ageing young

Here is a boy. His name can be Todd.
Todd is not unique, but we will use him as a vessel to explore a world not unlike our own - not unlike, but completely different: Backwards. Not in a way that doesn't make sense, or is illogical, or that has missed the point somewhere, but backwards in the literal way. Every hour of every day of every week works in reverse to ours.

Todd lives in this wonderful world. He is 30 years young and feeling better than ever. At birth, he had all the wisdom of a century-liver, and all the wrinkles. Oh, don't worry, he wasn't born in the usual way, he just came to be. Use your imagination here - perhaps he came from the ground or awoke one day as a pre-made being. Nevertheless, Todd enjoyed his undoing all the burdens of arriving. Over time he lost the bad - and the good - aspects of being old (by our system). Arthritis became less of a problem as he aged (remember, he ages backwards). Defects of the mind, too, were less frequent and less troublesome - Todd actually had amnesia, and lost that when he was 10. Although he had little memories to have not know by this time. Even so, he began to imagine a future from what little he knew.

At 30 Todd knows the vanity of the world. People everywhere trying to look old, trying to beat young. At such an age, Todd was in his prime, though he knew what time does to you: eventually you become too young to have memories, too young to think; too young to take care of yourself. You could try and beat it, but the finish line would always be there when you succumbed to the inevitable.

We might wonder how a world would be, and how we could experience it. If it is a mirror of our own lives, we must consider the similarities: Though in Todd's world you don't age, but become young, you still degenerate to a point of being unable to fend for yourself.

For us, we become old men and women. We desperately cling to our youth and constantly try to defy our own existance.
For Todd, he becomes young.

We can wonder whether he becomes physically young as well - does he shrink and lose hair? Is becoming younger better than becoming older when you lose the same advantages in reverse ways?

Either direction has but one master: time. Time giveth and time taketh away. Though we might mark it and think we are the masters of such an eternal concept, we are mere slaves. Time has the patience of a universe, and will always win.

Todd, despite having the novelty of getting younger as he lives, still suffers in the same way. Though I do not think he can hold on to an extra year through exercise, as we do. I think Todd has his timeframe decided already.

Perhaps everyone in Todd's world begins their life with amnesia, so they do not remember that they have already lived before and what they are living now is but a flash in a single moment before their little candle is snuffed out by the breath of time. At 10, Todd may have become privvy to this, though desperately wanted to go back to the beginning.

We don't know, for we have yet to go there - we have yet to experience the last moments in our own minds. Consider the past, at least your memory of it, a chance to grow backwards.

- P

Yet as an eternal audience looks on
And you take your final bow on the grandieous stage
One thing is sure - as clear as crystal:
For all your wise words and all you have heard,
From every short step and long-deep breath
You can almost forget your age.

she drives me crazy

Feminists and bad drivers. Two seemingly unrelated topics that have somehow come to a crossroads. And by somehow I mean I have forced them together for the sake of this post, much like how we're forced to share the roads with people who forget they are controlling moving tonnes of metal.

So, there I was cruising through the web, when - as what happens - I took a turn into Feminist Street: A forum full of angry, delusional females. I know; it sounds harmless and somehow normal, but these particular females were insanely aggressive to anything that doesn't wear a bra. Actually, they are just insanely aggressive toward anything.

Their posts are eerily well written grammar and spelling wise, though the convoluted nonsense to be read negates any impression of intelligence. Oh sure, they appear smart with large words and bitter cynicism, but really the lack of common sense pollutes every word. It's almost a cult following, this forum: They refer to society ("ruled by men and designed to degrade women") as the Patriarchy, or the P, for those in the know. When I say 'refer to' I mean in every fucking post. To them, everything is because of the patriarchy.

Assumptions are everywhere and the hard facts seem to ride in the backseat - no, the boot, or maybe a trailer left behind. From the thankfully brief (as amusing as it was, my head begun to hurt from the sheer stupidity) encounter I broke down the process of how the threads work:

1. Someone points out something inane and makes it appear as if it specifically targets women and proverbially demands they get back in the kitchen or so help them
2. Every reply agrees; with the word "patriarchy" thrown in like some kind of Borg movement
3. Pitchforks are handed out, as well as torches
4. The cause becomes justified and the sheer audacity of everything produces snarls and scowls
5. Hypocritical closing statements are thrown in - 'it's disgusting that there's violence and degradation to women in this inane something... I want to kill all men'

To this cult group of angry women I say: Please do not have children.

Now, the bad drivers of yonder! Where I live and drive, the most common form of bad driving stems from the following:

- Giving way, or rather, not giving way. Screw waiting for traffic, they can wait for you! Screw traffic all together: you own this road.
- Indicating, or rather, not indicating. Keep people guessing right? Look out, you're moving your tonnes of metal this way. Ha! I didn't expect that!
- Speeding. Because heaven help you get to the red light behind someone.
- Driving slow. Yes, it is bad on this end too. Look, your caution is the right idea, but there is a speed limit 50 other cars want to get to. Congestions equal frustration equals chaos.
- Car Parks. What lines? Review mirror? I like going backwards while not looking. Do it all the time without my car!

The easiest way to be a good driver is to remember this: Don't drive your car in ways that you wouldn't walk.
What I mean is, you don't run from shop to shop or weave between people in a building at speed. You don't walk in front of traffic knowing that you are going slower and it will catch up...
You don't cut in front of a car.
You don't walk backwards without looking and if there's a line, you adhere to it.

Also: Pay attention while driving! Tell your passengers you are not involved in their antics because you have a large moving object to control. Don't answer your phone! STOP THINKING YOUR CAR IS MAGIC AND WON'T BECOME A DEADLY WEAPON IF YOU DON'T USE IT PROPERLY.

Rant: Over.

- G

no little poem today
just these words to let you know
oh shit, I've done it anyway
okay, it's time to go!

department of Qs

So it's a common fact that, worldwide (except maybe in Qatar), the department of transport office (or whatever it's named in your 'hood) generates the slowest cues known to man. They are deceptively short - you see a 'few' people sitting down and some brave souls standing along the perimeters, arms and ankles crossed, all staring up at the all-knowing interchanging number screen. Surely this time my number has to be called, they all think. But no, F156 wins the place (though that person at least got their number).

I decided to by-pass this and wait at Register 2, to the left of the door. My chances of being served were slim and I knew it was out-of-procedure, but I refused to be a minion of the all-knowing number screen. I would not conform so easy!

After several minutes that seem like hours, a lady asked me in a polite tone if I was being served. I just wanted to renew my license, so I said that. Wrong answer. To the ticket machine I go, to become another slave for the all-knowing screen. I should have pretended I was a chosen one.

Several thousand more hour-minutes went by while I lean against a bench next to a few other minions, all of us waiting and staring like brainwashed religious converts.

"Ticket number: A.1.4.9., please report to: counter 10."

The sweet, monotonous tone over the speakers, like some propaganda machine, aroused the hopeful attention of anyone listening. Never will you see a person move with such haste and readiness than you do at these places. Calling their name would fail to inspire the same instantaneous reaction. These people jump out of their chairs - or off the wall/bench - to where they're directed.

