the other left

I had a thought recent enough that I haven't forgotten it yet. It came to be while I was rummaging around at the wonderful hour of 3 - morning - making a peanut butter sandwich (my usual fine dining at that time when my stomach gets needy). Turns out I am fascinated by the concept of perspective.

Look at an object, like a sandwich. Nothing exciting, but you can look at it from different angles and it changes slightly. Same deal with most things, except maybe a perfect circle? Whatever. Point is you can see it from a different viewpoint and it can be different.

That's not truly amazing in any way, but it is when you apply the same rules to ideas and thoughts - even words! Most of the time we're all too caught up in one perspective to see any other angle and that's why arguments exist. To win an argument you need to convince the opposition that your perspective and views are the winning deal. Sometimes this requires clever manipulation, such as making it seem as if you are agreeing. Beating them down with a single-minded view doesn't work. This is where stubbornness fails.

That's just a small example, perhaps as far as ideas are concerned. You see an idea from your perspective and if needed argue with that stance. Others agree or disagree, sometimes both without knowing. Then there's someone else who throws in a new idea to argue with and it gets a bit messy.

What about thoughts then? Inner thoughts. Those times when you mull over something and sink deeper into a certain pool of thought. The surface goes over your head and lose the ability to see anything outside of it. It's not until you are given - or come up with your own - a new outlook that it seems like the light shining again. That's the best way to describe that feeling of understanding, or seeing something that pulls you out of the pool: Light. Not just any light; this light has an innate ability to dissipate clouds and generate the warm fuzzies.

Naturally this process can work in the other direction, and it can fluctuate both ways. That is what goes on in my head at least. With all these perspectives and viewpoints it's no wonder why words are read differently. Not necessarily single words, but a large group of them in, say, a novel. Meaning is a matter of view and though some may appear upside-down to you, only the author can rightfully declare the true meaning. Though one who does so clearly forgot why he wrote it in the first place, and should wait until asked for profound understanding of his words.

Even so, some things should be left open to perspective, like a humble cube sitting on a table top.

But that's just my point of view.

- G ζ.

With eyes open, nothing to see
Nothing but what's in front of me
A mirror, broken and worn
Fragmented thoughts in reflection
And solving the puzzle I find
The solution, but no answer
An elaborate search for
A duplicate of me

nobody shaves here anymore

Facial hair is what makes the real difference between a man and a woman. It defines masculinity! Everytime I see a girl I want to walk up to them and say, "Hey! Can you grow hair on your face?!"
Chances are they'll say "Why no you manly man, I cannot for I am just a girl!"

That's right, I can grow hair on my friggin' face. Because I'm a MAN. Shaving is for pussies too. I trust dudes with beards. If I'm at a shop and there's a salesman with hair all over his face like it's a caveman special, I'll choose him. I can look at him and know that he is dedicated. So dedicated that he doesn't even have time to shave. Not like those other clean, fake salesmen.

See, not only does facial hair mean manliness, it also means dedication, genius and creativity. You just know someone with a beard has things on his mind that you could never fathom unless you also had a beard of equal or greater value. Look at the wise old men with their foot-long beards. They know what I'm talking about because they've got it all on their face.

But the non-bearders don't get it. They can't. There's much prejudice against the unshaven man from wives to girlfriends to random people walking around. They assume you're crazy or dirty. The audacity of such a thought!

Once upon a time my car broke down and I had to walk to the nearest shop to purchase credit so my phone could be more useful (already signs of genius thanks to the facial hair I was sporting that morning). I was in an odd mood; tired, disorientated and joyous. I followed my beard's lead and happened upon a lovely old lady running a register. I shocked her with anti-stereotypes and probably made her morning better than the previous customers who apparently pulled the old "I'm a customer and you're not" trick.

I told her about my morning in a very happy, possibly drug-induced manner and we laughed and I went on my way. I thought this was great. I was the edgy homeless guy with genius behind facial hair.

More recently I was shunned. My brother got the "How are you?" and fake smile and I got the silent look. The silent look! Clearly she was confusing me with someone else or she was so overwhelmed with attraction and awe that she shriveled into a shell and could barely speak. One touch and she'd have collapsed in sheer orgasm. Or looked at me silently.

So I shaved. The world is not ready for the genius and looks. It took 2 razors - well, one and a half - to bring the bad boy down but I survived and returned to less manly attributes. Oh, but it'll be back. It always comes back.

You see, you can never destroy genius.

- G ζ.

and now sit back and decide
or enjoy the decision of others
if intentions should collide
then really it's time for another
choose once, and again
my indecisive friend

beer with me

Tonight, or last night and this part of the morning, was one of those nights. You know, where it starts off shaky and you don't expect much to come of it and make plans to call it quits early, then suddenly you find yourself having too much fun and too many free drinks.

Yep, I am drunk now. This will be my first time writing anythign drunk as far as I know and I am not bothering with proofreading, so bear with me... or beer with me as the lovely titel suggests. What a night! I had doubts that I could have a night equal to or better than my brother's 18th but lo' it wasn't such a hard task. A good friend returns from overseas, I meet some strangers and remind old friends that I still live and all of me is about the good times, curls and all.

Listening to some music by Tarkan, which I'm told is just one dude, not a band. I know it's foreign and the lyrics I can't translate, but I have a theory that it doesn't matter with music - as long as you can hear the tone the tune and inflection of the words you can understand the song and enjoy it. You don't have to be able to sing it (if you do, that is still cool; I mean, I'd love to be able to sing random songs not written in English).

I need to go pass out or something. It's difficult to think of anything at this point... I'm past the point of slurring words and making up shit and have moved to the realm of wanting to sleep until the sun demands otherwise.

Peace.

- G

one for those times you feel lonely
one for those merry good folks
one for every other bloke
and the rest for yourself;
because that's the way it should be

gossiolitics

Politics and celebrity gossip. Celebrity gossip and politics. The two subjects I love to make fun of, or mocketh in conversations that relateth to it.

As I drove around today (and every day leading up to tomorrow, the election) and noticed the abundance of candidate posters - spam - I came to realise that celebrity gossip is a bit too much like high school gossip: Somebody is pregnant; somebody else is in love with somebody's ex; someone is on drugs (again); somebody might be pregnant with somebody who is on drugs; somebody is in a scandal with sex and/or drugs; divorce this, marriage that - well, here it would simply be girlfriend/boyfriend in a high school society I suppose.

This disturbs me. People actually follow this kind of news religiously as if it's not weird. Imagine the same kind of observations and interest in, say, your neighbor's lives. It's not much different, save for the high school intelligence of these celebrities running around marrying and divorcing everyone from the opposite sex - everyone, that is, who is also a celebrity - and getting pregnant or not being able to or having an affair or just... doing normal flawed human things. To be fair though, your neighbor's lives aren't as messed-up, unless they're a celebrity, so there's no gross fascination or reassurance that you're doing well by watching them in headlines.

"John Doe on why he divorced Mary!"
"Thomas Jones caught smoking behind his shed! Why he did it: 'I, um, smoke?'"
"Kate and Tom at it again; Scientology SCAM"
"Top 10 'baby bump' spotters; Exclusive - these people are amazingly observant (and assuming)!"

It's a little weird and it reminds me of high school. You even have the geeks and the popular people. And the drugs. And those couples that are as confused about their relationships as you would be solving a rubix cube inside a mirror-box.

