And with this I give you...

... a lesson in ratio.

2011-04-24T15:15:00.000-07:00

Wasted Bottles

With a ratio that's slipping on one end to the other; from 89, 88, 87: 11, 12, 13.

It's no wonder that the claws come out in the better times; so i can stick those claws into the moment to be cemented within it. But if i myself were to be the living, breathing personification of time, would i be willing to do the same to my own centre to hold myself into place? Like a wallclock to a nail; suspended.

79, 78, 77: 21, 22, 23.

Hammering myself into a spot; a purgatory of a moment once loved but ruined and that's all that this is. But am i willing? Well it seems so; the sacrifice to keep and to cherish while it is meerly endured.

69, 68, 67: 31, 32, 33.

Spending everyday on a boat floating amongst the waters of said purgatory as i throw bottle after bottle out to sea with no care from the recipient waiting on the shoreline to find it. As they recieve with only the intention to endure and not to cherish.

59, 58, 57: 41, 42, 43.

But my arms tire and my centre drains; As you endure, i endure but no longer do i cherish. I watch the moment that i'm cemented in as i watch you; an eye on each as i weigh up its worth.

50, 50, 50: 50, 50, 50.

With one more tip on the ratio, the claws will come out of you and i will allow myself to slip away.

... one free turn.

2010-07-13T17:37:00.000-07:00

One Hundred Years of Toys, Dice and String.

If you were to imagine every step you've ever taken as a roll of a dice.
We stop, we watch others, we roll, we move.

Then imagine the strings, the more strings, the more complications to your body.
One to your hand, one to the other.
One to your foot and one to another.
Then the most important trigger is the one in your mouth.
The simplicity controls your body and there are no surgeons here so no heart
strings. We play as you but never your depths.
Forget how we feel, all we need is a needle and thread to bind us together.

Then imagine that everything is so much smaller.
We're the toys that get lost amongst the cracks; the toys with the broken weapons because no kid will ever know how to treat us properly.
Yet when no one is around we hold ourselves so high because there is no one around to break us.

Then imagine what 100 years is in the grand scale of things.
It is nothing to the world, but everything to us..
So forget the grand scale, i will look at the smaller things because i can't see
past my next roll.
Each person i know holds a string and one by one they will let go but i'll keep hold of the trigger.

At least in this world nothing is real.
No surgeons, no nerves.
Just cotton, string and little chance that i will ever see,
past the toys, the dice and the string.
Each one of my steps is numbered.
In life, we hit the end and we fall off the board but in this scenario, step 100 is followed by 1.
Oh how i love to play these games.

And with this i give you one free turn.

... a quick doodle.

2010-06-26T08:50:00.000-07:00

First quick sketch to go with 'The Aftermath of a Rainbow.'

"His memories are formed with colours and blurs whereas hers are like tapes. Whilst he only remembers the bad, she solely remembers the good. "

And with this i give you a quick doodle.

... a change of perspective.

2010-06-22T08:23:00.000-07:00

The good, the bad and the nothings.

If you were to stand still and let the world in, I'm pretty sure it would destroy you.
There's always the good, the bad and the nothings.
No matter how hard we squeeze our eyes shut, crouch down and keep our hands clamped to our ears there will always be the white noise buzzing.
I try hard to keep moving because if we were to stop, this is what we'd hear.

The footsteps on the pavement at first.
Five feet to the right of me are two people who most would assume are a couple and as I get closer I can tell my assumption was correct. This is the drama I usually avoid and as I pass the volume slides up and I listen in...
"... isn't us. Why can't you..."
3. 2. 1. and it's over for me but it's still there. What means nothing to me means everything to them and it's a shame that that counts for so much in life.

And switch.

My eyes dart from his left eye to the right and for a second I become distracted by how I can never look into both at the same time so I look to the floor instead and I mumble.
"This isn't us, why can't you see that I'm unhappy?"
He looks away and I know that he blames himself. So selfless yet so naive and it's those reasons that make me realise we've changed. I look up as I hear a noise from behind me and I turn towards an ambulance 10 feet behind me, getting closer and closer. The siren approaching and before it fades into the distance i just catch the end of his sentence;
"... can't do this anymore."
And my heart breaks and pounds and all I can do is swallow my throat.

And switch.

I'm gasping for air but I barely notice. All I can focus on is my heart pounding in my eardrums bringing panic on, making me feel cold. I try to distract myself by listening to the rhythm that is created with my heart and the siren but it doesn't work.
There's a man in green sitting next to me with his hand on my heart telling me everything is
going to be fine if I just stay calm. It's in these moments that we curse ourselves for lying because if we didn't then i'd believe him. Human nature in its finest always comes back to haunt us.
He blurs and everything turns red, then slowly from the outside in everthing begins to fade into white and I gasp.

And switch.

I gasp as I see the ambulance approaching and take a quick step back onto the pavement. I kick a bottle cap out of my path and I tune back out as the siren quietens.
There's a part of me that is grateful for the nothings and even happier for the goods. But then there's parts of me that know that when these things happen to me, they'll be equally as insignificant. It takes 5 seconds to see the bad and the same amount of time to ignore it.
It's then that I look across the road and I see her for the first time. I can't help but smile
as I step forward.
Then it hits me and I take it back... Give me the nothings over the bad.