"Ticket number: A151, please report to: counter 6."
"Ticket number: B678, please report to: counter 2."
"Ticket number: F549., please report to: counter 10."

It skips numbers. The audacity; the conditions stated clearly! I was number A160. My ticket would be called at some interval between A151 and A164. It made no sense that A151 would go before A150, since the counters are capable of handling any service.

I waited.

"Ticket number: A158 please report to: counter 2."

The tone continued over and over. It was like a train station; a hellish, confined train station that took you nowhere. You weren't there out of choice, oh no, you're there because the law - the true power behind the all-knowing screen - makes you.

A160, my number - "my" - was called at last and I proceeded to counter 3, which was a whole one meter from my leaning spot. A man was behind the counter. A probably-gay man. He took my form and took my money on behalf of the law.

I moved on to the photo seat and hardly smiled into that ominous lens.

"Look right here," the operator said.
A flash.
I'm directed to wait. I ignored my previous position in favour of a cushioned seat next to the middle. My ears were pricked for any call with a phonetic resemblance to "Greg"

And there it was. My new license. I had survived the department for now, but I'd be back. One must always return, lest they no longer travel legally. The screen watched me leave, mocking me with its now-sequential number calling.

I just nodded and make a note that in all my ID photos, I have progressively more hair.

- P

I pushed into line and saved myself time
But I never knew what I was doing
Never knew where the line was going
If I had known it led back to the door
I don't think I'd have bothered entering at all

politically correct me

I have two things on the agenda tonight. The first is a short rant about the absurdity of the rights of common people to complain. By common I mean backwards. Okay, so there is (or was) an advert on TV for tampons. This isn't astonishing in any way, but this advert used a an euphemism we're all familiar with (apparently too familiar for some) to portray a certain important element to tampons. It was a good attempt at not taking a touchy product too seriously. The ad features a beaver hanging out with a young lady. They do all the things a couple would do early in a relationship: walk, laugh, have dinner and give gifts. Except the beaver of course doesn't talk and only receives a gift: a box of tampons from the lady. It makes sense.

Seems this offended some people, because it's offensive to use any kind of imagery or wording that describes something natural we're all afraid to hear on TV. First off, the offended folks claim the use of the term 'beaver' was offensive. I don't get this. Beaver was never mentioned once. It was just there, quietly going about business with the lady who seemed pretty joyful. What if it had a name like Barry? She hung out with Barry (a beaver) and gave it tampons over dinner.

"A beaver?! Oh my heavens' Lord golly gosh! She's giving a beaver tampons. What an outrageous, scandalous thirty seconds I've just witnessed. Where's that number - ah yes, on Speed-dial. Lovely dovely."

I don't really care about the ad or whether it's still circulating. I mean, it wasn't amazing, even though it beat all those incredibly hackneyed "empowerment" ads for tampons that apparently give back control to women. Face it, ladies: You're hormones' bitch.

What I do care about is how ridiculous the notion that this kind of thing is considered offensive and various action is forced. If I was the company I would send a diagram of the female reproductive system to whoever complained, with the simple note:

This is a vagina. It's real, so deal with the beaver, you sheltered, empty fool.
Ps. Penis.

There was another advert that came under scrutiny. Something to do with beer and a chick wearing a bikini, I think. Or at least it vaguely involved breasts. These offended people have issues. Their children will grow up being menaces to society because they had terrible parents and no sense of reality (rated very R).

R = heavy sex, plenty of violence, a fuckload of language and mega-gore.

By the way... highlighting an 'offensive' ad just makes it more known and earns the creator extra money and a pat on the back. Plus the company is (hopefully) laughing at you over lunch.

- P

Wait, I had two things on tonight didn't I? The second is making fun of horrible lyrics, such as the following, line by line:

Superman dat hoe
The title lets you know you're in for a butchering of ghetto English, which is a butchering of English itself. "Superman dat hoe" ... does that mean you make her wear a cape and undies outside a tight outfit?
[Chorus: x2]
Soulja Boy Off In This Hoe
Tolja this was a butchering. Seems here that soldier boy (I know, right?) is "off in this hoe" meaning perhaps that there is a hoe somewhere we're supposed to know about and he is in her, going off. Maybe 'hoe' in this sense means some kind of place, like a club.
Watch Me Crank It
Oh, but he's cranking it. Euphemism (that word again) for some sexual act or is he cranking a car? Oh! Maybe 'hoe' meant car in the last line! That fits well. He can be "off in" a car.
Watch Me Roll
Roll... this follows on pretty well. The car might need to roll before the engine fires up after he's cranked it good.
Watch Me Crank Dat Soulja Boy
Wait, there's another soldier boy! These characters need to be mentioned earlier, before we're slammed "dis" and "dat" that we're supposed to recognise. Is the car a Soldier Boy (TM)?
Then Super Man Dat Hoe
Ah, the title returns. So it is an action after all. Since the car is a 'hoe' by the name of Soldier Boy (TM), I guess supermaning would involve pushing or some other exertion likened to superman. Hm, you do look kind of like superman flying with your arms outstretched...
Now Watch Me youuu
Huh? Okay, with 'ghetto English' I sometimes allow for certain licenses. There's some strange sentences that fly at you, but it's within the ghetto realm of lingo. This line is just bad. You is not an action, and this is a serious struggle for words.
(Crank Dat Soulja Boy)
Now Watch Me youuu
(Crank Dat Soulja Boy)
Now Watch Me youuu
(Crank Dat Soulja Boy)
Now Watch Me youuu
(Crank Dat Soulja Boy)
... so the worst line is repeated and backed up by a chant to get the car started.

[Verse 1:]
Soulja Boy Off In This Hoe
Yes, we know already.
Watch Me Lean And Watch Me Rock
Um, out the car window? Does the car have hydraulics?
Super Man Dat Hoe
Right, pushing it or something again. Guess there was leaning and rocking at the same time.
Then Watch Me Crank Dat Robocop
New car! Or maybe we're all just finding out that Robocop needs to be cranked. All this time!
Super Fresh, Now Watch Me Jock
I'm getting bored of watching these things. This is also pretty weird.
Jocking On Them Haterz Man
Oh, you're jocking some haters. That's even weirder.
When I Do Dat Soulja Boy
Now it's just confusing. Are you cranking or doing this damn car? Goddamn.
I Lean To The Left And Crank Dat Dance
Now you're a cranking a dance? What dance? Why left? UGH.
(Now You)
Hm?
I'm Jocking On Yo Bitch Ass
Hey, don't go anywhere near my ass. Especially don't crank it. Seriously.
And If We Get The Fightin
The fighting? If we get it? Missing word there... only two letters.
Then I'm Cocking On Your Bitch
What happened to the homosexual urges?
You Catch Me At Yo Local Party
I wonder if Corey Worthington knows about this.
Yes I Crank It Everyday
Much cranking indeed. Them cars don't seem to have very good engines.
Haterz Get Mad Cuz
"I Got Me Some Bathin Apes"
...