It will never die. Not even when the celebrities die - that's big news. But then, maybe it's not so bad watching these actors and actresses in their little high school play; like a car wreck: you can't look away because it's just... there.

Speaking of cars, wrecks and being... there, politicians need to relax a little on the advertising campaigns. It's a little much, especially on the side of roads. And those billboards that are towed around? Seriously guys (girls too, vaguely) - too much. It's a bit like browsing the internet with popups all over the place except you can't click them away.

Some are worse than others. Or rather, one is worse than the rest: Charlie McOverkillop. Four posters every few hundred meters is a bit intense, a bit hard to digest. She can stop traffic with that face. That's not a compliment; it just hits you four times in the time it takes your eyes to flicker over them. BAM! Oh god not her!

It's not subtle; it's shock and awe. Maybe if she gets in they go away - what if they don't? What if she's like a dictatoresque politician and starts demanding the construction of statues of herself - nay, four of them - every few hundred meters?

Let's not even think about.

Vote 1: The Dance Party - we know what you really want and even if we don't you can't say no to the rhythm (and celebrity-approved drugs).

- G ζ.

authorisedbyGregPage2007
spokenbyyourcomputerscreen
youneedtoreedthisreallyfastforthesamesubtleeffect

these things we call

I've made more posts this year than the last and once again I skipped October. There still hasn't been a post in that month since 2004. That's three years for those who can count. Is that special? Not really! But this year October was to be different. I was to journey many miles for that thing we call whatever we wish.

But it wasn't so, and though it is a little disappointing, I am not bitter nor regretful because I know now that I am indeed capable of putting in the effort where and when it is needed and that there's no conspiring or spiteful concept of fate knocking over houses of cards.

I grew and learned a lot, and I enjoyed every step, every up and down and every soaring height. It was truly a peak in my life - and it's not over, oh no, just suspended you could say, for both our sakes.

I am probably not making sense to many people bar one (besides me), but that's okay. These words must be read and I have been told - nay, commanded! - by the same person to write here. I am a slave. SAVE ME.

I kid!

I have been slack in writing, I admit. My story hasn't died (the one I was working on? Or the one after?) and I have many more in my head, but I have another project on the horizon that is taking priority because otherwise I'll end up broke. Although come to think of it, Rowling was broke and started Harry Potter...

What the hell.

Alright, I'll spill some beans on these imaginary real stories. FINE. Stop begging!

The main story at this time has no title, but is about a guy called Johnny who... well, picture a roller coaster where there's a large dip and then a big rise. Before that is a tame straight. That's his life in a nutshell. Or rather, a cart.

Beyond that you'll have to keep picturing a roller coaster. I have successfully told you nothing about the story but revealed the main character's name! I am good like that, you see.

So what's my other project that's SO important I have to stop hurting brains with my writing? Well, I am to start a driving school. Not sure if it has been mentioned before, but it's the truth. This is the second time I'm decided on it, but times have changed. I am not alone now and I have a bit more motivation - I'm also armed with information, which can be dangerous.

I may appear a clown, but beneath the large shoes and baggy suit I am all genius, baby. Maybe.

That's it for now, I think. I'll do my best to update more and maybe show the big project as it comes along!

- G

Some nights I ask of a star:
"Will you shine forever?"
"Nay," they all say, "We are but mortal
Like any other."
And I know then what eternity is:
The sum of all time
But I always forget this,
So I'll keep asking forever

speech therapy

I've always found it interesting how people speak differently and pronounce words in different ways, especially when they are from different countries or nationalities. It's odd how your environment can shape the way you say things. I guess we're all just parrots that want to mimic what we hear around us. I wonder if you'd make truck noises if that's all you really heard for many years (you liked the culture of trucks or something). Probably.

Anyway, I was on the phone to my beloved when we got talking about birthdays. I'm getting close to 22; I'm old she says. Yeah, well you're almost 18 missy.

Then there was laughter. She was laughing at the way I said 18: I suppose it sounded like a-dean, and I suppose that's funny when it should sound like eighteen. The funny thing is, I know how it should sound, because I usually figure how words are pronounced by the way they look. Eighteen is obviously not a-dean, and yet I say it like that. So, she's laughing at me and I repeat it for her amusement, like a circus monkey.

From there we talk about words and accents. Americans pronounce every letter, especially r. You may have noticed this when you listen to them. I think they also stretch out some endings, like yeahh, but probably not. They definitely do pronounce almost every letter as much as possible.

Like solar. Sole-arr. Not sola. Sole-arr.
Watermelon? Worterr-mal-oen.
Okay I might have stretched it a bit there, but nevertheless behold the laziness of Australians:

Battery - bat-er-e right? Wrong! Try Batchry. Yes, batchry.

Adean solea batchries thanks mate! Crikey, tell ya whadda think about it ya bloody drongo.

We Orsies (Ozzies, Aussies, Australians, Orstraliens, whatever) tend to skip letters - Sundy, Sat'dy) or get lazy and mash letters together (batchry). Butchya know wha'? I blame the early British. They send their convicts over here, which at the time is the middle of nowhere - Sidneh! - to do some in primitive little settlements and what does the world expect - we speak elegantly? The audacity, mon!

And how's this: mum and mom. The spelling and pronunciation of that word has to be one of the most debated. At least the spelling matches the pronunciation this time. It's just... different.
Ay mUm!
Hey morm.

I know my mUm says menu like minew.

Muther, mother. Father, farther. Brother, brutha, brew, bro. Yo-yo and a ho-ho.

I have an idea to settle every pronunciation and spelling debate across the globe: Just agree that the Kiwis say everything funny, especially their 'i's.

Yeh, I'll have soom feush 'n' cheups thanks brew. Seux dollahs? Man you reuppin me off brew!

As for me, I have no idea what my accent is. Sometimes I may sound like I'm from Home and Away, sometimes not (according to one source). But I couldn't even do an impersonation of an exaggerated Australian accent!

Maybe I should watch more American-made films with 'Australians' in it. By the way, it's Melbin, not Mel-born. Yes, it is spelled Melbourne, but it's our city damnit, say it like we do!

Or I'll, um, move to Sidneh and start speaking like Steve Erwin.

-G ζ.

I collect lightning in jars for a living
and I have no idea what the fuck you just said

reel fish a-fryin'

Okay, so I finally got the music post out of the way. It wasn't really an update, I've just wanted to write that since about five months ago. Now that it's done I can rest soundly (pwow!) and introduce the present and recent haps'.

Last week there was a visitor from the states. The Unites States that is. He was around for three days and for me personally it was great to get out and hang around what I call the "Cairns crew" - something I don't do often enough. We are all so busy (or they are... whatever). Regardless, Greg (visitor) was good value and had many interesting tales to tell. Honestly, I think we are carved from the same block, or parallels; brothers from different mothers. It was pretty cool, and at times a little spooky, when we stumbled upon striking similarities in likes, dislikes and sometimes even personality.

One of the craziest was definitely when we were hanging out in the shopping center and went to grab some coffee. I confessed I wasn't really a coffee drinker (though you may remember I have braved a double black thanks to a previous US friend!) but my favourite was white chocolate mocha. 'Lo and behold, it was also his. But, you see, we both preferred tea normally.