And switch.

I stop at the crossing as I see him. He smiles, I smile. But it's over so fast. I freeze and all I can hear is a noise getting louder and louder.
It's a person, running towards him shouting.
"... someone call an ambulance."

And with this I give you a change of perspective.

... the first day of proof on a slow road.

2010-06-12T14:52:00.000-07:00

The Aftermath of a Rainbow.

His memories are formed with colours and blurs whereas hers are like tapes. Whilst he only remembers the bad, she solely remembers the good.
And even if it takes forever, she will rewrite the tapes in the beautiful calligraphy of cliché so that he can watch every piece of sunshine that they had until he feels the warmth. And her? Well she will let in the rain for a while so she can see where he stands.
Until a rainbow arches across above them.

We will inspire when we're happy.
Because when we're happy there will be music and art surrounding us.
But the happiness is indefinite until your colours blur to lines and the lines begin to cross and overlap until they become sketches of stickmen. Then the little boy and the little girl with the triangle skirt will expand but remain faceless until i can bring my red to your paper and give them smiles.

You need someone to make everyday different.
So that monday is red and tuesday is yellow, until the colours run out; until we run out.
You need the sunshine and the rain to make a rainbow.
And you need the rainbow to make everyday a little different...
A little challenging.

And with this i give you the first day of proof on a slow road.

... the better end of the magnet

2010-05-08T09:12:00.000-07:00

Positive Influences.

Imagine positivity.

My mind takes me to places with balloons, apple shaped cupcakes and everything connected with childhood without the actual children.

Positive thinking is completely infectious to me. My immune system shuts down to a smile and in terms of thinking it is completely destroyed when it comes to happiness.

It's like my brain has a constant cold that like the real physical virus, it can't shake off for good; it will always mutate and return to me affecting every move that i make.

But here is where that metaphor stops as it doesn't portray the right image for positivity.

So i'm going to give it a shot of amour and say positive thinking is like a balloon.

A bright red balloon that cannot be grounded until the air runs out.

Imagine a place where every day, there is a girl with a balloon holding onto its string, surrounded by flowers; my favourite calla lilies, bluebells, daffodils growing around her feet, the vines wrapping slowly up her ankles.

She glows from the reflection of buttercups as the sunflowers and birds of paradise brush up against her free hand and in the backdrop, a single billowing willow tree. It seems to pour bright lights as spores from the tips of its branches.

She smiles, with a light grip on the the string her fingers unfold like a flower opening to the sun and the balloon just floats.

And it goes up...

And up towards the sky.

And the corners of my mouth mimic its route.

Like the child and sunflowers do, everyone who sees the balloon will look towards the sun and smile until its deflation; the end is sad.

But there will always be more balloons.

There will always be more things to smile about.

There will always be you, standing among the flowers and spores with your bag of balloons and your infectious happiness.

Spreading smiles and magic and inspiring me to stand under the willow tree in the pixie dust and take a deep breath in .

(For P.V; If Palahniuk is my inkwell then you are my refill.)

And with this i give you the better end of the magnet.

... the reason to stop.

2010-04-27T11:59:00.000-07:00

Traffic Lights.

There's me, sitting in the passenger seat as the driver takes a turn towards a red light.

The turn to the left is the two way street and forwards is a single one way lane.
Now i have no choice in the matter, i'm already in the car with no control over the driver. I go where they take me.
It's the two way street vs the one way street.
It's the couples vs the creeps.

Self confessed cynic; never loving, always driving. Always making sure to keep the red light in sight.
Never amber, never green, just red.
The glow reflecting endlessly as the twinkle in my eye, glazing over. Letting all of your images seep inside and unscramble but we don't let you inside. You enter through the eyes but it stops there before you can become the poison in our bloodstream heading straight towards the heart.
Keep cold and your heart will beat slower so you don't hit us as hard.
We are the old romantics who know to sit still.
We were the passengers who gave too much control than deserved.

We wait for it and it always comes. The moment of weakness that is so inevitable that it half hurts and half tickles.
As a romantic i will always be cynical.
We were the passengers shoved into the backseat because we're not even on the same level as the driver. We watch people come together and we watch them fall apart yet we still put ourselves up there next to you but now...
You are the driver and you don't want us.
You are the line between the two way and one way.

The fine line or the wrong turn.
We become the creeps and you become the couples.
We sulk with the red light trailing down our cheeks, from our eyes to the ground, vowing to push your images out with them.
Because we were once the romantics who loved you.
We were once in the passenger seat but now...
We are the drivers.

And with this i give you the reason to stop.

... a plea.

2010-02-04T05:58:00.001-08:00

Yes that is Cohen's Masterpiece from the Bioshock soundtrack in the background... i justify it's placement as i would like it as the soundtrack to the more ominous moments of my life... plus it's a great game.