[Chorus x2]

[Verse 2:]
I'm Bouncin On My Toe
I can't be bothered writing anymore
Watch Me Super Soak Dat Hoe
But some innuendo is in there. I guess it involves a money shot
I'ma Pass It To Arab
And then this makes it weird.
Then He Gon Pass It To The Low (Low)
... and it doesn't stop there
Haterz Wanna Be Me
Mm, because there's bitches to be cocked, cars to be cranked and bitch asses to be jocked.
Soulja Boy, I'm The Man
Soldier boy.
They Be Lookin At My Neck
Of course
Sayin Its The Rubberband Man (Man)
Lame.
Watch Me Do It (Watch Me Do It)
Again with the watching
Dance (Dance)
Blah blah blah
Let Get To It (Let Get To It)
Blah blah blah
Nope, You Can't Do It Like Me
I really have no idea what "it" is at this stage. Unless "it" means write lyrics, in which case this line is both wrong and right. Wrong because the lyrics are terrible and right because a bunch of bathin' apes could do it. But I think "it" means the dance that is mentioned somewhere
Hoe, So Don't Do It Like Me
Trust me, you need not worry
Folk, I See You Tryna Do It Like Me
That was a muscle spasm - sorry.
Man That Shit Was Ugly
Your face is!

That was pain. I was truly brain dead by the end - thinking, in a zombie-state: When does it end?

Oh, and the lamest thing about the entire song is the video. This soldier boy claims to be the real deal with his dance (TM), and yet the clip is filled with people doing the exact same dance without error. Go figure.

- G

lyrics are fun
but often not well done
so we can all write songs
and pretend to smoke bongs
when really we just fail English
and insult fish

real life chat room

It's a common belief that, as with many atrocities, 'flaming' (also known as 'dissing' or disrespecting) was born and still thrives on the wonderful anonymous world that is the Internet. But it is not so.

Go into any public restroom and you'll find that this flaming business is as old as, well, public restrooms. There's the ancient "woz 'ere" that has stood the test of time (from, I imagine, 6t9 to 9t9 and then '00 to '08). But these simple messages weren't alone in bathroom stalls; many phrases, poems, discrete invitations, propaganda and blatant racism and vulgar language resided with them (and still do!)

Ignoring everything else, a question needs to be asked about these toilet 'forums':

Who takes a pen into a fucking toilet?

It makes sense to have a pen in a toilet conveniently because, I don't know, maybe it's a work day and you happen to keep a pen or two in your pocket... and your company doesn't provide its own staff facilities...

Okay, really, who does it? I won't believe that these notes are from people who accidentally have a pen on them, get bored while doing the deeds and decide to write - because, oh! Look here, I have a pen! I might reply to this "Gangsta Boy"

NO. It just doesn't work. Standard pens aren't even used for the classy ones; they use textas. And nobody conveniently has a texta. Go ahead, try and find someone. If you succeed, you know what kind of person writes these messages, though you could have guessed by now since - wait for it - the writing is on the wall. At least now you have a visual of the person, not just a faceless lonely soul.

Anyway, back to the point: These writings are deliberate. The messages are written not because someone happened to have a pen on that day they did the deeds, oh no, they are written because someone walked into the toilet with the intention of writing something.

"Ya'll no who it is"

Yes, yes we do. And lo' it was just like the internet, mocked for its lack of spelling and dismissed as spam, by spam.

And indeed it is heartbreaking to attempt a bowl movement only to release gas*. O woe, I might call Joe for a suspicious time** and try another rhyme.

I could understand any of this if they weren't at public toilets out of the way, far from any accidental-pen-having places. Instead it's the street public toilets (or the cinemas...) where the thugluv is abundant and the overwhelming urge to communicate*** is too much.

Ugh!
Okay.
People going into toilets with felt, paint, chisels; whatever:
You.
Are writing.
In a fucking toilet.
People reading your drivel are urinating, masturbating or taking a dump (or all three).

Maybe that's why the internet version isn't embraced; it reminds people of sitting in a dirty toilet surrounded by drivel.

Thanks, T-bone from 6t9! You started this disease of abbreviation, spam, anonymous tardation and disrespect.

Glad I wasn't there.

* "Here I sit // Broken hearted // Tried to shit // But only farted"
** Many suspicious times are available from toilets; not all from Joe
*** That term is used very loosely, much like it is for forums that lost direction
**** There is no fourth star. Ever.

- G '08

retail therapy

Ah, retail. What a wonderful concept. That marvelous end-of-the-line for products and middle-man between customers and production lines.

But how do you convince somebody to buy what your company sells? It shouldn't be too hard, should it, I mean they had to have wondered in with the intention of buying something. Ha! Pity that is not the case, as customers are given FTMO; Far Too Many Options. It all boils down to price. It's mostly true that expensive items are higher quality, but only mostly. You don't always get what you for. Sometimes you literally don't get what you pay for.

So, back to point. You earn a commission and you need to get products out the door. Forget morals, honesty and humanity, you have to get that dollar in your (company's) hand. Also, remember this: Customer service isn't about providing personal service, it's about making sure they spend money.

Now, to the magical method on making those buckaroos:

Basics: Start by telling your customer what the product/service is, how it works and what it's called.
Utility: Inform them what it is used for and why. Go on with its best application.
Lie: Make something seem more awesome than it is. If you don't know the real answer to any queries, this is where you pretend.
Lie more: Mention that you would definitely purchase the product/service, that your family/friend already has and that it is great.
Sell: Time's up, you gotta sell now. No price should have been mentioned until now (sure, it's labeled, but you weren't acknowledging that until you've created the image of value).
Honesties: Throw some truth in so it looks like you care. Talk about a disadvantage or two, but it make it pale in comparison to the sheer awesomeness of the product/service.
Intimate: Be a friend. You care and you're not like those other fake salesmen. Make a joke, laugh, tell them you love their eyes...
Transaction: Booya! Congratulations, you got the money and are free to run. The delicate dance is over and you can move on to the next victim, you money-vampire.

If the above method doesn't work, don't worry, it's all bullshit anyway.

- G

Commission is nice until you realise
That you're exactly like a company:
Screwing people for money.
I just want them to like me...
I shoulda been a hero.

just a short one

There is a moth that has taken residence in the bathroom and toilet. It is the colour of cherry and likes to hang around doors. It just sits silently and watches. I do not know what it eats or where it goes when it isn't around (if it is ever not around...) and I do not know where it came from.

All I know is that I see it when I am naked, it is alive and it doesn't fear close contact with a naked creature a thousand times its size.

Unlike a spider behind the towels I discovered one day, this moth won't be squished into mush. It was a mercy killing of sorts for that spider.

"Why?" it said. Not afraid or pleading, just sincerely curious.

"It is better then the embarrassment of scaring someone naked and having them squawk at you until you come to the same sad end as now, by the same shoe. Go in peace, my arachnid voyeur-friend."

WHAM! WHAM!

No, this moth won't be so squished. When I don't see it anymore I will a little sad, despite the perverted nature of the bug.