If we were girls we'd totally be rocking up to parties in the same outfit. And we'd probably be lesbians. Man, I went there, and I can't go back...

But seriously, it was really a good few days, even if he did miss his flight Thursday evening in a classic way. You know when you're sitting there with others and joking about stuff happening and then it does? Yeah, that happened. Good times... desperate times.

I'll have to make a trip over to the states sometime before I make a trip six feet under (which should be easy, since I will never pass away suckers). I'll steer clear of East St. Louis and Disneyland though.

Speaking of which, I used to note what kind of day I've been having on the Milo scale when I updated daily at about this time. So, for the sake of tradition today, and actually most days now, is a totally cool glass of Milo with ice and the freshest milk.

It's really good right now for one and many reasons. I like this. I like where this is going - and I'm pretty excited about a story I am writing!

Periodi molto buoni.

- P ζ.

two souls alone together in nowhere
are more in company than
two million alone amidst each other
so come away with me

lyrically speaking

Ah, music. There's not many people who would say they didn't like it at all. In fact I think it would be a challenge to find anyone who didn't like music of some kind. People can say they prefer movies over books and don't like to read (lazy swine!) or vice versa; they can say they don't like the Television because, well, it sucks most of the time. But music, oh no, everybody loves something about music. It is ambient, everywhere - it can reach you when you're sleeping, or while you're trying to sleep. It can be the incessant racket down the road at 3am that you'd rather didn't play - incessant to you, maybe, but glorious and necessary to the people playing it, drunk as they probably are.

It can make you yearn for different times, provoke memories and even feelings of places you've been. You can remember doing something through a song. Moods are set - something as simple as people shopping can be given a different mood through music. Amazing!

Naturally it is not perfect in all its forms. There are many kinds and nobody will agree on everything. One person's shit music is another's favourite. Though, let's be honest, some music is just bad and we all know what I'm talking about. And sadly it's more frequent these days as production lines roll off these clones we all want to set on fire.

But enough on that... I'll talk about me and what I like. I am a bit of a music whore, like many, and don't religiously stick to one genre or band, and instead prefer to keep my mind and ears open to a good song. I like to think I have songs for every mood, except angry and bitter.

There are some songs though that I can't get enough of and always come back to playing , because I like to listen to them after the ten thousandth time. I tend to favor good lyrics - either corny or deep - mixed with excellent sounds. I am not a connoisseur or anything, but I have my own love and now I shall share with a short list of my all time favourites.

Greg's All Time Favourite Music List That May or Not Be the Same Next Year
although to be honest it's not really a list in any order

Ooo, bold and italic! Fancy stuff. Anyway, the first song that comes to mind is With or Without You, by U2. It's just one of those classics I loved a long time ago and only recently got back onto my play list. The lyrics are some of U2's best I think - they describe things you could probably see yourself relating to somehow, if not exactly. It's got a nice simple tune with nothing fancy - just a good old fashioned song from when U2 was at their best with the Joshua Tree.

Next I'm going with Remy Zero - Shattered. It's a recent song on my list, but I loved it from the start. It's one of those gems you pickup out of the blue and enjoy again and again. It also has a bit of a secret meaning to me that at least one of you out there knows. The lyrics are excellent and the music behind them doesn't interfere and my imagination can run a little wild. It's a song that invokes emotions in me and I absolutely love that.

Keane - Somewhere Only We Know. At first I thought the singer was a girl and I've actually had two different versions of it (by version I mean only in file). It was a good song when I first heard it, but it wasn't until recently that it came packaged with a different meaning. Simple tune that really suits the lyrics create a beautiful mood.

Now for a Change of Seasons. Done by Dream Theater who never cease to amaze me with their prowess in lyrics and sounds. This song goes for 23 minutes (no, really) but it really isn't long enough when I am listening to it. Really it is a few songs in one that transition seamlessly, but it tells a story of life and is presented in a way I enjoy endlessly. Definitely an all-time favourite for a long time!

Led Zeppelin. Kashmir. Probably enough said right there. I simply cannot explain why this song is as good as it is, it just hits me. The lyrics are just insanely unique to the point of stuffing your brain with all kinds of images, none of which are interrupted by insane tunes - actually, the music itself pales in comparison to the lyrics which are sung with that somehow sexually charged way. It's an absolute classic I could listen loudly to all day. I guess it just reminds me of the mind.

I'd love to write about more songs that are technically on my all-time favourites "list" but that would take too much time. I mean, there are songs like For Crying Out Loud (Meatloaf) that just don't have any modern day relatives. There are songs that I may not even know about yet that are just waiting to be heard.

And much the same for us all.

- P ζ.

Oh, pilot of the storm who leaves no trace, like thoughts inside a dream
Heed the path that led me to that place, yellow desert stream
My shangri-la beneath the summer moon, I will return again
Sure as the dust that floats high and true, when movin through Kashmir

we value your call

What is the deal? Somebody tell me what the deal is with these automated answering messages that want you to tell them what you require. I understand the need to direct caller traffic, but what was wrong with using a numbered menu? You know, "Press 1 if you want to complain about automated messages not listening and interrupting you."

I don't get how anyone thought that getting people to say what they wanted would be an awesome idea. Did they consider accents? A need to be discrete? Noooo.

So there I was calling Customer Care. I just wanted to change a plan around. It wasn't supposed to be a challenge or take longer than, say, 5 minutes. But it was and it did. I can't blame the operators either, because they were a light at the end of this automated tunnel. I'll do my best to recall the "conversations."

"Welcome to Customer Care. In a few words, please describe what you are calling for"
me: .... plan
"Sorry, please describe what you are calling for... "
me: pl-
"For example: mobile plans, general enquiry, products, new accounts."
me: mob-
"You can say any of those. So, what is the purpose of your call?"
me: mobile plan
"I'm having difficulty understanding. Please say what you are calling for."
me: mo-bile plaaan
"Sorry, if you are calling for mobile phones, please press 1. If you are calling for something else, please press 2."
me: *one*
"Thank you, I will direct you to an operator who will assist you."

And of course I forgot what number I needed, so I hung up on an operator. They'd understand, and it saved time.
Of course this meant I had to call again.

The second time around I honestly got lost in this labrynth of automated responses. I had to try again. And again. It was getting pretty crazy and I was bordering between yelling and laughing at myself yelling.

"Welcome to Customer Care. In a few words, please describe what you are calling for"
me: Mo-Bile PLaanN
"Okay, was that mobile plans? Please say yes or no."
me: yes
"Please just say yes or no. Was that mobile plans?"
me: Yesss
"Thank you. Are you calling for the number you are using now? Just say yes or no."
me: no
"Sorry, please just say yes or no. Is this the number you are calling for?"
me: NO FUCK YA
"Okay! I will direct you to an operator who will answer assist you further. Thank you for calling Customer Care."

And then I'm put on hold with really bad music before I finally managed to speak with someone real. I was so happy I wanted to cry.

Although the operator I spoke to had a habit of going "mmhm?" after everything he said. I think he meant it as "Understand?" "Right?" "Capiche?"

Mmhm?

- G

minor milestone

For those who have been counting, this is the 50th post I have made since the humble birth of this magical world of words (pwow!) back in 2004. October 2004 to be almost precise. Wow, so next month this will be 3 years old and I have only made 50 posts?