And with this i give you a plea.

... a reason to fly.

2010-01-29T15:34:00.000-08:00

The picture is just so you're sure that you know.

We stand upon a tower looking onto the city below and we take a deep breath in and I think of all the things you've ever told me; taught me.

And I'm back in that moment; the moment that we sat with our arms side by side, touching for the first time in a year, when you told me that “people like average because they can relate.”
It was then that I realised that if I ever wanted another shot then I would need you to relate to me.
I'd need to be on your level.
At the top of perfection.
But I thought about it and it became apparent that perfection doesn't need perfection.
Perfect needs average as without it, it would cease to exist.
It balances, counting on the average to stay in the middle, drifting as their support as the justification for it's title.
So I took this theory and I decided to attempt to prove how much you mean to me in the only way I know how; in the mediocrity of my writing.

This is how we got where we are now.
This is why I stand by your side and lower myself onto my front with my head overhanging the edge of the tower so all I can see is forward. The forward that is actually a seemingly endless drop straight to the ground; to inevitable death. With only mist in my eye line, obscuring me from seeing too far down the line.
You look at me and smile and the only certainty of my life doesn't seem so bad.
As you bend onto your elbows to raise yourself up again, you offer me your hand to help me back to your level and it reminds me of how I would have nothing without you.
Even though you left me in the middle, on average ground, you taught me the importance of climbing.
So here I am, at the top as I look straight ahead, into the endless blue that is divided by a rope that hangs in front of me and you place one hand on the rope and you wrap the other around my fingers.
I turn back towards you; the only person I truly respect.
The only person I've ever loved and I whisper into your ear;
“You taught me how to climb now I'll teach you how to fall.”
You laugh at me and my tendencies for the cliché because you know me too well.
“You can hold onto the rope and lower yourself down, checking your every move but the weight of us both will just leave you with raw hands and rope burn.”
But you're stubborn.
Always so stubborn.
You hold onto the rope and push off but with your hand tight in mine I stay planted to the tower and you hang there in the balance.
I ask you “Do you really want to live without risk?”
You laugh yet again.
“You won't feel the burn until you're at the bottom and you look back up. I'd rather let go and fly and not have the chance to look back and regret.”
I stand at the top of the tower alone, with both hands on yours and we laugh at each other.
“How did we get here?”
My last laugh turns into a sigh and I tell you “I will jump and I will fall but I don't want to go through my drop without you. Don't let this be the choice that you regret at the bottom of the rope.”
That was the look. The look that makes me leap.
The look where you took your eyes from mine and you stared through the mist beneath you; the look when I knew you wouldn't jump.
So I let go and your hand slips from mine. I half sigh, half laugh at the sight of you hanging in front of me then I look up and shut my eyes.
I step forward as I say “It will always be you.”
With my arms outstretched either side of me, I take a step back and a deep breath in.
Then I run and jump off the edge without you and I plunge through the depths of the mist and unknown.

One year later and I'm still falling.
Still waiting for you to take that risk and jump with me.
Now fly.

And with this i give you a reason to fly.
(For M.R.)

... my fingerprints.

2010-01-20T23:13:00.000-08:00

The Moulder's Palms.

I hear a crack.
I look to the ceiling through blurred eyes. All I can focus on is the tiny spider pattern of broken paint sprawled within the 1cm² of the upper left corner and I let myself wander as I imagine.
I try distract myself from the salt water taste in my mouth, the lump in my throat and my hollow torso by imagining the creation of life from destruction; the spider splits into two, exploding into a million new babies that form trails of new carnage across the ceiling. As the paint chips off I see the ghost path of a delicate silk web fall down to the floor. I think to myself;
"If I can find beauty in this then I could create an enduring, incorruptible optimism through delusion."
The spiders fork their path, signalling me to make a choice; to be happy or unhappy, or in other words to be sane or insane.
It's then that I hear a noise that shocks me out of my trance and I blink through my tears to focus on the shrinking spider, back in it's corner. I panic as I hear another crack that pulses through my ears. It's so loud that I feel the vibrations in my throat. My heart beats. Half beats. It's struggling to to pump through the leak. Pumping twice as fast to try and make up for it's loss. The pressure building, building and splitting further and I grab my chest in desperation to save myself and my breaking heart.
I have the overwhelming urge to rip into my own flesh so I can squeeze the hearts cracks back together like play doh; but it seems everyone but ourselves have the ability to mould. With every one, imprints are left from its various encounters and its shape changes forever and constantly to fit into its new moulders palms.
I succumb to my bodies wishes as I allow myself to choke on my tears with my supposed 'love muscle' betraying me; spiting me for letting it's endeavour get away from me. I fall to the floor with my heart in my throat, pounding and soaking in a puddle of my own tears.

And as I wake, I can't help but smile as I focus in on the green beneath me, spreading and growing across the damp spot on the floor, drenched previously with my unhappiness but now the food for my delusions. The grass stems out towards the walls and blossoms into a thousand flowers; from spiders to petals to beauty and I'm happy. Happy in my phantom forest where I'm shielded from the light that allows me to see the cracks and imprints that you left behind. So I swallow my heart back into its depths and my tears follow with it. Whilst staring at the ceiling, my eyes follow the path of spiders that leads to insanity and as they scatter, they reveal one word embroidered in their silk webs;
"Smile".