Speaking of nudity, today while I squatted (bend at the knees; your back is not a crane!) to lower a boxed chair to the ground something between my legs ripped. At first, I thought it was my slacks. Thought I was doomed to spend hours walking the floors with ripped pants. A quick grope revealed it wasn't my pants, but rather my boxers underneath.

Not so bad.

- G

throw caution to the wind
as a butterfly on its wings
to find a blooming flower
or a captivated being
to share a single moment
and all that we're seeing

Black Pearl Cluster

For years I have chased the elusive third Pearl of Blackness. For years I have commanded thousands of Hexics, moving them to my will and creating powerful patterns. The first Pearl, the first of the dark mysterious artifacts partly inherent in every Hexic, came to me in a vision: "Forge a Hexagon of Thirty-six Hexics thrice and be granted power to shake the very core of Hexilia."

Thirty-six Hexics, I wondered. How could a Hexagon be made with such a number? It defied maths and it defied the sacred ritual; six Hexics of the same spirit-colour banded together in a Hexagon around a lonely, different soul-colour. This caused a harmonic energy to cycle through the six and, in a dazzling display of light, all seven Hexics are fused into a Stars of Six Sides.

Six! For one Star of Six Sides I needed six Hexics in a Hexagon. If I did this six times, and no Stars connected in the forbidden patterns (to be lost in eternity), I would have used thirty-six Hexagons and would have six Stars of Six Sides. A hexagon of Stars of Six Sides - thirty-six Hexics in a Hexogon.

I knew it to be the true meaning of my vision, and thus I went forth and moved the Hexics. I was rewarded with a frightening object; an object darker than anything I had ever seen. It didn't shine bright like the Stars of Six Sides. It didn't have a colour like the Hexics; it was the absence of every soul-colour and at the same time it was all of them together. It lacked three sides. It was the very essence of Hexilia.

In my excitement I had forgotten the vision and declared myself victorious - truly my command of Hexila was unrivaled and complete.

But it wasn't so. A message tingled at my subconscious and I lost sleep. I would dream of strange things, nightmarish things: Stars merging in threes and fours; even five stars falling together and turning to getheral dust. The strange black object haunted me. It's three marks - placed on non-adjacent sides - glowed and spun. In my mind's eye it dominated every scene.

I began to descend into madness. Since that first dark object I had lost my will and my direction. Hexics merged and moved. Soul-colours blended and thrived and I couldn't fuse them. From my greatest height of achievement I had fallen over backwards into an abyss; the black abyss, made from the blackest object.

Hulic ex alic hipt a thir.

These words echoed in my mind and I understood not. But I traveled to the hills where I could seek wisdom and perhaps hide from the overbearing presence of the dark object. I couldn't outrun the blackness , but the hills gave me strength far from it; now I hungered for completion. I felt a fiery desire like nothing I had ever known.

My return was as glorious as my departure. I was half-driven mad and moving forward on a primitive and strange energy. I didn't know if it was mine or a being's more sinister.

Hulic ex alic hipt a thir.

Hexics once again moved and merged. I faded in and out of nightmares and consciosness. I didn't know who I was anymore, I just moved Hexics and fused them into Stars of Six Sides. I lost count of how many were lost to the getheral, but it didn't matter on the day I found the second dark object. By now I had started to call them Pearls of Blackness. They held the key, I knew that, but I didn't know what the key unlocked; power unrivaled or a void to Hexilia's demise. I had no idea how many I needed or what to do with them. Perhaps it was six; perhaps I needed thirty-six Stars of Six Sides in a Hexagon. Thirty-six stars, one thousand two hundred and ninety-six Hexics. Crah!

The vision came back to me in another nightmare: "Forge a Hexagon of Thirty-six Hexics thrice and be granted power to shake the very core of Hexilia."

Three.

I was one Pearl from ending this maddening journey, for better or worse I didn't care anymore. I wanted an end. It consumed me. My will wavered, but the two Pearls I had called forth imbued me with unreal energy. An energy unnatural that burned inside my being. My own soul-colour had long faded into a dull grey. I had stopped thriving on the moving of Hexics. No longer was it a satisfying ritual to fuel my being and, thus, Hexilia.

Dull darkness clouded every horizon. The hills in the distance where I had come back from were hidden by a shadow. Would the symbolic merging of three Pearls of Darkness be the promised power or the dark doom? Would I shake the core to its demise?

Could I? I could. Why... thirty-six Hexics in a Hexagon of Stars of Six sides thrice and the power... the power... would be mine. I had but one final Pearl of Darkness to summon.

Although my own essence was depleted, I began to utilize the power of the two Pearls I had invoked. They were joined now; I discovered their separation caused a rift that sucked the colour from a soul, as the Pearls sought each other out. Hungered for a trio.

I awoke on what I shall call the final night. Prepared myself with everything I had left inside and out of me. Every Hexic was my essence; every Star of Six Sides and, unnaturally, every powerful Pearl of Darkness.

"If not this, then never it will be," I told myself. Grey colour peeling away, black dots appearing.

A wind hummed in my ears, though nothing moved. All soul-colours mingled in the air and gravitated towards the two black voids connected by their glowing shards. The stillness was like a collapsing sky, heavy and foreboding. I felt the Hexics in my mind, and felt them move to my will in a final dance. It was as if they spoke, in whispers, of their great puzzle.

Hours passed and not a sound escaped my lips. I had to squint my eyes to conserve energy. As the Stars formed and moved together in a Hexagon, the mix of colours in the grey mist was almost beautiful to gaze upon. I felt tired. Content. But not finished.

The final Star of Six Sides came to be and, in an exhaustive effort, I moved it to the others, finishing the Hexagon, and moaned as the third Pearl of Darkness appeared. Its dark, voiding energy, sucking the last colours from the world. I fell to my knees, at the limit of my essence, and closed my eyes. The two Pearls together created a powerful attraction to their third as all three attempted to connect.

I felt three red Hexics call to me and I moved them together. They merged and the Pearl of Darkness fell into their space, closer to the pair. Close enough now.

On hands and knees and willed two more Hexics - I felt them faint and weak, but together strong enough - to move the voidious Pearl to the others. With them so close, their dark energy was localised and the draining was less powerful.

I collapased before they connected, but then rose to kneel once they hit. The world rumbled and a blazing light shot in all directions. I was blinded for those few seconds. Knocked backwards by the burst of energy and shaken by the rumbling. Every soul-colour flowed like a river through the air and fused itself with me. I was lifted high into the sky and felt the Hexics fade away. The Pearls of Darkness expanded as the colours poured out and the world shook and I was filled with the most powerful energy ever felt.

Moments later I exploded in colours and the grey, rumbling world was filled with it. For those seconds I understood the true meaning of beauty. Then I fell.

I fell the full distance I had been lifted. Into the black void that swallowed me and disappeared. I do not know what happened inside that dark place, but I did awaken later. To a different world. I felt light and full of... power.