I wonder if I can coin the phrase "quality not quantity" here and get away with it. No, I don't think so. It's just slack. But at least I have managed to come back after lengthy periods of not posting and spark some life into it, rather than abandon all ye posts here and move on to MySpace or something. Man I hate all those profile sites.

Okay, so 50 posts! I want you to imagine me wearing a party hat and surrounded by balloons and streams of paper as I write this.

During the very first month here I managed to churn out 11 posts. I updated daily with little - and I do mean little - posts, all before dinner. I think I was much angrier then too. The last post I made in the founding month involved swearing about bank loans. That's interesting, because that particular loan is just about paid off now. Ironically, the post before this one had a bank in it, but less swearing.

I'm not sure I was a talented writer back then. I think I literally wrote what came to my head unedited, and without thinking about how odd it looks when you bounce ideas around and jump topics midsentence.

After the prolific month of October, I didn't update until the following year in January. To be exact it was 9:49pm on New Year's day. I was a week away from ending my reign as an 18 year old. Naturally the post is about the lack of posts since October.

That year I managed to post at least once a month, excluding only April, August and, funnily enough, October. It was my most productive year in posts.

2006 was a terrible year. I made less posts in the whole year than I did in the first October. So much for raising the bar. On the plus side, I am hoping to defeat the amazing record of 14 posts in a year this time around. Considering this is post number thirteen for 2007, I am confident I can do it.

Some other interesting facts before I continue:
2007 is the only year since I began that I have not posted anything in January.
October 2004, the beginning month, is the only time I ever posted in October.
I seem to always post something around the middle of the year in June or July.
March is the most active month, averaging 3 posts every year except this year where April produced four. Incredible!
I average 2 posts a month. Nice.

Since the beginning I like to think my writing and my posts have improved a hell of a lot. For starters, they are longer (the longest now being exactly 1000 words, I believe.) and more entertaining. I have only once had a good old rant and I have never discussed politics or celebrity gossip. Not to prove a point, but because they are very boring topics. One day I will merge them together and create an abomination of gossip. John Howard. Bush. Adopt Sharon Stone. Yeaaaahhh.

My goal whenever I sit down here - now between midnight and 5am - is not to describe what I did for the day or week in boring detail. What I try to do, more so now, is turn something as dull as changing a tyre into a small story you can read and not wonder why you have to endure the tedium of someone else's life. Unless you enjoy that, in which case I suggest you read something else. While I do post about stuff that happens, has happened and is happening, I don't like to write like a Dear Diary: Today I dug a hole. I like to throw off tangents, wild speculation, interesting thoughts and some good old randomness.

In a sense, I pour my brain out and clean the mess up with grammar, spelling and hopefully humour. If I fail to amuse you, the reader, at least know that I have probably amused myself somehow. Even if it's with something not related to what I typed.

Before I finish, I want to thank whoever is still reading (besides me), even though I really do update never. In particular I want to thank:

Jenna, for telling me I could write and kick-starting a passion and ambition that hasn't died since.

Rachel, for being an amazing girlfriend, despite living thousands of kilometres away and being busy working towards supporting me with a high-paying job (you know it's true). Also for reminding me when I haven't updated in a while!

Anyone who has ever complimented my writing. It's both ego-inflating and much appreciated. You have no idea how good it is to be told you are good at something you really want to do as a career. Well, maybe you do, but thanks anyway!

Lastly, my mind. For being alive and unfathomable. We make a good team.

Oh, and banks. I feel I need to thank them too.

- Pary; Greg ζ.

You don't know how good you are until
You think you are better than somebody else
You either prove yourself right
Or discover that you're not
As good
As you imagined

remembering days

Not too long ago I had a belief shattered. We all have these kinds of beliefs, or illusions, or perceptions - whatever you want to call them. They are minor but they are there. See, I wanted to open a second bank account for interest's sake (and for saving). Being the finance-savvy guy that I am, I investigated many alternatives and narrowed it down to just two I couldn't decide between. I'll spare the details, but I decided to seek help where I thought all my answers would be found: the bank. Ever since I was young, the bank has been a mystical place where the people working there are beings of a higher order that know everything about anything to do with finance. It has also been a place of long lines and longer waits, which is why the former perception has stuck for so long - I have never ventured out to have it shattered thanks to the convenience of the internet.

But this time I needed more than a page of information. I needed help from the Bank Tellers. I was confident I would be put on the right path and a beam of light would lead the way down to flowing rivers of easy minds and solutions. I was confident, but so naive. I approach an open teller after waiting less than five minutes (a perception already shattered right there). I smile as I bring forth my inquiry as clear as an over zealously polished sheet of metal. The teller appears to hesitate. I am confused - she's hesitating? She should be jumping all over this like a horny rabbit (sorry)!

She stumbles through a vague answer, one that can only mean she knows about as much as I do on the matter: "you need to find it out yourself." I have tried, damn it! Why are you doing this to me? I trusted you! The Teller loads the same page I had been poring over for hours. It's the exact same page. Not even a special bank teller-bible type page. Just the one anyone can view on the internet, or a brochure. I couldn't take it any longer, so I ran away screaming.

But then I remembered it was silly of me to have the belief that bank tellers - or anyone working for a company - are just people. They don't live and breathe this material or study it in minute detail so the unshaven amateur account holder can have his answers in perfect sense (cents?)

Remember that folks: People working at companies are not robots, unless of course they work for Telstra's lovely call center. But that's another story, and you know I love telling stories.

Well, I won't apologise for the lack of posts, because I am trying to take stock of what I have, what I want and what I need. This tends to lead on to the word responsibility it seems. Not to say I sit around on Sunday balancing cheque books - Sundays are for sleeping - but I am in the slow process of planning ahead. It's crazy, but I want to turn a wonderful idea into a wonderful reality, and that requires work that I am very willing to do. A bit like dominoes, I guess - you spend a long time setting it up and concentrating on every piece you put down until the very end where you knock it all over and have to clean up. Um, maybe not the greatest analogy, but you get what I mean: it's something that requires focus, determination and patience and people will question why you do it sometimes, but you know exactly why. And it's so worth it.

- Pary ζ.

there should always be mountains
because the tedium of plains encourages stopping
whereas the peak of a mountain
offers the promise of what's on the other side
and you must keep climbing

a thousand pictures

There is the familiar expression "a picture is worth a thousand words." It holds true because you can go to great lengths describing an image in minute detail. There are no real limits on how you describe something. Of course, some pictures lend themselves more readily to a thousand words, and that is the sentiment of the phrase.

Is the inverse true, I wonder? Can a word be worth a thousand pictures? I think a word can, and as with pictures, some words lend themselves more readily to the sentiment. I have a word that conjures up a thousand pictures in the blink of an eye. There are no limits, no rules. It is a writer's best friend and worst nightmare. It is an excuse for the irrational, an explanation for things that can not be explained.

It is a simple word at the core, just four letters, and it has been defined in the dictionary. But it's not defined by one or two; it is defined by up to and over twenty definitions. A verb, a noun; used in idioms and poems and followed with a plethora of synonyms.

This is not special by itself. Any word can achieve this, but can it achieve the same ability to conjure images and feelings. Do we fantasize about other words, nay, other ideas in the same way?