And with this i give you my fingerprints.

... a spill.

2010-01-17T19:29:00.001-08:00

Faux Red Rose

Tonight I choose to be in love.
Tomorrow morning I will be back to monotony.
If I am the one with the slapstick, placing the skins before I tread forward, then I am choosing when to fall into my fate.
Like the sleazy guy at the bar who falls in love with a different prostitute every night; I choose to be the person I am.

The time is 11:00am.
This morning, I was waiting for the bus as I do everyday day.
The direction may be different, but the transportation always the same.
The time is 11:02am.
The bus stops at my feet and I look up towards the advertisement on the side; another generic love story with the tag line “you can't help who you fall for.”
Now I don't give this a second thought until a lady behind me steps up onto the bus and sighs loudly so her friend has no choice but to ask;
“What's wrong?”
You know the kind of sigh I'm talking about; the kind of sigh that is deliberately blown your way. The kind of sigh that either a) you have to respond to and listen or b) you can ignore but will labelled a bad friend.
Now take your pick. Personally, after hearing this lady talk on I would have looked at her, blinked unresponsively then walked in the opposite direction.
But that's just me. I'm a bad friend.
The kind of friend that passes up hanging out to go and hand out red roses to any lucky somebody that walks my way.
Today is her lucky day, she walks by me and sits in the seat behind me. Unfortunately, she won't be getting one of my faux hand picked gifts.
“It just frustrates me when I see the phrase 'you can't help who you fall for'. It's offensive to everything I believe in.”
Oh do please go on. What she doesn't know is that she's about to offend me and my drive-by love attitude.
That's the problem with speaking in public; the domino effect of offense.
“There are so many things wrong with that phrase. The first thing being that it is an implication that love is an unavoidable accident, like spilt milk. The kind that you're not meant to cry over. The kind that could have been avoided if you'd never bought the milk in the first place. If you'd never set eye on that milk, then you would have no milk to spill. You should never think of love like that. Love is a necessity. Life is like a cake and love is a vital ingredient, you need it to make your life cake worth eating.”
Well that's true, well half true.
Love is avoidable for me, I plan when to fall in love. It's my unsuspecting victim who spills their milk over me. Yeah don't worry, I'm aware of how that sounds.
“The second part is the word 'fall' making it sound as though the inevitable outcome of being in love will be pain.”
So far I'm following, I understand her point but it's a little old fashioned perhaps.
“Love is meant to be something you enjoy, yet that phrase dismisses the happiness that love brings.”
Well here's my stop. Unfortunately for her friend she has to stay on and listen to the ramblings.
If only more conversations worked out this way for me.
The time is 11:11am. Make a wish.
To fall in love.
I walk ten steps down the road then take a left and enter the super market. The same directions. Monotony.
The same supermarket I go to every single week.
The time is 11:12am.
I walk into the fifth aisle and down to the dairy section. I could see what I'm looking for if it wasn't for the man standing in front of it, he's staring at the floor, blocking the shelves from my view.
I'm four steps from my destination and I'm so intent on my purchase and the curiosity of his movements that on my next step I slip.
And I fall.
And I look up to see the man apologising with his hand outstretched.
I reach out with my hand, dripping with his spilt milk and I think to myself.
The time is 11:15am and tonight I am going to be in love.

And with this i give you a spill.

... your personal survival instinct.

2010-01-04T10:11:00.000-08:00

Survival of the Fittest

“Testing, testing, 1, 2, 3.”
Okay it's recording.
“Survival Instinct.”
I look deep into the lens of the camera; into the eyes of the viewer.
“The majority of us have it because we have the power to. If you're not planning on dying then everyone has it. Every living thing has it. Just like a virus does to us, we do to the animals. A virus wipes us out to survive; or at least that's its story.”
I look past the camera into her eyes.
“There's always something keeping us alive; whether that be a person, an object or a fear.”
She smiles at me and I can feel its warmth. I look back at you through the camera.
“They say that if you're being shot at, your best bet of survival is running around a straight line. Dodging and weaving. When we think of our lives; our futile, monotonous lives, we think that all we can do is move forward rhythmically. If you're living the same day everyday, continuously walking in a straight line then you're bound to be shot at. You're an easy target.”
I drop my head for a second and rub my face with my palms, hard into the hollowed out sockets of sleep deprivation.
“Always run in a zig-zag. Make sure you make as many turns as you can because it will save your life.”
I lift my weary head and I fix my gaze on yours.
“But when you're staring down the barrel of a gun what instinct do you have left? You're too scared to make a move. When you're looking death in the face you can't blink for a second because you don't want to miss a second of what you have left.”
I look back at her and see her smile.
I see what my survival instinct is fighting for.
Was fighting for.
The sun shines through the window behind me for just a second but it's enough to make me squint as it reflects off her photo; off her endless smile frozen in time.
The smile that is now buried deep in the ground. Colder than it has ever been and getting more so by every second that I acknowledge it.
“As long as you don't come face to face with your gunman then you'll survive.”
She looked hers right in the eye, now I'm looking into mine.
“Live everyday as though you're being shot at because at the end of it, we're always in the scope just trying to avoid the end.”
Who knew she would be my survival instinct and my gunman.
I look back at you for a moment and nod.
“The day she killed herself was the day she killed me”
I look back at my wedding photo; into her eyes.
I lift the barrel to my head and with no second thoughts and no remorse...
I squeeze the trigger.
And the viewers stare into the socket once hollowed by lack of sleep but now hollowed by a smoking bullet.