I wasn't confused. Knew it was the Pearls fused with my essence. I was everything Hexilia was. Powerful, all-being. I understood, even as I looked to a tree and noticed it wasn't jaggered or straight-edged, but rather curved and round. I understood the change.

Now the world is round once more.

I am Hexulu, Champion of Hexic and Lord of Hexilia.



- G .|

Thirty-six Hexics in a Hexagon thrice
Six Star of Six Sides in a Hexagon thrice,
Black Pearl Cluster the world a-tumblin' down
Awaken to circles and curves
Ah, but the power you've earned
O Lord Hexulu

fish in the sea

We've all, at one stage, been part of a big business. It might have been a franchise chain, or a full-fledged conglomerate. You know, the kind of behemoth company that owns everything and anything, related or not, and the unwary consumer doesn't realise that their preference for one brand over another (and the subsequent arguing for it) is meaningless, since both brands are owned by the same company.

That is why it makes sense to have certain hierarchies in large companies. It's obvious that a small group of boardroom-dwelling obese men don't know much about any of the products any of their brands sell. They just make the big important decisions: "Is it time for a payrise?"

The other decisions are delegated down a chain, which comes to an abrupt stop at what is affectionately known as "store level." Most chains are something like this, but I've taken the liberty of modifying it to meet Modern Cynic Standards (MCS).


As you can see, "Peons" take up the largest area. This is because there are more of them than any other type in the organizational chain. As with any majority, they are favoured the least, ignored and misunderstood. For large business to shine, it is minority rule.

That's right: The decisions have to be made by small groups, who are elected by larger groups, all of whom are equally greedy. You may notice there is no Quality Control in there anyway. Some companies may have it, but in general it's a waste of resources. It doesn't matter what's made or how good it is, as long as it sells. See, by time it reaches the boardroom it's just part of a ridiculous figure; it works like a giant filter where everything impure and lumpy is sifted until it becomes money.

As a "Peon," you might know more about the store and the products and what policies are illogical, but it doesn't matter, because at the top somewhere, someone earning more than you decided it was a good idea without testing to see if it was, in fact, a good idea. Thus, big changes that make no sense or are impractical occur and are expected to be implemented, despite the obvious lack of practicality.

On the flipside -this is where it gets a little amusing - when the minority groups attempt to make contact with the majority, they are met with cynicism and snarls. The reason is because the attempts at contact are limited, brief and infrequent. Distance between shit-kickers and the board may as well be the distance from Earth to Neptune; where it's cold and lifeless, save for pockets of money.

As a result, when the surveys are sent around (because human contact is considered dangerous), nobody cares anymore and, thanks to years of neglect, nobody believes anything worthwhile will come of it. Not to mention the simple fact small fish like to pick on much larger fish.

Now that the very basics of peon versus rich moron have been covered, let us conclude: The entire chain is simply a series of assholes compounding on each other until the abrupt end at store level where the Manager, on top of being the biggest asshole, becomes the most hated, since he is the closest and easiest to hate.

- G ζ.

I've got a monkey on my back
And I just can't shake it
"Give it a banana!"
But the monkey won't go away

flag fall

The front page of yesterday's paper featured an amazing feat in Australia sports: The socceroos (soccer team, obviously) beat Qatar in a crushing 3-0 game.

Wait... Qatar? That's a country with a world-class soccer team?

Not to say the socceroos are awe-inspiring, being a mostly European-based team with a foreign coach. I don't think any part of the team is even Australian. Apparently we can't play soccer, although we did qualify for something in the last World Cup - made it to an actual game or two outside the qualifying rounds. Woo! (?)

Anyway, I did some extensive research and discovered that Qatar is a little country attached to Saudi Arabia like a tumor growth. It looks as if it was an after thought - maybe the Earth, when it decided to shift continents around, had some spare pieces doing nothing and figured a game of pin the country on the other country was needed.

It's an interesting country: Most of the locations (cities, I imagine) have names that start with "Al" and even includes places called "Umm Bab" and "Umm Said." No joke. I can imagine conversations between travelers who got lost and ended up in Qatar (because, you know, you wouldn't plan to be there. Unless there was a soccer game on).

Traveler1: How the fuck did we end up in Qatar?
Traveler2: Umm No Idea
Traveler: Well, Al Just Find n Airport
Traveler3: Ar Good Idea!

I apologise for that terribly terrible joke. Unless you laughed, in which case: Shame on you (you are awesome).

Now check out their flag.

It's white and maroon with some "teeth" connecting the two colours in a mind-bending display of creativity. Okay, so flags aren't usually the canvas for Da Vinci-like art, but you have to at least try. You know, add symbols to identify and capture the jist of your nation (or make you remember who owns you) or something.

Here's an actual description of the flag (from the site linked above):

"The flag of Qatar was officially adopted in 1949.

The story goes that Qatar's original flag used an unstable red dye, and the relentless sun faded that red into a shade of maroon, and that color is referred to today as Qatar Maroon. The toothy edge between the maroon and white fields, and the flag's width, helps to identify it from that of Bahrain's flag, a Gulf State's country that it was formerly associated with."

It became official after WWII. I wonder if the country has a military...

So, the story is that someone dyed the original flag with "unstable red dye" and the "relentless" sun turned it into maroon. No, Qatar maroon. Ugh. That reminds me of the ridiculous names they have for colours everywhere. Tulip red. Funky pink. Some other noun/adjective/verb + colour.

And the toothy edge is, get this, to distinguish it from Bahrain's flag. Apparently Bahrain had the same trouble with unstable red dye. Is their maroon called Bahrain maroon?
At least we'll have no trouble identifying which flag belongs to which country, thanks to the unique and clever use of zig zags!

It's like Qatar is saying "Gulf State? Ha! We don't associate with them anymore. Zig zags, bitches!"
Or maybe al bitches.

Remember I'm also making fun of Australia here (the soccer team at least) - we had a crushing victory over Qatar, a country with its own version of maroon and no longer part of the Gulf State. Apparently that's reason to declare awesomeness. Is Qatar laughing, because they only lost by three goals?

I'm sorry to make fun of you Qatar; you're not the only country with a boring flag. You just made headlines and appear to be an after thought attached to Saudi Arabia (at least women can legally drive in Qatar). And I guess you have some potential.

Speaking of flags, what's up with flags for races of people - or do only indigenous Australians have one? I thought about it today. Doesn't make sense. A flag to represent a race of people. Isn't that a bit exclusive and contradicting the whole "equality" thing? I mean, you can't ever consider it your flag unless you are part of the race who it represents. In the case of Australia's Aboriginal Flag it is red, black and yellow. The black is above the red (important) and the yellow is a circle in the middle. It means: black people walk the land and the sun is all-reviving.

So, like, the white version could be the same, except the top colour would be white. But that somehow wouldn't have the same, nod-inducing meaning. Yeah, that's so true to the spirit of indigenous people. Such culture!

Oh noes, racism!

Anyway, Qatar lost to the European Australian soccer team.


- G ζ.

Represent, represent
Your people must be recognised
As an entity of equal
But for all their sins
You must repent

careering

What do you want to be when you grow up?