That is what it comes to be. An idea: a word that is an idea; a concept that over a thousand words cannot describe or explain. And oh how we have tried. From Shakespeare to the teenager in English class, we have written about it. It is this; it is that; it is all of this and all of that.

There seems to be more questions and more vagueness than answers and specifics. Perhaps it is impossible to comprehend such a feeling, such an idea. Happiness is a smile. Sadness is a tear. It can be both.

You lose your mind thinking about it but you don’t go insane. You risk everything for it but feel you have won more. It is when you care for yourself less than you care for someone else; when it is mutual.

It could be unconditional, and it can come and it can go. Just like the tides and the weather, only it is not controlled or predicted. Perhaps there are patterns, common themes that overlap. Perhaps if everyone described it, there would be enough information for facts. But then, the fantasy wouldn’t be so fantastic.

There’s no need at all to think about it then.

There don’t have to be reasons; what reason is there for it? Any or every, it matters little. The specifics sojourn our minds and sometimes we understand. Other times we are disheartened, but hardly for long.

To me, and perhaps not just me, it is a seed. Nurtured in its soil and cared for by another hand, it grows out of the darkness, as if by miracle. Seasons come and go, and it continues to grow, finding its way to the warmth of an object so far out reach, yet touchable.

This small seed, now this sprout, comes to life and finds its way. The same hand urges it on with the very idea it represents. Time passes, changes come, and still it grows. One day, it blossoms for the first time, and it is glorious. But it doesn’t end there; this is not the zenith or the peak, this is just the beginning. Further seasons may come and go, and this little miracle grows and blossoms in a never-ending cycle, as long as the hand remains and the idea is true.

Excuse the analogy and the metaphor if you will, but don’t excuse the meaning.

This is my idea, not something borrowed.

But then, I share it because it’s not something to lock in a box and keep safe from prying eyes. It’s something to spread across countless minds, not to cheapen or dull, but to better understand the mystery and fantasy of such a concept; a word - one single word in all its forms.

Every meaning and expression from every different view: Bitter-sweet to sweet-sorrowful, extreme joy to extreme sadness. Broken metaphorical hearts and irrational thoughts. Such a vast concept we have created, endured and nurtured.
”For love,” we cry. For love!

When writing this, perhaps a disguised letter to the future, I had to explore a looping path. It heads straight for a while and then curves into a circle. I found myself back at the beginning –that’s the reality. It is the same looping path you experience in multiple ways. Some grow bored of the cycle; some believe it is always a fresh path. But really, it’s the same path you explore with eager senses - each time something new; a flowerbed to the left that wasn’t there; a lake clearer than a polished mirror.

You spend your life wandering this path. You may end up lost somewhere, not because you didn’t know where you were going, just because you never understood the directions to get there.

You walk and you dream, you smile and you sadden. Pining and dreaming away this time on the worn path. In a million years when we have all evolved to control the irrational, this path will be long-deserted. It is not a curse to wander it, but the fear of not understanding and having no control drives us to desperate measures. Some would abandon the path to pursue a life of materialistic desires; still, perhaps, the same word in another view.

Whatever the reasons, whatever the way, this one word is followed like some great leader. As the seed grows, so the fascination does – desires to nurture it until the warmth of the sun seems close enough.

Painting a thousand pictures with this one word: Love.

Yours,
Greg

From you one look, just one look
And everything is shattered.
From you one word,
And towers burn
They fall, fall, fall

briefcase of ...

For the first time I have no idea what I came here to write about. This is unique, because whenever I am staring at this input box, I usually have an idea about what I will fill it with. But not today... this morning! So join me on a spontaneous little trip; I will broadcast my brain live and raw. Okay, maybe not raw - scary town there.

I am a month away from yet another change. I have a theory that there are certain years in your life that just move in cycles. What I mean by this is that the old phrase "same shit, different day" isn't too far from being the story of our lives. Is this a bad thing? Not at all. I think having mediocrity, repetitiveness and even bad times is what makes the better more exciting periods more appreciated. Think: What if everyday was friggin' amazing? Would we recognize it as such, or would it just become mediocre - the norm? See, this is why I don't believe you should live each day as though it were your last. You will tire out and want to die and indeed you will have lived each day like it was the last. It's kind of like eating, you could say - you eat until you are full, but then after a time you become hungry again. Each time you end up raising the bar, you make it harder to experience edifying moments. Your exciting life becomes mediocre and though this mediocrity might be someone else's excitement, you have eaten your fill, digested it and are hungry again. But the last dish just won't do!

So, what of it? Appreciate the good times, but do not fear the bad. It will make your mediocrity a little better in retrospect. Besides, without illness we wouldn't appreciate health would we?

Food for thought.

- G ζ.

one bad deed erases a thousand good
a thousand good deeds erase one bad
this is equal, and so we are entitled to do bad
just to remind ourselves what good is

cure for the block

I am in trouble. I cannot continue a story - it has gone cold. The initial burst has faded away like a gas into the atmosphere and I need to reignite it with a spark. I am about to resort to toilet-sitting, which has lead to great ideas in the past. There's something about those tiles...

Normally I would abandon an idea when this happens, but I think I could make this work. Maybe that's the problem right now - I am thinking too much and trying too hard to have a story. I suppose if I keep striking matches against the box one of them is bound to light and then - PHOOF! And by striking I mean not too hard.

What is my obsession with fire and matches lately?

I don't know.

- G ζ.

censorhip, bullsh*t and ignorance

I've had enough. I can't hold back any longer, so I'm going to attempt to condense a supernova explosion of inner-ranting into a readable post that doesn't take years to digest. If you get offended easily, keep reading so I can shove my opinions down your throat and feel better. I may apologise later, or I may not; just remember to never quote me on anything, because I will probably have changed my mind when you do. But enough bullshit, lets get on with the fucking show!

censor the fucking world!
what's not okay about censorship: It assumes that cutting access to certain things, such as sex and violence, prevents problems occurring in people. In Australia, censorship is too controlling. It's the product of thousands of lonely soccer mums with nothing better to do than be a nuisance and bitch about everything. They fail at parenting and blame it on anything other than themselves. Their ideas of discipline and teaching are horribly skewed. It might sound crazy, but the real world is full of these horrific things we see in any media form, and you can't censor any of it. So, what's the point of pretending censorship is saving the world? Anyone who can't tell the difference between reality and entertainment already has problems, or wasn't taught properly. I suggest people use their energy to teach, rather than complain and put control on everything. The golden rule for almost anything is this: if you aren't allowed to have or do it, you generally want to have or do it more.
why I am angry: I heard a rumour that cigarettes may be "censored" in movies in the future. That is almost the stupidest idea I have ever heard. Cigarettes give character in the right circumstances - honestly, who would believe a gruff detective wasn't a smoker? It adds depth! I don't want to see some half-arsed smoke-free detectives walking around on screen and advertising that smoking is bad. I don't even smoke. Never have, never will. But it's everywhere, and I have enough of a grasp on reality to know that blocking it in entertainment is about as useful as using paper towels to stop leakages.