And with this i give you your personal survival instinct.

... a not-so-formal introduction.

2010-01-03T14:34:00.000-08:00

So i decided that a good way to introduce myself was to record a video. I was told it would be a good idea to plan what i was going to say but at the last minute i decided not to.
I also realised after filming that i said non-fiction, but i guess the majority of my writing is fiction so ignore that mistake. So this is my horribly improvised and very boring introduction.

And with this i give you a not-so-formal introduction.

... a new type of gold.

2009-12-30T18:47:00.000-08:00

Insane Sane.

Every Monday, my friend and I go down to the beach before sunset. We kick off our shoes and lay back in the sand so we can watch the black turn to navy turn to orange then turn to the seemingly tiny spark on the horizon.
We watch the stars in the black.
The moon in the navy.
The birds in the orange.
Then we bathe in the sun that shines on the both of us, alone and nothing else matters.

It's then that we stand up and walk along the shore with the metal detector in hand, searching for that hidden treasure. We do this because if we can find treasure then we can find perfection; it's the same odds.
Like metal detectors, friendships and loves are one of the only things in life that can maintain your childhood optimism; the thought that somewhere, out there, there is something or someone better waiting for you.

“What can turn the sane insane would turn the insane sane.”
Now my friend and I, our friendship has a common bond that ties us together and that is the belief that the thing that makes or breaks your mental state is the uncertainty of people.
It's the belief that with relationships, every time you think you've found something it just turns out to be another bottle cap in the sand. You hear the beep and your heart skips a beat but at closer inspection you realise it's just not what you're looking for.
You're looking for gold. For beauty. For rarity.
So all you can do with the bottle cap is to recycle it; send it off for someone else so that they can find a better use for it.
And so, you keep on walking, coming across new bottle caps and small change. The optimism keeps you going, but let's face it, everything worth finding was found years ago and all that remains are the recyclables.
But then again, it's man who decided the worth of gold and the worth of the bottle caps.
We have this built-in ideal for beauty and function but the stakes are getting higher and higher with every turn of every decade.
It seems to be forgotten that these recyclable trinkets serve a purpose yet gold no longer does.
We rid ourselves of people because they can't compete with what we think we deserve. But nothing in life is easy, so what should make love any different? Besides, no one likes simplicity, if everything was easy then we'd have nothing to talk about because nothing would surprise you. Communication plays a big role in friendship and love, so if it was simple, then we'd have no need for other people.
Because of man and everything we've done, gold comes at a price that isn't deserving.

This is why my friend and I walk. We walk to remind ourselves to stay close to the ground.
We walk for the company.
We walk to find gold because we know we'll never find it.
And if we never do then I'll be perfectly happy knowing that I have already found my treasure.
In him.
My bottle cap in the sand.
Non-recyclable.

And with this i give you a new type of gold.

... a weather forecast.

2009-12-28T08:29:00.000-08:00

The Weather Man.