It's the question, apparently, that is important when you are not grown up. And talk about pressure! What does a pre-teen, or even a teenager know about what they want to be when they grow up? Sure, they have an idea - one that they believe, in their starry-eyed vision, is a simple matter of choosing. Some common choices are:

Doctor
Fireman (come on, seriously now)
Police officer
Sports champion

I never understood the allure to some of these careers. I'm not one to shoot down such ideas because, you know, sometimes these kids do actually go on to be what they said they were going to be, but the time for proof is too far down the track. I wouldn't be the one to say, "I told you so!" if they didn't do it, or "Well, gee, you sure showed me!" if they did. That kind of gamble is too long in the making. My incredible memory would forget the whole thing anyway.

Now, being a doctor isn't as glorious as it might seem to someone young enough to still enjoy Christmas for Santa (doctor also sounds important). You see, there's a long, long road to travel and it's full of textbooks and things like "study." Added to that, surviving the same amount of years as you were aged when you decided you wanted to be a doctor grants you the incredible of honor of being a walking lawsuit. You don't have the respect of earlier doctors, because in modern times everyone is apparently a medical professional and has these bizarre rights that let them be complete tools about, oh, anything. But at least you get the opportunity to save lives, right? Sure, why not. I suppose that fits in somewhere.

A fireman is a little less tedious and much less prone to lawsuits. Nobody can complain much when you've just stopped their house/tent from burning down and dragged their arses out of it. Well, I suppose they could complain if it was their workplace or school. That doesn't mean you won't be sued for something ridiculous. People can be irrational when it comes to disaster. Best to suck it up and be content knowing that you get to work with fire, and that's awesome. Failing that, if you suspect the person you're rescuing is likely to sue, don't drag them out and let the fire burn a little longer. It may sound as if I'm leaning more towards this as a career, but I'm actually not. It might appear fun to be involved with the big red truck, the suits, the super-powered hose and the alluring fires, but it's not. You're probably never not on call and you could burn to death at any moment. Even while sleeping. Fire finds a way.

Police Officers attract kids with guns, batons and authority. I know I planned on being a cop once, because the idea of it seemed pretty okay to my buddy and I. Then I discovered the internet and that, like most things, faded away. The problem with reality is that it introduces things like paperwork, policies, laws and procedures. As a law-enforcer you don't technically fight crime, you kind of just stare at it menacingly and will it to surrender. If it doesn't and you need to take action, you have to write a journal about it, then fill some more paperwork out and justify why you did something crazy like defend yourself/the people around you. Still not convinced this is the right choice for you? Nobody respects cops. They, like any employee, do their jobs. Apparently if you break the law (eg. you went over the speed limit), you have a right to complain with your buddies that it's all just a money-grabbing scheme. Because, you know, you shouldn't be punished for doing something that is considered punishable and that everyone knows about. On the amazing flip side, if you are cop and don't have the ability to sense danger and teleport to its exact location in the time it takes someone to get bashed, you are a failure and waste of resources.

The final career I mentioned is a bit generic: Sports' champion. It's a broad category and we've all, at one stage, probably decided we want to be famous. Sports seems the most reasonable pursuit of such fame. It seems good, but what you really end up doing is selling your soul to training and sponsors - Training because you have to be at your peak all the time, sponsors because money makes the world go around, even for someone jumping into a pit full of sand or chasing a ball around. You're also vulnerable to scrutiny if you are extremely good at what you do. I'm talking about the kind of scrutiny that create its own scandals. It searches so hard for something to make you look like a cheater/drug addict that illegal substances just appear in your blood and/or apartment. Right?

Once you grow up, the question turns to "What do you want to do with your life?" and usually involves earning money in less obvious ways. Maybe you want a small business selling shirts. Or maybe you're a teacher asking kids what they want to be when they grow up, knowing how you went from choosing a doctor to being a teacher. It takes you around 12 years to even get to the point of being able to pursue your career. It's like throwing someone onto a street full of distractions, crime and traffic and poor signage and expecting them to reach the place they wanted to go to. Maybe specialised schools should be introduced so you don't waste so much time learning general nonsense (like Shakespeare, come on. It's not relevant now, talented as he was in his era) that is forgotten the moment you enter the next level of education. It's all an illogical street that doesn't make sense.

It's fair enough to read this and think of me as an anti-every career guy. You'd be right, but also wrong. It's not so much the careers that make me twitch and want to say, "Good luck with that!" It's more the people who aren't what you are that make it a tiresome, frustrating and violence-inducing scenario.

For careers to be as awesome as they used to be, people's rights need to be disappear or be culled severely. I am serious. This is a serious comment. Maybe. Either way, rights are ruining just about everything. From teaching to healing to rescuing; it's all limited by the fear of being sued. And it can be for the most ridiculous thing. You've all read and heard stories about it - "Such and such sued for not being sued enough in the last year."

Talk about a cramp in progression. Actually, talk about a cramp in everything. Give any idiot the ability to gain money or power through some retarded fine print that nobody is supposed to read and we're going backwards. Excellence isn't even awarded anymore, because somebody might get upset, since they're almost always "disadvantaged."

Personal responsibility has been buried deep underground, chains and all. It's always someone or something that is to be blamed.

Racism is the most ridiculously over-used trump card. Arrested for breaking the law? Call it racism if you're anything but white. Not hired because you didn't have the right qualifications? Racism. Prejudice falls into the same area. But believe me, nobody knows prejudice like the white, married male.

I just want to know what the deal is behind giving everyone the ability to do something stupid, escape it through a mind-boggling court system and then blame something/someone else. And also, what the deal is with rights anyway. It's gone way too far now. I don't want or need so many rights, and if I do something wrong it's not going to be anyone's fault but my own.

I demand that the response to every lawsuit, complaint, cry of prejudice and anything else exaggerated, unnecessary and stupid to be: "Big fucking deal."

And maybe they get a shirt that labels them as rights abusers, cry-babies or something. See how they like that label (it's funny, actually, since most labels are given to so-called minorities by themselves and then used against everyone else).

Someone needs to go early-era iron fist on this stuff.

- G ζ.

Give the people what they want
And it's not good enough; they want more
Deny the people what they want
And eventually they'll want something else
The latter is best because it prevents greed,
Expectations and bloated rights
Too late for us, we're in the former

lucky number beddin'

Remember in a previous blog I mentioned something about how the years are all the same to begin with (er, and to end with I guess)? If you don't, you're most likely not me. Or have a bad memory. If the former, that is fine, because it would be a little awkward right now if you were, in fact, me.

Even so, I did mention something about years. They start off with you being full of energy, hyped, because it's a new year and who knows what it holds? Endless possibilities, alright! But no, it's not like that. It takes the average person six months to figure that out and by then it is too late. They've already crossed the point of no return; no refund policy here. See, the problem is not that we're all doomed to go through repetitive cycles (well, actually, we are since we think we're not, because of some mysterious plan destiny has made for us). You know, Destiny is an attractive female according to myth and I suppose thinking she had a mysterious plan for us is acceptable in certain lonely hours. Oh, whoops, I digressed and continued from the parenthesis.