so much Better Using Lame Lengthy Solutions Honoring Irate Truths
what's not okay about bullshit: It's tiresome, boring, everywhere and it stinks. The description is so fitting for what I have heard from day to day from people around the place. Excuses generally carry the most bullshit - not the small excuses like "I forgot my socks." I'm talking about the big ones that tell a life story you didn't need to hear. You can tell when bullshit is around, because the person emitting it usually goes to great lengths to be convincing. Oh, and you can almost smell it. That distinct odour of someone attempting to ride the high road and impart their wisdom and beliefs on you, because their opinion is the Real solution. Their way is gospel, man!
why I am angry: I am tired of hearing bullshit, seeing bullshit and saying bullshit. Every time I find myself guilty of bullshit, I feel I have sinned. I do my best to keep things simple, honest and clean. Most of my bullshit occurs for entertainment sake, not to fuck around because I don't have the mental capacity to be real. Is it too much to ask that people cut the crap and stop making me want to be violent? I enjoy people and am not an angry person, but there are limits, dammit!

ignorance is not always bliss
why ignorance is not okay: It is the basis of almost every problem. Climate change? What climate change? I haven't noticed the seasons have changed because I am too busy discovering that my credit card - heaven forbid - is 5% more expensive! How dare it! I also agree that in order to be a truly equal society we have to favour a prejudiced group. Sound backwards? Welcome to the world. Australia's south has a shortage of water while the north has too much. Logically, the solution is simple. Ignorantly, waiting for rain is what will happen. This is such a lengthy topic, I can't even begin to put everything down. Read the Cairns Post and you will see an abundance of ignorance - especially with questions like "Do you think the climate change is just another Y2K kerfuffle?" Genius! It's so modern and relevant. Never mind that the two ideas aren't even close to the same thing.
why I am angry: I hate ignorance. It's like driving without mirrors - the other drivers will give way to me, I don't need to see them. I make it a habit to burn the Cairns Post now.

Conclusion:
Fuck censorship, clean up your bullshit and get some friggin' mirrors in your metaphorical cars.

That felt good to let out.

I am happy.

- G ζ.

shameless plug

Another week has passed by and where do we all sit now? In chairs, I assume. A week is hardly a long enough time frame to induce change, but here I beg to differ. Once again this wonderful part of the web has a new look. Something about the transparent squares of the last one irked me. I think it was the fact that it had a banner I didn't create myself created this feeling. So it had to go.

This layout is as pleasant as it is modest. I can look at it and imagine sitting in a log cabin on a quiet evening and writing in a journal, with my thoughts as company. Maybe there's a candle lighting the room. It adds a nice touch, but is also a fire hazard when romanticism meets reality.

This week is also a week of realisations. It marks the week where I sit down, exasperated, and declare certain truths to the world, or the wall, whatever listens the best. One such truth is that plugs (the kind that go in bathtubs, sinks and whatnot) inadvertently disappear on me. Some people have pens, others have socks, that vanish over and over. I am fine with socks. As for pens, I am the guy who has all the pens. But not plugs. This week I have been forced to improvise 3 different ways to prevent water from emptying into a drain. I get the feeling I am going to be stretched to the limit as far as this goes.

Nevertheless, being the generous individual that I am, I will share the three methods I have used with success.

Uno: "Almost a Plug Plug" A lid the same size as the drain hole. It has to fit flush, but not tight with the opening. Just slip it in upside-down and pwow! You have a plug. It may seem difficult to get out, but trust me, it is possible as long as you didn't pick a lid that you had to force into the drain hole.

Due: "Pressure Plug" This one is simple. Just imagine putting a brick over a drain hole and apply the same principle with other objects, like a cup or large lid. Place it over the hole and weigh it down. Sometimes you don't even have to use a weight - the water will provide it, as long as you can hold the item in place.

Tre: "Desperate Plug" Plastic wrapping, cloth and a small lid, or similar object, is what you will need. Place the plastic over the hole and put the cloth over the top. Push the cloth down into the hole and apply the small, or similar object to hold it in place while the water is filling.

All three methods work, believe it or not. If they don't, either I fluked it or you aren't doing it right. Experiment! Or just use real plugs.

Another truth is that phones and me do not get along. I dislike answering machines, first of all - it's hard to explain, but there's something about them that doesn't appeal to me. MessageBank is included in this. I believe it could be due to the fact that every mobile I have owned transmits my voice at a frequency humans can't hear. At first I thought I might speak too softly, but this belief has been quashed since I have used both VoIP and a landline with a softer voice and I have never heard the words "I can't hear you."

But mobiles have to be different. I figure when you yell into a phone and the other person can't hear you, it should because they are in a very loud place, like a construction site or standing next to a jet engine at a rock concert. I worked for a place selling phones. Nobody ever came in and said "People can't hear me when I speak." Maybe because they were mute and couldn't, or maybe I am the only one cursed.

Don't even get me started on call barring.

As if the battle of missing plugs and communication wasn't enough, I have discovered that instruction manuals are out to get me. I think the score so far is: Manuals, 4; Greg, 2. The latest attack occurred while trying to start a lawn mower. I know; it's not rocket science. This is just another moment where I should ignore what an instruction manual is saying and figure it out myself, because unless it is rocket science, I don't need the instruction. I felt pretty dumb taking it back into the store to see what was going on. I knew straight away what it was: the manual instructed the reader in a way that was opposite to what works. I don't know what the deal with these things is. Either somebody somewhere is having way too much fun messing with me or I have reading comprehension issues. I am certain it is not the latter. I tend to read things many times before saying "Right, I got this." Now I will stop reading and ritually burn the instruction manuals. And I won't even glance at the instructions on how to use a lighter or box of matches.

Burn baby burn.

- G ζ.

it took me by surprise
such sweetness was conveyed
i fear I may be dreaming
such a gentle kiss to ears
I want to listen a while longer

americanised

I thought I was writing a blog entry until I realised, 1000 words in, that I was writing a story. I think my creative genius is becoming impatient with me. It wants to get serious, but I keep flirting with ideas and not committing. I promise I will remedy this, creative genius, because writing a short story in a blog is like saying the wrong person's name during sex. It was a close call.

I'm back working now, which is apparently cause for laughter or disdainful expressions to some people. Whatever. I'll return the favour and support when I am earning three times as much as them because I sucked up my pride. I'll also send pictures of all the things I can afford and they never will. Ha!

Being mean aside, I had a visitor from California. The timing was great, since I was on days off and could play tour guide for this wonderful place we call Japan... I mean Cairns. Seriously, even Poon (the dude visiting) was in awe at the Japanese population present. It was the first thing he noticed! That, and probably the poor weather. Not that I mind the rain at all, it's just that when you want to see the reef, it's not a great time for it.

Nevertheless, we braved the boat trip and saw the reef against all odds and currents. It might have been windy, rough and Japanese-ridden, but there were fish! FISH! An elderly woman hero-worshiped our valiant swimming efforts. We were the pioneers to her.

On the return trip, the Vomiting Orchestra performed once more, though not in all its surround-sound glory like the first trip. We held our lunch with ease, even while living on the edge.

After the stormy reef visit, we met up the next day to check out the Skyrail. I was a little annoyed to discover that the weather had improved (marginally, but enough to make a difference) despite the all-wise ticket lady's information. I'd never been on the Skyrail, so it was all new to me. New, as in, the trees looked different from above. And closer. Not much fauna can be seen, but it's an interesting way to get into Kuranda. Much better than spending the time driving, especially since Kuranda is like a giant shopping center with streets.