My next door neighbour controls the weather.
He's an old man who mentally still lives in the year 1987.
I live in the year 2009.
He is 102 years old.
Now we all know he's knocking on deaths door, we can tell because on his day off the weather is always so neutral. It's not sunny but it's not gloomy. At least this way we know he's not in pain, but with each week that the temperature drops just a little, we all share the same look of a sad uncertainty.
The weather man has been around since before I was born so the story of how his gift was realised is a little blurry. Some say that when he was younger he asked people to challenge his gift by sitting in the centre of the town square listening to the stories and jokes of the towns people. They say that with every story heard, rays of sunshine would pour onto them shortly followed by rain until the whole sky was lit up with rainbow upon glorious rainbow.
Others say that he confided in a friend and the next morning was greeted with such scepticism that he burst into tears while the heavens opened and threw down drop upon drop of water.
There's no way of knowing, he doesn't talk much these days.
The town works in shifts; Six days a week, eight people will visit him, an hour each. He spends the rest of his day sleeping.
When we want the sun we will read him happy stories. When we want a warm glow we speak to him of our love endeavours. When we need the rain for our reservoirs we have no choice but to miss a few shifts because no one has the heart to watch him cry.
He doesn't respond physically any more, we have to read the weather in order to read him.
On Sundays we leave himself to himself because of his religion. He takes the day off to thank God for his gift.
So every Sunday we sit in our houses because we're scared to leave; no one wants to feel that it's gotten that little bit colder. We dread the uncertainty of what will happen without our weather man.
My shift is on a Monday morning, I'm telling you this story on my walk over to his house. Every week I knock on his door three times then place the key from under the doormat into the lock, then turn and enter.
There he is, the Weather Man sitting in his chair waiting for his morning story. I smile relieved that he's still okay.
“Hello Wilfred, I have a great story for you today.”
I open the curtains and edge closer to him. I pull up a chair and I begin reading him his own story. Or as much of it as I could make up of all the rumours around town.
He sits in his armchair and listens. Unaware of whether or not I should continue I look out the window and see rays out light emerge from between the clouds. He smiles at me, takes my hand and squeezes it slightly. I know now to continue so I do.
I finish the last line of the story as I hear a knock on the door; my hour's up. I look into his eyes and thank him for another beautiful day, he smiles again and on the window I hear the sound of soft rain hitting it and sliding down to form a puddle on the windowsill. I turn back to him to see a single tear from his closed eyes running down his cheek and pooling into the dimples from his smile.
I let the next reader in and begin my walk home. The rain bounces off my coat and settles into tiny bubbles, I reach out a hand to let it fall into my hand but as I pull my hand back in towards me to inspect I see not a bubble, but a tiny delicate snowflake.
It's snowing for the first time this town has seen in years.
I run back towards the house and look through the window to see the other reader on the phone. All I can hear through the window is “come quick... please... no pulse...” I switch my gaze over to the weather man who is sitting where I left him, the smile still on his face.
He looks peaceful.
I walk away from the house with a similar smile on my face, back towards my house with my bags packed and waiting for me in the hallway. I pick them up and start walking to the edge of town, towards my new life. Away from the town that will now forever snow.
Away from the town with the frozen architecture and the frozen hearted people who will always live in the memories of the sun and the man who will forever brighten their days.

And with this i give you a weather forecast.

... a love affair.

2009-12-26T08:11:00.000-08:00

This is a very short story i wrote earlier today called:
Here today, gone tomorrow

Today, the headlines are about a man who is involved in a 'Love Affair' with God.
A love affair he claims to be completely monogamous.
He says “this is the way we're meant to live”.
“The way we were always meant to live.”
He claims that he is a good man with so much to give; a loyal man who couldn't betray his love for anything.
He would die for them and from what everyone can tell he means it.
He'll be metaphorically crucified for this. Just how God likes the ones he loves.
“We're not meant to love other human beings. By loving other humans we are becoming mere animals. A man who can't control himself is nothing more than a ruthless dog.”
Now this hit a raw nerve with the audience. He better start explaining himself before us lovers become fighters and form a pack.
“Think about what love turns us into. It turns us into a holy-law-breaking machine.”
Now this is getting interesting.
He says that “Love is connected to every sin.”
“Love starts with lust. The physical attraction is enough to send us straight to hell”
Physical attraction comes down to so many different things; the smell of natural pheromones, perhaps in the similarity of how we look. Science makes us believe we can't help falling in love.
Without science we'd all be believers but now with it we're all going to hell. Now raise your hand if you have a few bitter feelings towards science.
“Next comes gluttony and extravagance. It has become common practise to woo your interest with food and gifts.”
Then of course comes pride, swiftly followed by sloth, with envy and greed walking hand in hand closely behind.
“Last comes wrath with envy sometimes making a guest re appearance.”
He asks the reporter “Do you see what I am saying? God is the only one we can love without violating sins. We have these urges because we are meant to love but He puts in the restrictions so that it is not possible.”
Our eyebrows raised and our pupils dilating. We're taking this in. We're listening.
“If God doesn't love us then no one would. The world was made with every living cell doomed to live life alone.
He has made it so He is he only one we are allowed to love.”
We understand “I would rather love God than no one.” But we feel as though we shouldn't.
“But don't pity me. I am much better off for it.”
The reporter then asks the man why he would offer to hang himself up to dry by revealing his love.
And the man answers “Because love makes us do strange things.”
“I want people to listen to me not because I feel I am better than them but because I am better off than them.”
The audience begins to hold their breath as they know what is coming next.
“I just want you all to be forgiven, for you know not what you do.”
And it's then that the audience sits in awe.
Whether or not what they have just read are the ramblings of a guy who's lost his mind or the ultimate betrayed son who gave his life; they listen.
Just in case.
Because no one wants to screw up their second chance at love.

And with this i give you a love affair.

... a cogitation on cognition.

2009-12-24T05:27:00.000-08:00

INTRODUCTION.

"Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it" Santayana

I've always loved the word cognition; the process of thought. Never before had a word struck with such an intense and vivid imagery of it's meaning. Thought, being such a human process could not be defined in more of a mechanical, cold word such as the word in question. It is the thorn in the side of robotics that hinders artificial intelligence; without an individual thought process, what defines us as physical beings? No one is the same, with different reasoning, logic and drive; whether or not it comes down to the simple factor of good versus evil, love versus money and so on. As emotionally complex as the human brain is, the word cognition reduces it to the simple imagery of the human brain as a machine.