Back to the point: Cycles. We... years seem to repeat - not exactly of course - because we expect them not to because of some invisible force taking the reigns.

Last year faded out as most years do - uneventful, unhappy, impatient for the next. Down the hill from June/July into the mud pit. Only, just as the mud was licking my chin and tempting me down I looked around and noticed somebody else being seduced into its depths. Two things occurred to me at this point:

1. Mud is actually good for your skin and makes a decent sunscreen.
2. The pit isn't that deep and, you know, if I stood up I would easily be able to walk out and not get sunburned and have good skin and even help the other person out.

And so I did occuration two.

From there the year was exactly like lying on the ground at the bottom of a hill covered in mud with another person beside you. It was dirty, yet strangely edifying. Like the sun's rays baking the mud was infusing some kind of energy.

Energy to flex my incredible muscles, shattering the mud-skin, and run up the hill with the other muddy person on my shoulders. Halfway up they too would feel the energy and we would run further, back to the top where we look down at the pit and smile, because in those black seductive depths (actually it isn't that deep) was where it all began.

And somehow I ended up in another state with said muddy person and it was good. It was best. Three nights of real fantasy.

The next step is probably kidnapping.

- G ζ.

Ran in circles and ended up lost
In your own familiarity
When all you had to do was stop
Look around and see for yourself
That there was never a path
Save for your own steps
The journey right before you in any direction
You just never ended up starting it

welcome to fun

It's 5am and I felt like posting. Does that not fascinate you greatly? It does to me. It is greatly fascinating. It is... grascinating.

My urge to post is the direct result of sitting here and going into writer withdrawals. I just sneezed, by the way, in case you're interested in that kind of "reality" TV, er... read.

What I love is making up words. Usually this means adding several words together and it's not incredibly original, or "incoroginal." But that doesn't really work. It has complications since it's just a passer-by type of mix. I could have used any descriptor to precede original. That's ironic somehow.

Snaffle!

Anyway, moving on to the next chapter:

I learned several things today... or maybe just one. That is, art and music are distracting. Creativity is apparently in danger of being outlawed from schools for being distracting. You know, to the serious business subjects. Like maths. Very integral to most of life's challenges.

I can almost imagine a bunch of rebellious kids at the back of an oval with their illicit notepads and crayons scribbling on pages and being creative. Then along come a teacher - "What's going on here?!"

The kids hurry to hide the evidence. Caught multi-colour-handed! Caught with their imagination on! The audacity. The gruff teacher rats them out and they are given detention, perhaps even suspended for their mischievous ways.

And the drug problem is solved?

Ha ha ha.

Good show old boy.

I haven't posted twice in a row like this before. It feels almost sexual, like I've orgasmed multiple times.

I mean...

Goodmorrowing!

- PG ζ.

It's true, there are only three things that matter:
Your ability to love
Your ability to find logic
And your ability to imagine these three things are all that matter

2 kilos pls

It was inevitable.

"Something happened, I can't believe it."

"Isn't there a way out? We got into it... there has to be!"

"No, we're stuck. It's done and we're falling all the way."

The fall of mankind began at the most unfortunate time: When technology was flourishing and convenience was almost in everything. Every simple chore could be made easier and people became lazier. The stress was supposed to be reduced. Life was easier, it should have been a step towards some great peak of existence.

But the lazy and gluttonous nature of people took over. Man descended into a hell-pit of shortcuts, poor quality and even poorer excuses.

Language was the first casualty and it went unnoticed until it was too late. By the time anyone knew what was happening, the damage had already been done.

Automation was too ingrained. The fall was inevitable...

"lyk omg did u here?"

"na wot hppnd?"

"we fell lol woz on tha newz"

"dats no gud lol but o wel"

It was just a trend. When "phones" first introduced text chat the room for a single message was limited and letters had to be cut. It was difficult to read at best. This new breed of language began to infect everything typed. Soon, web-pages and chat rooms were full of these abominations. Even the phone messages, now unlimited by space, remain the same incoherent mutation of English.

The dreaded and all-perverted "asl" came to its pinnacle soon after. Hello was no longer a greeting, it was simply "asl" not even as a question, but rather a statement. It was if you were registering yourself to another person by assuring them you were of a certain sex, location and age. It was prone to falsehood. Forty year olds were sweet 16 and males were females. Locations were unlimited, from Abu Dhabi to next door.

Letters replaced whole words. Numbers replaced letters until in a tragic display of our demise, a horrid mutation of language was recognized by dictionaries as Word of the Year. The world ignored the fact it wasn't actually a word. "w00t" as proclaimed among online gamers since the dawn of "1337" speak also known as a waste of time typing and reading.

"w00t" that is composed of two numbers that have no sound associated with them. They are "zero" and not a viable replacement for "o." You can't say "w00t" like it was "woot."
Dublewezerozeroty.

May some omnipotent thing save us all.

- G ζ.

How do you change the world?
One thing at a time
One person at a time
And with patience incomprehensible to man

colour of fruit

Orange.
Red.
Green.
Yellow.
All the colours of the rainbow are what fruits grow.

That is what makes a basket of fruit so happy and bright. That is why fake, plastic fruit exists. Nature creates these displays of colours and happiness and we mimic them because we want to capture the beauty and make it last forever.

When you eat fruit you are tasting happiness. It's a perfect harmony of flavours unmarred by man's touch, a complete natural essence borne in the great big womb of evolution.

Such a treat should not be spoiled by the label of being healthy. Healthy is the business end of food - the vegetables, the bread. Fruit is a delicacy from every horizon. In old times it was the luxury food; the rich enjoyed it while the poor wished to enjoy it.

Grapes, plums. Abiu to Ylang Ylang.

They are the ingredients and the mains. Forgetting about fruit and discarding such wonders for cheap, quick alternatives is pure foolishness!

Now for bliss: The guilt of chocolate covering the harmony of fruit.

That's happiness. Happiness is the fruit that evolves and is always bright, even in the night. It is harmony of mind and matter. The peace between rational and irrational; emotion and logic. When all seems to make sense in a grand puzzle you can't stop finishing.

You smile because you are overdosing on warm fuzzies and you laugh not because something is especially funny, but because you are so sensitive to joy. You jubilate and have the odd urge to expend a lot of energy running around or jumping up and down.

And people say you're crazy.

- G ζ.

Happiness is as big as a burden as any ill-feeling
We just tend to forget its mass
Or what happens when it falls down and crushes
Every last pocket of joy into sadness
Misery is then the weight of glee
But fret not,
For while you feel joy
You are alive

the beast without

I've been walking the dog recently. "The dog" being Snaps - a name given to him from his puppy-days of snapping at feet. He's not a small dog and has already broken one collar in a mad fit to sniff trees and then urinate on them. Trees and poles actually. Okay, anything that stands up straight.