Next was the Mangrove boardwalk. Poon was convinced I wasn't serious when I first mentioned this, but he soon find out the joke was him! Or something. Anyway, I hadn't been on that boardwalk since the fifth grade. I had memories of things thrown in the mud and girls being chased with sticks. I hope I was informative. I managed to convince myself I knew what I was talking about, except when we came across bizarre holy spheres. It was strange to see trees with more roots than Paris Hilton (only Aussies will get the root reference) and mud skippers. I forgot how odd they are.

The nighttime was a time of meeting other Cairns folks who Poon knew. Of course, venues were mixed up so we were forced to steal bread from Fasta Pasta before making a dash to another restuarant. I may have to wear a mustache when I visit Fasta Pasta next.

It was good to see the crew again. Even though I stopped playing the same game, they are great people and interesting to boot! The stereotype for gamers just doesn't fit for those I have met so far. Sure, you might not understand some conversations, or relate, but that's the case for so many things. I know if I sat with a bunch of nazis, I wouldn't understand or relate to what they were talking about.

I discovered that one of the crew goes spear fishing. That, to me, is awesome. In fact, I hope to join him on a trip and test my bravery in the water. Oh man, too much fun!

After dinner, we parted aways; the group and Poon and I. I enjoyed his visit. It was a well-spent couple of days. The crazy pictures featuring him weren't a lie either: he really was the guy having a ton of fun on a world trip. And that's such a good thing when traveling alone. Because if you aren't having fun, you really are alone.

Of course, the next night I was back at work and it wasn't such a good thing. For starters, I was a one-man army against an impressive array of dishes. Later I was almost doubled over in pain after a broom handle attempted to crack my testicles. My apron saved me, diverting the dangerous blunt weapon away and leaving me staring after it in consternation. When I got home, there was no hot water to shower with. Fine, screw you Thursday night.

Back to normal.

- G ζ.

image of a beauty, thoughts of a dream
supposed to be hard and not so simple
eyes of a heaven, lips of a goddess
and now despite myself I fall under

in 50 words or less

The movie 300 is, for lack of super powerful describing words, friggin' awesome. If you haven't seen it yet, I suggest you do before speaking to me. If you don't like it I'm afraid I will need time to consider whether I want to be your friend.

That is all.

road signs

There's something about my car. It's not a particularly interesting or impressive car, nor is it expensive. It's a Mazda 121 "Stripes" edition. The stripes are for speed, even if they aren't very noticeable... anyway, my car has the unique ability to predict coming natural disasters.

I am deadly cereal about this. If you check back to a month ago last year you will notice the story of Cyclone Larry (mending fences is the title). In that entry is a mentioning of my car breaking down at a Stop sign. On the same day a cyclone was discovered off the coast. At the time I figured it was a standard chain of unfortunate events.

On Saturday I was proven wrong.

On Saturday, while taking my brother to his interview, I was met with another chain of events. This time I saw someone at the traffic lights at random - someone I haven't seen for a while. It was a cool coincidence and we drove by each other, both turning in our respective right direction. Thirty minutes later in a car park my car wouldn't start.

I was determined that it was a temporary thing and so I gave it a few minutes to fix itself, or get over whatever rebellious urges it felt. It only took ten minutes before the beautiful sound of the engine working filled my ears. Crisis averted, I began the drive home.

And then I was almost rear-ended by a ute at a green light. Go figure.

By now I was becoming paranoid; wondering what else would almost - or would - go wrong. I joked to my brother about how when my car broke down last time we were witness to the worst cyclone in years - maybe another one was coming? What's really funny is how he checked when we got home; safely, believe it or not.

Then on Monday morning there was an earthquake in the Solomon Islands and the resulting tsunami almost hit Cairns. Almost, just like everything else almost happened.

I would have slept through it too, if my mum didn't burst into the room and fill my half-asleep brain with indigestible information. It's hard to comprehend what "tsunami" means when you can't decide whether you are still dreaming or not.

So, my car can predict natural disasters. When it breaks down, shit goes awry. Actually, it's more complicated than that. There has to be some kind of random incident/accident and the car has to fail in the same journey. I think the time between the two events gives a clue to how long until a natural disaster arrives. Using this information I have deciphered the hidden message in both cases.

The cyclone -
Car hits cockatoo and breaks down later: You will be hit by a natural disaster in a few days, but someone else will suffer a lot more than you.

The tsunami -
Car breaks down temporarily and is almost rear-ended not long after: There is a natural disaster about to happen close by, but you won't be hit by it, although there will be a shake-up for others more effected.

I hope I'm not involved in any accidents that cause my car to break down.

In other news, I am tired of the Cairns Post and its tiresome news articles. A tsunami almost hit! Whoa! That's definitely worth three days of front page material! Oh, our warning system isn't good enough? Well, maybe that's because we don't get tsunamis very often. If ever. That's like saying our tornado warning system isn't good enough. Here's an idea: I'll warn you of any impending doom with my psychic car.

Worse than that was the week-long coverage of the anniversary of cyclone Larry. Newsflash: It didn't hit Cairns. It hit Innisfail. A year ago. Nobody gives a shit except them. The longest I've stayed in Innisfail was thanks to a bus I was traveling on breaking down on the way to Townsville. The highlight was winking at some giggling school girls who passed by. Want to know why it was so devastating? Innisfail is as modern as Darwin was in the '70s when Tracy hit.

I am done.

- G ζ.

If you trust in yourself enough now
And believe in your dreams someway somehow
And you follow your star to the right place
You will still get beaten by those who learned
And worked hard and weren't as lazy as you

just add water

I am going to teach you how to create a hobo using the following:

- Yourself
- Old clothes (slacks + white, long-sleeved shirt)
- Red wine
- Cotton gloves
- Old shoes

Step 1: Mow the lawn or do some gardening with the new cotton gloves on. Make sure you take extra care to ensure they touch everything, excluding dog crap. That's just gross. If you have thorny plants, caress them so that the gloves tear (make sure nobody is watching...). When you are done, you should go from looking like Michael Jackson to looking like Michael Jackson if he wore the gloves and did the gardening. Cut the fingers off. It's a good idea to take the gloves off first, by the way.

Step 2: While you are still grubby and sweating, find some old clothes. Slacks and long-sleeved shirts tend to work best. Put them on and roll around in the dirt. Do it in other peoples' lawns for fun. If they chase you, it only adds to the authenticity (it also makes a good story nobody would believe).

Step 3: Apply red wine to the front of your shirt. Drink some red wine. Rinse and repeat.

Step 4: Slice and dice the slacks at the knees. Rips look cool and give you breathing holes.

Step 5: Have a shower. While it's fun to pretend you're a hobo, it's not fun to make it hygienically authentic. Seriously. Once you are clean, put the messed-up clothes on.

Step 6: Hopefully you haven't shaved for a week or two, unless you're female. Don't stop shaving if you are female. There is no area visible enough to worry about (unless you often sport facial air, which is disturbing) so just pretend you don't have access to a shaver (or wax) as opposed to being too real.

Step 7: Go to a party where everyone is dressed up as Cleopatra. Expect jokes at your expense, especially when random smells are noticed. You're a hobo now; you just like the attention. Go around giving pearls of wisdom to anyone who will listen.

Note: For added effect, wear a sign that reads: Hug a Hobo. If anything, it distracts people long enough to steal their wallets.

