirion wrote to Cael:
i hate getting my car stolen... =P... bush is speaking now... HEART BUSH
but i heart you more ;D
9/2/2004 10:00:24 PM - Cael wrote to Isirion:
hahaha .. you seriously don't wanna compare me to him, or I could get into a righteous liberal rage and try to start a commie revolution, or something equally treacherous and God-hatingly pinko ...
you'd better love me more. I'm a good 30 years younger than him :D
9/2/2004 10:01:14 PM - Isirion wrote to Cael:
i said i hearted you more, =P
youre a dirty liberal and i stillll lub you more!
- - - - -
Jack, you made my day 100 times brighter.
See? Proof that a dirty liberal bitch and a stubborn Republican fool can love one another.
I have no use for prejudice.
People should be treated like PEOPLE.
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