When he broke that collar he almost suicided into a car, which I believe explains his current tendency to want to chase them (or doesn't). He may just be scared and lashes out to hide his phobia of cars. But I digress: He broke his collar and ran around madly sniffing and urinating like some wild dog. If he was a wild dog, then I was his mother-dog who snuck up on him and called him out on bad behavior. Pro-tip: Scruff of the neck reminds them of being an infant and they become better behaved in an instant (it doesn't hurt or cause fear, it just brings them down a few notches).

So there I was with a large, on-edge dog with no collar. Fixing it would work since it was in pieces. Luckily I was sporting some facial hair that day and the brilliant idea of tying the leash itself around his neck did the trick. I don't imagine it was comfortable in any way, but that's the price you pay for breaking collars, buddy-o.

Now he wears a body harness that always make me laugh when I put it on. I don't really know what's funny; I guess it's a built-in amusement thing. Reminds me of those babies walking in a harness and a leash. I don't even know why that makes me want to laugh.
Walking is serious business.

I like to pretend I'm the Dog Whisperer when I take these walks around the 'hood (though I doubt he'd be super-impressed). Nevertheless it's good inspiration to have a calm, non-psychotic dog that doesn't madly sniff and urinate. Progress is a beautiful thing. If I had it written down it would be something like this:

Walk 1: Scary. Dog is crazy... what's so interesting about the grass? And what's with this street corner that makes him zig-zag? My god this leash hurts when he goes all over the place.

Walk 2: Okay, Dog Whisperer time. The grass has his attention, snap (ha!) him out of it. There we go. Now lead. Lead. This is better. Corner still causes mad sniffing. Other dogs send him off, have to work on that.

Walk 3: Collar broke. That was fun.

Walk 4: Harness is excellent. Grass is less fascinating. Street corner still strangely attractive. Trees and poles too. Other dogs still trigger reactions. Cars as well...

Walk 5: Grass mostly ignored. Stree corner still attractive. Trees and poles... oh god, loose dog. It's tiny! Okay, got him calm and submissive. Calm and submissive. Not bad, could be better. Could be worse.

Walk 6: Street corner less desirable, trees and poles not as interesting. Dogs in their yards still a bit of a trigger. Tendency to chase cars still there.

Walk 7: Dogs are the main focus. And cars.

Walk 8: Dogs and cars.

Walk 9: Hallelujah! Less tendencies to chase cars, sniffing almost completely non-existent. Other dogs only a small problem. New method found to snap (pwow!) him out of any potential red zone behavior.

I broke a pair of thongs getting him to jog with me. Turns out that road don't do nice things to cheap thongs. Lesson learned, I'll jog in the amazing technology of shoes... or joggers.

Oh yeah and I'd like to officially welcome Milo days back.

- G ζ.

Woof, woof!
Meow, meow!
And we all howl

backin' time

This time last year - or rather yesterday last year - I was nursing a very large glass of vodka and lemon. The size of the glass is still intimidating and I swear it was bottomless or somehow managed to fill itself up throughout the night. It was a good start to the year. Friends and family all over the place; better than New Year's Eve celebrations. The real year begins after January 7th folks - jot that in your calendars (well, PDA since it's 2008... or maybe your phone can do it now too).

When I think of a year I picture a circle made up of all the months. As they go by they are filled in with colour and images, while the new months are grey and bare like an old man. There are those times you can't forget, like 21st parties, engagement parties; those times you remember but aren't sure exactly when it happened and things that were said but you forget why or when.

Months are either slow or fast. Full or empty.

January I was 21 and the year was looking suspiciously good like every year does. Must be because you've just come off the end of another year and you're ready for the next, until it turns out similar by the end since you're tired and waiting for the next (high hopes for next year! That's when things will change, son!). But then, that makes the good-for-365-day years even sweeter.

February I don't remember much of. Maybe I met a girl or maybe it was March. All I know is April I wasn't single and that didn't change until September. In between I became a certified driving instructor and unemployed, just like the last two years.

I learned two important things in 07's 12 months:
You can't rely on waiting for things to happen
To be someone of action requires a lot of work and a lot of resolve
Hot chicks are still hot

Okay, three things.

Australia also has a new Prime Minister, troops are still in Iraq and people are still exponentially stupid. In fact, in thousands of years we have learned nothing. Religion is still absurdly illogical and has yet to embrace the modern era of free speech, particularly in media. Companies make money off satire, wit and sex. Deal with it religion - "evolve."

It's not just religion though; it's groups of people with odd common goals that become skewed for the sake of getting attention. I can imagine the People's Movement for Woman and Christians For Mothers (and Some Fathers, Maybe) Against Little Things turning everything into controversy.

Maybe in 3008 we'll have finally figured it all out. Ha ha!

So I'm a year older and a thousand years wiser.

Good luck in the New Year people and for those still reading me, thank you. You are awesome. I love comments by the way. It gets lonely here. Like I'm standing in front of an empty room talking to myself (or the janitor who doesn't seem to ever go home).

- G ζ.

you can change the way you think
but not the way you feel
though it's strange to think the way we feel
is influenced greatly by our thoughts
and in thousands of years
we have learned nothing

graveyard shift

Anyone who has read a large chunk of this site would notice most of the posts are in the 'am' of time. It's not a timezone thing, ladies and gentlefolks. I am actually posting these things at silly times. Silly to you maybe, but not to me. This is my nocturnal habit; my time, my secret to creativity.

It all begins at 1am when most people I know have moved on to sleep and I am left to my own devices as if I were alone in the neighborhood. The fan makes a silent, calm fwooshing sound, keeping me cool despite the humidity. I only hear it if I have no music playing, which is rare. Music and silence are what fuels the hidden sections of my brains - the areas that seem to be celebrating all-year round. The ideas and random thoughts remind me of fireworks that never cease.

Any writer knows what a good dose of solitude does for writing something. That's what happens beyond 1am. I get a good dose. Not an overdose to induce insanity and depression, but enough to get the fireworks into party mode. Like it was New Year's Eve.

But that's not everything. Being awake at these lonely hours is an interesting thing beyond what happens in my head. Walking around to do dull things such as getting a drink or visiting Mr. John Loo in his humble abode becomes different. You can be home by yourself during the day and it's not the same. There's too much light to create the same atmosphere and unless you live somewhere that embraces daytime naps as a community, there's usually stuff going on.

The darkness of the am times envelopes the house in a way that makes it seem as if you are shut out from the world, but not in an eery, depressing way. It's peace. Silence and undisturbed surroundings. You can't see beyond the windows and everything remains the same passive black. Not a depressive black. Not an oppressive black - passive. It's just there.

You're surrounded by this constant shade in your little zone of light that makes no sound, but there's the sounds the fan or the music - or both. The clock creeps towards later hours when the shade begins to give way to a joyous blue-grey as the sun shakes off its own sleep and greets your side of the world. You retire now and slip away to another darkness full of subconscious plays.

This is the graveyard shift: calm, peaceful, silent, dark and strangely warm. Nature's ebb is at its lowest but you're wide awake.


- G ζ.

so softly speak to me
whisper a thousand words
I will sleep
but your voice echoes in my dreams