For the sake of easy reading I shall personify machinery in the following summary; Just as machinery becomes obsolete, the human brain dies and to similar form, machinery surpasses itself and upgrades as the human race reproduces; this is in direct correlation with the evolution of man.

It is the machine that lacks the ability to do anything other than it's primary function; so with this logic it is up to us as an individual being to decide what our function, or our drive, is. Experience is the path that leads us to discover what our drives are, and it is the routes we take on that path that determine what our drives become. They are not pre determined and they are not genetic; if anything, they are social.

So how can we define the difference between a malfunction and a harmful psychological disorder? Why must the machine be punished when we are the creators and therefore to blame for our broken design? In some sense, we should applaud the machine for its mistake as it is a sign that tells us that it is not complete; there is more work to be done in order to perfect it. It is these signs that tell us how the incomplete man will always strive until there is no where left to go but destruction out of desperation – just as a broken machine will continue to churn, unaware of its malfunction. So with this hypothesis, the question of 'man driven by machine' versus the 'machine driven by man' surfaces.

And with this i give you a cogitation on cognition.

... a video diary of a schizophrenic.

2009-12-24T04:18:00.000-08:00

A music video for 'Numb' by Portishead made by a friend and I last year. I hope you enjoy watching it as much as we loathed making it.

And with this i give you a video diary of a schizophrenic.

... a story of the unreachable.

2009-12-23T07:15:00.000-08:00

So my friend had written half of a story a year back but never got around to finishing it. But when informed of my aspirations he asked if I would like an attempt at finishing it. So here is the finished effort. I have marked where he ends and I begin.

One day an artist was painting, he painted until he came to the stark revelation he had finished. And when he finished he stood taken away by what he had created. He knew at first glance it was the most beautiful thing ever painted so he put down his brushes and told the world "this is the most beautiful thing ever painted."

And humanity looked and agreed, and all the other artists put down their brushes. Why paint when the most beautiful picture has already been created?

Done with painting, they started composing and singing and writing music until one day they stopped--they had created the most beautiful composition ever heard.

And humanity heard and agreed, and so they all put down their instruments, what's the point of music if they can just listen to this piece in it's perfection?

Done with music they started acting--seeking to convey their emotions in the most eloquent form possible until one day the director stopped and said--"We've just created the most beautiful act ever.", and so they played it out for the world.

And humanity watched and agreed, and so they all quit acting. What's the point if these people have already perfected it? “Why we will just watch” they spoke.

Out of all this, they decided they only needed buildings to watch, listen, and look at these perfections. And so they called a master architect, and they told him, "You must create the most beautiful building for us to use". When he had finished, he didn't need to tell him it was the most beautiful building ever designed, they presumed.

And so they sat. No one did anything. They watched. As time moved on, various new media for them to watch arose and they watched in many different ways--but it was all they did. Society didn't want any more. No artists tried to create beauty or convey the messages in their hearts, they felt they couldn't compete; no musicians played their instruments or sung, nor composed symphonies, nor even tapped out a beat--and thus they lost their rhythm so no one even danced; no one sought out to convey their feelings through acting, they didn't even attempt to express their feelings to their loved ones, they felt numb as they couldn't express their love as well as the beautiful actors; and they all sat in shacks no more cosy homes, apartments, mansions, condos, nothing as all the architects felt no need to design buildings when the most perfect building had already been erected.

But critics arose, and they said to the people "These can't be perfect, there must be better!", but the people wouldn't hear it. Eventually, these remarks were taken offensively--and all the critics were slaughtered. One critique was heralded however, the critique that no writer had comprised the perfect story. And so the people took the youth of this perfect society to find the perfect writer, and found the most qualified writer they could.

The Writer had many ideas, but as a youth of the perfect society he decided he'd be able to quickly write the perfect story through the consistence of all things already perfected. To do this, he decided, he would need to talk to all those who had created perfection, and so he went to The Building where they all resided to speak with them.

To start of unifying these arts, he figured he'd begin with The Painter. So he walked to the building and when he saw a desk with a lady behind it wearing a name tag reading 'Mrs. Soothsayer', so he asked, "Hello, Mrs. Soothsayer, do you know as to where I could find The Painter?", and she responded aptly, "I can tell you where to find The Painter, who will tell you where to find the The Musician, who will tell you where to find The Director, who will tell you where to find The Architect but I must warn you first: there is no where to go but up from here."

So The Writer went off to the floor and room she had given him.

(Where he ends and I begin)

Here, he found not the painter, but the musician. The writer questioned the perfection of the building that did not hold its tenants where they were supposed to be. But he felt no need to move on from the musician in search of the painter until he had heard of this man's equation to perfection. So he asked of the inspiration for the piece to which the musician replied quite simply; “The Painter's art.” With this answer, the Writer did not feel that the Musician knew what it was to perfect something, so he asked if he knew where he could find the painter; “The Director knows of his whereabouts.”