There you have it! An authentic hobo to take to any party that involves vague costume themes. Bring a spare change of clothes and you can continue the show by saying you are now dressed as a reformed hobo (I recommend this before going into the city). Good times, my friend.

At least that's what I had with a similar experience not long ago. Sadly, I must shave for a job interview tomorrow so this impressive mass of hair on my face must be sacrificed to the sink. Another reason being a writer appeals to me: You don't have to clean yourself up for work.

Just crawl out of bed saying "Welp, I'm off to work now!" and disappear for a few hours (or thousand words). Hopefully you don't forget to get dressed or clean before you head out though. I know I won't, because I have a mental checklist: Pants, check. Money, check. Shaved face, screw it; only going to a wedding.

On another note, my gardening saga continues, despite the slight delay putting a stupid wheelbarrow together. Reading the "instructions" hindered the simple task more than it helped.

"Step 11: Oh, btw, did you remember to put the legs on? Should have done that at about Step 2, I think. Don't worry, just undo a bit of frustrating work and pick some nuts and bolts to finish it off once you have the legs on."

You know what? Screw you.

I want to know who wrote that. No, I want to know who edited it - "polished it" - for public use. I hate to imagine the thousands and thousands of similar instruction sheets floating around the place. If I ever see someone putting a wheelbarrow together looking confused and frustrated with a sheet of paper in his/her hand, I will walk up to them, place my hand on their shoulder and say "Let go, my friend. Let go and you will be free; it all becomes clear."

I will motion to the sheet of paper and they will understand my meaning. And then I will slip my jacket (you always need a jacket in these scenarios) over my shoulder and walk off into the sunset. Behind me, the man/woman will have his/her family in their arms, watching me go.

And the world becomes better, one frustrated handyman and handywoman at a time.

That is all.

- G .ζ.

tell me, what is it that drives you?
is it the desire to succeed?
because, really, sometimes...
sometimes I want to fire my chauffeur
and just drive myself

flog before blogging

Sitting here, staring at James Boag's premium beer (from the Esk river they say) I decided to do another five-minute blog. I never explained this, so I am taking five minutes to inform you good reader(s) what a flog is.

I could go into elaborate detail to waste a few minutes and come to the stunning conclusion. I could bore you with back story (that would be made up anyway) and pretend it's important information. But instead, I want you to think about what it is. Lets see:

I mentioned in the first flog and this one what it is; if you haven't figured out by now, you fail.

A flog is exactly what I have just done. A weblog (blog) in five minutes. No more, no less. It's a five-minute weblog, genius.

write you are!

What an unusual week it has been! When I say week I am estimating the actual days passed, so I should say "What an unusual time period it has been!" But then you wouldn't have an idea of how long. Get what I'm saying? Good, let me continue then.

First and foremost, I spent most of last week's four-day end out and about. I mention this not because it's special or I have any illusions about being a social butterfly, but because I want to swap weekends. You see, right now my internet is "shaped" or "capped" or "snail mode." whatever you want to call it, it's slllooow.
What this means is web pages don't load so fast and downloading is out of the question. I have been reduced to dial-up speeds. It feels like I'm using a school computer to browse at the best of times. When my brother is trying to browse at the same time? Fuhgheddaboutit!

What's that got to with swapping weekends? Everything! Being unemployed, I have too much spare time and most of that goes into internet related activities. Now though, these activities (I know, you're thinking it's porn) have become tedious. I am not surfing the web anymore, I am struggling against the current in a jumper, track pants and shoes. If the weekends were swapped, I'd be too busy going out and getting drunk to care or notice and I wouldn't have all this spare time to do nothing.

But since I don't have the power to swap time around, nor do I know anybody who does, I had to settle for doing something else. I cleaned my computer desk and organised my CDs. I cleaned my room and created a monster of a rubbish bag - the bag I used was friggin' huge and I filled it to bursting point, somehow managing to shove it in the garbage bin. Today I will do some gardening.

Tonight, not long ago, I did some writing. That's why I'm here, in all honesty. As per Max Barry's suggestion, I stopped myself writing when I hit a maximum word count. Well, rebel that I am, I went over it. Doubled it, actually. That means I want to continue writing and needed an outlet.

You may be curious about what I wrote about. It's an interesting short story that is going to be sent away and hopefully published as part of an anthology of similar stories. I like to think I'm on a good track with it. Hell, I still have ideas screaming in my brain that I am hoping will undergo mitosis and give me what I need to continue and then finish.

Funny truth: While I have had an idea about what to write for this story, it wasn't until I stared at the tiles on the toilet floor that I came up with the mega-wham of an idea which gave me what I needed to tear the blank white page to pieces (metaphorically; literally wouldn't be a good thing to do.) As Stephen King says: two unrelated ideas and you have a story. Well, in my case it was more like two unrelated activities. Then again in some tragic cases shitting and writing can be the same thing.

Here we go.

- Pary ζ.

there's no way I'll tell her,
not today, not tomorrow
the fantasy is so much better
and she knows it already

pocket change

You may notice something very different about this humble area of the internet. It doesn't involve haircuts or weight-loss, but a brand new layout and look to this very blog! Don't be alarmed, I have not altered my beliefs or repented for my sins, I just decided to change the look and layout to better suit my general mood, which is apparently white, blue and a bunch of ethereal squares. Change is a funny thing. Sometimes things change to the demands of time, sometimes they change out of necessity. Or sometimes it's just a wannabe writer getting bored of the dark background.

You're probably wondering why I didn't change the address. Well, I have two reasons for this:

1. It's not possible, unless I wanted to lose all my precious writings. By lose I mean they stay here and I sojourn to somewhere else, abandoning them like orphans.

2. "pwow" makes for a funny sound when spoken as one word - "pw-ow." Try it! Guaranteed to get people asking questions, or questioning your person. I think it will be great in conversations where surprise and shock need to be exclaimed in a rock singer type screech. Pwoooow!

I consider this new fancy look to be a revolution. Even the title has changed to something less literal and far more subjective; susceptible to changing perspectives, opinions and views on what it actually means and represents. Big words make it seem deep, bear with me.

What does the title, sojourn, mean to you? The small journeys of life that make up the grand scheme from life to death? The brief thoughts and ideas that visit your mind and disappear? Dreaming?

I'll tell you what it means to me: Anything.

And that's exactly what this is all about: anything. Whoa, I know, crazy.

So I'm enjoying being single, unemployed and preventing my brain from exploding. My list of achievements has been added to after I solved two Rubik's cubes (I had a little help, but I get how it works) and am now in the process of solving a 5x5 Rubik's cube (without help). One face done and much swearing to go.

The funny thing about these innocent-looking cubes is how quickly you can get the hang of it and then how fast you forget what's going on and can't figure out how to get your beautiful progress back to where it was. That's where the swearing comes from. It's not to abuse the cube, that would be unfair. It's just a colorful cube wanting to be normal again. No, the swearing is at yourself for turning a face and then altering which side was facing you, and then taking it one step further by forgetting what the hell you did the turn for in the first place. Or maybe it's because I did the red face first and red is an angry colour.

Food for thought!

Right on cue.

- Pary ζ.

no, that's the sound of my heart breaking
but it's ok, I don't mind
it's only a metaphor
my real heart is still beating