So off went the Writer in search of the Director who was to blame for the loss of self expression. He was in the room that the Musician had spoke of, directly one floor above his own. When asked of the inspiration to his act, the Director said “By listening to the most perfect piece of music ever created I could see my act unravel in my head.” It was then that the Writer asked how the Director felt, knowing that he had caused physical indifference. However the Director disagreed and responded with what he thought was the answer; “When people complain that time moves too fast, that we have no choices, they think of us. Perfection gives us a reason to stand still. It stuns us into stopping and looking at the world around us; we can reflect.” The Writer thought that the word reflect in that sentence was more appropriate than the Director would ever know.

From talking to the Director and the Musician, the Writer realised that their work was no more of a perfection that it was of a recreation. A plagiarism. He knew that he would not find the answer in the disciples, only in the teacher would he find his equation that could create his new perfection. So he asked the Director where he would find the Painter; “Only the Architect knows which room the Painter resides in and he is in another floor above.”

The Architect was different from the other two. He was the closest to success as he was the last person to have left it behind him in his past. He had a clearer memory of how he had gotten where he was and he was more tainted by his perfection. He spoke of his building with little care; “They called upon me to create this beauty. It was already decided that it would be perfection in its largest form yet. I acknowledge the fact that I had a hand in this misery and for this I am filled with sorrow and hatred; self pity that I have to live in my mistake. But it's hatred for the Painter that keeps me going. Step up to the floor above, that is where I built his room. He will tell you what it is that makes perfection.” and with that, the Architect handed him a key.

So the writer walked up the next flight of stairs, up to the top floor of the building. He slid the key into the lock and turned. He was about to come face to face with the man who created perfection. He twisted the handle and pushed the door open, not to see the painter, but himself. On the opposite wall was a mirror from floor to ceiling. Corner to Corner. He walked into the room and then into the next; a second room completely covered in mirrors. But this time there was another man who joined him in his reflections; The Painter. He stood by a single window that reached from floor to ceiling, that overlooked the entire city, he turned to look at the Writer and in a monotone voice said “I know why you're here. Do you know why I am here?” The writer replied with what he knew was the answer. “Because everything that became perfection after your painting was just a recreation of your work. You started this.”

The Painter nodded and turned back towards the window. He spoke softly, the kind of softness that could only come at the end of long hours of contemplation. “If something is beyond our grasp it will seem superior to what we have. We will take everything that is made; songs, stories, plays and we will try to relate to the situation because this is what we need to enjoy something. We need to feel. However people cannot relate to perfection because it is not within our reach.” The Painter then lifted his hand and motioned towards the fabled painting that had started the Writers quest. The perfected painting. No one knew what it was of, it was just an array of colours that were so stunning it made you stand still, like the Director had said it would. The Painter turned away again and began to speak. “The painting isn't of anything, it cannot be related to in any way. It is difficult to describe what makes this painting so beautiful. The understanding is beyond our reach, we are just like moths to the flame. When I finished this painting, I believed in its beauty so much that I had the nerve to call it perfection. It wasn't something that had been done before so it was easy; if you create the definition then you make up the rules.” The Painter opened the window and a cool breeze swept in. “I am to blame for the downfall of this city. If there was no limit then people would keep climbing. But I set that limit and I now sit at the top observing myself being reflected over and over again either when I look into the mirrors or down onto the city. There is no where to go but down from here.” He turned to the Writer, smiled and said “Perfection isn't everything.” Then took one step forward and fell to his death.

So the Writer knew what to do. He sat down and wrote his story in the room that showed a 100 replicas of him. Every single mirror showing a perfect forgery of him. He wrote the story of how the Painter had thought he had found perfection and how in turn the Musician, the Director and the Architect had made the same mistake. But in fact the Painter had only found what he thought to be perfection and the mistake that the city had made was to believe him because they themselves did not know the meaning of it. The Writer wrote of how perfection is actually in the eyes of the onlooker. That every person has a different definition of beauty. How every person must try to find their definition as one day they will die like the Painter had, his definition left behind in his painting. Every person owes it to themselves to leave behind their one little piece of perfection.

And with this piece the Writer had created his. The last recreation of the Painter that would come from his city. With the Painter and his perfection at the bottom, sprawled out on the street with broken bones and his blood seeping into a wider and wider puddle, the only way to go from here was up.

And so the city climbed.

And with this I give you a story of the unreachable.

... a thought to ponder.

2009-12-23T06:06:00.000-08:00

I find it intriguing how when you're a kid, you go to ridiculous lengths to hide your diary. For example, putting it in a box, inside another box then under your mattress (it wouldn't take a princess to know it was under there). Yet here i am, posting what is very similar to a diary, online, where anyone can read it if they wish to do so, except now, no one really cares. My brother would pick open the padlock on my diary with a pair of scissors just to read my embarrassing ramblings yet i couldn't make him read this if i handed it to him on a plate with a lavish garnish of red money. This is where that story of 'wanting what you can't have' pops up or in this case 'reading what you can't know.'

Interfering people should be more appreciated than they are.

And with this i give you a thought to ponder.